42703	----	(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - Toronto University, Robarts OVERLOOKED By MAURICE BARING London: William Heinemann 1922 To M.A.T OVERLOOKED PART I THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY CHAPTER I When my old friend and trusted adviser, Doctor Kennaway, told me that I must go to Haréville and stay there a month or, still better, two months, I asked him what I could possibly do there. The only possible pastime at a watering-place is to watch. A blind man is debarred from that pastime. He said to me: "Why don't you write a novel?" I said that I had never written anything in my life. He then said that a famous editor, of the _Figaro_, I think, had once said that every man had one newspaper article in him. Novel could be substituted for newspaper article. I objected that, although I found writing on my typewriter a soothing occupation, I had always been given to understand by authors that correcting proofs was the only real fun in writing a book. I was debarred from that. We talked of other things and I thought no more about this till after I had been at Haréville a week. When I arrived there, although the season had scarcely begun, I made acquaintances more rapidly than I had expected, and most of my time was taken up in idle conversation. After I had been drinking the waters for a week, I made the acquaintance of James Rudd, the novelist. I had never met him before. I have, indeed, rarely met a novelist. When I have done so they have either been elderly ladies who specialized in the life of the Quartier-Latin, or country gentlemen who kept out all romance from their general conversation, which they confined to the crops and the misdeeds of the Government. James Rudd did not certainly belong to either of these categories. He was passionately interested in his own business. He did not seem in the least inclined to talk about anything else. He took for granted I had read all his works. I think he supposed that even the blind could hardly have failed to do that. Some of his works have been read to me. I did not like to put it in this way, lest he should think I was calling attention to the absence of his books in the series which have been transcribed in the Braille language. But he was evidently satisfied that I knew his work. I enjoyed the books of his which were read to me, but then, I enjoy any novel. I did not tell him that. I let him take for granted that I had taken for granted all there was to be taken for granted. I imagine him to wear a faded Venetian-red tie, a low collar, and loose blue clothes (I shall find out whether this is true later), to be a non-smoker--I am, in fact, sure of that--a practical teetotaler, not without a nice discrimination based on the imagination rather than on experience, of French vintage wines, and a fine appreciation of all the arts. He is certainly not young, and I think rather weary, but still passionately interested in the only thing which he thinks worthy of any interest. I found him an entertaining companion, easy and stimulating. He had been sent to Haréville by Kennaway, which gave us a link. Kennaway had told him to leave off writing novels for five weeks if he possibly could. He was finding it difficult. He told me he was longing to write, but could think of no subject. I suggested to him that he should write a novel about the people at Haréville. I said I could introduce him to three ladies and that they could form the nucleus of the story. He was delighted with the idea, and that same evening I introduced him to Princess Kouragine, who is not, as her name sounds, a Russian, but a French lady, _née_ Robert, who married a Prince Serge Kouragine. He died some years ago. She is a lady of so much sense, and so ripe in wisdom and experience, that I felt her acquaintance must do any novelist good. I also introduced him to Mrs. Lennox, who is here with her niece, Miss Jean Brandon. Mrs. Lennox, I knew, would enjoy meeting a celebrity; she sacrificed an evening's gambling for the sake of his society, and the next day, she asked him to luncheon. In the evening he told me that Miss Brandon would be a suitable heroine for his novel. I asked him if he had begun it. He said he was planning it, but as it was a holiday novel, and as he had been forbidden to work, he was not going to make it a real book. He was going to write this novel for his own enjoyment, and not for the public. He would never publish it. He would be very grateful, all the same, if I allowed him to discuss it with me, as he could not write a story without discussing it with someone. I said I would willingly discuss the story with him, and I have determined to keep a record of our conversations, and indeed of everything that affects this matter, in case he one day publishes the novel, or publishes what the novel may turn into; for I feel that it will not remain unpublished, even though it turns into something quite different. I shall thus have all the fun of seeing a novel planned without the trouble of writing one myself. "Of course you have the advantage of knowing these people quite well," he said. I told him that he was mistaken. I had never met any of them, except Princess Kouragine, before. And it was years since I had seen her. "The first problem is," he said, "Why is Miss Brandon not married? She must be getting on for thirty, if she is not thirty yet, and it is strange that a person with her looks----" "I have often wondered what she looks like," I said, "and I have made my picture of her. Shall I tell it you, and you can tell me whether it is at all like the reality?" He was most anxious to hear my description. I said that I imagined Miss Brandon to be as changeable in appearance as the sky. I explained to him that I had not always been blind, that my blindness had come comparatively late in life from a shooting accident, in which I lost one eye--the sight of the other I lost gradually afterwards. I had imagined her as the lady who walked in the garden in Shelley's _Sensitive Plant_ (I could not remember all the quotation): "A sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean." Still, and rather mysterious, elusive and rare. He said I was right about the variability, but that he saw her differently. It was true she was pale, delicate, and extremely refined, but her eyes were the interesting thing about her. She was like a sapphire. She looked better in the daytime than in the evening. By candle-light she seemed to fade. She did not remind him of Shelley at all. She was not ethereal nor diaphanous. She was a sapphire, not a moonstone. She belonged to the world of romance, not to the world of lyric poetry. Something had been left out when she had been created. She was unfinished. What had been left out? Was it her soul? Was it her heart? Was she Undine? No. Was she Lilith? No. All the same she belonged to the fairy-tale world; to the Hans Andersen world, or to Perrault. The Princess without ... without what? She was the Sleeping Beauty in the wood, who had woken up and remembered nothing, and could never recover from the long trance. She would never be the same again. Never really awake in the world. And yet she had brought nothing back from fairyland except her looks. "She reminds me," he said, "of a line of Robert Lytton's: 'All her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose.' It is not that she is prosaic, but she is muffled. You see, during that long slumber which lasted a hundred years----" Rudd had now quite forgotten my presence and was talking or, rather, murmuring to himself. He was composing aloud. "During that long exile which lasted a hundred years, and passed in a flash, she had no dreams." "You mean she has no heart," I said. "No, not that," he answered, "heart as much as you like. She is kind. She is affectionate. But no passion, no dreams. Above all, no dreams. That is what she is. The Princess without any dreams. Do you think that would do as a title? No, it is not quite right. _The Sleeping Beauty in the World?_ No. Why did Rostand use the title, _La Princesse Lointaine_? That would have done. No, that is not quite right either. She is not far away. She is here. She looks far away and isn't. I must think about it. It will come." Then, quite abruptly, he asked me what I imagined the garden of the hotel looked like. I said that I had never been here before and that I had only heard descriptions of the place from my acquaintances and from my servant, but I imagined the end of the garden, where I had often walked, to be rather like a Russian landscape. I had never been to Russia, but I had read Russian books, and what I imagined to be a rather untidy piece of long grass, fringed with a few birch trees and some firs, the whole rather baked and dry, reminded me of the descriptions in Tourgenev's books. Rudd said it was not like Russia. Russia had so much more space. So much more atmosphere. This little garden might be a piece of Scotland, might be a piece of Denmark, but it was not Russian. I asked him whether he had been to Russia. Not in the flesh, he said, but in the spirit he had lived there for years. Perhaps he wanted to see how much the second-hand impressions of a blind man were worth. He soon reverted to the original subject of our talk. "Why is Miss Brandon not married?" he said. I said I knew nothing about her, nothing about her life. I presumed her parents were dead. She was travelling with her aunt. They came here every year for her aunt's rheumatism. Mrs. Lennox had a house in London. She was a widow, not very well off, I thought. I told him I knew nothing of London life. I have lived in Italy for the last twenty years. I very seldom went to London, only, in fact, to see Kennaway. I told him he must find out about Miss Brandon's early history himself. "She is very silent," he said. "Mrs. Lennox is very talkative," I told him. "What can I call it?" he asked, in an agony of impatience. "She has every beauty, every grace, except that of expression." "_The Dumb Belle?_" The words escaped me and I immediately regretted them. "No," he said, quite seriously, "she is not dumb, that is just the point. She talks, but she cannot express herself. Or rather, she has nothing to express. At least, I think she has nothing to express: or what she has got to express is not what we think it is. I imagine a story like Pygmalion and Galatea. Somebody waking her to life and then finding her quite different from what the stone image seemed to promise, from what it _did_ promise. At any rate I have got my subject and I am extremely grateful. It is a wonderful subject." "Henry James," I ventured. "Ah, James," said Rudd, "yes, James, a wonderful intellect, but a critic, not a novelist. The French could do it. What would they have called it? _La Princesse désenchantée,_ or _La Belle revenue du Bois_? You can't say that in English." "Nor in French either," I thought to myself, but I said aloud, "_Out of the Wood_ would suggest quite a different kind of book." "A very different kind of book," said Rudd, quite gravely. "The kind of book that sells by the million." Rudd then left me. He was enchanted with the idea of having something to write about. I felt that a good title for his novel would be _Eurydice Half-regained_, but I was diffident about suggesting a title to him, besides which I felt he would not like it. Miss Brandon, he would explain, was not like Eurydice, and if she was, she had forgotten her experiences beyond the Styx. CHAPTER II I am going to divide my record into chapters just as if I were writing a novel. The length of the chapters will be entirely determined by my inclination at the moment of writing. When I am tired the chapter will end. I don't know if this is what novelists do. It does not matter, as I am not writing a novel. I know it is not what Rudd does. He told me he planned out his novel before writing a line, and decided beforehand on the length of each chapter, but that he often made them longer in the first draft, and then eliminated. If you want to be terse, he said, you must not start by trying to be terse, by leaving out. You must say everything _first_. You can rub out afterwards. He told me he worked in charcoal, as it were, at first. I shall not work in charcoal. I have no plan. I asked Princess Kouragine what Rudd was like. She said he had something rather prim and dapper about him. I was quite wrong about his appearance. He wears a black tie. Princess Kouragine said, "_Il a l'air comme tout le monde, plutôt comme un médecin de campagne._" I asked her if she liked him. She said she did not know. She said he was agreeable, but she found no real pleasure in his society. "You see," she said, "I like the society of my equals, I hate being with my superiors; that is why I hate being with royalties, authors and artists. Mr. Rudd can talk of nothing except his art, and I like Tauchnitz novels that one can read without any trouble. I hate realistic novels, especially in English." I told her his novels were more often fantastic, with a certain amount of psychology in them. "That is worse," she said, "I am old-fashioned. It is no use to try and convert me. I like Trollope and Ouida." I offered to lend her a novel by Rudd, but she refused. "I would rather not have read it," she said. "It would make me uncomfortable when I talked to him. As it is, as the idiot who has read nothing newer than Ouida, I am quite comfortable." I said he was writing something now which I thought would interest her. I told her how Rudd was making Miss Brandon the pivot of a story. "Ah!" she said. "He told me he was writing something for his own pleasure. I will read _that_ book." I said he did not intend to publish it. "He will publish it," she said. "It will be very interesting. I wonder what he will make of Jean Brandon. I know her well. I have known her for five years. They come here every year. They stay a long time. It is economical. She is a good girl. I like her. _Elle me plaît_." I asked whether she was pretty. The Princess said she was changeable--_journalière, "Elle a souvent mauvaise mine."_ Not tall enough. A beautiful skin like ivory, but too pale. Eyes. Yes, she had eyes. Most remarkable eyes. You could not tell whether they were blue or grey. Graceful. Pretty hands. Badly dressed, but from poverty and economy more than from _mauvais goût_. A very _English_ beauty. "You will probably tell me she is Scotch or Irish. I don't care. I don't mean Keapsake or Gainsborough, nor Burne-Jones, but English all the same. But I can't describe her. She has charm and it escapes one. She has beauty, but it doesn't fit into any of the categories. "One feels there is a lamp inside her which has gone out, for the time being, at any rate. She reminds me of some lines of Victor Hugo: "Et les plus sombres d'entre nous Ont eu leur aube éblouissante." "I can imagine her having been quite dazzling when she was a young girl. I can imagine her still being dazzling now if someone were to light the lamp. It could be lit, I know. Once, two years ago, at the races here at Bavigny, I saw her excited. She wanted a friend to win a steeplechase and he won. She was transfigured. At that moment I thought I had seldom seen anyone more _éblouissante_. Her face shone as though it had been transparent." Of course the poor girl was unhappy, and why was she unhappy? The reason was a simple one, she was poor, and Mrs. Lennox economized and used her as an economy. "You see that the poor girl is obliged to make _de petites économies_ in her clothes. She suffers from it I'm sure. Who wouldn't? This all comes from your silly system of marriage in England. You let two totally inexperienced beings with nothing to help them settle the question on which the whole of their lives is to depend. You let a girl marry her first love. It is too absurd. It never lasts. I do not say that marriages in our country do not often turn out very badly. No one knows that better than I do, Heaven knows; but I say that at least we give the poor children a chance. We at least do not build marriages on a foundation which we know to be unsound beforehand, or not there at all. We do not let two people marry when we know that the circumstances cannot help leading to disaster." I said I did not think there was much to choose between the two systems. In France the young people had the chance of making a satisfactory marriage; in our country the young people had the chance of marrying whom they chose, of making the right choice. It was sometimes successful. Besides, when there were real obstacles the marriages did not as a rule come off. Mrs. Lennox had told me that Miss Brandon had been engaged when she was nineteen to a man in the army. He was too poor. The engagement had been broken off. The man had left the army and gone to the colonies, and there the matter had remained. I didn't think she would have been happier if she had been married off to a _parti_. "She would not have been poor," said Princess Kouragine. "And she would have been more independent. She would have had a home." She said she did not attach an enormous importance to riches, but she did attach great importance to real poverty, especially to poverty in the class of people with whom Miss Brandon lived. She said the worst kind of poverty was to live with people richer than yourself. It was a continual strain, she knew it from experience. She had been through it herself soon after she was married, after the first time her husband had been ruined. And nobody who had not been through it knew what it meant, the constant daily fret. "The little subterfuges. Having to think of every cab and every box of cigarettes. Not that I thought of those," she said. "But it was clothes which were the trouble. I can see that that poor Jean suffers in the same way. And then, what a life! To spend all one's time with that Mrs. Lennox, who is as hard as a stone and ruthlessly selfish. She does not want Jean to marry. Jean is too useful to her." I said I wondered why she had not married. Surely lots of men must have wanted to marry her. Princess Kouragine said that Mrs. Lennox was quite capable of preventing it. She rarely took her out in London. She brought her to Haréville when the London season began and they stayed here two months. It was cheaper. In the winter they went to Florence or Nice. I said I wondered whether she was still faithful to the man she had been engaged to, and what he was like. Princess Kouragine said she did not know him. She had never seen him, but she had heard he was charming, _très bien_, but he hadn't a penny. It appeared, however, that he had a relation, possibly an uncle, who was well off, and who would probably leave him money. But he was not an old man and might live for years. I said that perhaps Miss Brandon was waiting for him. "Perhaps," said Princess Kouragine, "but she was only nineteen when they were engaged, and he has been away for the last five years. People change. She is no longer now what she was then, nor he, probably." She did not think this episode was a real obstacle; she was convinced Miss Brandon did not feel bound, but she thought she had not yet met anyone whom she felt she would like to marry. Nor was it likely for her to do so considering the _milieu_ in which she lived, in which she was obliged to live. Mrs. Lennox liked the continental, international world. The world in which everyone spoke English and hardly anyone was English. It was not even the best side of the continental world she liked. She did not mean it was the shady side, not the world of adventurers and gamblers, but the world of international "culture." All the intellectual snobs were drawn instinctively to Mrs. Lennox. People who discovered new musicians, new novelists, and new painters, who suddenly pronounced as a dogma that Beethoven couldn't compose and that the old masters did not know how to draw, and that there was a new music, a new science, and, above all, a new religion. "She is always surrounded just by those one or two men and women '_qui rendent l'Europe insupportable et qui la gobent_,' they swallow everything in her, her views on art, her dyed hair, and her ridiculous hats. Is it likely that Miss Brandon, the daughter of an old general, brought up in the Highlands of Scotland, and passionately fond of outdoor life, would find a husband among people who were discussing all day long whether Wagner was not better as a writer than a musician? She never complains of it, poor child, but I know quite well that she is _écoeurée_. She has had five years of it. Her father died five years ago. Till he died she used to look after him and that was probably not an easy life, either, as I believe he was a very exacting old man. Her mother had died years before, and she had no brothers and no sisters. No relations who were friends, and few women friends. She is alone in a world she hates." I said I wondered that she had not left it. Girls often struck out a line for themselves now and found occupations. Princess Kouragine said that Miss Brandon was not that sort of girl. She was shy and apathetic as far as that kind of thing was concerned, apathetic now about everything. She had just given in. What else could she do? Where could she live? She had not a penny. "You see if a sensible marriage had been arranged for her, all this would not have happened. She would have now had a home and children." I said that perhaps she was being faithful to the young man. Princess Kouragine said I could take it from her that she had never loved, "_elle n'a jamais aimé_" She had never had a _grande passion_. I asked the Princess whether she thought her capable of such a thing. She seemed so quiet. "You have never seen the lamp lit," said the Princess, "but I have; only for one moment, it is true, but I shall never forget it." She wondered what Rudd would make of the character. He hardly knew her. Did he seem to understand her? I said I thought he spun people out of his own inner consciousness. A face gave him an idea and he made his own character, but he thought he was being very analytical, and that all he created was based on observation. "He certainly observes nothing," said the Princess. She asked who would be the hero. I said we had not got as far as the hero when he had discussed it with me. "And what will he call the novel?" she asked. Ah, that was just the question. He had discussed that at length. He had not found a title that satisfied him. He had got so far as "_The Princess without any Dreams_." "_Dieu qu'il est bête_," she said. "_Cette enfant ne fait que rêver_." She told me I must get Rudd to discuss it with me again. "Perhaps he will talk to me about it, too. I will make him do so, in fact. It will not be difficult. Then we will compare notes. It will be most amusing. The Princess without any dreams, indeed! He might just as well call her the Princess without any eyes!" CHAPTER III This afternoon I was sitting on a bench in the most secluded part of the park when I heard someone approach, and Miss Brandon asked if she might sit down near me and talk a little. Mrs. Lennox had gone for a motor drive with Mr. Rudd. "He is our new friend," she explained. "That is to say, more Aunt Netty's friend than mine." I asked her whether she liked him. "Yes, but he doesn't take much notice of me. He asks me questions, but never waits for the answer. I feel he has made up his mind about me, that I am labelled and pigeon-holed. He loves Aunt Netty." I asked what they talked about. "Books," she said. "His books, I suppose," I said. I wondered whether Mrs. Lennox had read them. I could feel Miss Brandon guessing my inward question. "Aunt Netty _is_ very clever," she said. "She makes people enjoy themselves, especially those kind of people.... Last night he dined at our table, and so did Mabel Summer. You don't know her? You must know her, you would like her. She is going away to-morrow, for a fortnight to the Lakes, but she is coming back then. We nearly laughed at one moment. It was awful. They were discussing Balzac, and Aunt Netty said that Balzac was a snob like all--and she was just going to say like all novelists, when she caught herself up and said: 'like Thackeray.' Mr. Rudd said that Balzac and Thackeray had nothing in common, and Mabel, who had caught my eye, and I, were speechless. Just for a moment I was shaking, and Mr. Rudd looked at us. It was awful, but Mabel recovered and said she didn't think we could realize now the kind of atmosphere that Thackeray lived in." I said I didn't suppose that Rudd had noticed anything. He didn't seem to me to notice that kind of thing. She agreed, but said he had moments of lucidity which were unexpected and disconcerting. "For one second," she said, "he suspected we were laughing at him. Aunt Netty manages him perfectly. He loves her. She knows exactly what to say to him. He knows she is not critical. I think he is rather suspicious. How funny clever men are!" she said, after a pause. I said she really meant to say, "How stupid clever men are!" I reminded her of the profound saying of one of Kipling's women, that the stupidest woman could manage a clever man, but it took a very clever woman to manage a fool. She said she had always found the most disconcerting element in stupid people--or people who were thought to be stupid--was their sudden flashes of lucidity, when they saw things quite plainly. Clever men didn't have these flashes, but the curious thing was that Rudd did. I said I thought this was because, apart from his literary talent, which was an accomplishment like conjuring or acting, quite separate from the rest of his personality, Rudd was not a clever man. All his cleverness went into his books. I said I thought there were two kinds of writers: those who were better than their books, and of whom the books were only the overflow, and those who put every drop of their being into the books and were left with a dry and uninteresting shell. She said she thought she had only met that kind. "Aunt Netty," she said, "loves all authors and it's odd considering----" She stopped, but I ended her sentence: "She has never read a book in her life." Miss Brandon laughed and said I was unfair. "Reading tires her. I don't think anyone has time to read a book after they are eighteen. I haven't. But I feel I am a terrible wet blanket to all Aunt Netty's friends. I can't even pretend to be enthusiastic. You see I like the other sort of people so much better." I said I was afraid the other sort of people were poorly represented here just now. "We have another friend," she said, "at least, I have." "Also a new friend?" I asked. "I have known him in a way a long time," she said. "He is a Russian called Kranitski. We met him first two years ago at Florence. He was looking after his mother, who was ill and who lived at Florence. We used to meet him often, but I never got to know him. We never spoke to each other. We saw him, too, in the distance once on the Riviera." I asked what he was like. "He is all lucid intervals," she said, "it is frightening. But he is very easy to get on with. Of course I don't know him at all really. I have only seen him twice. But one didn't have to plough through the usual commonplaces. He began at once as if we had known each other for years, and I felt myself doing the same thing." I asked what he was. She didn't quite know. I said I thought I knew the name. It reminded me of something, but I certainly did not know him. Miss Brandon said she would introduce me to him. I asked what he looked like. "Oh, an untidy, comfortable face," she said. "He is always smiling. He is not at all international. He is like a dog. The kind of dog that understands you in a minute. The extraordinary thing is that after the first time we had a talk I felt as if I knew him intimately, as if I had met him on some other planet, as if we were going on, not as if we were beginning. I suddenly found myself telling him things I had never told anyone. Of course, this does happen to one sometimes with perfect strangers, at least it does to me. Don't you think it easy sometimes to pour out confidences to a perfect stranger? But I don't expect people give you the opportunity. They tell you things." I said this did happen sometimes, probably because people thought I didn't count, and that as I couldn't see their faces they needn't tell the truth. "I would find it as difficult to tell you a lie," she said, "as to tell a lie on the telephone. You know how difficult that is. I should think people tell you the truth as they do in the Confessional. The priest shuts his eyes, doesn't he?" I said I believed this was the case. "This Russian is a Catholic," she said. "Isn't that rare for a Russian?" I said he was, perhaps, a Pole. The name sounded Polish. No, he had told her he was not a Pole. He was not a man who explained. Explanations evidently bored him. He was not a soldier, but he had been to the Manchurian War. He had lived in the Far East a great deal, and in Italy. Very little in Russia apparently. He had come to Haréville for a rest cure. "I asked him," she said, "if he had been ill, and he said something had been cut out of his life. He had been pruned. The rest of him went on sprouting just the same." I said I supposed he spoke English. Yes, he had had an English nurse and an English governess. He had once been to England as a child for a few weeks to the Isle of Wight. He knew no English people. He liked English books. "Byron, and Jerome K. Jerome?" I suggested. "No," she said, "Miss Austen." I asked whether he had made Mrs. Lennox's acquaintance. Yes, they had talked a little. "Aunt Netty talked to him about Tolstoi. Tolstoi is one of Mr. Rudd's stock topics." I said I supposed she had retailed Rudd's views on the Russian. Was he astonished? "Not a bit. I could see he had heard it all before," she said. "He was angelic. He shook his ears now and then like an Airedale terrier. Aunt Netty doesn't want him. Mr. Rudd is enough for her and she is enjoying herself. She always finds someone here. Last year it was a composer." "Does Princess Kouragine know him?" I asked. No, she didn't. She had never met him, but she knew of him. I asked what Mr. Rudd thought about Princess Kouragine. "Mr. Rudd and Aunt Netty discuss her for hours. He has theories about her. He began by saying she had the Slav indifference. Then Aunt Netty said she was French. But Mr. Rudd said it was catching. People who lived in Ireland became Irish, and people who lived in Russia became Russian. Then Aunt Netty said Princess Kouragine had lived in France and Italy. Mr. Rudd said she had caught the microbe, and that she was a woman who lived only by half-hours. He meant she was only alive for half-an-hour at a time." At that moment someone walked up the path. "Here is Monsieur Kranitski," she said. She introduced us. "I have been walking to the end of the park," he said. "It is curious, but that side of the park with the dry lawn-tennis court, those birch trees and some straggling fir trees on the hill and the long grass, reminds me of a Russian garden which I used to know very well." I said that when people had described that same spot to me I had imagined it like the descriptions of places in Tourgenev's books. He said I was quite right. I said it was a wonderful tribute to an author's powers that he could make the character of a landscape plain, not only to a person who had never been in his country, but even to a blind man. Kranitski said that Tourgenev described gardens very well, and a particular kind of Russian landscape. "What I call the orthodox kind. I hear James Rudd, the writer, is staying here. He has a gift for describing places: Italian villages, journeys in France, little canals at Venice, the Campagna." "You like his books?" I asked. "Some of them; when they are fantastic, yes. When he is psychological I find them annoying, but one says I am wrong." "He is too complicated," Miss Brandon said. "He spoils things by seeing too much, by explaining too much." I asked Kranitski if he was a great novel reader. He said he liked novels if they were very good, like Miss Austen and Henry James, or else very, very bad ones. He could not read any novel because it was a novel. On the other hand he could read any detective story, good, bad or middling. Miss Brandon asked him if he would like to know Rudd. "Is he very frightful?" he asked. I said I did not think he was at all alarming. Yes, he said, he would like to make his acquaintance. He had never met an English author. "You won't mind his explaining the Russian character to you?" I said. Kranitski said he would not mind that, and that as his mother was Italian, and as he had lived very little in Russia and spoke Russian badly, perhaps Mr. Rudd would not count him as a Russian. Miss Brandon said that would make the explanation more complicated still. CHAPTER IV Life begins very early in the morning here. The water-drinkers and the bathers begin their day at half-past six. My day does not begin till half-past seven, as I don't drink many glasses of the water. At seven o'clock the village bell rings for Mass. It was some days after the conversations I recorded in my last chapter I woke one morning early at half-past six and got up. I asked my servant, Henry, to lead me to the village church. I went in and sat down at the bottom of the aisle. Early Mass had not yet begun. The church seemed to me empty. But from a corner I heard the whispered mutter of a confession. Presently two people walked past me, the priest and the penitent, I surmised. Someone walked upstairs. A boy's footsteps then clattered past me. The church bell was rung. Someone walked downstairs and up the aisle; the priest again, I thought. Then Mass began. Towards the end someone again walked up the aisle. I remained sitting till the end. At the door, outside the church, someone greeted me. It was Kranitski. He walked back with me to the hotel. He asked me whether I was a Catholic. I told him that Catholic churches attracted me, but that I was an agnostic. He seemed slightly astonished at this; astonished at the attraction in my case, I supposed. He said something which indicated surprise. I told him I could not explain it. It was certainly not the exterior panoply and trappings of the church which attracted me, for of those I saw nothing. Nor was it the music, for although I was not a musician, my long blindness had made me acutely sensitive to sound, and the sounds in churches were often, I found, painful. I asked him if he was a Catholic. "I was born a Catholic," he said, "but for years I have not been _pratiquant_, until I came here. Not for seven years." "You have not been inside a church for seven years?" I said. "Oh yes," he said, "inside a church very often." I said most people lost their faith as young men. Sometimes it came back. "I was not like that," he said, "I never lost my faith, not for a day, not for an hour." I said I didn't understand. "There were reasons--an obstacle," he said. "But now they are not there any more. Now I am once more inside." "Inside what?" I asked. "The church. During those seven years I was outside." "But as you went to church when you liked," I said, "I do not see the difference." "I cannot explain it to you," he said. "You would not understand. At least, you would understand if you knew and I could explain, only it would be too long. But as it was it was like knowing you couldn't have a bath if you wanted one--like feeling always starved. You see I am naturally believing. If I had not been, it would have been no matter. I cannot help believing. Many times I should have liked not to believe. Many times I was envying people who feel you go out like a candle when you die. I am not _mystique_ or anything like that; but something at the back of my mind is keeping on saying to me: 'You know it _is_ true,' just as in some people there is something inside them which is keeping on saying: 'You know it is _not_ true.' And yet I couldn't do otherwise. That is to say, I resolved not to do otherwise. Life is complicated. Things are so mixed up sometimes. One has to sacrifice what one most cares for. At least, I had to. I was caring for my religion more than I can describe, but I had to give it up. No, that is wrong, I didn't _have to_, but I gave it up. It was all very embarrassing. But now the obstacle is not there. I am free. It is a relief." "But if you never lost your faith and went on going to church, and _could_ go to church whenever you liked, I cannot see what you had to give up. I don't see what the obstacle prevented." "To explain you that I should have to tell too long a story," he said. "I will tell you some day if you have patience to listen. Not now." We had got back to the park. I went into the pavilion to drink the water. I asked Kranitski if he was going to have a glass. "No," he said, "I do not need any waters or any cure. I am cured already, but I need a long rest to forget it all. You know sometimes after illness you regret the _maladie_, and I am still a little bit dizzy. After you have had a tooth out, in spite of the relief from pain you mind the hole." He went into the hotel. Later in the morning I met Princess Kouragine. She asked me how Rudd's novel was getting on. I said I had not seen him, and had had no talk with him about it. I told her I had made the acquaintance of Kranitski. "I too," she said. "I like him. I never knew him before, but I know a little of his history. He has been in love a very long time with someone I knew--and still know, I won't say her name. I don't want to rake up old scandals, but she was Russian, and she lived, a long time ago, in Rome, and she was unhappy with her husband, whom I always liked, and thought extremely _comme il faut_, but they were not suited." "Why didn't she divorce him?" I asked. "The children," she said; "three children, two boys and a girl, and she adored them, so did the father, and he would never have let them go, nor would she have left them for anyone in the world." "If she lived at Rome, I may have met her," I said. "It is quite possible," said the Princess. "My friend was a charming person, a little vague, very gentle, very graceful, very musical, very attractive." "Is the husband still alive?" I asked. "Yes, he is alive. They do not live at Rome any more, but in the Caucasus, and at Paris in the winter. I saw them both in Paris this winter." I asked if the Kranitski episode was still going on. "It is evidently over," said Princess Kouragine. "Why?" I asked. "Because he is happy. _Il n'a plus des yeux qui regardent au delà._" "Was he very much in love with her?" I asked. "Yes, very much. And she too. He will be a character for Mr. Rudd," she went on, "I saw him talking to him yesterday, with Mrs. Lennox and Jean. Jean likes him. She looks better these last two days." I said I had noticed she seemed more lively. "Ah, but physically she looks different. That child wants admiration and love." "Love?" I said. "Won't it be rather unfortunate if she looks for love in that quarter? He won't love again, will he? Or not so soon as this." "You are like the people who think one can only have measles once," she said. "One can have it over and over again, and the worse you have it once, the worse you may get it again. He is just in the most susceptible state of all." I said they both seemed to me in the same position. They were both of them bound by old ties. "That is just what will make it easier." I asked whether there would be any other obstacles to a marriage between them, such as money. Princess Kouragine said that Kranitski ought to be quite well off. "There was no obstacle of that kind," she said. "He is a Catholic, but I do not suppose that will make any difference." "Not to Miss Brandon," I said, "nor really to her aunt: Mrs. Lennox might, I think, look upon it as a kind of obstacle; but a little more an obstacle than if he was a radical and a little less of one than if he was socialist." She said she did not think that Mrs. Lennox would like her niece to marry anyone. "But if they want to get married nothing will stop them. That girl has a character of iron." "And he?" I asked. "He has got some character." "Would the other person mind--the lady at Rome?" "She probably will mind, but she would not prevent it. _Elle est foncièrement bonne._ Besides which she knows that it is over, there is nothing more to be said or done. She is _philosophe_ too. A sensible woman. She insisted on marrying her husband. She was in love with him directly she came out, and they were married at once. He would have been an excellent husband for almost anyone else except for her, and if she had only waited two years she would have known this herself. As it was, she married him, and found she had married someone else. The inevitable happened. She is far too sensible to complain now. She knows she has made a _gâchis_ of her life, and that she only has herself to thank. As it is, she has her children and she is devoted to them. She will not want to make a _gâchis_ of Kranitski's life as well as of her own, and she nearly did that too. If he marries and is happy she ought to be pleased, and she will be." "And what about the young man who was engaged to Miss Brandon?" I asked. "I do not give that story a thought," said the Princess. "They were probably in the same situation towards each other as the Russian couple I told you of were before they were married, only Jean had the good fortune to do nothing in a hurry. She is probably now profoundly grateful. How can a girl of eighteen know life? How can she even know her own mind?" "It depends on the young man," I said. "We know nothing about him." "Yes, we know nothing about him; but that probably shows there is nothing to know. If there were something to know we should know it by now. It was all so long ago. They are both different people now, and they probably know it." I said I would not like to speculate or even hazard a guess on such a matter. It might be as she said, but the contrary might just as well be true. I did not think Miss Brandon was a person who would change her mind in a hurry. I thought she was one of the rare people who did know her own mind. I could imagine her waiting for years if it was necessary. As I was saying this, Princess Kouragine said to me: "She is walking across the park now with Kranitski. They have sat down on a seat near the music kiosk. They are talking hard. The lamp is being lit--she looks ten years younger than she did last week, and she has got on a new hat." CHAPTER V During the rest of that day I saw nobody. I gathered there were races somewhere, and Mrs. Lennox had taken a large party. Just before dinner I got a message from Rudd asking whether he might dine at my table. I do not dine in the big dining-room, as I find the noise and the bustle trying, but in a smaller room where some of the visitors have their _petit déjeuner_. So we were alone and had the room to ourselves. I asked him if he had been working. He said he had been making notes, plans and sketches, but he could not get on unless he could discuss his work with someone. "The story is gradually taking shape," he said. "I haven't made up my mind what the setting is to be. But I have got the kernel. My story is what I told you it would be. The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, but when the Prince wakes her up she is no longer the same person as she was when she went to sleep. The enchantment has numbed her. She will have none of the Fairy Prince; she doesn't recognize him as a Fairy Prince, and she lets him go away. As soon as he is gone she regrets what she has done and begins to hope he will come back some day. Time passes and he does come back, but he has forgotten her and he does not recognize her. Someone else falls in love with her, and she thinks she loves him; but, at the first kiss he gives her, the forest closes round her and she falls asleep again." I asked him if it was going to be a fairy-tale. He said, No, a modern story with perhaps a mysterious lining to it. He imagined this kind of story. A girl brought up in romantic surroundings. She meets a boy who falls in love with her. This, in a way, wakens her to life, but she will not marry him; and he goes away for years. Time passes. She leads a numbed existence. She travels, and somewhere abroad she meets the love of her youth again. He has forgotten her and loves someone else. Someone else wants to marry her. They are engaged to be married. But as soon as things get as far as this the man finds that in some inexplicable way she is different, and _he_ breaks off the engagement, and she goes on living as she did before, apparently the same, but in reality dead. "Then," I said, "she always loves the Fairy Prince of her youth." He said: "She thinks she loves him when it is too late, but in reality she never loves anyone. She is only half-awake in life. She never gets over the enchantment which numbs her for life." I asked what would correspond to the enchantment in real life. He said perhaps the romantic surroundings of her childhood. I said I thought he had not meant her to be a romantic character. "No more she is," he explained. "The romance is all from outside. She looks romantic, but she isn't. She is like a person who has been bewitched. She always thinks she is going to behave like an ordinary person, but she can't. She has no dreams. She would like to marry, to have a home, to be comfortable and free, but something prevents it. When the young man proposes to her she feels she can never marry him. As soon as he is gone, she regrets having done this, and imagines that if he came back she would love him." "And when he does come back, does she love him?" I asked. "She thinks she does, but that is only because he has forgotten her. If he hadn't forgotten her, and had asked her to marry him, she would have said 'No' a second time. Then when the other person who is in love with her wants to marry her, she _thinks_ she is in love with him; she thinks _he_ is the Fairy Prince; but as soon as they are engaged, _he_ feels that his love has gone. It has faded from the want of something in _her_ which he discovers at the very first kiss; he breaks off the engagement, and she is grateful at being set free, and glad to go back to her forest." I asked if she is unhappy when it is over. He said, "Yes, she is unhappy, but she accepts it. She is not broken-hearted because she never loved him. She realizes that she can't love and will never love, and accepts the situation." I said that I saw no mysterious lining in the story as told that way. He said there was none; but the lining would come in the manner the story was told. He would try and give the reader the impression that she had come into touch with the fairy world by accident and that the adventure had left a mark that nothing could alter. She had no business to have adventures in fairy land. She had strayed into that world by mistake. She was not native to it, although she looked as if she were. I said I thought there ought to be some explanation of how and why she got into touch with the fairy world. He said it was perhaps to be found in the surroundings of her childhood. She perhaps inherited some strange spiritual, magic legacy. But whatever it was it must come from the _outside_. Perhaps there was a haunted wood near her home, and she was forbidden to go into it. Perhaps the legend of the place said that anyone of her family who visited that wood before they were fifteen years old, went to sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps she visited the wood and fell asleep and had a dream. That dream was the hundred years' sleep, but she forgot the dream as soon as she was awake. I asked him if he thought this story fitted on to Miss Brandon's character or to the circumstances of her life. He said he knew little about the circumstances of her life. Mrs. Lennox had told him that her niece had once nearly married someone, but that it had been an impossible marriage for many reasons, and that she did not think her niece regretted it. That several people had wanted to marry her abroad, but that she had never fallen in love. "As to her character, I am confirmed," he said, "in what I thought about her the first time I saw her. All her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose. She is practical and prosaic and unimaginative and quite passionless. But I should not be in the least surprised if she married a fox-hunting squire with ten thousand a year. All that does not matter to me. I am not writing her story, but the story of her face. What might have been her story. And not the story of what her face looks like, but the story of what her face means. The story of her soul, which may be very different from the story of her life. It is the story of a numbed soul. A soul that has visited places which it had no business to visit and had had to pay the price in consequence. "She reminds me of those lines of Heine: "Sie waren langst gestorben und wussten es selber kaum." "That is, of course, only one way of writing the story I have planned to you. I shall not begin at the beginning at any rate. Perhaps I shall never write the story at all. You see, I do not intend to publish it in any case. People would say I was making a portrait. As if an artist ever made a portrait from one definite real person. People give him ideas. But on the other hand it is my holiday, and I do not want to have all the labour of planning a real story, and at the same time I want an occupation. This will keep me busy. I shall amuse myself by sketching the story as I see it now." I asked who the hero would be. "The man who wants to marry her and whom she consents to marry will be a foreigner," he said. "An Italian?" I asked. "No," he said, "not an Italian. Not a southerner. A northerner. Possibly a Norwegian. A Norwegian or a Dane. That would be just the kind of person to be attracted by this fairy-tale-looking, in reality, prosaic being." "And who would the original Fairy Prince be?" I asked. "He would be an ordinary Englishman. Any of the young men I saw here would do for that. The originality of his character would be in this: that he would _look_ and be considered the type of dog-like fidelity and unalterable constancy, and in reality he would forget all about her directly he met someone else he loved. He would have been quite faithful till then. Faithful for two or three years. Then he would have met someone else: a married woman. Someone out of his reach, and he would have been passionately devoted to her and have forgotten all about the Fairy Princess. "The Norwegian would be attracted by her very apathy and seeming coldness and aloofness. He would imagine that this would all melt and vanish away at the first kiss. That she would come to life like Galatea. It would be the opposite of Galatea. The first kiss would turn her to stone once more. "Then being a very nice honest fellow he would be miserable. He would not know what to do. He would be a sailor perhaps, and be called away. That would have to be thought about." Then we talked of other things. I asked Rudd if he had made Kranitski's acquaintance. He said, Yes, he had. He was quite a pleasant fellow, no brains and very commonplace and rather reactionary in his ideas; not politically, he meant, but intellectually. He had not got further than Miss Austen and he was taken in by Chesterton. All that was very crude. But he was amiable and good-natured. I said Princess Kouragine liked him. "Ah," he said, "that is an interesting type. The French character infected by the Slav microbe. "What a powerful thing the Slav microbe is; more powerful even than the Irish microbe. Her French common sense and her Latin logic had been stricken by that curious Russian intellectual malaria. She will never get it out of her system." I asked him if he thought Kranitski had the same malaria. "It is less noticeable in him," Rudd said, "because he _is_ Russian; there is no contrast to observe, no conflict. He is simply a Slav of a rather conventional type. His Slavness would simply reveal itself in his habits; his incessant cigarette-smoking; his good head for cards--he was an admirable card-player--his facility for playing the piano, and perhaps singing folk-songs--I don't know if he does, but he well might; his good-natured laziness; his social facility; his quick superficiality. There is nothing interesting psychologically there." I said that I believed his mother was Italian. Rudd said this was impossible. She might be Polish, but there was evidently no southern strain in him. Although I knew for a fact that Rudd was wrong, I could not contradict him; greatly as I wished to do so I could not bring the words across my lips. I said he had made Mrs. Lennox's acquaintance. He said he knew that he had met him in their rooms. I asked whether he thought Miss Brandon liked him. Rudd said that Miss Brandon was the same towards everyone. Profoundly indifferent, that is to say. He did not think, he was, in fact, quite certain that there was not a soul at Haréville who raised a ripple of interest on the perfectly level surface of her resigned discontent. Then we went out into the park and listened to the music. CHAPTER VI The day after Rudd dined with me I was summoned by telegram to London. My favourite sister, who is married and whom I seldom see, was seriously ill. She wanted to see me. I started at once for London and found matters better than I expected, but still rather serious. I stayed with my sister nearly a month, by which time she was convalescent. Kennaway insisted on my going back to Haréville to finish my cure. When I got back, I found all the members of the group to which I had become semi-attached still there, and I made a new acquaintance: Mrs. Summer, who had just come back from the Lakes. I know little about her. I can only guess at her appearance. I know that she is married and that she cannot be very young and that is all. On the other hand, I feel now that I know a great deal about her. We sat after dinner in the park. She is a friend of Miss Brandon's. We talked of her. Mrs. Summer said: "The air here has done her such a lot of good." She meant to say: "She is looking much better than she did when she arrived," but she did not want to talk about _looks_ to me. I said: "She must get tired of coming here year after year." Mrs. Summer said that Miss Brandon hated London almost as much. I said: "You have known her a long time?" She said: "All her life. Ever since she was tiny." I asked what her father was like. "He was very selfish, violent-tempered, and rather original. When he dined out he always took his champagne with him in a pail and in a four-wheeler. He lived in an old house in the south of Ireland. He was not really Irish. He had been a soldier. He played picquet with Jean every evening. He went up to London two months every year--not in the summer. He liked seeing the Christmas pantomime. He was devoted to Jean, but tyrannized over her. He never let her out of his sight. "When he died he left nothing. The house in Ireland was sold, and the house in London, a house in Bedford Square. I think there were illegitimate children. In Ireland he entertained the neighbours, talked politics, and shouted at his guests, and quarrelled with everyone." I presumed he was not a Radical. I was right. I said I supposed Miss Brandon could never escape. She had been engaged to be married once, but money--the want of it--made the marriage impossible. Even if there had been money she doubted. "Because of the father?" I said. "Yes, she would never have left him. She couldn't have left him." "Did the father like the young man?" "Yes, he liked him, but regarded him as quite impossible, quite out of the question as a husband." I said I supposed he would have thought anyone else equally out of the question. "Of course," she said. "It was pure selfishness----" I asked what had happened to the young man. He was in the army, but left it because it was too expensive. He went out to the Colonies--South Africa--as A.D.C. He was there now. "Still unmarried?" I asked. Mrs. Summer said he would never marry anyone else. He had never looked at anyone else. He was supposed, at one time, to have liked an Italian lady, but that was all nonsense. She felt I did not believe this. "You don't believe me," she said. "But I promise you it's true. He is that kind of man--terribly faithful; faithful and constant. You see, Jean isn't an ordinary girl. If one once loved her it would be difficult to love anyone else. She was just the same when he knew her as she is now." "Except younger." "She is just as beautiful now, at least she could be----" "If someone told her so." "Yes, if someone thought so. Telling wouldn't be necessary." "Perhaps someone will." Mrs. Summer said it was extremely unlikely she would ever meet anyone abroad who would be the kind of man. I said I thought life was a play in which every entrance and exit was arranged beforehand, and the momentous entrance and the _scène à faire_ might quite as well happen at Haréville as anywhere else. Mrs. Summer made no comment. I thought to myself: "She knows about Kranitski and doesn't want to discuss it." "The man who marries Jean would be very lucky," she said. "Jean is--well--there is no one like her. She's more than _rare_. She's _introuvable_." I said that Rudd thought she would never marry anyone. "Perhaps not," she said, "but if Mr. Rudd is right about her he will be right for the wrong reasons. Sometimes the people who see everything wrong _are_ right. It is very irritating." I asked her if she thought Rudd was always wrong. "I don't know," she said, "but he would be wrong about Jean. Wrong about you. Wrong about me. Wrong about Princess Kouragine, and wrongest of all about Netty Lennox. Perhaps his instincts as an artist _are_ right. I think people's books are sometimes written by _someone else_, a kind of planchette. All the authors I have met have been so utterly and completely wrong about everything that stared them in the face." I asked whether she liked his books. Yes, she liked them, but she thought they were written by a familiar spirit. She couldn't fit him into his books. "Then," I said, "supposing he wrote a book about Miss Brandon, however wrong he might be about her, the book might turn out to be true." She didn't agree. She thought if he wrote a book about an imaginary Miss Jones it might turn out to be right in some ways about Jean Brandon, and in some ways about a hundred other people; but if he set out to write a book about Jean it would be wrong. "You mean," I said, "he is imaginative and not observant?" "I mean," she said, "that he writes by instinct, as good actors act." She said there was a Frenchman at the hotel who had told her that he had seen a rehearsal of a complicated play, in which a great actress was acting. The author was there. He explained to the actress what he wanted done. She said: "Yes, I see this, and this, and this." Everything she said was terribly wide of the mark, the opposite of what he had meant. He saw she hadn't understood a word he had said. Then the actress got on to the stage and acted it exactly as if she understood everything. "I think," she said, "that Mr. Rudd is like that." I asked Mrs. Summer if she knew Kranitski. "Just a little," she said. "What do you think about him?" I said I liked him. "He's very quick and easy to get on with," she said. "Like all Russians." "Like all Russians, but I don't think he's quite like all Russians, at least not the kind of Russians one meets." "No, more like the Russians one doesn't meet." "Tolstoi's Russians. Yes. It's a pity they have such a genius for unhappiness." I said I thought Kranitski did not seem unhappy. "No, but more as if he had just recovered than if he was quite well." I said I thought he gave one the impression that he was capable of being very happy. There was nothing gloomy about him. "All people who are unhappy are generally very happy, too," she said, "at least they are often very...." "Gay?" I suggested. She agreed. I said I thought he was more than an unhappy person with high spirits, which one saw often enough. He gave me the impression of a person capable of _solid_ happiness, the kind of business-like happiness that comes from a fundamental goodness. "Yes, he might, be like that," she said, "only one doesn't know quite what his life has been and is." She meant she knew all too well that his life had not been one in which happiness was possible. I agreed. "One knows so little about other people." "Nothing," I said. "Perhaps he is miserable. He ought to marry. I feel he is very domestic." "I sometimes think," she said, "that the people who marry--the men I mean--are those who want the help and support of a woman, women are so far stronger and braver than men; and that those who don't marry are sometimes those who are strong enough to face life without this help. Of course, there are others who aren't either strong enough or weak enough to need it, but they don't matter." I said I supposed she thought Kranitski would be strong enough to do without marriage. "I think so," she said, "but then, I hardly know him." "Does your theory apply to women, too?" I asked. "Are there some women who are strong enough to face life alone?" She said women were strong enough to do either. In either case life was for them just as difficult. I asked if she thought Miss Brandon would be happier married or not married. "Jean would never marry unless she married the right person, the man she wanted to marry," she said. "Would the person she wanted to marry," I said, "necessarily be the right person?" "He would be more right for her, whatever the drawbacks, than anyone else." I said I supposed nearly everyone thought they were marrying the right person, and yet how strangely most marriages turned out. "Nothing better than marriage has been invented, all the same," she said, "and if people marry when they are old enough...." "To know better," I said. "Yes, it doesn't then turn out so very badly as a rule." I said that as things were at present Miss Brandon's life seemed to me completely wasted. "So it is, but it might be worse. It might be a tragedy. Supposing she married someone who became fond of someone else." "She would mind," I said. "She would mind terribly." I said I thought people always got what they wanted in the long run. If she wanted a marriage of a definite kind she would probably end by getting it. Mrs. Summer agreed in the main, but she thought that although one often did get what one wanted in the long run, it often came either too late or not quite at the moment when one wanted it, or one found when one had got it that it was after all not quite what one had wanted. "Then," I said, "you think it is no use wanting anything?" "No use," she said, "no use whatever." "You are a pessimist." "I am old enough to have no illusions." "But you want other people to have illusions?" "I think there is such a thing as happiness in the world, and that when you see someone who might be happy, missing the chance of it, it's a pity. That's all." Then I said: "You want other people to want things." "Other people? Yes," she said. "Quite dreadfully I want it." At that moment Mrs. Lennox came up to us and said: "I have won five hundred francs, and I had the courage to leave the Casino. I can't think what has happened to Jean. I have been looking for her the whole evening." I left them and went into the hotel. CHAPTER VII It was the morning after the conversation I had with Mrs. Summer that I received a message from Miss Brandon. She wanted to speak to me. Could I be, about five o'clock, at the end of the alley? I was punctual at the rendezvous. "I wanted to have a talk," she said, "to-day, if possible, because to-morrow Aunt Netty has organized an expedition to the lakes, and the day after we are all going to the races, so I didn't know when I should see you again." "But you are not going away yet, are you?" I asked. No, they were not going away, they would very likely stay on till the end of July. Then there was an idea of Switzerland; or perhaps the Mozart festival at Munich, followed by a week at Bayreuth. Mr. Rudd was going to Bayreuth, and had convinced Mrs. Lennox that she was a Wagnerite. "I thought you couldn't be going away yet--but one never knows, here people disappear so suddenly, and I wanted to see you so particularly and at once. You are going to finish your cure?" I said my time limit was another fortnight. After that I was going back to my villa at Cadenabbia. "Shall you come here next year?" I said it depended on my doctor. I asked her her plans. "I don't think I shall come back next year." There was a slight note of suppressed exultation in her voice. I asked whether Mrs. Lennox was tired of Haréville. "Aunt Netty loves it, better than ever. Mr. Rudd has promised her to come too." There was a long pause. "I can't bear it any longer," she said at last. "Haréville?" "Haréville and all of it--everything." There was another long pause. She broke it. "You talked to Mabel Summer yesterday?" I said we had had a long talk. "I'm sure you liked her?" I said I had found her delightful. "She's my oldest friend, although she's older than I am. Poor Mabel, she's had a very unhappy life." I said one felt in her the sympathy that came from experience. "Oh yes, she's so brave; she's wonderful." I said I supposed she'd had great disappointments. "More than that. Tragedies. One thing after another." I asked whether she had any children. "Her two little girls both died when they were babies. But it wasn't that. She'll tell you all about it, perhaps, some day." I said I doubted whether we would ever meet again. "Mabel always keeps up with everybody she makes friends with. She doesn't often make new friends. She told me she had made two new friends here. You and Kranitski." "She likes him?" I said. "She likes him very much. She's very fastidious, very hard to please, very critical." I said everyone seemed to like Kranitski. "Aunt Netty says he's commonplace, but that's because Mr. Rudd said he was commonplace." I said Rudd always had theories about people. "You like Mr. Rudd?" she asked. I said I did, and reminded her that she had told me she did. "If you want to know the truth," she said, "I don't. I think he's awful." She laughed. "Isn't it funny? A week ago I would have rather died than admit this to you, but now I don't care. Of course I know he's a good writer and clever and subtle, and all that--but I've come to the conclusion----" "To what conclusion?" "Well, that I don't--that I like the other sort of people better." "The stupid people?" "No." "The clever people?" "No." "What people?" "I don't know. Nice people." "People like----" "People like Mabel Summer and Princess Kouragine," she interrupted. "They are both very clever, I think," I said. "Yes, but it's not that that matters." I said I thought intelligence mattered a great deal. "When it's natural," she said. "Do you think people can become religious if they're not?" she asked suddenly. I said that I didn't feel that I could, but it certainly did happen to some people. "I'm afraid it will never happen to me," she said. "I used to hope it might never happen, but now I hope the opposite. Last night, after you went in, Aunt Netty took us to the café, and we all sat there: Mr. Rudd, Mabel, a Frenchman whose name I don't know, and M. Kranitski. The Frenchman was talking about China, and said he had stayed with a French priest there. The priest had asked him why he didn't go to Mass. The Frenchman said he had no faith. The priest had said it was quite simple, he had only to pray to the Sainte Vierge for faith, _Mon enfant, c'est bien simple: il faut demander la foi à la Sainte Vierge._ He said this, imitating the priest, in a falsetto voice. They all laughed except M. Kranitski, who said, seriously, 'Of course, you should ask the Sainte Vierge.' When the Frenchman and M. Kranitski went away, Mr. Rudd said that in matters of religion Russians were childish, and that M. Kranitski has a _simpliste_ mind." I said that Kranitski was obviously religious. "Yes," she said, "but to be like that, one must be born like that." I said that curious explosions often happened to people. I had heard people talk of divine dynamite. "Yes, but not to the people who want them to happen." I said perhaps the method of the French priest in China was the best. "Yes, if only one could do it--I can't." I said that I felt as she did about these things. "I know so many people who are just in the same state," she said. "Perhaps it's like wishing to be musical when one isn't. But after all one _does_ change, doesn't one?" I said some people did, certainly. When one was in one frame of mind one couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in another. "Yes," she said, "but I suppose there's a difference between being in one frame of mind and not wishing ever to be in another, and in being in the same frame of mind but longing to be in another." I asked if she knew how long Kranitski was going to stay at Haréville. "Oh, I don't know," she said, "it all depends." "On his health?" "I don't think so. He's quite well." "Religion must be all or nothing," I said, going back to the topic. "Yes, of course." "If I was religious I should----" She interrupted me in the middle of my sentence. "Mr. Rudd is writing a book," she said. "Aunt Netty asked him what it was about, and he said it was going to be a private book, a book that he would only write in his holidays for his own amusement. She asked him whether he had begun it. He said he was only planning it, but he had got an idea. He doesn't like Mabel Summer. He thinks she is laughing at him. She isn't really, but she sees through him. I don't mean he pretends to be anything he isn't, but she sees all there is to see, and no more. He likes one to see more. Aunt Netty sees a great deal more. I see less probably. I'm unfair to him, I know. I know I'm very intolerant. You are so tolerant." I said I wasn't really, but kept my intolerances to myself out of policy. It was a prudent policy for one in my position. "Mr. Rudd adores you," she said. "He says you are so acute, so sensitive and so sensible." I said I was a good listener. "Has he told you about his book?" I said that he had told me what he had told them. "M. Kranitski has such a funny idea about it," she said. I asked what the idea was. "He thinks he is writing a book about all of us." "Who is the heroine?" I asked. "Mabel--I think," she said. "She's so pretty. Mr. Rudd admires her. He said she was like a Tanagra, and I can see she puzzles him. He's afraid of her." "And who is the hero?" I asked. "I can't imagine," she said. "I expect he has invented one." "Why is the book private?" "Because it's about real people." "Then we may all of us be in it?" "Yes." "What made Kranitski think that?" I asked. "The way he discusses all our characters. Each person who isn't there with all the others who are there. For instance, he discusses Princess Kouragine with Aunt Netty, and Mabel with Princess Kouragine, and you with all of us; and M. Kranitski says he talks about people like a stage manager settling what actors must be cast for a particular play. He checks what one person tells him with what the others say. I have noticed it myself. He talked to me for hours about Mabel one day, and after he had discussed Princess Kouragine with us, he asked Mabel what she thought of her. That is to say, he told her what he thought, and then asked her if she agreed. I don't think he listened to what she said. He hardly ever listens. He talks in monologues. But there must be someone there to listen." "You have left out one of the characters," I said. "Have I?" "The most important one." "The hero?" "And the heroine." "He's sure to invent those." "I'm not so sure, I think you have left out the most important character." "I don't think so." "I mean yourself." "Oh no, that's nonsense; he never pays any attention to me at all. He doesn't talk about me to Aunt Netty or to the others." "Perhaps he has made up his mind." "Yes," she said slowly, "that's just it. He has made up his mind. He thinks I'm a--well, just a lay figure." I said I was certain she would not be left out if he was writing that kind of book. She laughed happily--so happily that I imagined her looking radiant and felt that the lamp was lit. I asked her why she was laughing. "I'm laughing," she said, "because in one sense my novel is over--with the ordinary happy, conventional ending--the reason I wanted to talk to you to-day was to tell you----" At that moment Mrs. Lennox joined us. Miss Brandon's voice passed quite naturally into another key, as she said: "Here is Aunt Netty." "I have been looking for you everywhere," said Mrs. Lennox, "I've got a headache, and we've so many letters to write. When we've done them you can watch me doing my patience." She said these last words as if she was conferring an undeserved reward on a truant child. CHAPTER VIII Later on in the evening, about six o'clock, as I was drinking a glass of water in the Pavilion, someone nearly ran into me and was saved from doing so by the intervention of a stranger who saw at once I was blind, although the other person had not noticed it. He shepherded me away from the danger and apologized. He said he supposed I was an Englishman, and that he was one too. He told me his name was Canning. We talked a little. He asked me if I was staying at the _Splendide_. I said I was. He said he had hoped to meet some friends of his, who he had understood were staying there too, but he could not find their names on the list of visitors. A Mrs. Lennox, he said, and her niece, Miss Brandon. Did I know them? I told him they were staying at the hotel; not at the hotel proper, but at the annexe, which was a separate building. I described to him where it was. The man's voice struck me. It was so gentle, so courteous, with a tinge of melancholy in it. I asked him if he was taking the waters? He said he hadn't settled. He liked watering places. Then our brief conversation came to an end. After dinner, Rudd fetched me and I joined the group. I was introduced to the stranger I met in the morning: Captain Canning they called him. Mrs. Summer and Princess Kouragine were sitting with them. They all talked a great deal, except Miss Brandon, who said little, and Captain Canning who said nothing. The next morning Kranitski met me at the Pavilion, and we talked a great deal. He was in high spirits and looking forward to an expedition to the lakes which Mrs. Lennox had organized. He was going with her, Miss Brandon and others. While we were sitting on a seat in the _Galeries_ the postman went by with the letters. There was a letter for Kranitski, and he asked me if I minded his reading it. He read it. There was a silence and then suddenly he laughed: a short rather mirthless chuckle. We neither of us said anything for a moment, and I felt, I knew, something had happened. There was a curious strain in his voice which seemed to come from another place, as he said: "It is time for my douche. I shall be late. I will see you this evening." He then left me. I saw nobody for the rest of the day. The next day I saw some of the group in the morning just before _déjeuner_. Rudd read out a short story to us from a magazine. After luncheon Rudd came up to my room. He wished to have a talk. He had been so busy lately. "With your book?" I asked. "No. I have had no time to touch it," he said. "It's all simmering in my mind. I daresay I shall never write it at all." I asked him who Captain Canning was. He knew all about him. He was the young man who had once been engaged to Miss Brandon, so Mrs. Lennox had told him. But it was quite obvious that he no longer cared for her. "Then why did he come here?" I asked. "He caught fever in India and wanted to consult Doctor Sabran, the great malaria expert here. He was not staying on. He was going away in a few days' time. That was one reason. There was another. Donna Maria Alberti, the beautiful Italian, had been here for a night on her way to Italy. Canning had met her in Africa and was said to be devoted to her." I asked him why he thought Canning no longer cared for Miss Brandon. "Because," he said, "if he did he would propose to her at once." "But money," I said. That was all right now. His uncle had died. He was quite well off. He could marry if he wanted to. He had not paid the slightest attention to Miss Brandon. "And she?" I asked. "He is a different person now to what he was, but she is the same. She accepts the fact." "But does she love anyone else?" "Oh! that----" "Is 'another story'?" I said. "Quite a different story," he said gravely. Rudd then left me. He was going out with Mrs. Lennox. Not long after he had gone, Canning himself came and talked to me. He said he was not staying long. He had not much leave and there was a great deal he must do in England. He had come here to see a special doctor who was supposed to know all about malaria. But he had found this doctor was no longer here. He had meant to have a holiday, as he liked watering-places--they amused him--but he found he had had so much to do in England. He kept on getting so many business letters that he would have to go away much sooner than he intended. He was going back to South Africa at the end of the month. "I have still got another year out there," he said. "After that I shall take up the career of a farmer in England, unless I settle in Africa altogether. It is a wonderful place. I have been so much away that I hardly feel at home in England now. At least, I think I shall hardly feel at home there. I only passed through London on my way out here." I told him that if he ever came to Italy he must stay with me at Cadenabbia. He said he would like to come to Italy. He had several Italian friends. One of them, Donna Maria Alberti, had been here yesterday, but she had gone. He sat for some time with me, but he did not talk much. After dinner I found the usual group, all but Miss Brandon who had got a headache, and Kranitski who was playing in the Casino. Canning joined us for a moment, but he did not stay long. The next day I saw nothing of any of the group. There were races going on not far off, and I had gathered that Mrs. Lennox was going to these. It was two or three days after this that Kranitski came up to my room at ten o'clock in the morning, and asked whether he could see me. He said he wanted to say "Good-bye," as he was going away. "My plans have been changed," he said. "I am going to London, and then probably to South Africa at the end of the month. I have been making the acquaintance of that nice Englishman, Canning. I am going with him." "Just for the sea voyage?" I asked. "No; I shall stay there for a long time. I am _Europamüde_, if you know what that means--tired of Europe." "And of Russia?" I asked. "Most of all of Russia," he said. "I want to tell you one thing," he went on. "After our meeting the other day I have been thinking you might think wrong. You are what we call in Russia very _chutki_, with a very keen scent in impressions. I want you not to misjudge. You may be thinking the obstacle has come back. It hasn't. I am free as air, as empty air. That is what I have been wanting to tell you. If you are understanding, well and good. If you are not understanding, I can tell you no more. I have enjoyed our acquaintance. We have not been knowing each other much, yet I know you very well now. I want to thank you and go." I asked him if he would like letters. I said I wrote letters on a typewriter. He said he would. I told him he could write to me if he didn't mind letters being read out. My sister generally read my letters to me. She stayed with me whenever she could at Cadenabbia. But now she was busy. He said he would write. He didn't mind who read his letters. I told him I lived all the year in Italy, and very seldom saw anyone, so that I should have little news to send him. "Tell me what you are thinking," he said. "That is all the news I want." I asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He said, "Yes, send me any books that Mr. Rudd writes. They would interest me." I promised him I would do this. Then he said "Good-bye." He went away by the seven o'clock train. That evening I saw no one. The next morning I learnt that Canning had gone too. Rudd came up to my rooms to see me, but I told Henry I was not well and he did not let him come in. The next morning I talked to Princess Kouragine at the door of the hotel. She was just leaving. I asked after Miss Brandon. "They have gone," said the Princess. "They went last night to Paris. They are going to Munich and then to Bayreuth. Jean asked me to say 'Good-bye' to you. She said she hopes you will come here next year." "Has Rudd gone with them?" I asked. "He will meet them at Bayreuth later. He does not love Mozart. And there is a Mozart festival at Munich." I asked after Miss Brandon. "The same as before," said the Princess. "The lamp was lit for a moment, but they put it out. It is a pity. The man behaved well." At that moment we were interrupted. I wanted to ask her a great deal more. But the motor-bus drove up to the door. She said "Good-bye" to me. She was going to Paris. She would spend the winter at Rome. In the afternoon I saw Mrs. Summer, but only for a moment. She told me Miss Brandon had sent me a lot of messages, and I wanted to ask her what had happened and how things stood, but she had an engagement. We arranged to meet and have a long talk the next morning. But when the next morning came, I got a message from her, saying she had been obliged to go to London at once to meet her husband. A little later in the day, I received a letter by post from my unmarried sister, saying she would meet me in Paris and we could both go back to Italy together. So I decided to do this. I saw Rudd once before I left. He dined with me on my last night. He said that his holiday was shortly coming to an end. He would spend three days at Bayreuth and then he would go back to work. "On the Sleeping Beauty?" I asked. "No, not on that." He doubted whether he would ever touch that again. The idea of it had been only a holiday amusement at first. "But now," he said, "the idea has grown. If I do it, it will have to be a real book, even if only a short one, a _nouvelle._ The idea is a fascinating one. The Sleeping Beauty awake and changed in an alien world. Perhaps I may do it some day. If I do, I will send it to you. In any case I was right about Miss Brandon. She would be a better heroine for a fairy tale than for a modern story. She is too emotionless, too calm for a modern novel." "I have got another idea," he went on, "I am thinking of writing a story about a woman who looked as delicate as a flower, and who crushed those who came into contact with her and destroyed those who loved her. The idea is only a shadow as yet. But it may come to something. In any case I must do some regular work at once. I have had a long enough holiday. I have been wasting my time. I have enjoyed it, it has done me good, and conversations are never wasted, as they are the breeding ground of ideas. Sometimes the ideas do not flower for years. But the seed is sown in talk. I am grateful to you too, and I hope I shall meet you here again next year. I can't invent anything unless I am in sympathetic surroundings." The next day I left Haréville and met my sister in Paris. We travelled to Cadenabbia together. OVERLOOKED PART II FROM THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY. I Two years after I had written these few chapters, I was sent once more to Haréville. Again I went early in the season. There was nobody left of the old group I had known during my first visit. Mrs. Lennox and her niece were not there, and they were not expected. They had spent some months at Haréville the preceding year. I had spent the intervening time in Italy. I had heard once or twice from Mrs. Summer, and sometimes from Kranitski. He had gone to South Africa with Canning and had stayed there He liked the country. Miss Brandon was not yet married. Princess Kouragine I had not seen again. Rudd I had neither heard from nor of. Apparently he had published one book since he had been to Haréville and several short stories in magazines. The book was called _The Silver Sandal_, and had nothing to do with any of his experiences here or with any of the fancies which they had called up. It was, on the contrary, a semi-historical romance of a fantastic nature. During the first days of my stay here I made no acquaintances, and I was already counting on a dreary three weeks of unrelieved dullness when my doctor here introduced me to Sabran, the malaria specialist, who had been away during my first cure. Dr. Sabran, besides being a specialist with a reverberating reputation and a widely travelled man of great experience and European culture, had a different side to his nature which was not even suspected by many of his patients. Under the pseudonym of Gaspard Lautrec he had written some charming stories and some interesting studies in art and literature. Historical questions interested him; and still more, the quainter facts of human nature, psychological puzzles, mysterious episodes, unvisited by-ways, and baffling and unsolved problems in history, romance and everyday life. He was a voracious reader, and there was little that had escaped his notice in the contemporary literature of Europe. I found him an extraordinarily interesting companion, and he was kind enough, busy as I knew him to be, either to come and see me daily, or to invite me to his house. I often dined with him, and we would remain talking in his sitting-room till late in the night, while he would tell me of some of the remarkable things that had come under his notice or sometimes weave startling and paradoxical theories about nature and man. I asked him one day if he knew Rudd's work. He said he admired it, but it had always struck him as strange that a writer could be as intelligent as Rudd and yet, at the same time, so obviously _à côté_ with regard to some of the more important springs and factors of human nature. I asked him what made him think that. "All his books," he said, "any of them. I have just been reading his last book in the Tauchnitz edition, a book of stories, not short stories: _nouvelles_. It is called _Unfinished Dramas_. I will lend it you if you like." We talked of other things, and I took the book away with me when I went away. The next day I received a letter from Rudd, sending me a privately printed story (one of 500 signed copies) called _Overlooked_, which, he said, completed the series of his "Unfinished Dramas," but which he had not published for reasons which I would understand. Henry read out Rudd's new book to me. There were three stories in the book. They did not interest me greatly, and I made Henry hurry through them; but the privately printed story _Overlooked_ was none other than the story he had thought of writing when we were at Haréville together. He had written the story more or less as he had said he had intended to. All the characters of our old group were in it. Miss Brandon was the centre, and Kranitski appeared, not as a Swede but as a Russian. I myself flitted across the scene for a moment. The facts which he related were as far as I knew actually those which had occurred to that group of people during their stay at Haréville two years ago, but the deductions he drew from them, the causes he gave as explaining them, seemed to me at least wide of the mark. His conception of such of his characters as I knew at all well, and his interpretation of their motives were, in the cases in which I had the power of checking them by my own experience, I considered quite fantastically wrong. When I had finished reading the book, I sent it to Sabran, and with it the MS. I had written two years ago, and I begged the doctor to read what I had written and to let me know when he had done so, so that we might discuss both the documents and their relation one to the other and to the reality. (_Note_.--Here, in the bound copy of Anthony Kay's Papers, follows the story called _Overlooked,_ by James Rudd.) OVERLOOKED By JAMES RUDD. 1 It was the after-luncheon hour at Saint-Yves-les-Bains. The Pavilion, with its large tepid glass dome and polished brass fountains, where the salutary, and somewhat steely, waters flowed unceasingly, the Pompeian pillared "Galeries" were deserted; so were the trim park with its kiosk, where a scanty orchestra played rag-time in the morning and in the evenings; the florid Casino, which denoted the third of the three styles of architecture that distinguished the appendages of the Hôtel de La Source, where a dignified, shabby, white Louis-Philippe nucleus was still to be detected half-concealed and altogether overwhelmed by the elegant improvements and dainty enlargements of the Second Empire and the over-ripe _Art Nouveau_ excrescences of a later period. Kathleen Farrel had the park to herself. She was reading the _Morning Post_, which her aunt, Mrs. Knolles, took in for the literary articles, and which you would find on her table side by side with newspapers and journals of a widely different and sometimes, indeed, of a startling and flamboyant character; for Mrs. Knolles was catholic in her ideas and daring in her tastes. Kathleen Farrel was reading listlessly without interest. She had lived so much abroad that English news had little attraction for her, and she was no longer young enough to regret missing any of the receptions, race-meetings, garden-parties, and other social events which she was idly skimming the record of. For it was now the height of the London season, but Mrs. Knolles had let the London house in Hill Street. She always let it every summer, and in the winter as well, whenever she could find a tenant. A paragraph had caught Kathleen's eye and had arrested her attention. It began thus: "The death has occurred at Monks-well Hall of Sir James Stukely." Sir James Stukely was Lancelot Stukely's uncle. Lancelot would inherit the baronetcy and a comfortable income. He had left the army some years ago. He was at present abroad, performing some kind of secretarial duties to the Governor of Malta. He would give up that job, which was neither lucrative nor interesting, he would come home, and then---- At any rate, he had not altogether forgotten her. His monthly letters proved that. They had been unfailingly regular. Only--well, for the last year they had been undefinably different. Ever since that visit to Cairo. She had heard stories of an attachment, a handsome Italian lady, who looked like a Renaissance picture and who was said to be unscrupulous. But she really knew nothing, and Lancelot had always been so reserved, so reticent; his letters had always been so bald, almost formal, ever since their brief engagement six years before had been broken off. Ever since that memorable night in Ireland when she confessed to her father, who was more than usually violent and had drunk an extra glass of old Madeira, that she had refused to marry Lancelot. At first she had asked him not to write, and he had dutifully accepted the restriction. But later, when her father died, he had written to her and she had answered his letter. Since then he had written once a month without fail from India, where his regiment had been quartered, and then from Malta. But never had there been a single allusion to the past or to the future. The tone of them would be: "Dear Miss Farrel, We are having very good sport." Or "Dear Miss Farrel, We went to the opera last night. It was too classical for me." And they had always ended: "Yours sincerely, Lancelot Stukely." And yet she could not believe he was really different. Was she different? "Am I perhaps different?" she thought. She dismissed the idea. What had happened to make her different? Nothing. For the last five years, ever since her father had died, she had lived the same life. The winter at her aunt's villa at Bordighera, sometimes a week or two at Florence, the summer at Saint-Yves-les-Bains, where they lived in the hotel, on special terms, as Mrs. Knolles was such a constant client. Never a new note, always the same gang of people round them; the fashionable cosmopolitan world of continental watering-places, the English and foreign colonies of the Riviera and North Italy. She had never met anyone who had roused her interest, and the only persons whose attention she had seemed to attract were, in her Aunt Elsie's words, "frankly impossible." She would be thirty next year. She already felt infinitely older. "But perhaps," she thought, "he will come back the same as he was before. He will propose and I will accept him this time." Why had she refused him? Their financial situation--her poverty and his own very small income had had nothing to do with it, because Lancelot had said he was willing to wait for years, and everyone knew he had expectations. She could not have left her father, but then her father died a year after she refused Lancelot. No, the reason had been that she thought she did not love him. She had liked Lancelot, but she hoped for something more and something different. A fairy prince who would wake her to a different life. As soon as he had gone away, and still more when his series of formal letters began, she realized that she had made a mistake, and she had never ceased to repent her action. The fact was, she said to herself, I was too young to make such a decision. I did not know my own mind. If only he had come back when father died. If only he had been a little more insistent. He had accepted everything without a murmur. And yet now she felt certain he had been faithful and was faithful still, whatever anyone might say to the contrary. "Perhaps I am altered," she thought. "Perhaps he won't even recognize me." And yet she knew she did not believe this. For although her Aunt Elsie used to be seriously anxious about her niece's looks--fearing anaemia, so much so that they sometimes visited dreary places on the sea-coasts of England and France--she knew her looks had not altered sensibly. People still stared at her when she entered a room, for although there was nothing classical nor brilliant about her features and her appearance, hers was a face you could not fail to observe and which it was difficult to forget. It was a face that appealed to artists. They would have liked to try and paint that clear white, delicate skin, and those extraordinarily haunting round eyes which looked violet in some lights and a deep sea-blue in others, and to try and render the romantic childish glamour of her person, that wistful, fairy-tale-like expression. It was extraordinary that with such an appearance she should have been the inspirer of no romance, but so it was. Painters had admired her; one or two adventurers had proposed to her; but with the exception of Lancelot Stukely no one had fallen in love with her. Perhaps she had frightened people. She could not make conversation. She did not care for books. She knew nothing of art, and the people her aunt saw--most of whom were foreigners--talked glibly and sometimes wittily of all these things. Kathleen had been born for a country life, and she was condemned to live in cities and in watering-places. She was insular; though she had lived a great deal in Ireland, she was not Irish, and she had been cast for a continental part. She was matter-of-fact, and her appearance promised the opposite. She was in a sense the victim of her looks, which were so misleading. But perhaps the solution, the real solution of the absence of romance, or even of suitors, was to be found in her unconquerable listlessness and apathy. She was, as it were, only half-alive. Once, when she was a little girl, she had gone to pick flowers in the great dark wood near her home, where the trees had huge fantastic trunks, and gnarled boles, and where in the spring-time the blue-bells stretched beneath them like an unbroken blue sea. After she had been picking blue-bells for nearly an hour, she had felt sleepy. She lay down under the trunk of a tree. A gipsy passed her and asked to tell her fortune. She had waved her away, as she had no sympathy with gipsies. The gipsy had said that she would give her a piece of good advice unasked, and that was, not to go to sleep in the forest on the Eve of St. John, for if she did she would never wake. She paid no attention to this, and she dozed off to sleep and slept for about half-an-hour. She was an obstinate child, and not at all superstitious. When she got home, she asked the housekeeper when was the Eve of St. John. It happened to fall on that very day. She said to herself that this proved what nonsense the gipsies talked, as she had slept, woken up, come back to the house, and had high tea in the schoolroom as usual. She never gave the incident another thought; but the housekeeper, who was superstitious, told one of the maids that Miss Kathleen had been _overlooked_ by the fairy-folk and would never be quite the same again. When she was asked for further explanations, she would not give any. But to all outward appearances Kathleen was the same, and nobody noticed any difference in her, nor did she feel that she had suffered any change. As long as she had lived with her father in Ireland, she had been fairly lively. She had enjoyed out-door life. The house, a ramshackle, Georgian grey building, was near the sea, and her father who had been a sailor used sometimes to take her out sailing. She had ridden and sometimes hunted. All this she had enjoyed. It was only after she dismissed Lancelot, who had known her ever since she was sixteen, that the mist of apathy had descended on her. After her father's death, this mist had increased in thickness, and when her continental life with her aunt had began, she had altogether lost any particle of _joie de vivre_ she had ever had. Nor did she seem to notice it or to regret the past. She never complained. She accepted her aunt's plans and decisions, and never made any objection, never even a suggestion or a comment. Her aunt was truly fond of her, and she tried to devise treats to please her, and tried to awaken her interest in things. One year she had taken Kathleen to Bayreuth, hoping to rouse her interest in music, but Kathleen had found the music tedious and noisy, although she listened to it without complaining, and when her aunt suggested going there another year, she agreed to the suggestion with alacrity. The only thing which ever roused her interest was horse-racing. Sometimes they went to the races near Saint-Yves, and then Kathleen would become a different girl. She would be, as long as the racing lasted, alive for the time being, and sink back into her dreamless apathy as soon as they were over. At the same time, whenever she thought of Lancelot Stukely she felt a pang of regret, and after reading this paragraph in the _Morning Post_, she hoped, more than ever she had hoped before, that he would come back, and come back unchanged and faithful, and that she would be the same for him as she had been before, and that she would once more be able to make his slow honest eyes light up and smoulder with love, admiration and passion. "This time I will not make the same mistake," she said to herself. "If he gives me the chance----" 2 Her reverie was interrupted by the approach of an hotel acquaintance. It was Anikin, the Russian, who had in the last month become an accepted and established factor in their small group of hotel acquaintances. Kathleen had met him first some years ago at Rome, but it was only at Saint-Yves that she had come to know him. As he took off his hat in a hesitating manner, as if afraid of interrupting her thoughts, she registered the fact that she knew him, not only better than anyone else at the hotel, but better almost than anyone anywhere. "Would you like a game?" he asked. He meant a game which was provided in the park for the distraction of the patients. It consisted in throwing a small ring, attached to a post by a string, on to hooks which were fixed on an upright sloping board. The hooks had numbers underneath them, which varied from one to 5,000. "Not just at present," she said, "I am waiting for Aunt Elsie. I must see what she is going to do, but later on I should love a game." He smiled and went on. He understood that she wanted to be left alone. He had that swift, unerring comprehension of the small and superficial shades of the mind, the minor feelings, social values, and human relations that so often distinguishes his countrymen. He might, indeed, have stepped out of a Russian novel, with his untidy hair, his short-sighted, kindly eyes, his colourless skin, and nondescript clothes. Kathleen had never reflected before whether she liked him or disliked him. She had accepted him as part of the place, and she had not noticed the easiness of relations with him. It came upon her now with a slight shock that these relations were almost peculiar from their ease and naturalness. It was as if she had known him for years, whereas she had not known him for more than a month. All this flashed through her mind, which then went back to the paragraph in the _Morning Post_, when her aunt rustled up to her. Mrs. Knolles had the supreme elegance of being smart without looking conventional, as if she led rather than followed the fashion. There was always something personal and individual about her Parisian hats, her jewels, and her cloaks; and there was something rich, daring and exotic about her sumptuous sombre hair, with its sudden gold-copper glints and her soft brown eyes. There was nothing apathetic about her. She was filled to the brim with life, with interest, with energy. She cast a glance at the _Morning Post_, and said rather impatiently: "My dear child, what are you reading? That newspaper is ten days old. Don't you see it is dated the first?" "So it is," said Kathleen apologetically. But that moment a thought flashed through her: "Then, surely, Lancelot must be on his way home, if he is not back already." "I've brought you your letters," said her aunt. "Here they are." Kathleen reached for them more eagerly than usual. She expected to see, she hoped, at least, to see, Lancelot's rather childish hand-writing, but both the letters were bills. "Mr. Arkright and Anikin are dining with us," said her aunt, "and Count Tilsit." Kathleen said nothing. "You don't mind?" said her aunt. "Of course not." "I thought you liked Count Tilsit." "Oh, yes, I do," said Kathleen. Kathleen felt that she had, against her intention, expressed disappointment, or rather that she had not expressed the necessary blend of surprise and pleasure. But as Arkright and Anikin dined with them frequently, and as she had forgotten who Count Tilsit was, this was difficult for her. Arkright was an English author, who was a friend of her aunt's, and had sufficient penetration to realize that Mrs. Knolles was something more than a woman of the world; to appreciate her fundamental goodness as well as her obvious cleverness, and to divine that Kathleen's exterior might be in some ways deceptive. "You remember him in Florence?" said Mrs. Knolles, reverting to Count Tilsit. "Oh, yes, the Norwegian." "A Swede, darling, not a Norwegian." "I thought it was the same thing," said Kathleen. "I have got a piece of news for you," said Mrs. Knolles. Kathleen made an effort to prepare her face. She was determined that it should reveal nothing. She knew quite well what was coming. "Lancelot Stukely is in London," her aunt went on. "He came back just in time to see his uncle before he died. His uncle has left him everything." "Was Sir James ill a long time?" Kathleen asked. "I believe he was," said Mrs. Knolles. "Oh, then I suppose he won't go back to Malta," said Kathleen, with perfectly assumed indifference. "Of course not," said Mrs. Knolles. "He inherits the place, the title, everything. He will be very well off. Would you like to drive to Bavigny this afternoon? Princess Oulchikov can take us in her motor if you would like to go. Arkright is coming." "I will if you want me to," said Kathleen. This was one of the remarks that Kathleen often made, which annoyed her aunt, and perhaps justly. Mrs. Knolles was always trying to devise something that would amuse or distract her niece, but whenever she suggested anything to her or arranged any expedition or special treat which she thought might amuse, all the response she met with was a phrase that implied resignation. "I don't want you to come if you would rather not," she said with beautifully concealed impatience. "Well, to-day I _would_ rather not," said Kathleen, greatly to her aunt's surprise. It was the first time she had ever made such an answer. "Aren't you feeling well, darling?" she asked gently. "Quite well, Aunt Elsie, I promise," Kathleen said smiling, "but I said I would sit and talk to Mr. Asham this afternoon." Mr. Asham was a blind man who had been ordered to take the waters at Saint-Yves. Kathleen had made friends with him. "Very well," said Mrs. Knolles, with a sigh. "I must go. The motor will be there. Don't forget we've got people dining with us to-night, and don't wear your grey. It's too shabby." One of Miss Farrel's practices, which irritated her aunt, was to wear her shabbiest clothes on an occasion that called for dress, and to take pains, as it were, not to do herself justice. Her aunt left her. Kathleen had made no arrangement with Asham. She had invented the excuse on the spur of the moment, but she knew he would be in the park in the afternoon. She wanted to think. She wanted to be alone. If Lancelot had been in England when Sir James died, then he must have started home at least a fortnight ago, as the news that she had read was ten days old. She had not heard from him for over a month. This meant that his uncle had been ill, he had returned to London, and had experienced a change of fortune without writing her one word. "All the same," she thought, "it proves nothing." At that moment a friendly voice called to her. "What are you doing all by yourself, Kathleen?" It was her friend, Mrs. Roseleigh. Kathleen had known Eva Roseleigh all her life, although her friend was ten years older than herself and was married. She was staying at Saint-Yves by herself. Her husband was engrossed in other occupations and complications besides those of his business in the city, and of a different nature. Mrs. Roseleigh was one of those women whom her friends talked of with pity, saying "Poor Eva!" But "Poor Eva" had a large income, a comfortable house in Upper Brook Street. She was slight, and elegant; as graceful as a Tanagra figure, fair, delicate-looking, appealing and plaintive to look at, with sympathetic grey eyes. Her husband was a successful man of business, and some people said that the neglect he showed his wife and the publicity of his infidelities was not to be wondered at, considering the contempt with which she treated him. It was more a case of "Poor Charlie," they said, than "Poor Eva." Kathleen would not have agreed with these opinions. She was never tired of saying that Eva was "wonderful." She was certainly a good friend to Kathleen. "Sir James Stukely is plead," said Kathleen. "I saw that in the newspaper some time ago. I thought you knew," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "It was stupid of me not to know. I read the newspapers so seldom and so badly." "That means Lancelot will come home." "He has come home." "Oh, you know then?" "Know what?" "That he is coming here?" Kathleen blushed crimson. "Coming here! How do you know?" "I saw his name," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "on the board in the hall of the hotel, and I asked if he had arrived. They told me they were expecting him to-night." At that moment a tall dark lady, elegant as a figure carved by Jean Goujon, and splendid as a Titian, no longer young, but still more than beautiful, walked past them, talking rather vehemently in Italian to a young man, also an Italian. "Who is that?" asked Kathleen. "That," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "is Donna Laura Bartolini. She is still very beautiful, isn't she? The man with her is a diplomat." "I think," said Kathleen, "she is very striking-looking. But what extraordinary clothes." "They are specially designed for her." "Do you know her?" "A little. She is not at all what she seems to be. She is, at heart, matter-of-fact, and domestic, but she dresses like a Bacchante. She has still many devoted adorers." "Here?" "Everywhere. But she worships her husband." "Is he here?" "No, but I think he is coming." "I remember hearing about her a long time ago. I think she was at Cairo once." "Very likely, Her husband is an archaeologist, a _savant_." Was that the woman, thought Kathleen, to whom Lancelot was supposed to have been devoted? If so, it wasn't true. She was sure it wasn't true. Lancelot would never have been attracted by that type of woman, and yet---- "Aunt Elsie has asked a Swede to dinner. Count Tilsit. Do you know him?" "I was introduced to him yesterday. He admired you." "Do you like him?" "I hardly know him. I think he is nice-looking and has good manners and looks like an Englishman." But Kathleen was no longer listening. She was thinking of Lancelot, of his sudden arrival. What could it mean? Did he know they were here? The last time he had written was a month ago from London. Had she said they were coming here? She thought she had. Perhaps she had not. In any case that would hardly make any difference, as he knew they went abroad every year, knew they went to Saint-Yves most years, and if he didn't know, would surely hear it in London. Yes, he must know. Then it meant either that--or perhaps it meant something quite different. Perhaps the doctor had sent him to Saint-Yves. He had suffered from attacks of Malta fever several times. Saint-Yves was good for malaria. There was a well-known malaria specialist on the medical staff. He might be coming to consult him. What did she want to be the truth? What did she feel? She scarcely knew herself. She felt exhilarated, as if life had suddenly become different, more interesting and strangely irridescent. What would Lancelot be like? Would he be the same? Or would he be someone quite different? She couldn't talk about it, not even to Eva, although Eva had known all about it, and Mrs. Roseleigh with her acute intuition guessed that, and guessed what Kathleen was thinking about, and said nothing that fringed the topic; but what disconcerted Kathleen and gave her a slight quiver of alarm was that she thought she discerned in Eva's voice and manner the faintest note of pity; she experienced an almost imperceptible chill in the temperature; an inkling, the ghost of a warning, as if Eva were thinking. "You mustn't be disappointed if----" Well, she wouldn't be disappointed _if_. At least nobody should divine her disappointment: not even Eva. Mrs. Roseleigh guessed that her friend wanted to be alone and left her on some quickly invented pretext. As soon as she was alone Kathleen rose from her seat and went for a walk by herself beyond the park and through the village. Then she came back and played a game with Anikin at the ring board, and at five o'clock she had a talk with Asham to quiet her conscience. She stayed out late, until, in fact, the motor-bus, which met the evening express, arrived from the station at seven o'clock. She watched its arrival from a distance, from the galleries, while she simulated interest in the shop windows. But as the motor-bus was emptied of its passengers, she caught no sight of Lancelot. When the omnibus had gone, and the new arrivals left the scene, she walked into the hall of the hotel, and asked the porter whether many new visitors had arrived. "Two English gentlemen," he said, "Lord Frumpiest and Sir Lancelot Stukely." She ran upstairs to dress for dinner, and even her Aunt Elsie was satisfied with her appearance that night. She had put on her sea-green tea-gown: a present from Eva, made in Paris. "I wish you always dressed like that," said Mrs. Knolles, as they walked into the Casino dining-room. "You can't think what a difference it makes. It's so foolish not to make the best of oneself when it needs so very little trouble." But Mrs. Knolles had the untaught and unlearnable gift of looking her best at any season, at any hour. It was, indeed, no trouble to her; but all the trouble in the world could not help others to achieve the effects which seemed to come to her by accident. 3 As they walked into the large hotel dining-room, Kathleen was conscious that everyone was looking at her, except Lancelot, if he was there, and she felt he _was_ there. Arkright and Count Tilsit were waiting for them at their table and stood up as they walked in. They were followed almost immediately by Princess Oulchikov, whose French origin and education were made manifest by her mauve chiffon shawl, her buckled shoes, and the tortoise-shell comb in her glossy black hair. Nothing could have been more unpretentious than her clothes, and nothing more common to hundreds of her kind, than her single row of pearls and her little platinum wrist-watch, but the manner in which she wore these things was French, as clearly and unmistakably French and not Russian, Italian, or English, as an article signed Jules Lemaître or the ribbons of a chocolate Easter Egg from the _Passage des Panoramas_. She looked like a Winterhalter portrait of a lady who had been a great beauty in the days of the Second Empire. Her married life with Prince Oulchikov, once a brilliant and reckless cavalry officer, and not long ago deceased, after many vicissitudes of fortune, ending by prosperity, since he had died too soon after inheriting a third fortune to squander it, as he had managed to squander two former inheritances, and her at one time prolonged sojourns in the country of her adoption had left no trace on her appearance. As to their effect on her soul and mind, that was another and an altogether different question. Mrs. Knolles, whose harmonious draperies of black and yellow seemed to call for the brush of a daring painter, sat at the further end of the table next to the window, on her left at the end of the table Arkright, whom you would never have taken for an author, since his motto was what a Frenchman once said to a young painter who affected long hair and eccentric clothes: "_Ne savez-vous pas qu'il faut s'habiller comme tout le monde et peindre comme personne?_" On his other side sat Princess Oulchikov; next to her at the end of the table, Kathleen, and then Count Tilsit (fair, blue-eyed, and shy) on Mrs. Knolles's right. Kathleen, being at the end of the table, could not see any of the tables behind her, but in front of her was a gilded mirror, and no sooner had they sat down to dinner than she was aware, in this glass, of the reflection of Lancelot Stukely's back, who was sitting at a table with a party of people just opposite to them on the other side of the room. There was nothing more remarkable about Lancelot Stukely's front view than about his back view, and that, in spite of a certain military squareness of shoulder, had a slight stoop. He was small and seemed made to grace the front windows of a club in St. James's Street; everything about him was correct, and his face had the honest refinement of a well-bred dog that has been admirably trained and only barks at the right kind of stranger. But the sudden sight of Lancelot transformed Kathleen. It was as if someone had lit a lamp behind her alabaster mask, and in the effort to conceal any embarrassment, or preoccupation, she flushed and became unusually lively and talked to Anikin with a gaiety and an uninterrupted ease, that seemed not to belong to her usual self. And yet, while she talked, she found time every now and then to study the reflections of the mirror in front of them, and these told her that Lancelot was sitting next to Donna Laura Bartolini. The young man she had seen talking to Donna Laura was there also. There were others whom she did not know. Mrs. Knolles was busily engaged in thawing the stiff coating of ice of Count Tilsit's shyness, and very soon she succeeded in putting him completely at his ease; and Arkright was trying to interest Princess Oulchikov in Japanese art. But the Princess had lived too long in Russia not to catch the Slav microbe of indifference, and she was a woman who only lived by half-hours. This half-hour was one of her moment of eclipse, and she paid little attention to what Arkright said. He, however, was habituated to her ways and went on talking. Mrs. Knolles was surprised and pleased at her niece's behaviour. Never had she seen her so lively, so gay. "Miss Farrel is looking extraordinarily well to-night," Arkright said, in an undertone, to the Princess. "Yes," said Princess Oulchikov, "she is at last taking waters from the right _source._" She often made cryptic remarks of this kind, and Arkright was puzzled, for Kathleen never took the waters, but he knew the Princess well enough not to ask her to explain. Princess Oulchikov made no further comment. Her mind had already relapsed into the land of listless limbo which it loved to haunt. Presently the conversation became general. They discussed the races, the troupe at the Casino Theatre, the latest arrivals. "Lancelot Stukely is here," said Mrs. Knolles. "Yes," said Kathleen, with great calm, "dining with Donna Laura Bartolini." "Oh, Laura's arrived," said Mrs. Knolles. "I am glad. That is good news. What fun we shall all have together. Yes. There she is, looking lovely. Don't you think she's lovely?" she said to Arkright and the Princess. Arkright admired Donna Laura unreservedly. Princess Oulchikov said she would no doubt think the same if she hadn't known her thirty years ago, and then "those clothes," she said, "don't suit her, they make her look like an _art nouveau_ poster." Anikin said he did not admire her at all, and as for the clothes, she was the last person who should dare those kind of clothes; her beauty was conventional, she was made for less fantastic fashions. He looked at Kathleen. He was thinking that her type of beauty could have supported any costume, however extravagant; in fact he longed to see her draped in shimmering silver and faded gold, with strange stones in her hair. Count Tilsit, who was younger than anyone present, said he found her young. "She is older than you think," said Princess Oulchikov. "I remember her coming out in Rome in 1879." "Do you think she is over fifty?" said Kathleen. "I do not think it, I am sure," said the Princess. "Her figure is wonderful," said Mrs Knolles. "Was she very beautiful then?" asked Anikin. "The most beautiful woman I have ever seen," said the Princess. "People stood on chairs to look at her one night at the French Embassy. It is cruel to see her dressed as she is now." Count Tilsit opened his clear, round, blue eyes, and stared first at the Princess and then at Donna Laura. It was inconceivable to his young Scandinavian mind that this radiant and dazzling creature, dressed up like the Queen in a Russian ballet, could be over fifty. "To me, she has always looked exactly the same," said Arkright. "In fact, I admire her more now than I did when I first knew her fifteen years ago." "That is because you look at her with the eyes of the past," said the Princess, "but not of a long enough past, as I do. When you first saw her you were young, but when I first saw her _she_ was young. That makes all the difference." "I think she is very beautiful now," said Mrs. Knolles. "And so do I," said Kathleen. "I could understand anyone being in love with her." "That there will always be people in love with her," said the Princess, "and young people. She has charm as well as beauty, and how rare that is!" "Yes," said Anikin, pensively, "how rare that is." Kathleen looked at the mirror as if she was appraising Donna Laura's beauty, but in reality it was to see whether Lancelot was talking to her. As far as she could see he seemed to be rather silent. General conversation, with a lot of Italian intermixed with it, was going up from the table like fireworks. Kathleen turned to Count Tilsit and made conversation to him, while Anikin and the Princess began to talk in a passionately argumentative manner of all the beauties they had known. The Princess had come to life once more. Mrs. Knolles, having done her duty, relapsed into a comfortable conversation with Arkright. They understood each other without effort. The Italian party finished their dinner first, and went out on to the terrace, and as they walked out of the room the extraordinary dignity of Donna Laura's carriage struck the whole room. Whatever anyone might think of her looks now, there was no doubt that her presence still carried with it the authority that only great beauty, however much it may be lessened by time, confers. "_Elle est encore très belle_," said Princess Oulchikov, voicing the thoughts of the whole party. Mrs. Knolles suggested going out. Shawls were fetched and coffee was served just outside the hotel on a stone terrace. Soon after they had sat down, Lancelot Stukely walked up to them. He was not much changed, Kathleen thought. A little grey about the temples, a little bit thinner, and slightly more tanned--his face had been burnt in the tropics--but the slow, honest eyes were the same. He said how-do-you-do to Mrs. Knolles and to herself, and was presented to the others. Mrs. Knolles asked him to sit down. "I must go back presently," he said, "but may I stay a minute?" He sat down next to Kathleen. They talked a little with pauses in between their remarks. She did not ask him how long he was going to stay, but he explained his arrival. He had come to consult the malaria specialist. "We have all been discussing Donna Laura Bartolini," said Mrs. Knolles. "You were dining with her?" "Yes," he said, "she is an old friend of mine. I met her first at Cairo." "Is she going to stay long?" asked Mrs. Knolles. "No," he said, "she is only passing through on her way to Italy. She leaves for Ravenna to-morrow morning." "She is looking beautiful," said Mrs. Knolles. "Yes," he said, "she is very beautiful, isn't she?" Then he got up. "I hope we shall meet again to-morrow," he said to Kathleen and to Mrs. Knolles. "Are you staying on?" asked Mrs. Knolles. "Oh, no," he said. "I only wanted to see the doctor. I have got to go back to England at once. I have got so much business to do." "Of course," said Mrs. Knolles. "We will see you to-morrow. Will you come to the lakes with us?" Lancelot hesitated and then said that he, alas, would be busy all day to-morrow. He had an appointment with the doctor--he had so little time. He was slightly confused in his explanations. He then said good-night, and went back to his party. They were sitting at a table under the trees. Kathleen felt relieved, unaccountably relieved, that he had gone, and she experienced a strange exhilaration. It was as if a curtain had been lifted up and she suddenly saw a different and a new world. She had the feeling of seeing clearly for the first time for many years. She saw quite plainly that as far as Lancelot was concerned, the past was completely forgotten. She meant nothing to him at all. He was the same Lancelot, but he belonged to a different world. There were gulfs and gulfs between them now. He had come here to see Donna Laura for a few hours. He had not minded doing this, although he knew that he would meet Kathleen. He had told her himself that he knew he would meet her. He had mentioned the rarity of his letters lately. He had been so busy, and then all that business ... his uncle's death. The situation was quite simple and quite clear. But the strange thing was that, instead of feeling her life was over, as she had expected to feel, she felt it was, on the contrary, for the first time beginning. "I have been waiting for years," she thought to herself, "for this fairy Prince, and now I see that he was not the fairy Prince, after all. But this does not mean I may not meet the fairy Prince, the _real_ one," and her eyes glistened. She had never felt more alive, more ready for adventure. Anikin suggested that they should all walk in the garden. It was still daylight. They got up. The Princess, Arkright, Mrs. Knolles, and Count Tilsit walked down the steps first, and passed on down an avenue. Kathleen delayed until the others walked on some way, and then she said to Anikin, who was waiting for her: "Let us stay and talk here. It is quieter. We can go for a walk presently." 4 They did not stay long on the terrace. As soon as they saw which direction the rest of the party had taken they took another. They walked through the hotel gates across the street as far as a gate over which _Bellevue_ was written. They had never been there before. It was an annexe of the hotel, a kind of detached park. They climbed up the hill and passed two deserted and unused lawn-tennis courts and a dusty track once used for skittles, and emerged from a screen of thick trees on to a little plateau. Behind them was a row of trees and a green corn-field, beneath them a steep slope of grass. They could see the red roofs of the village, the roofs of the hotels, the grey spire of the village church, the park, the green plain and, in the distance rising out of the green corn, a large flat-topped hill. The long summer daylight was at last fading away. The sky was lustrous and the air was quite still. The fields and the trees had that peculiar deep green they take on in the twilight, as if they had been dyed by the tints of the evening. Anikin said it reminded him of Russia. Kathleen had wrapped a thin white shawl round her, and in the dimness of the hour she looked as white as a ghost, but in the pallor of her face her eyes shone like black diamonds. Anikin had never seen her look like that. And then it came to him that this was the moment of moments. Perhaps the moon had risen. The cloudless sky seemed all of a sudden to be silvered with a new light. There was a dry smell of sun-baked roads and of summer in the air, and no sound at all. They had sat down on the bench and Kathleen was looking straight in front of her out into the west, where the last remains of the sunset had faded some time ago. This Anikin felt was the sacred minute; the moment of fate; the imperishable instant which Faust had asked for even at the price of his soul, but which mortal love had always denied him. In a whisper he asked Kathleen to be his wife. She got up from the seat and said very slowly: "Yes, I will marry you." The words seemed to be spoken for her by something in her that was not herself, and yet she was willing that they should be spoken. She seemed to want all this to happen, and yet she felt that it was being done for her, not of her own accord, but by someone else. Her eyes shone like stars. But as he touched her hand, she still felt that she was being moved by some alien spirit separate from herself and that it was not she herself that was giving herself to him. She was obeying some exterior and foreign control which came neither from him nor from her--some mysterious outside influence. She seemed to be looking on at herself as she was whirled over the edge of a planet, but she was not making the effort, nor was it Anikin's words, nor his look, nor his touch, that were moving her. He had taken her in his arms, and as he kissed her they heard footsteps on the path coming towards them. The spell was broken, and they gently moved apart one from the other. It was he who said quietly: "We had better go home." Some French people appeared through the trees round the corner. A middle-aged man in a nankin jacket, his wife, his two little girls. They were acquaintances of Anikin and of Kathleen. It was the man who kept a haberdasher's shop in the _Galeries_. Brief mutual salutations passed and a few civilities were bandied, and then Kathleen and Anikin walked slowly down the hill in silence. It had grown darker and a little chilly. There was no more magic in the sky. It was as if someone had somewhere turned off the light on which all the illusion of the scene had depended. They walked back into the park. The band was playing an undulating tango. Mrs. Knolles and the others were sitting on chairs under the trees. Anikin and Kathleen joined them and sat down. Neither of them spoke much during the rest of the evening. Presently Mrs. Roseleigh joined them. She looked at Kathleen closely and there was a slight shade of wonder in her expression. The next day Mrs. Knolles had organized an expedition to the lakes. Kathleen, Anikin, Arkright, Princess Oulchikov and Count Tilsit were all of the party. When they reached the first lake, they separated into groups, Anikin and Kathleen, Count Tilsit and Mrs. Roseleigh, while Arkright went with the Princess and Mrs. Knolles. Ever since the moment of magic at Bellevue, Kathleen had been like a person in a trance. She did not know whether she was happy or unhappy. She only felt she was being irresistibly impelled along a certain course. It is certain that her strange state of mind affected Anikin. It began to affect him from the moment he had held her in his arms on the hill and that the spell had so abruptly been broken. He had thought this had been due to the sudden interruption and the untimely intervention of the prosaic realities of life. But was this the explanation? Was it the arrival of the haberdasher on the scene that had broken the spell? Or was it something else? Something far more subtle and mysterious, something far more serious and deep? Curiously enough Anikin had passed through, on that memorable evening, emotions closely akin to those which Kathleen had experienced. He said to himself: "This is the Fairy Princess I have been seeking all my life." But the morning after his moment of passion on the hill he began to wonder whether he had dreamed this. And now that he was walking beside her along the broad road, under the trees of the dark forest, through which, every now and then, they caught a glimpse of the blue lake, he reflected that she was like what she had been _before_ the decisive evening, only if anything still more aloof. He began to feel that she was eluding him and that he was pursuing a shadow. Just as he was thinking this ever so vaguely and tentatively, they came to a turn in the road. They were at a cross-roads and they did not know which road to take. They paused a moment, and from a path on the side of the road the other members of the party emerged. There was a brief consultation, and they were all mixed up once more. When they separated, Anikin found himself with Mrs. Roseleigh. Mrs. Knolles had sent Kathleen on with Count Tilsit. Anikin was annoyed, but his manners were too good to allow him to show it. They walked on, and as soon as they began to talk Anikin forgot his annoyance. They talked of one thing and another and time rushed past them. This was the first time during Anikin's acquaintance with Mrs. Roseleigh that he had ever had a real conversation with her. He all at once became aware that they had been talking for a long time and talking intimately. His conscience pricked him; but, so far from wanting to stop, he wanted to go on; and instead of their intimacy being accidental it became on his part intentional. That is to say, he allowed himself to listen to all that was not said, and he sent out himself silent wordless messages which he felt were received instantly on an invisible aerial. For the moment he put all thoughts of what had happened away from him, and gave himself up to the enchantment of understanding and being understood so easily, so lightly. He put up his feet and coasted down the long hill of a newly discovered intimacy. Presently there was a further meeting and amalgamation of the group as they reached a famous view, and the party was reshuffled. This time Anikin was left to Kathleen. Was it actually disappointment he was feeling? Surely not; and yet he could not reach her. She was further off than ever and in their talk there were long silences, during which he began to reflect and to analyse with the fatal facility of his race for what is their national moral sport. He reflected that except during those brief moments on the hill he had never seen Kathleen alive. He had known her well before, and their friendship had always had an element of easy sympathy about it, but she had never given him a glimpse of what was happening behind her beautiful mask, and no unspoken messages had passed between them. But just now during that last walk with Mrs. Roseleigh, he recognized only too clearly that notes of a different and a far deeper intimacy had every now and then been struck accidently and without his being aware of it at first, and then later consciously, and the response had been instantaneous and unerring. And something began to whisper inside him: "What if she is not the Fairy Princess after all, not your Fairy Princess?" And then there came another more insidious whisper which said: "Your Fairy Princess would have been quite different, she would have been like Mrs. Roseleigh, and now that can never be." The expedition, after some coffee at a wayside hotel, came to an end and they drove home in two motor cars. Once more he was thrown together with Mrs. Roseleigh, and once more the soul of each of them seemed to be fitted with an invisible aerial between which soundless messages, which needed neither visible channel nor hidden wire, passed uninterruptedly. Anikin came back from that expedition a different man. All that night he did not sleep. He kept on repeating to himself: "It was a mistake. I do not love her. I can never love her. It was an illusion: the spell and intoxication of a moment." And then before his eyes the picture of Mrs. Roseleigh stood out in startling detail, her melancholy, laughing, mocking eyes, her quick nervous laugh, her swift flashes of intuition. How she understood the shade of the shadow of what he meant! And that mocking face seemed to say to him: "You have made a mistake and you know it. You were spellbound for a moment by a face. It is a ravishing face, but the soul behind it is not your soul. You do not understand one another. You never will understand one another. There is an unpassable gulf between you. Do not make the mistake of sacrificing your happiness and hers as well to any silly and hollow phrases of honour. Do not follow the code of convention, follow the voice of your heart, your instincts that cannot go wrong. Tell her before it is too late. And she, she does not love you. She never will love you. She was spellbound, too, for the moment. But you have only to look at her now to see that the spell is broken and it will never come back, at least you will never bring it back. She is English, English to the core, although she looks like the illustration to some strange fairy-tale, and you are a Slav. You cannot do without Russian comfort, the comfort of the mind, and she cannot do without English solidity. She will marry a squire or, perhaps, who knows, a man of business; but someone solid and rooted to the English soil and nested in the English conventions. What can you give her? Not even talent. Not even the disorder and excitement of a Bohemian life; only a restless voyage on the surface of life, and a thousand social and intellectual problems, only the capacity of understanding all that does not interest her." That is what the conjured-up face of Mrs. Roseleigh seemed to say to him. It was not, he said to himself, that he was in love or that he ever would be in love with Mrs. Roseleigh. It was only that she had, by her quick sympathy, revealed his own feelings to himself. She had by her presence and her conversation given him the true perspective of things and let him see them in their true light, and in that perspective and in that light he saw clearly that he had made a mistake. He had mistaken a moment of intoxication for the authentic voice of passion. He had pursued a shadow. He had tried to bring to life a statue, and he had failed. Then he thought that he was perhaps after all mistaken, that the next morning he would find that everything was as it had been before; but he did not sleep, and in the clear light of morning he realized quite clearly that he did not love Kathleen. What was he to do? He was engaged to be married. Break it off? Tell her at once? It sounded so easy. It was in reality--it would be to him at any rate--so intensely difficult. He hated sharp situations. He felt that his action had been irrevocable: that there was no way out of it. The chain around him was as thin as a spider's web. But would he have the necessary determination to make the effort of will to snap it? Nothing would be easier. She would probably understand. She would perhaps help him, and yet he felt he would never be able to make the slight gesture which would be enough to free him for ever from that delicate web of gossamer. 5 When Anikin got up after his restless and sleepless night he walked out into the park. The visitors were drinking the waters in the Pavilion and taking monotonous walks between each glass. Asham was sitting in a chair under the trees. His servant was reading out the _Times_ to him. Anikin smiled rather bitterly to himself as he reflected how many little dramas, comedies and tragedies might be played in the immediate neighbourhood of that man without his being aware even of the smallest hint or suggestion of them. He sat down beside him. The servant left off reading and withdrew. "Don't let me interrupt you," said Anikin, but after a few moments he left Asham. He found he was unable to talk and went back to the hotel, where he drank his coffee and for a time he sat looking at the newspapers in the reading room of the Casino. Then he went back to the park. One thought possessed him, and one only. How was he to do it? Should he say it, or write? And what should he say or write? He caught sight of Arkright who was in the park by himself. He strolled up to him and they talked of yesterday's expedition. Arkright said there were some lakes further off than those they had visited, which were still more worth seeing. They were thinking of going there next week--perhaps Anikin would come too. "I'm afraid not," said Anikin. "My plans are changed. I may have to go away." "To Russia?" asked Arkright. "No, to Africa, perhaps," said Anikin. "It must be delightful," said Arkright, "to be like that, to be able to come and go when one wants to, just as one feels inclined, to start at a moment's notice for Rome or Moscow and to leave the day after one has arrived if one wishes to--to have no obligations, no ties, and to be at home everywhere all over Europe." Arkright thought of his rather bare flat in Artillery Mansions, the years of toil before a newspaper, let alone a publisher, would look at any of his manuscripts, and then the painful, slow journey up the stairs of recognition and the meagre substantial rewards that his so-called reputation, his "place" in contemporary literature, had brought him; he thought of all the places he had not seen and which he would give worlds to see--Rome, Venice, Russia, the East, Spain, Seville; he thought of what all that would mean to him, of the unbounded wealth which was there waiting for him like ore in quarries in which he would never be allowed to dig; he reflected that he had worked for ten years before ever being able to go abroad at all, and that his furthest and fullest adventure had been a fortnight spent one Easter at a fireless Pension in Florence. Whereas here was this rich and idle Russian who, if he pleased, could roam throughout Europe from one end to the other, who could take an apartment in Rome or a palace in Venice, for whom all the immense spaces of Russia were too small, and who could talk of suddenly going to Africa, as he, Arkright, could scarcely talk of going to Brighton. "Life is very complicated sometimes," said Anikin. "Just when one thinks things are settled and simple and easy, and that one has turned over a new leaf of life, like a new clean sheet of blotting-paper, one suddenly sees it is not a clean sheet; blots from the old pages come oozing through--one can't get rid of the old sheets and the old blots. All one's life is written in indelible ink--that strong violet ink which nothing rubs out and which runs in the wet but never fades. The past is like a creditor who is always turning up with some old bill that one has forgotten. Perhaps the bill was paid, or one thought it was paid, but it wasn't paid--wasn't fully paid, and there the interest has gone on accumulating for years. And so, just as one thinks one is free, one finds oneself more caught than ever and obliged to cancel all one's new speculations because of the old debts, the old ties. That is what you call the wages of sin, I think. It isn't always necessarily what you would call a sin, but is the wages of the past and that is just as bad, just as strong at any rate. They have to be paid in full, those wages, one day or other, sooner or later." Arkright had not been an observer of human nature and a careful student of minute psychological shades and impressions for twenty years for nothing. He had had his eyes wide open during the last weeks, and Mrs. Knolles had furnished him with the preliminary and fundamental data of her niece's case. He felt quite certain that something had taken place between Anikin and Kathleen. He felt the peculiar, the unmistakeable relation. And now that the Russian had served him up this neat discourse on the past he knew full well that he was not being told the truth. Anikin was suddenly going away. A week ago he had been perfectly happy and obviously in an intimate relation to Miss Farrel. Now he was suddenly leaving, possibly to Africa. What had happened? What was the cause of this sudden change of plan? He wanted to get out of whatever situation he found himself bound by. But he also wanted to find for others, at any rate, and possibly for himself as well, some excuse for getting out of it. And here the fundamental cunning and ingenious subtlety of his race was helping him. He was concocting a romance which might have been true, but which was, as a matter of fact, untrue. He was adding "the little more." He was inventing a former entanglement as an obstacle to his present engagements which he wanted to cancel. Arkright knew that there had been a former entanglement in Anikin's life, but what Anikin did not know was that Arkright also knew that this entanglement was over. "It is very awkward," said Arkright, "when the past and the present conflict." "Yes," said Anikin, "and very awkward when one is between two duties." I think I have got him there, thought Arkright. "A French writer," he said aloud, "has said, '_de deux devoirs, il faut choisir le plus désagréable_; that in chosing the disagreeable course you were likely to be right." Anikin remained pensive. "What I find still more complicated," he said, "is when there is a right reason for doing a thing, but one can't use it because the right reason is not the real reason; there is another one as well." "For doing a duty," said Arkright. "Is that what you mean?" "There are circumstances," said Anikin, "in which one could point to duty as a motive, but in which the duty happens to be the same as one's inclinations, and if one took a certain course it would not be because of the duty but because of the inclinations. So one can't any more talk or think of duty." "Then," said Arkright, a little impatiently, "we can cancel the word duty altogether. It is simply a case of choosing between duty and inclination." "No," said Anikin, "it is sometimes a case of choosing between a pleasure which is not contrary to duty (_et qui pourrait même avoir l'excuse du devoir_)" he lapsed into French, which was his habit when he found it difficult to express himself in English, "and an obligation which is contrary both to duty and inclination." "What is the difference between an obligation and a duty?" asked Arkright. He wished to pin the elusive Slav down to something definite. "Isn't there in life often a conflict between them?" asked Anikin. "In practical life, I mean. You know Tennyson's lines: "His honour rooted in dishonour stood And faith unfaithful made him falsely true." "Now I understand," thought Arkright, "he is going to pretend that he is in the position of Lancelot to Elaine, and plead a prior loyalty to a Guinevere that no longer counts." "I think," he said, "in that case one cannot help remaining 'falsely true.'" That is, he thought, what he wants me to say. "One cannot, that is to say, disregard the past," said Anikin. "No, one can't," said Arkright, as if he had entirely accepted the Russian's complicated fiction. He wanted, at the same time, to give him a hint that he was not quite so easily deceived as all that. "Isn't it a curious thought," he said, "how often people invoke the engagements of a past which they have comfortably disregarded up to that moment when they no longer wish to face an obligation in the present, like a man who in order to avoid meeting a new debt suddenly points to an old debt as something sacred, which up till that moment he had completely disregarded, and indeed, forgotten?" Anikin laughed. "Why are you laughing?" asked Arkright. "I am laughing at your intuition," said Anikin. "You novelists are terrible people." "He knows I have seen through him," thought Arkright, "and he doesn't mind. He wanted me to see through him the whole time. He wants me to know that he knows I know, and he doesn't mind. I think that all this elaborate romance was perhaps only meant for me. He will choose some simpler means of breaking off his engagement with Miss Farrel than by pleading a past obligation. He is far subtler and deeper than I thought, subtler and deeper in his simplicity. I should not be surprised if he were to give her no explanation whatsoever." Arkright was in a sense right. What Anikin had said to Arkright was meant for him and not for Miss Farrel. It was not a rehearsal of a possible explanation for her, but it was the testing of a possible justification of himself to himself. He had not thought out what he was going to say before he began to talk to Arkright. He had begun with fact and had involuntarily embroidered the fact with fiction. It was _Wahrheit und Dichtung_ and the _Dichtung_ had got the better of the _Wahrheit_. His passion for make-belief and self-analysis had carried him away, and he had said things which might easily have been true and had hinted at difficulties which might have been his, but which, in reality, were purely imaginary. When he saw that Arkright had divined the truth, he laughed at the novelist's acuteness, and had let him see frankly that he realized he had been found out and that he did not mind. It was cynical, if you called that cynicism. Anikin would not have called it something else: the absence of cement, which a Russian writer had said was the cardinal feature of the Russian character. He did not mean to say or do anything to Kathleen that could possibly seem slighting. He was far too gentle and far too easy-going, far too weak, if you will, to dream of doing anything of the kind. With her, infinite delicacy would be needed. He did not know whether he could break off his engagement at all, so great was his horror of ruptures, of cutting Gordian-knots. This knot, in any case, could not be cut. It must be patiently unravelled if it was to be untied at all. "I think," said Arkright, "that all these cases are simple to reason about, but difficult to act on." Anikin was once more amazed at the novelist's perception. He laughed again, the same puzzling, quizzical _Slav_ laugh. "You Russians," said Arkright, "find all these complicated questions of conflicting duties, divided conscience and clashing obligations, much easier than we do." "Why?" asked Anikin. "Because you have a simple directness in dealing with subtle questions of this kind which is so complete and so transparent that it strikes us Westerners as being sometimes almost cynical." "Cynical?" said Anikin. "I assure you I was not being cynical." He said this smiling so naturally and frankly that for a moment Arkright was puzzled. And Anikin had been quite honest in saying this. He could not have felt less cynical about the whole matter; at the same time he had not been able to help taking momentary enjoyment in Arkright's acute diagnosis of the case when it was put to him, and at his swift deciphering of the hieroglyphics and his skilful diagnosis, and he had not been able to help conveying the impression that he was taking a light-hearted view of the matter, when, in reality, he was perplexed and distressed beyond measure; for he still had no idea of what he was to do, and the threads of gossamer seemed to bind him more tightly than ever. 6 Anikin strolled away from Arkright, and as he walked towards the Pavilion he met Mrs. Roseleigh. She saw at a glance that he had a confidence to unload, and she determined to take the situation in hand, to say what she wanted to say to him before he would have time to say anything to her. After he had heard what she had to say he would no longer want to make any more confidences, and if he did, she would know how to deal with them. They strolled along the _Galeries_ till they reached a shady seat where they sat down. "You are out early," he said, "I particularly wanted----" "I particularly wanted to see you this morning," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about Lancelot Stukely. You know his story?" "Some of it," said Anikin. "He is going away." "Because of Donna Laura?" "Oh, it's not that." "I thought he was devoted to her." "He likes her. He thinks she's a very good sort. So she is, but she's a lot of other things too." "He doesn't know that?" "No, he doesn't know that." "You know how he wanted to marry Kathleen Farrel?" she said, after a moment's pause. "Yes," said Anikin, "I heard a little about it." "It was impossible before." "Because of money?" "Yes, but now it is possible. He's been left money," she explained. "He's quite well off, he could marry at once." "But if he doesn't want to?" "He does want to, that is just it." "Then why not? Because Miss Farrel does not like him?" "Kathleen _does_ like him _really_; at least she would like him really--only--" "There has been a misunderstanding," said Mrs. Roseleigh. She put an anxious note into her voice, slightly lowering it, and pressing down as it were the soft pedal of sympathy and confidential intimacy. "They have both misunderstood, you see; and one misunderstanding has reacted on the other. Perhaps you don't know the whole story?" "Do tell it me," he said. Once more he had the sensation of coasting or free-wheeling down a pleasant hill of perfect companionship. "Many years ago," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "she was engaged to Lancelot Stukely. She wouldn't marry him because she thought she couldn't leave her father. She couldn't have left him then. He depended on her for everything. But he died, and Lancelot, who was away, didn't come back and didn't write. He didn't dare, poor man! It was very silly of him. He thought he was too poor to offer her to share his poverty, but she wouldn't have minded. Anyhow he waited and time passed, and then the other day his uncle died and left him money, and he came back at once, and came here at once, to see her, not to see Donna Laura. That was just an accident, Donna Laura being here, but when he came here he thought Kathleen no longer cared, so he decided to go away without saying anything. "Kathleen had been longing for him to come back, had been expecting him to come back for years. She had been waiting for years. She was not normal from excitement, and then she had a shock and disappointment. She was not, you see, herself. She was susceptible to all influences. She was magnetic for the moment, ready for an electric disturbance; she was like a watch that is taken near a dynamo on board ship, it makes it go wrong. And now she realizes that she is going wrong and that she won't go right till she is demagnetized." "Ah!" said Anikin, "she realizes." "You see," said Mrs. Roseleigh gently, "it wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened." "And how will she be demagnetized?" asked Anikin. "Ah, that is just it," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "We must all try and help her. We must all try to show her that we want to help. To show her that we understand." Anikin wondered whether Mrs. Roseleigh was speaking on a full knowledge of the case, or whether she knew something and had guessed the rest. "I suppose," he said, "you have always known what has happened to Miss Farrel?" "I know everything that has happened to Kathleen," she said. "You see, I have known her for years. She's my best friend. And now I can judge just as well from what she doesn't say, as from what she says. She always tells me enough for it not to be necessary to tell me any more. If it was necessary, if I had any doubt, I could, and should always ask." "Then you think," said Anikin, "that she will marry Stukely?" "In time, yes; but not at once." Anikin remembered Stukely's conduct and was puzzled. "I am sure," he said, "that since he has been here he has made no effort." "Of course he didn't," she said, "He saw that it was useless. He knew at once." "Is he that kind of man, that knows at once?" "Yes, he's that kind of man. He saw directly; directly he saw her, and he didn't say a word. He just settled to go." Anikin felt this was difficult to believe; all the more difficult because he wanted to believe it. Was Mrs. Roseleigh making it easy, too easy? "But he's going back to Africa," he said. "How do you know?" she asked. "He told Mr. Asham, and he told me." "He will go to London first. Kathleen will not stay here much longer either. I am going soon to London, too, and I shall see Lancelot Stukely there before he goes away, and do my best. And if you see him----" "Before he goes?" "Before he goes," she went on, "if you see him, perhaps you could help too, not by saying anything, of course, but sometimes one can help----" "I have a dread," said Anikin, "of some explanations." "That is just what she doesn't want--explanations, neither he nor she," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "Kathleen wants us to understand without explanations. She is praying we may understand without her having to explain to us, or without our having to explain to her. She wants to be spared all that. She has already been through such a lot. She is ashamed at appearing so contradictory. She knows I understand, but she doubts whether any one else ever could, and she does not know where to turn, nor what to do." "And when you go to London," he asked, "will you make it all right?" "Oh yes," she said. "Are you quite sure you can make it all right? I mean with Stukely, of course," he said. "Of course," said Mrs. Roseleigh, but she knew perfectly well that he really meant all right with Kathleen. "And you think he will marry her, and that she will marry him?" he asked one last time. "I am quite sure of it," she said, "not at once, of course, but in time. We must give them time." "Very well," he said. He did not feel quite sure that it was all right. Mrs. Roseleigh divined his uncertainty and his doubts. "You see," she said, "what happened was very complicated. She knows that ever since Lancelot arrived, she was never really herself----" "She knows?" he asked. "She only wants to get back to her normal self." "Well," he said, "I believe you know best. I will do what you tell me. I was thinking of going to London myself," he added. "Do you think that would be a good plan? I might see Stukely. I might even travel with him." "That," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "would be an excellent plan." Mrs. Roseleigh's explanation, the explanation she had just served out to Anikin, was, as far as she was concerned, a curious blend of fact and fiction; of honesty and disingenuousness. She was convinced that both Kathleen and Anikin had made a mistake, and that the sooner the mistake was rectified the better for both of them. She thought if it was rectified, there was every chance of Stukely marrying Kathleen, but she had no reason to suppose that her explanation of his conduct was the true one. She thought Stukely had forgotten all about Kathleen, but there was no reason that he should not be brought back into the old groove. A little management would do it. He would have to marry now. He would want to marry; and it would be the natural, normal thing for him to marry Kathleen, if he could be persuaded that she had never cared for anyone else; and Mrs. Roseleigh felt quite ready to undertake the explanation. She was quite disinterested with regard to Kathleen and quite disinterested towards Stukely. Was she quite disinterested towards Anikin? She would not have admitted to her dearest friend, not even to herself, that she was not; but as a matter of fact she had consciously or unconsciously annexed Anikin. He was made to be charmed by her. She was not in the least in love with him, and she did not think he was in love with her; she was not a dynamo deranging a watch; she was a magnet attracting a piece of steel; but she had not done it on purpose. She had done it because she couldn't help it. Her conscience was quite clear, because she was convinced she was helping Kathleen, Stukely and Anikin out of a difficult and an impossible situation; but at the same time (and this is what she would not have admitted) she was pleasing herself. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival first of Kathleen herself, then of Arkright. Kathleen had in her hands the copy of a weekly review. After mutual salutations had passed, Kathleen and Arkright sat down near Mrs. Roseleigh and Anikin. "Aunt Elsie," said Kathleen to Arkright, "asked me to give you back this. She is not coming down yet, she is very busy." She handed Arkright the review. "Ah!" said Arkright. "Did the article on Nietzsche interest her?" "Very much, I think," said Kathleen, "but I liked the story best. The story about the brass ring." "A sentimental story, wasn't it?" said Arkright. "What was it about?" asked Anikin. "Mr. Arkright will tell it you better than I can," said Kathleen. "I am afraid I don't remember it well enough," said Arkright. He remembered the story sufficiently well, although being of no literary importance, it had small interest for him; but he saw that Miss Farrel had some reason for wanting it told, and for telling it herself, so he pressed her to indicate the subject. "Well," she said, "it's about a man who had been all sorts of things: a soldier, a king, and a _savant_, and who wants to go into a monastery, and says he had done with all that the world can give, and as he says this to the abbot, a brass ring, which he wears round his neck, falls on to the floor of the cell. The ring had been given him by a queen whom he had loved, a long time ago, at a distance and without telling her or anyone, and who had been dead for years. The abbot tells him to throw it away and he can't. He gives up the idea of entering the monastery and goes away to wander through the world. I think he was right not to throw away the ring, don't you?" she said. "Do you think one ought never to throw away the brass ring?" said Anikin, with the incomparable Slav facility for "catching on," who instantly adopted the phrase as a symbol of the past. "Never," said Kathleen. "Whatever it entails?" Anikin asked. "Whatever it entails," she answered. "Have you never thrown away your brass ring?" asked Anikin, smiling. "I haven't got one to throw away," she said. "Then I will send you one from London, I am going there in a day or two," he said. "Mrs. Roseleigh was right," he said to himself, "no explanations are necessary." Mrs. Roseleigh looked at him with approval. Kathleen Farrel seemed relieved too, as though a weight too heavy for her to bear had been lifted from her, as though after having forced herself to keep awake in an alien world and an unfamiliar sunlight, she was now allowed to go back once more to the region of dreamless limbo. "Yes,", she said, "please send me one from London," as if there were nothing surprising or unexpected about his departure. In truth she was relieved. The episode at _Bellevue_ was as far away from her now as the dreams and adventure of her childhood. She felt no regret. She asked for no explanation. Anikin's words gave her no pang; nothing but a joyless relief; but it was with the slightest tinge of melancholy that she realized that she must be different from other people, and she would not have had things otherwise. As Arkright looked at her dark hair, her haunting eyes and her listless face, he thought of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood; and wondered whether a Fairy Prince would one day awaken her to life. He did not know her full story; he did not know that she was a mortal who had trespassed in Fairyland and was now paying the penalty. The enchanted thickets were closing round her, and the forest was taking its revenge on the intruder who had once rashly dared to violate its secrecy. He did not know that Kathleen Farrel had in more senses than one been overlooked. THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY--Part II II Dr. Sabran read the papers I sent him the very same night he received them, and the following evening he asked me to dinner, and after dinner we sat on the verandah of his terrace and discussed the story. "I recognized Haréville," said Dr. Sabran, "of course, although his Saint-Yves-les-Bains might just as well have been any other watering-place in the world. I do not know his heroine, nor her aunt, even by sight, because I only arrived at Haréville two years ago after they had left, and last year I was absent. Princess Kouragine I have met in Paris. She and yourself therefore are the only two characters in the book whom I know." "He bored Princess Kouragine," I said. "Yes," said Sabran, "that is why he has to invent a Slav microbe to explain her indifference. But Mrs. Lennox flattered him?" "Very thoroughly," I said. "Well, the first thing I want to know is," said Sabran, "what happened? What happened then? but first of all, what happened afterwards?" I said I knew little. All I knew was that Miss Brandon was still unmarried; that Canning went back to Africa, stayed out his time, and had then come back to England last year; and that I had heard from Kranitski once or twice from Africa, but for the last ten months I had heard nothing, either from or of him. "But," I said, "before I say anything, I want you to tell me what you think happened and why it happened." "Well," said the doctor, "to begin with, I understand, both from your story as well as from his, that Kranitski and Miss Brandon were engaged to be married and that the engagement was broken off. But I also understood from your MS. that the man Canning was for nothing in the rupture of the engagement. It happened before he arrived. It was due, in my opinion, to something which happened to Kranitski. "Now, what do we know about Kranitski as related by you? First of all, that he was for a long time attached to a Russian lady who was married, and who would not divorce because of her children. "Then, from what he told you, we know that although a believing Catholic he said he had been outside the Church for seven years. That meant, obviously, that he had not been _pratiquant_. That is exactly what would have happened if he had been living with a married woman and meant to go on doing so. Then when he arrives at Haréville, he tells you that the obstacle to his practising his religion no longer exists. Kranitski makes the acquaintance of Miss Brandon, or rather renews his old acquaintance with her, and becomes intimate with her. Princess Kouragine finds she is becoming a different being. You go away for a month, and when you come back she almost tells you she is engaged--it is the same as if she told you. The very next day Kranitski meets you, about to spend a day at the lakes with Miss Brandon and evidently not sad--on the contrary. He received a letter in your presence. You are aware after he has read this letter of a sudden change in him. "Then a few days later he comes to see you and announces a change of plans, and says he is going to Africa. He also gives you to understand that the obstacle has not come back into his life. What obstacle? It can only be one thing, the obstacle he told you of, which was preventing him from practising his religion. "Now, what do we learn from the novel? "We learn from the novel that the day after that expedition to the lakes, Rudd describes the Russian having a conversation with the novelist (himself) in which he tells the novelist, firstly, that he is going away, probably to Africa. So far we know that he was telling the truth. Then he says that just as he found himself, as he thought, free, an old debt or tie or obligation rises up from the past which has to be paid or regarded or met. Rudd, in the person of Arkright, thinks he is inventing. They talk of conflicts and divided duties and the choice between two duties. The Russian is made to say that the most difficult complication is when duty and pleasure are both on one side and an obligation is on the other side, and one has to choose between them. The novelist gives no explanation of this, he treats it merely as a gratuitous piece of embroidery--a fantasy. "Now, I believe the Russian said what Rudd makes him say, because if he didn't it doesn't seem to me like the kind of fantasy the novelist would have invented had he been inventing. If he had been inventing, I think he would have found something else." "All the same," I interrupted, "we don't know whether he said that." "We don't know whether he said anything at all," said Sabran. "I know they had a conversation," I said, "because I was in the park all that morning and someone told me they were talking to each other. On the other hand, he may have invented the whole thing, as Rudd says that the novelist in his story knew about the Russian's former entanglement, and lays stress on the fact that the Russian did not know that he knew. So it may have been on that little basis of fact that all this fancy-work was built." "I think," said Sabran, "that the conversation did take place. And I think that it happened so. I think he spoke about the past and said that thing about the blotting paper. There is a poem of Pushkin's about the impossibility of wiping out the past." "And I think," I said, "that the Russian laughed, and said, 'You novelists are terrible people.' Only he was laughing at the novelist's density and not applauding his intuition." "Well, then," said Sabran, "let us postulate that the Russian did say what he was reported to have said to the novelist, and let us conclude that what he said was true." "In that case, the Russian said he was in the position of choosing between a pleasure, that is to say, something he wanted to do which was not contrary to his duty----" "For which duty might even be pleaded as an excuse," said Sabran, quoting the very words said to have been used by the Russian. "And an obligation which was contrary both to duty and to inclination. That is to say, there is something he wants to do. He could say it was his duty to do it. And there is something he doesn't want to do, and he can say it is contrary to his duty. And yet he feels he has got to do it. It is an obligation, something which binds him." "It is the old liaison," said Sabran. "In that case," I said, "why did he go to Africa?" "Yes, why did he go to Africa? And stay there at any rate such a long time. Did he talk of coming back?" "No, he said nothing about coming back. He said he liked the country and the life, but he said little about either. He wrote chiefly about books and abstract ideas." "Perhaps," said Sabran, "there is something else in his life which we know nothing about. There is another reason why I do not think that the old liaison is the obligation. He took the trouble to come and see you before he went away and to tell you that the obstacle which had prevented his practising his religion had not reappeared in his life. It is probable that he was speaking the truth. And he knew he was going to Africa. So it must be something else." "Perhaps," I said, "it was something to do with Canning. What are your theories about Canning, the other man?" "What are yours?" he said. "I heard nothing about him." I said I thought that all Mrs. Summer had told me about Canning was true. Rudd, I explained to Sabran, disliked Mrs. Summer, and had drawn a portrait of her as a swooping gentle harpy, which I knew to be quite false. "Although," I said, "I think the things he makes her say about Canning are quite true. I think he reports her thoughts correctly but attributes to her the wrong motives for saying them. I don't believe she ever talked to him about Canning; but he knew her ideas on the subject, through Mrs. Lennox. I believe that Canning arrived at Haréville on purpose to see Miss Brandon. I know that the Italian lady had played no part in his life and that it was just a chance that they met at Haréville. I believe he arrived full of hope, and that when he saw Miss Brandon he realized the situation as soon as he had spoken to her. This is what Rudd makes Mrs. Summer say, and I believe that is what happened. In Rudd's version of Mrs. Summer she is lying. Rudd had already a preconceived notion that Miss Brandon's first love was to forget her. He had made up his mind about that long before the young man came upon the scene, before he knew he was coming on the scene, and when he did, he distorted the facts to suit his fiction." "Then," said Sabran, "his ideas about Miss Brandon. All that idea of her being the 'Princess without dreams,' without passion, being muffled and half-awake--'overlooked,' as he says, which I suppose means _ensorcelée._" I told him I thought that was not only fiction but perfectly baseless fiction. I reminded him of what Princess Kouragine had said about Miss Brandon. "I must think it over," said Sabran. "For the present I do not see any completely satisfactory solution. I am convinced of one thing only, and that is that the novelist drew false deductions from facts which were perhaps sometimes correctly observed." I said I agreed with him. Rudd's deductions were wrong; his facts were probably right in some cases; Sabran's deductions were right, I thought, as far as they went; but we either had not enough facts or not enough intuition to arrive at a solution of the problem. As I was saying this, Sabran interrupted me and said: "If we only knew what was in the letter that the Russian received when he was with you we should have the key of the enigma. It was from the moment that he received that letter that he was different, wasn't it?" I said this was so, and what happened afterwards proved that it was not my imagination. "What in the world can have been in that letter?" said Sabran. I said I did not think we should ever know that. "Probably not," he said, musingly. "And that incident about the story of the Brass Ring. Do you think that happened? Did they say all that?" I was able to tell him exactly what had happened with regard to that incident. "I was sitting in the garden. It was, I think, the morning after they had all been to the lakes, and about the middle of the day, after the band had stopped playing, shortly before _déjeuner_, that Rudd, Miss Brandon, Kranitski and Mrs. Summer all came and talked to me before I went into the hotel. "Miss Brandon gave the copy of the _Saturday Review_, or whatever the newspaper was, back to Rudd, and mentioned the story of the 'Brass Ring,' and they discussed it, and I asked what it was about. Rudd was asked to read it aloud to us, and he did. Miss Brandon and Kranitski made no comments; and Rudd asked Kranitski if he thought the man had done right to throw away his ring, and Kranitski said: 'A chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' "Rudd said: 'Perhaps the brass ring was the strongest link.' "Kranitski and Miss Brandon said nothing, and Mrs. Summer said she was glad the man had not thrown the ring away. Then Rudd asked Miss Brandon whether she had ever thrown away her brass ring. "Miss Brandon said she hadn't got one, and changed the subject. Then they all left me. That was all that happened." "I understand," said Sabran; "that is interesting, and it helps us to understand the methods of the novelist. But we are still no nearer a solution. I must think it over. _Que diable y avait-il dans cette lettre?_" THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY--PART II III The more I thought over the whole story the more puzzling it seemed to me. The puzzle was increased rather than simplified by a letter which I received from Kranitski from Africa, in which he expressed no intention of coming back, but said he was living by himself, quite contented in his solitude. I told Sabran of this letter and the Doctor said we were without one important _donnée,_ some probably quite simple fact which would be the clue of the whole situation: the contents of the letter Kranitski had received when he was with me-- "What we want," he said, "is a moral Sherlock Holmes, to deduce what was in that letter----" It was after I had been at Haréville about ten days, that Sabran asked me whether I would like to make the acquaintance of a Countess Yaskov. She was staying at Haréville and was taking the waters. He had only lately made her acquaintance himself, but she was dining with him and he wanted to ask a few people to meet her. I asked him what she was like. He said she was not exactly pretty, but gentle and attractive. He said: "_Elle n'est pas vraiment jolie, mais elle a une jolie taille, de beaux yeux, et des perles._" She had been divorced from her husband for years and lived generally at Rome, so he had been told. I went to Sabran's dinner. There were several people there. I had never met Countess Yaskov before. She seemed to be a very pleasant and agreeable lady. I sat next to her. She was an accomplished musician, and she played the pianoforte after dinner with a ravishing touch. She was certainly gentle, intelligent, and natural. We were talking of Italy, when she astonished me by saying she had not been there for some time. Later on she astonished me still more by talking of her husband in the most natural way in the world. But I had heard cases of Russians being divorced and yet continuing to be good friends. I longed to ask her if she knew Kranitski, but I could not bring his name across my lips. I asked her if she knew Princess Kouragine. She said, "Which one?" And when I explained or tried to describe the one I knew, there turned out to be about a dozen Princess Kouragines scattered all over Europe; some of them Russian and some of them not, so we did not get any further, and Countess Yaskov was vagueness itself. We talked of every conceivable subject. As she was going away she asked Sabran if he could lend her a book. He lent her Rudd's _Unfinished Dramas_, and asked me if he might lend her _Overlooked_. I said certainly, but I explained that it was more or less a private book about real people. Two or three days later I met her in the park. She asked me if I had read Rudd's story. I told her it had been read to me. "But it is meant to happen here, isn't it?" she said. "And aren't you one of the characters?" I said this was, I believed, the case. "Then you were here when all that happened?" she said. "Did it happen like that, or was it all an invention?" I said I thought there was some basis of fact in the story, and a great deal of fancy, but I really didn't know. I did not wish to let her know at once how much I knew. "Novelists," I said, "invent a great deal on a very slender basis, especially James Rudd." "You know him?" she said. "He was here with you, of course?" I told her I had made his acquaintance here, but that I had never seen him before or since. "What sort of man is he?" she asked. I gave her a colourless, but favourable portrait of Rudd. "And the young lady?" she said, "Miss--I've forgotten her name." "The heroine?" I asked. "Yes, the heroine who is 'overlooked.' Do you think she was 'overlooked'?" "In what sense?" "In the fairy-tale sense." I said I thought that was all fancy-work. "I wonder," she said, "if she married the young man." "Which one?" "The Englishman." I said I had not heard of her being married. "And was there a Russian here, too?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "his name was Kranitski." "That sounds like a Polish name." I said he was a Russian. "You knew him, too?" "Just a little." "It is an interesting story," she said, "but I think Rudd makes all the characters more complicated than they probably were. Does Mr. Rudd know Russia?" I said I believed not at all. "I thought not," she said. I said that Kranitski seemed to me a far simpler character than Rudd's Anikin. "Did Dr. Sabran know all those people?" she asked. I said Dr. Sabran had not been here while it was going on. "It would be very annoying for that poor girl to find herself in a book," she said, "if he published it." I said that Rudd would probably never publish it--although he would probably deny that he had made portraits, and to some extent with reason, as his Kathleen Farrel was quite unlike Miss Brandon. "Oh, her name was Miss Brandon," Countess Yaskov said, pensively. "If she comes here this year you must introduce me to her. I think I should like her." "Everyone said she was beautiful," I said. "One sees that from the novel. I suppose James Rudd invented a character which he thought suited her face." I said that that was exactly what had happened. Rudd had started with a theory about Miss Brandon, that she was such and such person, and he distorted the facts till they fitted with his theory. At least, that was what I imagined to have been the case. I asked Countess Yaskov what she thought of the psychology of Rudd's Russian. I said she ought to be a good judge. She laughed and said: "Yes, I ought to be a good judge. I think he is rather severe on the Slavs, don't you? He makes that poor Anikin so very complicated, and so very sly and fickle as well." I said I thought the excuses which Rudd credited the Russian with making to himself for breaking off the engagement with the heroine of the book, were absurd. "Do you think the Russian said those things or that the novelist invented them?" she asked. I said I thought he had said what he was reported to have said. "If he said that, he was not lying," she said. I agreed, and I also thought he _had_ said all that; but that Rudd's explanation of his words was wrong. If that was true he must have broken off his engagement. "There is nothing very improbable in that, is there?" she asked. "Nothing," I said. And yet I thought that Kranitski had finished with whatever there was in the past that might have been an obstacle to his present. "Did he tell you that?" she asked. As she said that, although the tone of her voice was quite natural, almost too natural, there was a peculiar intonation in the way she said the word "he," in that word and that word only, which gave me the curious sensation of a veil being lifted. I felt I was looking through a hole in the clouds. I felt certain that Countess Yaskov had known Kranitski. "He never told me one word that had anything to do with what Rudd tells in his novel," I said. I felt that my voice was no longer natural as I said this. There was a strain in it. There was a pause. I do not know why I now felt certain that Countess Yaskov possessed the key of the mystery. I suddenly felt she was the woman whom Kranitski had known and loved for seven years, so much so, that I could say nothing further. I also felt that she knew that I knew. We talked of other things. In the course of the conversation I asked her if she thought of staying a long time at Haréville. "It depends on my husband," she said. "I don't know yet whether he is coming here to fetch me, or whether he wants me to meet him. At any rate I shall go back to Russia for my boys' holidays. I have two sons at school." The next time I saw Sabran I asked him what he had meant by telling me that Countess Yaskov was divorced from her husband. I told him what she had said to me about her husband and her sons. He did not seem greatly surprised; but he stuck to his point that she was divorced. The next time I saw Countess Yaskov, she told me she had told a friend of hers about Rudd's story. Her friend had instantly recognized the character of Anikin. "My friend tells me," she said, "that the novelist is quite false as far as that character is concerned, false and not fair. She said what happened was this: The man whom Rudd describes as Anikin had been in love for many years with a married woman. She was in love with him, too, but she did not want to divorce her husband, for various reasons. So they separated. They separated after having known each other a long time. Then the woman changed her mind and she settled she would divorce, and she let Anikin know. She wrote to him and said she was willing, at last, to divorce. My friend says it was complicated by other things as well. She did not tell me the whole story, but the man went to Africa and the woman did not divorce. What Anikin was supposed to have said to the novelist was true. He told the truth, and the novelist thought he was saying false things. That is what you thought, too. But all has been for the best in the end, because do you know what there is in to-day's _Daily Mail_?" she asked. I said no one had read me the newspaper as yet. "The marriage is announced," she said, "of Miss Brandon to a man called Sir Somebody Canning." "That," said I, "is the Englishman in the book." "So Mr. Rudd was wrong altogether," she said, and she laughed. That is all that passed between us on this occasion, and I think this is a literal and complete transcription of our conversation. Countess Yaskov told me her story, the narrative of her friend, with perfect naturalness and with a quiet ease. She talked as if she were relating _facts_ that had no particular personal interest for her. There was not a tremor in her voice, not an intonation, either of satisfaction or pain, nothing but the quiet impersonal interest one feels for people in a book. She might have been discussing Anna Karenina, or a character of Stendhal. She was neutral and impartial, an interested but completely disinterested spectator. The tone of her voice was subtly different from what it had been the other day towards the end of our conversation. For during that conversation, admirably natural as she had been, and although her voice only betrayed her in the intonation of one syllable. I feel now, looking back on it, that she was not sure of herself, that she knew she was walking the whole time on the edge of a precipice. This time I felt she was quite sure of herself; sure of her part. She was word-perfect and serenely confident. Of course, what she said startled me. First of all, the _soi-disant_ explanation of her friend. Had she told a friend about the story? I thought not. Indeed, I feel now quite certain that the friend was an invention, quite certain that she knew I had recognized her as the missing factor in the drama, and that she had wished me not to have a false impression of Kranitski. But at the time, while she was talking she seemed so natural that for the moment I believed, or almost believed, in the friend. But when she told me of Miss Brandon's marriage she furnished me with the explanation of her perfect acting, if it was acting. I thought it was the possession of this piece of news which enabled her to tell me that story so calmly and so dispassionately. Of course I may still be quite wrong. I may be seeing too much. Perhaps she had nothing to do with Kranitski, and perhaps she did tell a friend. She has friends here. Nevertheless I felt certain during our first conversation, at the moment I felt I was looking through the clouds, that she had been aware of it; aware that I had not been able to go on talking of the story as naturally as I had done before. Her explanation, what her friend was supposed to have said, fitted in exactly with my suppositions, and with what I already knew. Sabran had been right. The clue to the whole thing was the letter. The letter that Kranitski had received when he was talking to me and which had made so sudden a change in him was the letter from her, from Countess Yaskov, saying she was ready to divorce and to marry him. He received this letter just after he was engaged to be married to Miss Brandon. It put him in a terrible situation. This situation fitted exactly with what Rudd made him say to the novelist in the story: his obligation to the past conflicted with his inclination, namely, his desire to marry Miss Brandon. Of course I might be quite wrong. It might all be my imagination. The next day I got a belated letter, from Miss Brandon, forwarded from Cadenabbia, telling me of her engagement. She said they were to be married at once, quite quietly. She knew it was no use asking me, but if I had been in London, etc. She made no other comments. That evening I dined with Sabran. I told him the news about Miss Brandon, and I told him what Countess Yaskov had told me her friend had told her about the story. "Half the problem is solved," he said. "The story of Countess Yaskov's friend explains the words which Rudd lends to the Russian. His inclination, which was to marry Miss Brandon, coincides with the religious duty of a _croyant_, which is not to marry a _divorcée_, and not to put himself once more outside the pale of the Church, but it clashes with his obligation, which is to be faithful to his friend of seven years. His inclination coincides with his duty, but his duty is in conflict with his obligation. What does he do? He goes away. Does he explain? Who knows? He was, indeed, in a _fichu_ situation. And now Miss Brandon marries the young man. Either she had loved him all the time, or else, feeling her romance was over, she was marrying to be married. In any case, her novel, so far from being ended, is only just beginning. And the Russian? Was it a real _amour_ or a _coup-de-tête_? Time will show. For himself he thought it was only a _coup-de-tête_: he will go back to his first love, but she will never divorce." I asked him again whether he was sure that Countess Yaskov was divorced from her husband. He was quite positive. He knew it _de source certaine_. She had been divorced years ago, and she lived at Rome. I was puzzled. In that case, why did she try and deceive me, and at the same time if she wanted to deceive me why did she tell me so much? Why did she give me the key of the problem? I said nothing of that to Sabran. I saw it was no use. A few days later, Countess Yaskov left Haréville. She told me she was going to join her husband. I did not remain long at Haréville after that. A few days before I left, Princess Kouragine arrived. I told her about Miss Brandon's marriage. She said she was not surprised. Canning deserved to marry her for having waited so long. "But," she said, "he will never light that lamp." I asked her if she was sorry for Kranitski. She said: "_Very_, but it could not be otherwise." That is all she said. When I told her that I had made the acquaintance of Countess Yaskov, she said: "Which one?" I said it was the one who lived in Rome and who was separated from her husband. The next day she said to me: "You were mistaken about Countess Yaskov. The Countess Yaskov who was here is Countess _Irina_ Yaskov. She is not divorced, and she lives in Russia now. The one you mean is Countess Helene Yaskov. She lives at Rome. They are not relations even. You confused the two, because they both at different times lived at Rome." I now saw why I had been put off the scent for a moment by Sabran. I asked her if she knew my Countess Yaskov. She said she had met her, but did not know her well. "She is a quiet woman," she said. "_On dit qu'elle est charmante_." Just about this time I received a long letter from Rudd. He said he must publish _Overlooked._ He had been told he ought to publish it by everybody. He might, he said, just as well publish it, since printing five hundred copies and circulating them privately was in reality courting the maximum of publicity: the maximum in quality if not in quantity. By doing this, one made sure that the only people it might matter reading the book, read it. He did not care who saw it, in the provinces, in Australia, or in America. The people who mattered, and the only people who mattered, were friends, acquaintances and the London literary world, and now they had all seen it. Besides which, his series of unfinished dramas would be incomplete without it; and he did not think it was _fair_ on his publisher to leave out _Overlooked_. "Besides which," he said, "it is not as if the characters in the books were portraits. You know better than anyone that this is not so." He ended up, after making it excruciatingly clear that he had irrevocably and finally made up his mind to publish, by asking my advice; that is to say, he wanted me to say that I agreed with him. I wrote to him and said that I quite understood why he had settled to publish the story, and I referred to Miss Brandon's marriage at the end of my letter. Before I heard from him again, I was called away from Haréville, and I had to leave in a hurry. It was lucky I did so, because I got away only just in time, either to avoid being compelled to remain at Haréville for a far longer time than I should have wished to do, or from having to take part in a desperate struggle for escape. The date of my departure was July 27th, 1914. The morning I left I said good-bye to Princess Kouragine, and I reminded her that when I had said good-bye to her two years ago she had said to me, talking of Miss Brandon: "The _man_ behaved well." I asked her which man she had meant. She said: "I meant the other one." "Which do you call the other one?" I asked. She said she meant by the other one: "_Le grand amoureux_." I said I didn't know which of the two was the "_grand amoureux_." "Oh, if you don't know that you know nothing," she said. At that moment I had to go. The motor-bus was starting. I feel that Princess Kouragine was right and that, after all, perhaps I know nothing. 
40937	----	ALBERT ROSS' ROMANCES A NEW EDITION AT A POPULAR PRICE ALBERT ROSS is a brilliant and wonderfully successful writer whose books have sold far into the millions. Primarily his novels deal with the sex-problem, but he depicts vice with an artistic touch and never makes it unduly attractive. Gifted with a fine dramatic instinct, his characters become living, moving human beings full of the fire and passion of loving just as they are in real life. His stories contain all the elements that will continue to keep him at the head of American novelists in the number of his admirers. MR. ROSS is to be congratulated on the strength as well as the purity of his work. It shows that he is not obliged to confine his pen to any single theme, and that he has a good a right to be called the "American Eugene Sue" or the "American Zola." _12mo, cloth. Price per volume, 50 cents._ Black Adonis, A Garston Bigamy, The Her Husband's Friend His Foster Sister His Private Character In Stella's Shadow Love at Seventy Love Gone Astray Moulding a Maiden Naked Truth, The New Sensation, A Original Sinner, An Out of Wedlock Speaking of Ellen Stranger than Fiction Sugar Princess, A That Gay Deceiver Their Marriage Bond Thou Shalt Not Thy Neighbor's Wife Why I'm Single Young Fawcett's Mabel Young Miss Giddy G.W. DILLINGHAM CO. Publishers New York A NEW SENSATION, BY ALBERT ROSS. AUTHOR OF "THOU SHALT NOT," "HIS PRIVATE CHARACTER," "SPEAKING OF ELLEN," "IN STELLA'S SHADOW," "THEIR MARRIAGE BOND," ETC. NEW YORK: COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY _G.W. Dillingham Co., Publishers._ [_All rights reserved._] CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Lady Typewriter Wanted 9 II. Outlining the Scheme 21 III. An Evening at Koster and Bial's 32 IV. "You are a hopeless scamp" 46 V. Meeting Miss Marjorie 57 VI. "Do you really want me?" 71 VII. Getting Ready for my Journey 83 VIII. "A woman I like very well" 93 IX. A Private Dining Room 104 X. "Once there was a child" 116 XI. A Theft on Board Ship 129 XII. A Little Game of Cards 144 XIII. Bathing in the Surf 155 XIV. "Oh! this naughty boy!" 166 XV. Wesson Becomes a Nuisance 176 XVI. "It is from a girl" 184 XVII. A Struggle on the Balcony 196 XVIII. Our Night at Martinique 208 XIX. "It is a strange idea" 219 XX. New Work for my Typewriter 230 XXI. "You were in my room?" 241 XXII. Too Much Excitement 252 XXIII. A Wedding Ring 265 XXIV. The Brutal Truth 275 XXV. "With his wife, of course" 286 XXVI. Behind the Bars 297 XXVII. "I pressed them to my lips" 305 TO MY READERS. It is a common question of my correspondents, "Are your novels ever founded on fact?" Sometimes; not often. This one is. A year ago I had an attack of neurasthenia, as did "Donald Camran." I did not die, nor go to an insane asylum, both of which items of "news" appeared in the daily papers from one end of the country to the other; but I wasn't exactly well for awhile. In January of this year I made my second trip to the Caribbean Islands and wrote this novel among the scenes I have described. Before going I advertised in the New York Herald "Personal" column for a typewriter to accompany me as private secretary. I received more than a hundred letters from women who desired the situation and interviewed quite a number of them. I decided, however, to go alone. (If the reader doesn't believe me I refer him to the passenger lists of the "Madiana" and "Pretoria.") The basis of this story, however, grew out of the advertisement and answers. "Marjorie" and "Statia" have a genuine existence, and so have many of the other characters in this tale. I have used real people as an artist does his models, taking a little from one, a little from another, and a great deal from the vivid imagination with which nature has endowed me. I hope the result will be satisfactory to my friends, who have waited double the usual time for this novel. My health seems wholly recovered and unless something unforeseen occurs my stories will continue to appear each July and January, as they have for the past ten years. This is the nineteenth volume of the "Albatross Series." I again send a too indulgent public my warmest thanks for their appreciation. Very Truly, ALBERT ROSS. Cambridge, Mass., May, 1898. A NEW SENSATION. CHAPTER I. LADY TYPEWRITER WANTED. "A New Sensation--that is what you need," said Dr. Chambers, wisely. "Yes, that is what you want, above all things," assented Harvey Hume. "A New Sensation--it would be the making of you!" cried Tom Barton, with enthusiasm. I agreed with them all. My brain was exhausted with my long illness and responded feebly to the new strength that was returning to my body. It was much easier, however, for people to discover the remedy I needed than to find the right way to apply it. They would never have united in prescribing the same kind of "sensation." What one would suggest would be opposed by the others; and had they come to a united decision in the matter their ideas might not have suited me at all. I was in a condition when it is not easy to make up the mind to anything. After long reflection, I decided to go and propose marriage to Statia. I had never offered my hand to any woman and it seemed as if that ought to give me at least a diversion, which was something. Not that I intended to make the offer lightly. I had as lief get married as anything else. I was sick to death of idleness--nothing could well be worse than doing nothing, day after day. But when I had carried out my plan, I left Statia in greater despondency than ever. For she refused me pointblank--something that had not entered into my calculations. She did it, too, in anything but an agreeable manner, as it then seemed to me. If the reader of these lines has ever gone through a period of insomnia in its most acute form, he will understand the condition in which it leaves a fellow. When Tom's sister laughed me out of court, as one might say, even though she did it with the highest expressions of good will, I was ready for anything desperate. "You are a silly fellow," she said, as if I were a five years' old child and she my governess. "What kind of a husband do you think you would make? Look back over the last five years of your life and see how much of it does you credit. You think I don't know what you have been up to, and perhaps it is best for me that I don't know all of it; but I am sure, at least, that you have undertaken nothing serious, and that every hour has been practically wasted. A girl has got to have something different in a partner on whom she is to rely for life. And that tale of your physician's advice is worse than all. I am not going to let myself for a hospital. Your health is broken on account of your persistent violation of all hygienic rules. You have no right to quarter yourself on a strong, well girl like me until you can bring something better than you now have to offer." I was too provoked at her manner, even more than at her words, to reply with much patience. I said, ill-manneredly, I must now admit, that if I did not have my old physique, it was only a question of time when it would return, and that I certainly had something else that many a young man would gladly take in exchange for beef and brawn. "Oh, _that_ for your fortune!" she said, snapping her fingers disdainfully. "I am not talking of marrying your grandfather, who gathered the dollars you think of such moment. Wealth is a good thing only when harnessed to the right horses. The man that marries me must have a better recommendation. I would give more for a character of sterling merit, a disposition to conquer the difficulties of life, than for all your cash. If the will of Aleck Camran had not tied up his savings, you would have made ducks and drakes of the whole of it before this time." I was angry at myself for arguing with her. She had a great deal of assurance to address me in that manner, I thought. "Will or no will, I have a certainty of five thousand dollars a year till I am thirty," I retorted. "How many of the brave young chaps you talk about can gain as much as that? And when I am thirty I get possession of the entire estate, a quarter of a million now, and more when that time comes. But I am not going to debate the matter with you. You are a coquette, Statia Barton, and have had your amusement with me. Some day, when you hear I have gone to the devil, a little remorse may touch your heart. I don't care a rap now whether I live or die." She paled at the concluding sentence. "Don't add crime to your follies," she said, in a low tone. "Existence does not end with this brief life on earth. When you have time to reflect, you will be ashamed of your present state of mind. If there is anything I can do for you, short of sacrificing my whole future--" "I know," I responded, sarcastically. "You are willing to be 'a sister' to me!" "I am, indeed!" she answered, fervently. "It's what you need much more than a wife. You accuse me of coquetry, because I have tried to treat you as--well--as the closest friend of my brother Tom. I fear your experience with women has not fitted you to be a good judge of their actions." "They are pretty much alike," I snarled. "Selfish to the core, when you get at their true natures. All this talk amounts to nothing. So, I'll say good-by, for as soon as I can get my things packed I'm going to get out of the country." She seemed genuinely distressed, and like the soft fellow I always was where her sex is concerned I found myself relenting. "Dr. Chambers advises travel," I explained, in a gentler tone. "His exact prescription was, 'Marry the nicest girl you know, then take a journey to some place where you can forget the troubles through which you have passed.' If I can't carry out the first part, I can the last." Statia's face lit up. "And am I--really--the 'nicest girl you know,' that you came so straight to me with your proposal?" she asked. "I thought so an hour ago," I responded, growing gloomy again. "I've intended for two years to ask you sometime, though I didn't think it would be so soon. I supposed you knew what was on my mind, and it never occurred to me that, instead of accepting my offer, you would play the schoolma'am with me. But let it go now. I believe I shall live through it, after all. That cursed insomnia leaves a man ready for the blues on the slightest provocation. The sooner I get out of this part of the world the better." She asked if I had decided where to go, and I told her I had not. I thought the best thing was to get on the sea as soon as I could and keep out of sight of land for awhile. "I don't think you ought to go alone," she said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps you would undertake to chaperone me," I suggested, mischievously. "No. It would be too great a responsibility. But, seriously, you should have some one. You are not in a condition to make a long journey alone." I felt that as well as she. But of all my friends I could think of no one to fill the bill, and I told her so. "Tom would go, if he could," she said. "He would lose a year in his classes, though, which is a serious matter. Can you not hire some capable young man, who would act as an assistant and companion combined?" If I was sure of anything it was that I wanted nothing of that kind. A servant was all right, and there were lots of fellows who would make good travelling companions, but a man who could combine the two qualities would be unbearable. "There's another alternative you haven't thought of," I remarked, catching at an idea. "What would you say to a typewriter?" "There are many young men in that business who would be glad to go with you," was her reply. "Hang young men! If I take a typewriter it will be a young woman," I retorted. "Oh, don't glare at me in that frigid way. There are respectable young women enough without letting your thoughts run wild. Uncle Dugald has been trying to get me to resume work on the family genealogy, which I was plodding through when I was knocked out by that confounded illness. I have all of the notes on hand. Supposing I advertise for a young woman of good moral character to assist a literary man, one that is willing to travel. Don't you think I might secure the right sort of person in that way?" "Good moral character!" she echoed, her lip curling. "And what do you think her character would resemble when she returned with you from your journey?" I replied that it would be something like that of a vestal virgin, as near as I could prognosticate. And I demanded where she got the notion that I was a menace to the purity of any young creature who might decide to trust herself in my company. "The idea is too silly to talk of seriously," she answered. "Oh, I don't know," said I. "The more I think about it, the better I like the thing. Some of these typewriter girls are not bad looking. Many are well educated. A good salary ought to overcome their objections to travel, especially at this season of the year, when New York is under the dominion of the Ice King. I shall put an advertisement in the 'Personal' column of the Herald, next Sunday." Statia tried to pretend that she thought me simply fooling, but it was evident that she was not as sure on that point as she would like to be. If there was nothing else to be gained by the conversation, I was at least getting even with her to some degree for the disappointment she had caused me a few minutes earlier. "You will do nothing of the sort," she said. "Come, Don, don't be an idiot. I can hardly find patience to discuss the senseless thing. If you weren't such a reckless boy, I should know you were only joking. You shall not leave the room until you promise to drop this nonsense." I liked her, in spite of her cruel conduct; yes, I liked her very much; and it did me an immense amount of good to sense the taint of jealousy in her words and manner. "Statia Barton," I replied, taking a step that brought me to her side, "it all lies with you. Again I ask you to be my wife and go with me on the journey my doctor declares I must take at once. If you refuse to guard and protect me you have no right to say that some one else shall be prevented from doing so." She trembled, and I thought she was about to relent. My heart gave a quick bound, only to be stilled by her answer. "Your conduct in this matter confirms all my previous suspicions," she replied, and her voice was unsteady. "I am merely, in your mind, a toy to be used as occasion requires. If I refuse to lend myself to that object you have only to find another. Now, Donald Camran, I am a little too proud to take that sort of place. Marriage, in my mind, is rather more sacred than it seems to be in yours. You evidently have no idea how near you are to insulting me, which makes it easier to forgive the slight. I thank you for the honor"--she pronounced the word in an ironical manner--"that you have offered and decline it absolutely. Further, I withdraw all my advice, since it evidently is useless to offer any. Advertise for your lady typewriter, make your arrangements with her, and go your way. And now excuse me, as I have to dress for a walk." I didn't really want to hurt her feelings, and it was too evident that I had done so. I asked meekly if she would let me wait in the parlor till she was ready and escort her to her destination. "No," she answered, with more determination that I had ever heard in her tone. "I prefer to say good-by to you here." I liked her immensely, in spite of all, and was sorry that anything should make a break between us, but I had no idea of crawling on my knees for any woman alive. I took up my overcoat, that lay on a chair--I was as much at home in Tom Barton's house as in my own lodgings--and put it on. Then I took my gloves, my hat and cane, said "Good-by," with great formality, and left the house. I preferred to walk, for although the air was frosty, there was heat enough in my veins. Block after block was traversed in an aimless way, for I had no destination in particular. All at once, I noticed a group of people staring into a window, and realized that I had reached the up-town building of the New York Herald. For several seconds I tried to remember what there was about that building to interest me. It was one of the results of my illness that memory had become treacherous. It frequently happened that I met intimate friends and could not tell their names if I were to be hanged. I slackened my pace, and cudgeled my brain, as the saying is, for some moments. It was the Herald Building--I knew that well enough. What did I want there? Suddenly, glancing into the business office, it all came back to me and I entered. The idea I had suggested to Statia as a joke began to strike me as a rather good thing. I would insert an advertisement for a female typewriter, if only to spite Statia Barton! Dr. Chambers had almost forbidden me to travel alone. I had a right to select my companion, and it was the business of no one--least of all of a woman who had thrown me over--whether the person I chose wore pantaloons or petticoats. Going to one of the desks I took up a pen, dipped it in ink, and tried to indite a suitable announcement. My hand shook, for I had not recovered a quarter of my normal strength. When I had written the first line it would have puzzled the best copy-holder in the office above to decipher it. I tore it up, took a second piece of paper and began again. When I had written the advertisement at last it did not suit me, and once more I essayed the task with new construction. Other men and several women were using the desks about me, and I glanced at them to see if any nervousness was visible on their countenances. There appeared to be none, however, which fact made my own sensations harder than ever to bear. Several times I fancied that the clerks behind the wire guards were watching me, that they had managed in some mysterious manner to see over my shoulder, and were laughing at my efforts. Still I hated to give up beaten. It is a part of my nature to carry out any task which I have attempted, no matter how insignificant. I took the pen once more and finally completed with difficulty the following: TYPEWRITER WANTED--To travel in the Tropics for the winter. Duties light, salary satisfactory. Machine Furnished. Address--Herald up-town. Just as I was about to take this to one of the clerks, an extremely pretty young woman came to the desk I was using and attracted my attention. She had a pair of solitaire diamonds in her beautiful ears and half a dozen costly rings on her pretty fingers. She wore a tastily trimmed hat, with veil, a well fitting seal coat and a plaided silk skirt of subdued colors. I judged her to be the wife or daughter of some wealthy man, who had come to advertise for a maid or cook. With a few quick strokes of the pen, in a hand that I saw was clear and bold, she completed her writing and stepped quickly to the nearest counter. I followed her; and as there was already one customer engaging the attention of the clerk, I plainly saw the notice she had written, as she held it daintily against her muff. Its purport was as follows: A YOUNG LADY, stranger in the city, beautiful of face and form, 22 years of age, suddenly thrown on her own resources, wishes the acquaintance of elderly gent. The clerk looked up and nodded to the fair creature, when her turn came. He had evidently seen her there before. "You have forgotten again," he said, smiling. "Object matrimony." "So, I have," she answered, in mellifluous tones. "It seems so silly, you know." "A rule of the office," he responded, adding the words for her. "Dollar and a half." She took a twenty dollar bill from a purse and received the change as if it was hardly worth picking up. It was evident that much sympathy need not be wasted on this young "stranger," and that the "resources" on which she was "thrown" were likely to be amply sufficient. "One twenty," said the clerk, to me. "Business Personals, of course. I will write the word 'Lady' before 'Typewriter,' if that is what you mean. It may save annoyance. Sunday? Very well." He gave me my change and I withdrew to make room for others, who were already crowding for recognition. It was only Thursday, but it was something to have done the thing. After months of insomnia it is hard to make up one's mind. Delighted that I had taken the first step, I bought a paper from one of the boys at the door and went home to study the steamship routes. CHAPTER II. OUTLINING THE SCHEME. The most intimate masculine friend I had in the world was Statia's brother, Tom Barton. We seemed to have become attached for the reason that a story reminded some one of an event--because we were so different. Tom was not the kind of chap, however, to trust with such a plan as I had just been maturing. Not only was he virtuous--which may be forgiven in a young man of good qualities--but he would never have liked me had he suspected a thousandth part of the peccadilloes of which I had been guilty. Tom was my friend, but never my confidant. For a fellow to share the present secret, there was no one like Harvey Hume. I was reasonably sure that Harvey would tell me I was contemplating a ridiculous move; indeed I more than half suspected that to be the case. But he would content himself with pointing out the silliness of the plan, leaving it to my own judgment what to do afterward. Tom, on the contrary, would have told Statia all about it, not imagining, of course, that I had done so; then he would have gone to my Uncle Dugald and set him on my track. If these means failed to bring me to my senses, I am not sure but he would have applied for an inquirendo to determine my sanity; all with the best intentions in the world and a sincere desire to promote my moral welfare. Tom is a fellow who would jump off a steamer in mid-ocean to save me, should I fall overboard while in his company, and never think, until he found himself on the way to the bottom, that I could swim, while he could not even float a little bit. He is as decent a chap as it has ever been my privilege to know, and as much to be avoided on certain occasions as a fer-de-lance. At any rate, my recent tilt with his sister did not make me particularly anxious to see any person who bore her family name. So I went to Harvey Hume. Harvey is, or professes to be, a lawyer. One of our mutual friends once got credit for a _mot_ that really didn't amount to much, when a third party inquired if Harvey had yet been 'admitted to the bar,' by replying that he had been admitted to every bar in Greater New York, although he had always failed to pass. Whatever might be said of him, he was a thoroughbred. The Spanish Inquisition could not have drawn a secret out of him. The worst he would do if he disapproved of my scheme was to tell me so, and I had a wild anxiety to talk it over with some one. "Halloa, old fellow!" he cried, as I entered his door. "Devilish glad to see you. Take one of these cigars, draw up here, put your feet beside mine on the desk, and tell me how you are." Accepting the invitation in both its phases I responded that I was improving every day, and that I believed myself nearly, if not quite, out of the woods. "Of course, you are," he replied, jovially. "And now you are out, will you get back again, or take a friend's advice and stay out?" "I don't even know how I got in," I remarked, dolefully. "When I see a chap like you in the enjoyment of all the health and spirits in the world it seems unfair that I should be knocked down in the way I was. Why, all the drinking I've done since I was born wouldn't satisfy you for half a year." Harvey blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and winked knowingly. "Rats!" he responded. "I only drink just enough to lubricate my mucous membrane. If you had drunk oftener and done some other things less, you would be in as fit shape as I am. It was plain to me for a long time that you would bring up where you did. No fellow can live on the edge of his nerves month after month without paying the piper, sooner or later." "Well," I said, "I'm through with it now, at all events. Lovely woman has got to get along without me, in the old way, for a long time to come. Dr. Chambers has given me a scare, and I'm going to profit by it." "Good!" exclaimed Harvey, with warmth. "Yes," I continued, smiling inwardly at the scheme I was about to divulge, "the sort of female creature with which I have spent my time and cash is to be banished from my waking and my sleeping dreams. I am going to take ship for some foreign port, and remain away till I am sure of my resolutions." Hume leaned over and took my hand in his own. My esteem for him rose with the action, which spoke more than words, but I went on with my story. "The doctor will not hear of my going alone, however," I pursued, "and--" "And he's quite right," he interpolated. "So I have advertised for a companion to make the trip. You don't seem to have conceived any plan for me, so I've invented one of my own." My friend interrupted again to compliment me on the common sense of the move. "You see, the genealogy of the Camran family that my Uncle has set his heart on gives me an excuse to secure the services of a companion in the guise of a typewriter. It takes off the feeling that I require a nurse, while practically providing the very same thing, in the event that one is needed." Hume nodded frequently, in approval. I was evidently rising rapidly in his estimation as a young man whose common sense had returned after a long vacation. "I hope you'll find the right sort of fellow," he said. "You ought to, if you've worded the advertisement right. The last time I put in such a notice, the time I got the man I now have--there was half a peck of answers." Taking up a pen, and putting my feet nearer the floor, I wrote a copy of the announcement I had left at the Herald office, and passed it to my friend. "How do you think that will do?" I inquired, gravely. He read it, sniffed once or twice and then threw it on the floor. "You are a good deal of a fool, but not such a d----d one as that!" he said. "It's exactly what I have done," was my reply. "When the answers come in I shall expect you to help me pick out the prizes." He laughed, refusing at first to be drawn into what he thoroughly believed a trap to catch him. Then he studied my face and grew doubtful. "Anybody but you, Don, might get some fun out of this. If you really have put such an ad. in the paper, the best thing you can do is to turn the entire lot of replies over to me, for investigation after you have left the country. But," he grew very sober, "to prance around among that sort of stuff yourself--at this time--would almost certainly put you back where you were last winter, with less chance than ever of recovery." It was a much rougher way of putting it than I had expected, and, to tell the truth, there was something creepy in the suggestion. "Your generosity is fully appreciated," I replied, with some dignity, "but I cannot think of exposing you to such terrible dangers. On reflection I do not think it best to trouble you in this matter. It would be a source of never-ending regret were I to return from abroad, and learn that you had taken my old place in the Sanitarium." Hume threw the butt of his finished cigar into a cuspidor and lit another one nonchalantly. "Don't you really see the difference?" he asked, when he found the weed drawing satisfactorily. "To me the adventures that might grow out of meeting a dozen or a hundred pretty women would result in nothing worse than passing some agreeable evenings. I never lost my head over one of the sex, and I never shall. If Mr. Donald Camran could say as much, I would tell him to carry out his intention. But, I leave it to you, my dear boy, to prophesy the result, if you go into this thing." I told him, with some mental misgivings, to be sure, that I had learned my lesson during the year that was past. No woman could make me lose my head again. At the same time I had not gotten over my admiration for the sex, and I saw no reason to do so. "I'm beginning to believe you're not fooling," said Hume, after studying my countenance again. "Now, tell me precisely what your game is. Let us have the scheme, just as it lies in your mind and, if there's a redeeming feature about it, trust me as a true friend to say so." We had at last reached the point I had hoped for, and I complied without hesitation. "I am acting primarily on the advice--almost on the orders--of Dr. Chambers. He wants me to take a sea voyage. He advises me strongly not to go alone. Then Uncle Dugald hints every time I see him that I ought to recommence the genealogy as soon as I feel able. A good stenographer would make that task an easy one. The reason I purpose taking a lady instead of a man--but you will certainly laugh if I tell you." My friend responded gravely that he would promise to do nothing of the sort. "Well," I continued, "it is this: and you may laugh at me if you like. I have led a life as regards women that I now think worse than idiotic. I have followed one after another of them, from pillar to post, falling madly in love, troubling my mind, worrying over the inevitable separations, getting the blues, losing heart, all that sort of thing; then, beginning over again with a new charmer, and pursuing the inevitable round. I have never been intimately acquainted with a pure, honest girl of the better classes, except one, who, this morning, refused my offer of marriage. I have no feminine relations except a couple of old aunts. I need sadly to be educated by a woman who will not hold out temptation. I believe a few months in the society of such a woman, away from old associations, will make another man of me." When I think of it now I wonder that Harvey, with his keen sense of the ludicrous, did not burst into a laugh, in spite of his promise. But he took my serious story with equal seriousness and bowed gravely. "What is to keep you from falling in love with your secretary, when you and she are practically alone, miles and miles from all the people you both know?" "I intend to secure a promise from her, before we start, that she will repel, absolutely, the slightest familiarity on my part. I shall fix a salary that will be an object. If she allows me to forget the position toward her that I have chosen, she is to be sent home on the next steamer, with a month's advance wages." Harvey bowed again, with the same gravity as before. He pulled at his cigar, but it had gone out and he did not relight it. "I have never talked so freely with you before," I went on to say, "and there is no other person on earth with whom I would do so. A year ago, as you are aware, I was stricken suddenly with that damnable thing called neurasthenia. For two months I had insomnia in the worst form that a man can have it and live. Sleepy from noon to noon, I only secured thirty minutes of unconsciousness in each twenty-four hours. Figure the situation to yourself. At nine o'clock every night I fell asleep; at half past nine I awoke, and there was not a wink again until nine the next night. I gave up all expectation of recovery, and the most disheartening things I heard were the predictions of Dr. Chambers, that I would ultimately get well. "Finally they sent me to the Sanitarium, where with treanol and bromides I was lulled to unconsciousness for several hours at a time. I would not consent to take opium in any form, even if the refusal killed me. A month passed. The artificial sleep induced brought me little strength, but it helped in a way. Then I went to the Hot Springs of North Carolina, with a valet. My sleeping capacity had returned, and I ceased to use the incentives previously found necessary; but my appetite, poor enough before, deserted me there. For breakfast I actually had to force down the single cup of coffee that formed the repast. At lunch I did not go to the table. For dinner my menu never varied--a few spoonfuls of soup and a small dish of iced cream. "The days dragged horribly. Somehow in the absence of real courage I developed a dogged determination that I would live. When I reached New York on my return North, I had too little strength to write a letter or to sit upright for more than a few moments. But the worst was over, and I knew it. It had become only a question of time. Step by step I have advanced until you see me as I am to-day." My friend listened intently. "And you don't want to fall into the old slough again," he remarked. "No, and I never will," I said, with earnestness. "Now, listen: I realize that I was a year ago a slave to certain vices. Yes, let us give them the unconventional name. If I go off alone to some distant part of the world, what is to prevent my beginning again on the old road and ending where I did before? I could take a male companion, but do you imagine he would have any influence with me if I started to go wrong? At best he would be but a servant. If he tried to stand in the way of anything I wanted, the result is certain; he would get his walking papers _de suite_. I have no mother, no sister. The only woman I ever thought of marrying has coldly declined my offer. Let me go in the company of a woman that is what she should be, and I will return a different man altogether." Still Hume did not laugh. I was more grateful for this consideration than I can describe, for I was really very much in earnest. I was like the drowning man, clutching at what seemed to me a life-preserver. "How old are you?" asked Hume. "Twenty-five?" "Twenty-four." "What age would you prefer your secretary to be?" "About the same. I could not endure an old maid, and I do not wish to undertake the care of a child." "Won't it be hard to find a woman of twenty-four years with the skill and judgment that your situation seems to require?" "We shall see. Some of these girls who are obliged to earn their living develop wonderful self-possession." He nodded, as if he could not dispute this. "Well, Don," he said, after a thoughtful pause, "I am going to be candid with you. The scheme you have outlined would be considered, as you must know, by nine-tenths of our friends, as absolutely senseless. To me it really has some points in its favor, if it can be carried out. You have left the advertisement for insertion? Very well. If you like to trust me so far, bring a batch of your answers here next Tuesday and we will go over them together. There will be a certain per centum that we shall both agree are not worth attention. We will classify the others, and pick out a dozen or so to look up. My time, my services, are at your disposal. The Law is not pressing me particularly just now, and I shall be glad if I can be of use to anybody." I accepted the proposition with delight. "And now," added Hume, "come over and get a drink." But this I was obliged to decline. I had made a solemn promise to Dr. Chambers, nearly a year before, that there were two things from which I would refrain for twelve whole months; and one of them was drinking anything of an alcoholic nature between meals, or stronger than claret even then. This I explained to Harvey, with the additional information that I had not broken my pledge and that the time specified would expire within three weeks. "Meet me on the day it is up and let me see you quaff your first Manhattan," he said, laughingly. "If I have good luck I shall be far away, on the Briny," I answered. "I shall begin very gingerly, wherever I am. I would rather shoot myself to-night than get into the condition I was when Chambers squeezed that promise out of me. He said the other day that when I entered his office I had eyes like those of a dead fish and so little pulse he could hardly distinguish it." "He is quite correct," said Hume. "I saw you about the same time, and I thought, as I live, that you were a goner. You're all right now, though, and--upon my soul!--I hope you'll keep so. The charms of Bacchus are not your worst danger, Venus, my boy, is the lady you want to keep shy of." "Don't I know that?" I answered. "Confound her and all her nymphs!" "Well, good day," he said, taking my hand in his and putting the other on my shoulder affectionately. "Tuesday I shall look for you, remember, with a dray load of letters from the fair maidens of this metropolis!" CHAPTER III. AN EVENING AT KOSTER & BIAL'S. Before I actually engaged passage to any foreign port I thought it wise to pay a parting visit to good Dr. Chambers. It was six months since I had last called on him, for finding that I was gaining in every way I did not care to fill myself up with medicines. His advice about abstinence from things hurtful had been religiously followed, and I presented the outward appearance of a man in fairly good health when he came into his office and took my hand. Between us there has grown up a feeling warmer than generally, I am afraid, exists between physician and patient. I am intensely grateful for the skill that changed me from a desponding invalid to one so nearly the opposite in spirits, and the odd five dollar bills I have paid seem no equivalent for the great boon he conferred upon me. In plain terms, he saved my life and more. He redeemed me from a sort of hell which I think the old romancers would have substituted for their fire and brimstone had they ever had personal experience of it, as a means of deterring the sinful from their ways. Money cannot pay for such service, and I shall feel an affection for Dr. Chambers as long as memory remains to me. If you have the pleasure of his acquaintance, you know that the Doctor is probably the handsomest man in New York. He has a good physique that has not degenerated into mere muscle and brawn; a fine color which does not lead you to suspect that too much old port and brandy is responsible for it. His hair is nearly white, though he has hardly seen fifty years, and has no other sign of age. His mustache and imperial would do credit to a trooper and yet has not that bovine appearance shown in portraits of the late Victor Immanuel. His manner is delightful, his voice musical, though by no means effeminate. I ascribe my cure partly to a perfect confidence in his powers with which he inspired me on our very first meeting. He is not one to make rash predictions, to tell you that he will bring you around all right in a week; but rest on his superior powers with the confidence of a child and the result will justify your faith. No physician can cure a man against his will or without his assistance. Go to Dr. Chambers with your heart open, tell him no more lies than you would tell your confidential attorney, obey every injunction he gives you, summon whatever of courage is left in your failing heart, take his medicines according to direction. If you do that and die, be sure your time has come and that no mortal could bring about a different result. If you recover, as you probably will, be honest and ascribe the result as much to the Doctor's intuitive knowledge of persons as to his eminent acquaintance with the best medical discoveries. One of the nervine preparations that he gave me is manufactured in Paris, and I have heard jealous physicians say that no one here knows the precise formula by which it is compounded; which is, it appears, a technical violation of the rules of the Medical Society, and consequently "unprofessional." If Dr. Chambers cures his patients by the help of this remedy, and other physicians let theirs perish, his course is certainly preferable from a layman's point of view. He has proved the efficacy of the article. Whether it be composed of one thing or another, or whatever be the proportions of the mixture, is of little interest to the one it benefits and less still to the victims of more scrupulous practitioners, after they have passed from earth for want of it. There is a great deal of nonsense in the medical profession and the establishment of set rules to meet all cases is bound to result in disaster. I asked Dr. Chambers to re-examine me in a general way, and to say, when he had finished, whether he saw any reason why I should not go at once on an ocean voyage. He devoted the better part of an hour to this task and ended with the declaration that the sooner I went the better my plan was. "I have urged you before to take a long journey to some interesting place," he reminded me. "At this time of year a warm country is better than a frigid or even a temperate one. You will thus secure a natural action of the skin on account of the perspiration, much better than any Turkish bath, which is at best only a makeshift. You will be able to partake of tropical fruits in their best state, fresh from the trees and vines. Your mind will be stimulated in a healthful manner. The voyage will do you great good. All I insist on now is that you do not go alone. While you have made immense progress you must run no risks. A bright, cheerful companion to fill in a dull hour is very necessary. And, although I believe the year for which I interdicted some of your habits has about expired, it does not follow that you are to plunge into excesses. Use the common sense you have been acquiring. Take all your pleasures sparingly. Still consider yourself a convalescent. I don't want you coming here again in the shape you were last winter." I assured him that there was no danger; that I had learned my lesson well; and that I would make a sensible use of my liberty. Then, when he had added that I need carry very little medicine--and that only for emergencies--and made me promise to write him once in a month or so, in a friendly way, I grasped his hand warmly and took my leave. If he had been a woman I would certainly have kissed him. He will never know, unless he happens to read these lines, how near my eyes came to filling with grateful tears. The next thing was a visit to my Uncle, Dugald Camran, that staid old bachelor, who still possesses the virtues of our Scotch ancestry, that I have put so often to shame. He has charge of my father's estate, which he manages with the same acumen that he handles his own, and which is as safe in his hands as in that of the Bank of England. Between my Uncle and me there has been much good will, but very little confidence. Our relations have been little more than business ones. He has no curiosity apparently as to my personal conduct, and I would be the last to wish him to know what it has been in some respects. He attributed my late illness, as did most of my other acquaintances, to over-study, and I had no intention of undeceiving him. There was no attempt on his part to influence me in any way, when I gave up my course at Yale without graduating. He only said that I was the best judge. He could see well enough that I was not cut from the same piece as the rest of the Camrans, staid, methodical getters together of money as they are. Probably, bad as things went, he would have made them no better had he interfered. His is not a nature that could understand mine. When I became twenty-one years of age he handed over without demur the ten thousand dollars that my father's testament said was to be given me on that date, and although he knew well that I had not a penny of it left at the end of a twelve-month he never uttered a word against my folly. He was, as far as appeared, an automatic machine to obey the provisions of the will. For nine years to come there was the five thousand a year for me, either in lump annual sums or monthly, as I might prefer. With the knowledge that I could not retain my hold on anything in the shape of money I decided to take it in the safer way. My illness had enabled me, in spite of the special expense to which it subjected my purse, to get a couple of thousand ahead, which I was foolish enough to think did me credit. As a matter of fact, I was never extravagant in the necessaries of life, and might have gained a reputation as a very careful fellow had I not fallen into habits that sent my change flying like geese feathers in a storm. Uncle Dugald listened without approval or disapproval to my statement that I was going on a sea voyage, which I took pains to say was advised by Dr. Chambers. In spite of our relation he evidently regarded me much as the cashier of my bank did when I presented a check--if there was a balance to my credit, all right; if there was none I should meet with a polite refusal. It was not necessary for this canny Scot to turn to his books to see how my balance stood. His head was full of figures and if a fire had destroyed every account he had, I believe he could have restored his ledgers accurately from memory alone. "I shall want a letter of credit," I said, "and I shall be obliged if you will attend to the matter for me. I suppose it is necessary to deposit the amount with the firm on which the letter is drawn." "That is the customary way," he answered, "but I can arrange it a little better to your advantage, by guaranteeing payment through my banker. That will save interest on the money. What size shall the letter be?" My Uncle had no idea of being responsible for a penny beyond the amount in his hands, out of my annual allowance. Ah, well, that would be more than enough, probably. At the worst, my income was accumulating, and at the end of a few months I could send to him for another letter, if I remained away so long. So I told him to get a credit for $2000 and send it to my lodgings at his convenience. Then having asked after the health of my two maiden aunts, with whom he lived--as if I cared whether they were sick or well; they never had bothered about me when I was at the worst of my long illness!--I took my departure. That evening I studied the advertisements of the steamship lines, both in the Herald and in the Commercial Advertiser. There were excursions going to the Mediterranean, which presented most attractive prospectuses, but they did not convince me that they were what I wanted. I never liked travelling by route, preferring to leave everything open for any change of mind. There were the usual lines to England, France and Germany, but I had seen those countries several years earlier, just before entering college, and according to my recollection they were anything but restful. The particular temptations I was to avoid were rather too plenty on the other side of the Atlantic to trust myself there. I was more inclined toward some of the South American countries, till I happened to read in a despatch that yellow fever had broken out there, and I knew that those quarantines were something to be avoided at all hazards. Thinking of quarantines suddenly brought back the memory of a trip I had taken three years earlier to the Windward and Leeward Islands, where I had been detained in the most comfortable quarantine station in the world--the one at St. Thomas. I smiled to recall the discouraged feeling with which I and my travelling acquaintances heard, at the little town of Ponce, in Porto Rico, that we would have to be detained under guard fifteen days when we reached St. Thomas; how we had the blues for twenty hours; how the indigo darkened, when we were taken from our steamer and landed from a row boat, bag and baggage, at the foot of a long path that led up to the Station. And then the revulsion of feeling when we found the cosiest of homes awaiting us! The hearty welcome of Eggert, the quarantine master and lighthouse keeper; the motherly smile of his wife; the cheery welcome of his daughter, Thyra; the bright little faces of Thorwald, his son, and of the baby, Ingeborg; even the rough growl of "Laps," the Danish hound, had no surliness about it. Then the comfortable beds in the little rooms, curtained from all obnoxious insects; the five o'clock sea baths in the morning, inside the high station fence that we must not pass; the meals an epicure need not have scoffed at; our first acquaintance with a dozen varieties of the luscious fish that abound in that part of the Caribbean. I remembered them all, as if it were yesterday, and at this juncture that meant but one thing: I must see St. Thomas again, if only to determine whether that fortnight was a dream or a reality. The craze which this decision inspired brought to my mind the fact that I was still liable to excitements from which I must free myself. The great desideratum for which I must strive above all things was repose. It was mere suicide to go wild over everything that happened to please me for the moment. The chance was more than even that if my feelings ran away with me over the delights of the Antilles I would awake the next morning with an aversion to that part of the world. It was one of the penalties of my illness that the pendulum of a wish could not swing violently in one direction without swinging just as far in the other. I was afraid this would be the result in the present instance; and I sent for a ticket to Koster & Bial's, while I went to take my dinner at the Club, in order to get a diversion that would be effective. Among the entertainments presented at the great Vaudeville house that evening was the startling sensation known as "Charmion," and I was not sorry to see it, even though I had to hold my breath during part of the exhibition. At the risk of relating what a large number of readers must already know, I will describe briefly the act given by the young woman appearing under that title. When the curtain rose nothing was visible except a trapeze about twenty feet above the stage, and a rope hanging loosely beside it. Presently there entered a woman in full street costume, who inserted one hand nonchalantly in a ring at the end of the rope and was drawn lightly to the trapeze. Here she sat comfortably for an instant; and then, as if by accident, fell backward and hung head down by one leg, bent at the knee. Her gown and skirts naturally dropped in a mass over her head, leaving the hosiery and minor lingerie in full exposure, with a liberal supply of what was undoubtedly silken tights, but was meant to simulate the flesh of her lower limbs, in full view. For a second she remained in this posture, and then regained her seat on the trapeze, smoothing her skirts into place, with a pretended air of chagrin at what was intended to be considered her accidental fall. Next, with a bit of pantomime which indicated that concealment of her charms was useless after what had happened, "Charmion" stood up on the trapeze and began deliberately to disrobe, in full view of the audience, composed nearly equally of well garbed men and women, and completely filling the house. She took off first her immense "picture hat," black with great ostrich plumes, and let it fall into a net spread beneath her. Then she slowly unbuttoned her basque and removed it, exposing some very shapely arms and shoulders. Next came the corset, followed by a delicious rubbing with the hands where the article had closed too tightly around the form. The skirts tumbled to the feet, then the remaining garments, and the woman stood in her long black stockings, blue garters encircling the lower portion of the thighs. At this stage I noted a special expectancy in the occupants of the front seats--men leaning forward, with outstretched hands--the cause of which was soon apparent. The fair occupant of the trapeze seated herself, untied her garters and, with a moment of hesitation, cast them, one after the other, into the crowd, where they were seized by the most agile or most lucky of the spectators, and retained as souvenirs. Then came, last of all, the hose themselves, and the actual work of the performer as a trapeze artist began in earnest. I will do Charmion the credit of admitting that her act was truly wonderful. Suspended first by the insteps and then by nothing, apparently, but her heels, she passed easily from one round of a horizontal ladder to another, backward and forward, hanging head down in mid-air. But it was easy to see that the marvellous exhibition of skill was not what had drawn the immense audience. It was the risqué undressing which had done that. So far as I can learn, she had gone several paces beyond anything in this line hitherto permitted in any reputable American theatre. For myself I am glad I saw it, though I would not care to see it again. I was like the young lady who consented after some demur to take a ride on a very steep toboggan slide. "I wouldn't have missed it for a thousand dollars!" she exclaimed to her escort. "Let us try again," he suggested. "Not for a million!" she responded, with equal fervor. If such things are to be allowed in metropolitan theatres, I want to "size up," by that means, the taste of what are called the respectable men and women of my time. But I certainly felt a dizziness in the brain when that corset came off in the presence of a thousand individuals who seemed to represent a fairly average respectability of our women. I saw young girls of seventeen or eighteen there, middle-aged matrons and several elderly ladies, and I did not detect in a single face the agitation I knew showed in my own. Perhaps I may ascribe my extra nervousness to the neurasthenia from which I had so recently recovered. While at this point I hope I may be pardoned a word in reference to the growing taste among our theatrical audiences for what was once called indecent exposure. Our elders relate that New York nearly had a fit when, in the late sixties, the first "Black Crook" company opened its doors at Niblo's. To see women in flesh-colored tights reaching to the hips was so awful that only eye-witnesses would believe it possible, and to make sure it actually occurred, everybody had to go. Then came the "British Blondes," who wore longer tights, and filled them in a more satisfactory manner than those who had preceded. Soldene followed, with a new and startling sensation, in Sara, the skirt dancer, who pulled her underclothing up to her forehead, to the delight and scandal of the bald-headed row--just as a hundred others do now without attracting special attention. The demand kept ahead of the supply of indelicacy. Dancers vied with each other in so garbing their lower limbs as to give the impression that they were partially nude, and Mrs. Grundy merely bought spectacles of increased power and engaged a front seat. Then came the "Living Picture" craze. As Clement Scott said in his London paper, "We are told that these women are covered with a tightly fitting, skin-like gauze, but this is a matter of information and belief and not of ocular demonstration." The nymph at the fountain stood night after night, like her marble prototype, with the water running down her breasts and dropping from the points thereof. She refused to follow Beaumont and Fletcher's advice, to-- "Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow That thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears." Venus rose from the sea, with all the appearance of absolute nudity. The glorious curves of the tempter of Tannhauser were revealed in their fullness to cultured audiences. The North Star came down that men might admire her shapeliness, while the three Graces proved Byron's words:-- "There is more beauty in the ripe and real Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal." And then a daring manager went all this one better. He posed his women as bronze figures, with nothing between them and the gaze of the audience but bronze powder. The sensation lasted but a short time, spectators not caring for mulatoes when there were white forms to be seen at the same price. Next came the "Wedding Night," which I saw in Paris, and which still seems to me comparatively sweet and innocent--and it was suppressed, perhaps for that very reason. And now we have "Charmion"--meat for strong minds, but not, I fear, for the average young man. What will come next? I would not dare predict, but really within ten years we may expect anything. "The leaves are falling--even the fig leaves," says George Meredith. They have fallen long ago from most of the male statues in European galleries, and there at least I am in accord with the sculptors. Perfect nudity never stirred the beast in any sane man. Why should we not have afternoon or evening receptions by professional models in their native undress? It would be better for morality than the ingenious titillation of the senses induced by your Edwinas and your Charmions! Confound Charmion, any way! She spoiled a night for me that I needed for refreshing sleep. In my brief snatches of slumber I was with those silly fellows in the front rows, clutching wildly in the air for the garters she flung from her perch above our heads. CHAPTER IV. YOU ARE A HOPELESS SCAMP. Without even waiting for letters at the Herald office, in answer to my advertisement, I went on Saturday morning to Cook & Son's, on Broadway, and engaged two staterooms on the steamship "Madiana," of the Quebec SS. Company's line, to sail January 12. I found that I could secure both rooms, and, if it proved that I needed but one, the amount of passage money paid in advance--one hundred dollars--could be applied to mine alone. This pleased the remnant of Scotch blood left in my veins, for my relations have always said I "favored" my mother's side of the family, and she was a native of France. Though careless enough with money, I did not wish to pay for a stateroom that nobody would occupy, and there was a possibility that I would go alone, after all. The clerk, an affable fellow, promised to hold the extra room until the 5th of January, and to write me when it became necessary to put up the balance of the price or surrender the rights I had in it. I thought, on the whole, it was a sensible business transaction. "What name shall I register for the lady's room?" he asked, taking up a pen. "I am uncertain," I said, hesitating. "There are several of the family, and I don't know which it will be finally." "I will call it 'Miss Camran,' then," he said. There seemed no objection to this, and he wrote the name in his book. Arming myself with a handful of literature about the Islands, that he gave me, and which contained little information I was not already possessed of, I went back to my rooms and took a look at my wardrobe. I decided that I should want one or two new suits, of the very coolest texture, besides thin underclothing, some outing shirts, a couple of pairs of light shoes, etc. On Monday I began a search for these things, and found them with more difficulty than I anticipated. In midwinter few New York tradesmen are able to furnish thin clothing with celerity, and my time was growing short. I visited half a dozen shops before I could get fitted with shoes of the right weight, for instance. There were long hunts for underflannels and hose. The tailors offered me anything but thin weights, until I persisted and would not be put off, and then I had to select the goods by sample. With some extra light pajamas, a gauzy bathrobe, a lot of new collars and cuffs, and an extra dozen of colored bosom shirts, I thought myself at last nearly ready. I urged upon each dealer the necessity of sending his articles at the earliest possible moment, thinking it wisest to deceive him a little about the day I was to sail. The event proved this the only way I succeeded in getting them all delivered in season. It was with more excitement than was good for me that I took a hansom on Tuesday morning, at an early hour, and drove to the up-town office of the Herald. I expected a number of answers to my advertisement and wanted to take them home as expeditiously as possible. Nor was I disappointed. The clerk handed me out not less than a hundred and fifty envelopes, when I presented the card that had been given me, and he was kind enough to tie them in bundles at my request. Twenty minutes later I was in my sitting room, the door locked for fear of intrusion, and tearing open one after another with the hunger of curiosity. The first five or six were not at all satisfactory. They contained little beside requests for "further particulars," and had a business-like air that did not suit my mood. Then came one that was interesting enough to be put in the reserve pile from which the final decision was to be made. Perhaps I may as well give it now in its entirety: Dear Mr. 107--[that was the number the Herald had assigned me]--Although your announcement does not state your sex, I feel justified in assuming that you are a Man. "Lady" Typewriter! Well, as far as I know I answer that description, and now for the situation. "To travel in the Tropics?" I certainly have no objection to doing that, provided--! You say the "duties are light." Certainly that sounds encouraging. What do they consist of--actual typewriting or keeping dull care from drawing wrinkles on your manly brow? Typewriters are called upon to do such strange things in these days. The individual whose bread I now earn seems to consider that he has a right (in consideration of twelve dollars per week) to kiss me whenever he takes a fancy, which is the reason why I am seeking another employer, who, if he has the same tastes, may have a more attractive mouth for the purpose. How long is your journey to last and what pay do you intend to offer? I am twenty-six years of age, not specially ill looking, and have a good temper unless angered. I won't say much about my ability on the machine, for I presume that is a secondary consideration. Send your reply--if you think me worth it--to No. -- East Sixteenth Street, but don't call in person unless you wish to have an interview with a gouty uncle or a frightfully jealous cousin. Ever Yours, ALICE BRAZIER. N.B. If you take me off with you, I shall let neither of them know where I have gone. This was bright and breezy, at least. The next one that I laid aside was as follows: Dear Sir:--I am a Southern girl, if one who has reached the age of 22 may so call herself. I have a good education and am refined in manner. I have no doubt I can fill all the requirements of the position you offer, and would be pleased to have you call, Wednesday afternoon, between two and four, at my lodgings, or on any other afternoon you may name. Please grant me at least an interview. Very Truly, MARJORIE MAY. No. -- W. 45th Street. I read all the others, to the last one; but these two had attracted my attention so thoroughly that the rest palled on my taste. Some were too plainly sent by the ordinary class of immoral women, who had taken this manner of making an acquaintance. One stated that she had the finest form in New York, which she would be happy to exhibit for my approval, in all its chaste splendor. Another had "lost her job" in a big department store, and would "appreciate the true friendship of a man who could spare $6 or $8 a week." Another frankly owned herself to be a "grass widow," who on the whole preferred one "friend" to twenty and offered me the first chance to fill that permanent position. Three or four were apparently school-girls who were tired of the wholesome restraints of home and wanted to run away with any man who would pay their bills. One declared herself to be 42 years of age, an expert typewriter, and warned me against taking a "giddy young thing" on my journey when one of her assured character could be obtained. She added that her reason for desiring a change was that her employer was a scandalous person, whose goings-on with a younger typewriter with whom she had to associate were "awful." And she enclosed as a clincher an autograph letter from her pastor, recommending her to "any Christian gentleman" needing a reliable assistant. Several were either married to men whose whereabouts were at present unknown or had been divorced. One admitted in a burst of frankness that she had "trusted a professed friend too far" and did not care what became of herself. All of which was rather amusing in its way, but brought me no nearer to the goal of my desire--a bright, cheerful companion for the voyage I was about to undertake. I examined the entire lot before I recollected the agreement I had made with Harvey Hume. Then I gathered up all the letters (except my two favorites)--for I did not mean to show these to any one--and started for his office in the middle of the afternoon. Harvey was in, of course; not that he had any clients or expected any, but because those were his office hours and he had nowhere else to go in particular. He was evidently glad to see me, especially when he espied my package, for he scented something to dispel his ennui. We withdrew into his private office and he closed the door. "Any prizes?" he asked, jocosely. "You can decide for yourself," I answered. "They are entirely at your disposal." "Humph!" he grunted, as he laid down the first one. "I wouldn't pay that girl's fare to Coney Island, judging by her capacity as a letter writer." Then he struck the communication from the forty-two-years-old damsel and gravely proceeded to show why she was the one I had best select. After awhile he asked leave to retain two or three, that he thought might be of use to him, and that I quite agreed were of none whatever to me. When he had read over about half of the entire number, he pushed the rest aside. "Rot and rubbish!" he exclaimed. "That's what I call them," I answered. "You've given up your plan?" he said, inquiringly. "By no means. But there's nothing very appetizing in that trash." "How will you find anything better?" "Oh, I've a scheme. When it develops I may let you in, but not just at this stage." I wanted to tantalize him a bit. "You asked to see this stuff and I've obliged you." Just at this moment Tom Barton came in, and Harvey threw a newspaper over the heap of letters, lest it should attract his attention and arouse his suspicions. It was quite needless, for Tom never suspected anything in his life. We talked over a few trifles for fifteen minutes and then, as Tom said he must be going, I walked out into the hall with him. "I'm going home early," he remarked. "Statia hasn't felt very well for the past day or two, and I am a little worried about her." I was sincerely sorry to hear it. My chagrin over the things she said to me had modified a good deal and I entertained at that moment only the kindest feelings toward her. "I wish you would come up to dinner to-night," said Tom, wistfully. "I think that would brighten her up if anything can. She's not ill, but merely out of sorts. Come, that's a good fellow." I had as lief go there as anywhere and I consented without more demur. There was something in the dog-like attachment of Tom for me that was touching, and in a few days more I would be gone from him for months. As for his sister, I was sure she couldn't bother me more than I could her. I had the two letters in my pocket. If she tried any of her games, I would read them to her. Statia was unquestionably pale that evening when, after some delay, she came into the parlor to greet me. But she assumed a cheerful air and, when Tom went up stairs and left us alone, inquired if I had carried out my plan of advertising for a companion on my voyage. "Not only have I advertised," I said, pointedly, "but I have received over a hundred answers. From that number I have picked out several, among which I have no doubt I shall find what I want. In fact, I have secured two staterooms on the Madiana, that sails for the Windward Islands on the 12th, so certain am I that I shall need them both." There was not much color in her face before, but what little there was left it; which I attributed to her disappointment at the ill success of her predictions. "Are you really going to carry out this senseless project?" she asked. "I can hardly believe you such a reckless fellow." "Why is it reckless?" I inquired, boldly. "I need a typewriter. Some young woman needs a situation. Dr. Chambers says it will not do for me to travel alone, and he believes a journey to the tropics the best thing for my health. I'd like to know what ideas you have in that head of yours. I don't mind the reflections you cast upon me, but I object to your attacking the character of a young lady who is to become my employee." She avoided the point and asked if I was willing to let her see the answers I had received. She added that sometimes a woman's intuitions were better than a man's judgment and that she might save me from getting entrapped. I laughed at her ingenious stratagem, and drew the two letters that I had laid aside from my coat pocket. "It is almost like ill faith," said I, "but as you will not even see the handwriting, and can never know the identity of the writers, I am going to read two of these letters to you. They are the best of the lot, so far as I can judge, and I have no doubt one of them will be the lucky applicant." She composed herself as well as she could, though the nervous fit was still on her, while I read slowly, pausing between the sentences, each of the letters given in full in the earlier part of this chapter. "Which of them do you imagine it will be?" she inquired, when I had finished. "I must at least see them before I can answer that. The first one (the one signed 'Alice') is the brightest, and indicates a jolly nature that I would like to cultivate; but there is something in the other that I fancy, also. A sort of melody in a minor key. I shall not be content until I see the original." Statia twisted the tassels on the arms of the chair she sat in. "You are a hopeless scamp!" she said, reddening. "Why do you pretend to me that you have the least intention of doing any sensible work with the assistance of these women, or that you believe either what an honest girl should be?" "Come, that's going too far!" I replied. "No, it's not," she persisted, earnestly. "It is right that I should say these things to you. You are the most intimate friend of--my brother. You have no mother, no sister, no one to advise you. This plan, which you are entering upon with such a gay heart, may result in dragging you down to the depths, and perhaps your companion, if she be not already in that category. Don, if you ever cared for Tom--for any of us--stop this thing now!" I was so astounded at the plainness of her insinuation that I could not reply for some moments. She sat opposite to me, her head thrown forward, her lips parted, her eyes slowly filling with tears. "You had your chance," I responded, not very politely, it must be admitted. "If you had answered in the affirmative the question I asked you last week this could never have happened. Since you throw me back on myself, you have no right to prevent me going my own way." She dropped her face in her open hands, to recover her equanimity. When she looked up again she appeared much calmer. "Don," she said, tenderly, "you must not be so impetuous. Give up this plan and perhaps--some day--I--" "It is too late," I replied, understanding her very well. "I will never ask any woman a second time the question I asked you. Be decent, Statia. You make too much of a little thing. If there had been anything very wicked in my mind, do you think I would have come here to tell you about it? Let us drop the subject, and be good friends for the short time that remains before I go. Why, there's less than a fortnight left." She nodded, attempted to smile, and finding that she made a poor show at it, left the room to prepare herself for dinner. When the meal was served, however, we missed her old joviality. She did not speak unless spoken to, and Tom, after trying in vain to engage her in conversation, declared that she must go to see Dr. Chambers the very next morning. "You'll get into the state that Don did last winter," he said, half jestingly, "if you keep on. He began with just a plain, ordinary attack of the blues, and see where it landed him. Yes, you certainly must go to see Chambers. I never knew you like this before, and there's nothing on earth to cause it." When I mentioned, soon after we rose from the table, that I had an engagement at my rooms--a fiction, by-the-by--Tom said if I was going to walk he would go part way with me. I was glad to breathe the pure cold air of December and listen to the chatter of the honest fellow, while at the same time escaping from that house, that had nearly sent me again into the doldrums. CHAPTER V. MEETING MISS MARJORIE. The next morning was an awfully long one. I had decided to call on Miss May in the afternoon, "between the hours of two and four," as she had stipulated. Although I had never seen her and had no description of what she was like, I already hoped she would be the One to make my coming journey agreeable. I had the old impetuosity, you will see, that absence of calm deliberation that had sent me to a Sanitarium and nearly to my grave. If I intended to take a train scheduled to start for any given point at ten I was always in the station without fail at half past nine, stamping my feet at the closed gate, with alternate glances at my watch. If I had an engagement of special interest for a Friday, the Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays dragged horribly. It had been explained to me fully by Dr. Chambers that I must reform this by my own exertions and that drugs could but assist me in a slight degree. Still breaking away from the habits of years is not an easy thing, and in spite of all I could do I had the old nervousness that day. At about eleven o'clock, having exhausted the charms of breakfast, the morning papers and several cigars, I thought of a plan to get rid of an hour or more, and taking my coat, hat and cane, I walked down to Cook's office to see if anything new had transpired with regard to the trip of the "Madiana." There was a rumor in the Journal that yellow fever had broken out in Jamaica, one of the points where I wanted to touch, and although the source of the news did not particularly recommend it, I thought it well to inquire what the agent had heard in relation to the matter. As I entered the office my attention was attracted by a quiet appearing man of about thirty, dressed in black and wearing a white tie, who was evidently contemplating the same journey as myself. Now a man wearing a white tie may be either a clergyman, a gambler or a confidence man, and I had no faith in my ability to decide which of those eminent professions this particular person was most likely to adorn. He glanced up from a prospectus which he was examining, as I entered, and made way for me at the counter. For reasons which I could not explain I liked the man at first sight. If he was a rogue, I reasoned, it was no more true of him, probably, than of most men, and there was no reason to suppose that he had any design in going to the West Indies other than to recuperate his health, which appeared rather delicate. If, on the contrary, he was any sort of clergyman I would be delighted with his companionship. When the agent introduced us to each other, as he did a few minutes later, I discovered that the white tie had no especial significance, being merely a fad or fancy; for Mr. Wesson informed me that he was a hardware merchant from Boston, with a slight tendency to bronchitis, and was going south to escape February and March, which are usually injurious to persons affected by that complaint in the Eastern States. I learned from the agent that the "Madiana" was filling up rapidly, and that there were now no entire staterooms unoccupied, except two or three containing four berths. Mr. Wesson had no choice but to share the room of some one who was already on the list, and at the time I came in he was making natural inquiries as to the other passengers, in the hope of selecting a congenial roommate. The agent told him what he could about those whom he had personally seen, but the information was necessarily meagre. "It may not seem specially important," remarked Mr. Wesson, in an affable manner, to me, "who occupies the other berth, for a few weeks on a steamer, but I happened on one occasion to get a very disagreeable companion, and ever since I have tried to use caution. I should have entered my name earlier, and thus have secured an entire room, as you have done, but I waited a long time before deciding whether to come this way or another. Now, I am just a little too late to get a room by myself, unless I wish to pay three fares for one person, which candidly I do not feel like doing." I suggested that unless the boat was very much crowded, which I did not anticipate, an arrangement for a change of cabin could doubtless be made in case the first one proved unbearable. With the remark that this was true, Mr. Wesson decided to take the remaining berth in a room not far from mine, in the after part of the ship, which had the advantage of being removed from all the smells of the cook's galley, as well as the dumping of ashes, which often annoys people quartered amidships at a very early hour in the morning. I asked the agent for a list of the passengers, so far as he was able to give them, desiring to see if there were any names of people who knew me, and devoutly hoping there were none. Mr. Wesson and I went over them together, and made a simultaneous announcement that the entire lot were strangers to us. They had come from the West, the North, the South, hardly any from New York, and only one from Boston, a strange thing when every traveller knows that Bostonians rival Chicagoans in being found in all sorts of places. "I often think," said Mr. Wesson, with a smile, "of the odd fate that brings fifty or hundred people together on a steamer, where neither sees a single familiar face except those he has brought with him; and before the voyage is ended the miniature world is like the larger one outside, with its strong likes and dislikes, its petty jealousies, its small talk, its gauging of character and capacity. Give me a month at sea with a man, and I think I can figure him up pretty well." I agreed with him to a great extent, but remarked that there was always the disadvantage that the "man" might "figure us up" at the same time. I said further that I had found some most delightful companions on board ship who had proved insufferable bores when encountered later on terra firma. "Your extra berth is reserved still," said a clerk, coming forward and addressing me, "the one in the opposite stateroom. I don't wish to hasten you, but the list is filling up very fast." "You won't have to wait but a day or two more, I think," was my reply. "Hold it till Saturday, unless you hear from me. Perhaps I may be able to tell you positively to-morrow." "If the lady is willing to have another share the room with her," he said, "I have an application that I can fill at once. A very pleasant young woman, too, if I may be allowed to judge. She is to be accompanied by her uncle, and as he is not entirely well he is anxious to have her as near him as possible." I answered that I must ask a little delay before deciding that question. I told him I had three cousins, and as I could not yet say which would go I could not tell whether she would consent to share her cabin with another person. If I could arrange it, I would gladly do so. "You are to have a travelling companion, then," remarked Mr. Wesson. "Excuse me for saying I envy you. Mrs. Wesson expected to go with me, but the doctor has forbidden it. She is quite frail, and he fears the seasickness she is almost sure to have. I made a canvass of my female relations that are eligible, and one after another found reasons for declining. I am not used to travelling alone, and I don't fancy it in the least. One of the pleasantest things in visiting foreign parts is to have some one along to share the pleasures." As we parted he asked me if I would exchange cards, and I readily did so. I already felt better acquainted with him that I am with some men whom I have known for months. "If you find you are to bunk with a specially ugly customer," I said, in parting, "take my other berth. You can keep it for an 'anchor to windward,' as our distinguished statesman from Maine might have said. I don't think you and I will quarrel." He thanked me profusely, and it was plain that the suggestion was the very one he would have made himself, had he felt warranted in doing so. He mentioned that he would be at the Imperial for several days and asked me, if I found it convenient, to dine with him there some evening before he returned to Boston; which I told him I would try to do. It was now lunch-time and I thought with exultation of the closeness of the hour when I might call at the lodging of Miss Marjorie May on Forty-fifth Street, and see the lady whom I had already surrounded with the most charming attributes of which a young and impulsive mind could conceive. That I might be disappointed I had also thought, in a vague way, but I had little apprehension on that score. I went over to the club, and partook of a light repast. Then I looked at my watch and found that, if I walked slowly, I need not reach the number at which I was to call before two o'clock. But I did not walk slowly. It still lacked ten minutes of the hour when I found myself in front of the residence. I took a turn down Seventh Avenue, and through Forty-fourth Street, to dispose of the remaining minutes. Then, with my heart beating in a way that Dr. Chambers would not have approved--and for which I could give no sensible reason--I climbed the tall steps and rang the bell. A colored servant answered, after what seemed ages, and when I asked if Miss May was in, invited me to walk into the parlor. She then requested my card, and I had nearly given it to her, when I recollected that it was not my intention to reveal my true name, at this stage. I said I had forgotten my card case and that she need only say it was the gentleman from the Herald. During the next ten minutes I did my best to compose my nerves, for I dreaded exhibiting their shaky condition to one in whose presence I would need all my firmness. The room was darkened, and I could see the objects in it but dimly, while the windows, being tightly curtained, afforded me no relief in that direction. "Why does she not come?" I said to myself, over and over. "If she wanted the situation for which she wrote, a little more celerity of movement would be becoming." I rose and walked up and down the room. The minutes lengthened horribly. I grew almost angry at the delay and had half a mind to drop the whole business, when I heard a low voice at the door, and saw the outlines of a graceful young form. "I am Miss May," said a bright voice, that I liked instantly. "If you don't mind coming up stairs I think we can see each other better." Mind coming up stairs! I would have climbed to the top of the World Building, never minding the elevator. "Certainly," I responded, and I followed her up two long flights, and into a front chamber, where in the bright light I saw her distinctly for the first time. The reader will expect--certainly the feminine reader--a description of the sight that met my eyes, and how can I give it? A relation of that sort always seems to me but a modified version of the record of a prisoner at a police station, where he is put under a measuring machine, stood on scales and pumped as to his ancestry and previous record as a criminal. The impression made on me at that moment by Miss May was wholly general. She was not handsome, in the ordinary acceptation of that term, but very engaging. Her smile put me much at my ease. I could have told you no more, had you met me that evening. All that I knew or cared to know, before I had taken the chair to which she motioned me, was that out of the million women in Greater New York, I would choose her, and only her, were they presented for my approval one by one. She was evidently waiting for me to begin the conversation, after the manner of a discreet young woman in the presence for the first time of a possible employer. I made the excuse that the stairs were long, to explain my shortness of breath. For I found it very difficult to talk. She was kind enough to admit that the stairs were hard. She also made some allusion to the weather, and to the unseasonableness of the temperature, for although it was at the very end of the year there had been hardly any snow and very little cold. This helped me along and finally I managed to reach the business on hand. "I have received a great many answers to my advertisement," I said, "and a certain number seem to have been sent in a spirit of mischief rather than seriousness. I hope that was not the case with yours." She shook her head and smiled faintly. "How shall we begin, then?" I asked. "Shall I submit a few questions to you, or would you rather put some queries of your own?" "As you please," she said, and I noted that there was a confidence in her manner that seemed at variance with her appearance. "Perhaps I may inquire, to commence with, what are the duties of the position." I hesitated a moment, feeling my breath coming shorter, and this time I had not the stairs to fall back upon as an excuse. "I have recently recovered from a severe illness," I finally managed to say, "although you might not guess it from my appearance. I may as well admit that while I have use for the services of a typewriter in some work I wish to do, I need quite as much an intelligent person to travel with me--as--a--" "Companion?" she interpolated, quickly. "Well, yes, perhaps that is as good a word as any. My physician says I ought not to go alone. I have the literary work to do. Under all the circumstances a combination of assistant in that respect and friendly companionship seems advisable." She bowed affably, doing her best to put me at my ease. "You are a younger man than I expected," she said. "I hope that is not a serious objection," I remarked, "for I see no way to overcome it at present. I want this considered as a business matter--in a way. I should pay a regular salary, and give you the best of travelling accommodations. I am only twenty-four, and you wrote me that you are twenty-two, but I cannot understand how the addition of fifty years to either of those ages would make my proposition more agreeable." She bowed again, still pleasantly, and inquired what sort of work I was engaged on. I told her, after which she asked what machine I preferred to use. This I left to her, although I mentioned that I owned a Hammond, which had the advantage of being more easily carried than some. She said she had never used that machine, but could easily learn. "Only give me three or four days alone with it," she smiled. "And now, as these things must all be settled, what salary do you wish to pay?" I wonder what salary I would not have paid, at that moment, rather than hear her decline the position on the ground that it was insufficient, but I realized that I must not seem over-anxious. "I would prefer you to name the price," I replied, "I do not think we shall quarrel on that score." "When do you wish me to leave the city?" was her question. "I have already engaged berths in the 'Madiana,' of the Quebec SS. Line, which will leave her dock on the North River, Jan. 12th next." "Berths? You have engaged two?" "It was necessary to secure them. I have determined that I will not go alone. The list is filling up and I had to put down the names." "What names?" she asked. "You can hardly have given them mine." I was getting more and more at my ease. I said I had registered for "self and friend," with the understanding that the "friend" would be a lady. "Ah!" she said. "Now, how do you intend that I shall travel--if it is decided that I am to go?" She did not redden as she asked the question, and I do not know why I did. "As my cousin," I answered. "It is my belief, Miss May," I added, "that you will find this journey very charming, if you go about it right. To be registered simply as my secretary, which will come as near as anything to the fact, or not to be given any title at all, might arouse silly gossip among the other passengers. A relationship of the kind I suggest will still idle tongues and make your position more agreeable." She thought a little while and then said, suddenly: "You--you are not married, I suppose?" "Not in the least," I replied, smiling. "There is hardly time for much preparation," was her next observation. "What kind of clothing should I need?" "After the first few days, about the same as you would want here in August. I am not well versed in ladies' attire, but I should say that a travelling dress of some very thin material would be the first requisite; then a 'best' dress or two of very light weight; a liberal supply of articles" (I stammered slightly) "that need laundering, as there may be a fortnight at a time when washing cannot be obtained; thin shoes, slippers, walking boots suitable for summer, two or three hats--and--" I paused to think if I had omitted anything--"an umbrella and parasol." She laughed as I finished. A sweet, engaging laugh that made me resolve that I would kidnap her and convey her on board by force in case she refused to go. "No gloves?" she inquired, archly. "No cape, no--" "Oh, there are doubtless a lot of kickshaws that will occur to you," I admitted, "that I need not mention. I am pretty sure that I do not even know the names of all of them. On January 12th and 13th the weather will be winter, on the 14th, 15th and 16th spring, and the rest of the time till May midsummer. I don't know as I can give you any better guide." She said she would make an overhauling of her last year's clothing and see where she stood; which led me to ask, with, I fear too much anxiety in my tone, if she had, then, decided to go. "Have you decided?" she replied, parrying the question. "You cannot have seen all the women who sent replies. Perhaps you will yet find one more suitable for your purpose. It is only fair to both of us to leave the matter open for a day or two." "No," I answered, shaking my head decidedly. "As you said a few moments ago, the time is very brief for any one to get ready. Let us settle the matter now. And if you wish any part of your salary advanced--on account of the immediate expense you will have to assume--we shall have no difficulty in arranging that matter." She grew thoughtful, and finally begged me to give her till the following morning, at least. She promised to send a messenger to my address before noon. I did not like the idea, but I could say nothing in opposition without appearing unreasonable, and ended by consenting to it. "I passed some months in the part of the world to which I am now going, three years since," I said, to strengthen her resolutions in favor of the journey, "and I can assure you that the voyage, from beginning to end, is simply delightful. The Caribbean is truly a summer sea; the Antilles are beautiful to look at, charming in flora and delicious in atmosphere. Then think of the escape you will have from the freezing and thawing of a New York spring. I promise to treat you with all consideration, and as for the labor you are to do, it will be very light indeed. If there is anything I have omitted, consider it included. I am sure," I added, as I rose to go, "that you will never be sorry for the chance that brings us into each other's company." "Oh," she answered, with superb frankness, "I have no fear that I shall not like you, or that you will treat me in any manner unbecoming a gentleman. I only wish to think the matter over. In the meantime let me thank you for the partiality with which you view my application." She insisted on going to the street door with me, where I bade her good-by without more ado, fearful that if I talked much longer I should say something foolish. "To-morrow morning, then, I am to get your letter," I said, handing her a card on which I had previously written an address that would do for the present--"David Camwell, Lambs Club." "And to-morrow afternoon, at two again, I shall return to complete our arrangements." As she bowed an affirmative, I lifted my hat and left her there; wondering why I had not chosen the Klondike for my vacation, so near the boiling point was every drop of blood in my veins. CHAPTER VI. "DO YOU REALLY WANT ME?" I did not sleep well, that night, and as I tossed from one side of my bed to the other, I began to fear that the insomnia from which I had escaped, and whose return I so much dreaded, would fasten itself on me once more. During the long, still hours I had many moments when I was inclined to give up my plan of travelling in the company of a charming young woman, and even to drop the entire trip itself. I imagined my condition in a far land, with no physician at hand who understood my case or had the history of my illness. Only one who has known the horrors of sleepless months can conceive the terror which a possible renewal of its symptoms inspired. The mere thought of meeting my fair correspondent had deranged my arterial circulation. The sight of her, our conversation, though carried on in the quietest manner, had thrown my heart out of equipoise, speaking physically. What would happen when she and I were alone together for weeks and weeks? She was very pretty--there was no doubt of that. She was also marvellously self-contained, and in a conflict of desires would certainly prove the stronger. Was it not the part of common prudence to "foresee the evil and hide?" I had almost decided to adopt this course, when the sleep which had evaded me descended and for four hours I was blissfully unconscious. It was nearly eight o'clock when I awoke, and with returning reason all the fears of the night vanished. I could only count the minutes now before the expected message would arrive--that message, I assured myself, which would confirm the hopes I so fondly cherished. Not a single doubt remained of the perfect wisdom of the double journey I had planned. I thought again of Dr. Chambers' advice not to travel alone; of Uncle Dugald's wish that the "genealogy" should be pushed to completion as rapidly as possible; of the advantage of having with me a constant companion, to while away the inevitable hours of loneliness. I raised Miss May to the highest pedestal as a young lady of excellent attributes and delightful personality. Whatever happened, I would not go alone. If Miss May failed me, I would fall back on Miss Brazier. If she also proved obdurate or unsatisfactory, I would go through my other answers and try again. But I came back always to the original point. It was Miss May I wanted, Miss May I meant to have. Why should I not induce her to go? She needed a situation, or she would not have written for it. She had seen me and expressed herself candidly in my favor. There could hardly be anything now in the way, except the financial aspect of the case, and I was prepared to meet her on any ground she chose to name. I lingered as long over my breakfast as possible, to kill the time, and read the morning papers, advertisements and all. Especially closely did I scan the "professional situations wanted," thinking perhaps there might be among them one from which I could fashion another "string to my bow." Most of the advertisers that morning were, however, either German governesses, or elderly ladies who wished positions in private families. There were several professional models, who would "pose" for the figure at from one to two dollars an hour. In my desperation I almost resolved to turn painter and carry one of these off with me, if worse came to worst. Anything was better than making the journey alone, in my present state of mind. A knock at the door startled me, and to my faint "Come in," a boy responded, wearing the uniform of a messenger. I looked at him like one in a dream, as he walked across the carpet and handed me an envelope. Was there anything to pay? I inquired, and when he responded in the negative, I put a silver dollar into his hand for himself. Did I wish him to wait for an answer? No, I did not. I wished him to get out of the room as soon as possible, and to close the door behind him; which he proceeded at once to do. For what seemed hours, and yet did not probably exceed ten minutes, I held that envelope in my hand, before I found courage to open it. Laugh at me, ye who will, your siege with nervous prostration has evidently not yet arrived. No prisoner awaiting the decision of a governor as to whether his sentence of death is to be commuted could lay greater stress on the contents of a message. I wanted Miss May to take that journey with me, as I had never wanted anything else. Her decision undoubtedly lay within that bit of paper. I stared at the name I had given her, written in a bold, and still feminine hand, strong, clear, handsome. I turned the envelope over and noted the sealing wax with the impress of some sort of stamp which I could not entirely make out. And at last, with shaking fingers, I took up my paper cutter and made the requisite incision which released the note within. My Dear Mr. Camwell--[this was the way it read]--Since you were here yesterday I have given a great deal of thought to the matter of which we spoke. It is a little more serious than I imagined when I answered your advertisement, and I am somewhat in doubt even now what I ought to say. ["When a woman hesitates, she is lost!" came to my mind.] Will you pardon me for being perfectly frank, [Pardon her? I would pardon her anything but a refusal] in relation to a few personal matters? I wish to tell you my exact situation, and then I will leave it to you to decide. [Joy! It was coming.] I am at present employed by a man--excuse me if I do not say gentleman--who pays me what I consider the liberal salary of twenty dollars a week, my services occupying only a portion of the morning hours. For reasons which I need not give in full I find the place very distasteful. In fact, had I been able to afford it, I would have resigned the position long ago. I am, however, entirely dependent upon my exertions for a livelihood, and not only that, there is another who looks to me for a certain amount of help, which I cannot, nor do I wish to withhold. When I read your notice in the Herald it seemed to contain two opportunities that I would be glad to secure. One was to change my situation, the other to absent myself from the city for a time, where I would escape annoyances which have become almost unbearable. Now, on the other hand, as I told you when here, you are a much younger man that I expected to see. It is a little difficult to believe--you will excuse my frankness--that you wish my companionship from a purely business standpoint; indeed, you admitted that one of your reasons was a disinclination to travel alone. You cannot deny that a trip such as you contemplate, taken in my company, would subject me to unpleasant suspicions from any person we might happen to meet, who has known me before or should discover that the relationship claimed between us is a false one. A girl who has her way to make in this world cannot always listen to Mrs. Grundy, but there are certain precautions which she can hardly be excused from taking. How can I best protect my good name, if I accept your generous offer? That is one of the prime questions you must help me to settle. Again, while, in a friendly journey like the one suggested, the matter of compensation seems almost impertinent, in the present case it cannot be treated as such. Were my circumstances what I could wish them, I would gladly make the journey without thinking of payment; candidly, I do not feel that the services I might render you would justify me ordinarily in accepting money for them. Necessity, it has well been said, knows no law. I have never learned how to live and assist those depending on me without cash, that brutal desirability. You have expressed a willingness to pay a salary in addition to travelling expenses, and I, if I go, shall be compelled to accept it, reluctant though I am to do so. On looking over my wardrobe I find that there are more things required than I supposed when you were here. When you call this afternoon I will make that matter plainer by exhibiting exactly what I have suitable to the climate to which you are going. I do not wish to influence you in the least, and I beg that if my needs are greater than you desire to supply, you will say so without fear. All of the money I could spare was expended very recently for winter garments, of which I have a supply suitable to a girl in my station. I had no warning that I should be asked to exchange them at this season for others suitable to a tropical clime. If I do so, I know no source from which the cost can come except your purse. There! Could anything be more candid than this straightforward statement? If I see you at my room this afternoon, I shall understand that you appreciate the candor with which I write, and are willing to accede to my requests. If there is a doubt in your mind as to the advisability of doing so, it will be best for us both that you do not come. I shall comprehend and leave the field open to some happier girl, who may be able to accept your generous offer without these disagreeable preliminaries. Yours, M.M. No. -- West Forty-fifth Street. I was all impatience till I read the very latest line, fearing there would be some qualification that I could not meet. When I found that it had resolved itself into a question so easily solved I sprang up and shouted in glee. She would go! She was going! My dream was to become a reality! Seizing a sheet of paper I began to write a note in response to the one I had received. She might get it only a short time before the hour of two, but it would prepare her for my coming, and clinch the bargain a little sooner. For five minutes I wrote rapidly, and when I stopped to peruse the lines I tore up the sheet. Had she been my sweetheart for ages I could hardly have used more extravagant language than I had been guilty of on that first page. Would I never learn the first principles of common sense? I had begun with the words, "My Darling Marjorie," and gone on to state that "your sweet letter fills me with supreme happiness;" "I shall not breathe until once more I am in your loved presence. "Already I contemplate those heavenly hours when you and I will sail out upon the seas of Elysium," was another sample sentence, a type of the others. I paused in the rapid walk that I took up and down my room to look in my mirror, and was almost frightened at what I saw there. My cheeks were suffused with unusual color, my eyes dilated, my hair dishevelled, where I had run my nervous hands through it. My collar was rumpled, my tie disarranged, and in a room where the mercury was not above seventy the beads of perspiration stood on my forehead. Dame! I went to the bath-room that formed a part of my little suite, let the icy water run till it filled the bowl and bathed my hands and face in it. Slowly I dried them with the towel, and then applied bay rum in liberal quantity. I realized disagreeably for the hundredth time how that awful neurasthenia had left its traces upon me, and that if I was ever to wholly recover I must regain control of my emotions. With this in view I again seated myself at my desk and indited the following: Dear Miss May:--It is with much satisfaction that I have perused your letter. The amount necessary to purchase the articles you need shall be left entirely to you. I will furnish whatever sum you decide upon. I will be at your lodging promptly at two. If there is anything else that occurs to you, please consider yourself at full liberty to mention it then. In the meantime I am going to Cook's office to pay the balance on the two rooms, as the time for doing so will soon expire. Your Friend, D.C. It was pretty sensible, I thought, as I read it over; a sort of medium between the cold tone of an ordinary employer and the unrestrained ardor of a happy boy. I was glad, however, to get out of doors and breathe the frosty air, for my temperature was still excessive. At Cook's I learned that several new names had been booked, and that there would soon be no more room, as things were going. "I have given Mr. Wesson the upper berth in your room, subject to your approval," added the clerk. "He has a positive dread of bunking with an absolute stranger and he says you made him a conditional promise." "That's all right," I said, pleased at the news. "I am sure we shall get along together finely. You may register the berth in the opposite room, that you have reserved for me, in the name of 'Miss M. May.' I have finally prevailed upon my cousin to go." While he was entering the name, I wrote a check for the balance, upon receiving which the clerk handed me the tickets, from New York to St. Thomas. "Hadn't you better book for the entire cruise?" he asked. "I don't believe you will care to remain at St Thomas longer than the day the Madiana is to be there." "Oh, yes, I shall," I answered. "I stayed on the island three weeks the last time, and found it delightful. Probably I shall join some of your later cruises, but I must go unhampered." "Supposing when you are ready to take one of the other boats you find every cabin full?" he asked, in a good-natured way. "That's a risk I must run. The Royal Mail comes every fortnight, and there are three or four steamers a week, of one kind or another, at St. Lucia. There are ways enough to keep moving and I am unlimited as to time." "Well, if I don't see you again," he said, with that affability that only one of Cook & Son's clerks can assume, "I wish you a very pleasant voyage." "I am sure to have that," I replied. I wondered if he would doubt it if he knew all! Before leaving I purchased several books about the Caribbean, for the purpose of giving them to Miss May. There was "English in the West Indies," as entertaining as a romance, though in some respects hardly more reliable; Stark's "History and Guide to Barbados and Caribbee Islands," better than nothing, in the absence of a really desirable work on the subject; and half a dozen paper covered documents, issued by the Quebec SS. Company, a perusal of which revealed so many discrepancies as to make one doubt whether the line actually ran any boats to that part of the world. With these under one arm I went over to the "Lambs" and partook of a brace of chops and some musty ale. Then, after smoking a cigar, I found the clock indicating that I might with safety begin my second pilgrimage to the Mecca of my ambition. Crossing Broadway, great was my astonishment, and very small my satisfaction, to come suddenly upon Miss Statia Barton. She was looking undeniably pretty in her fur turban and cloth jacket, but she had no charms for me at that moment and I was sorry to lose the few seconds necessary to be courteous to her. "Have you deserted us entirely?" she asked, with a constrained smile. "Tom said this morning he hadn't seen you for nearly a week." "My time is much occupied," I answered. "You know it is but a few days now before I sail." Had I been less full of another subject I should certainly have noticed that the coldness of my manner hurt her, and I hope I am not brute enough to do that intentionally. But, I did not think of such a thing then, nor till a long, long time after. "Have you arranged the--the other matter?" she asked, with short breath. "Excuse me. We can gain nothing by talking on that subject," said I. "Then your charmer has decided not to go with you?" she said, interrogatively, but with a hard little laugh. "I thought it would come to that." I was foolish enough to take out Miss May's letter and hold it up. "On the contrary, since you insist on knowing," I answered, "here is the final decision, and it is in favor of the plaintiff." Her eyes opened as the conviction that I was telling the truth forced itself upon her. She was evidently not pleased. "Mr. Camran," she said, in tones as clear and cutting as ice, "I asked you a moment ago why you had not been to my home. I now say you need never call there again, as far as I am concerned, and I shall endeavor to have my brother write you to the same effect." "Don't put Tom to so much trouble," I replied, stung by her manner. "I have business too important and too pleasant to allow much time for mere duty calls." Lifting my hat, an action that she did not see, as her eyes were bent on the sidewalk, I resumed my stroll. I should have been more annoyed at the occurrence if another subject had not so fully filled my head. The clocks struck two before I reached the number I sought, and I walked more rapidly. "Miss May said you were to come to her room at once," said the colored servant, when she recognized my features. Needing no second invitation I mounted the stairs. Her door stood slightly open and as I entered, without knocking, she rose from a low rocker and came toward me. I could not have resisted had I been liable to execution for the offense; I met her in the middle of the apartment and held out both my hands. In the most unaffected and delightful manner she extended her own and I clasped them. "It is settled, then?" I cried. "You are going!" "Take a seat," she said, releasing herself composedly. "There are still a few things that I must talk over with you." The blood rushed back upon my heart, leaving my face pale. I was very glad to get the support of the arm-chair to which she motioned me. "I have recently been ill, as I told you," I said in pleading tones, "and doubts, whatever their nature, are trying to me. Tell me only this--you are going?" She breathed deeply for several seconds and then, with her head slightly on one side, looked at me. "Do you really want me to?" she asked, gently. CHAPTER VII. GETTING READY FOR MY JOURNEY. She could not know the pain she gave me by her evasions, that was the excuse I found for her. The dread that after all she intended to disappoint me pressed like a heavy weight upon my brain. She must have seen something in my face that alarmed her, for she asked if I would like a glass of water--or wine. When I replied in the negative she came at once to the preliminaries that were in her mind. "I am going, of course," she said. "That is, if you think it worth while to grant all the demands I find necessary. I shall be glad when this disagreeable part of our bargain is ended, and I believe you will be equally, if not more so." "What is it now?" I inquired, rather querulously. "What do you want? Come to the point, I beg, without further delay." She turned to a mirror, and with a brush that lay on the bureau pushed back the hair that was half tumbling over her face--hair that was light and yet not blonde; hair that matched well with her blue-gray eyes and her regular features. "It is not so easy as you may think to detail these things," she said, when her face was again turned toward me. "I have to depend on myself for my living, but I hate to assume the guise of a beggar. Still, as I told you in the first place, my purse is practically empty. There are many articles needed if I am to go with you, that I would not otherwise want at this season of the year. They will cost money. I--" "All that was settled in my letter to-day," I interrupted. "Have you not received it?" "Yes, I received the letter, and I want to thank you for its kindness of tone. As I understand it, you offer to advance me what I need to prepare for the journey. This, I presume, is to be deducted from my salary, which under ordinary circumstances, would be quite acceptable. But, as I told you, I have another to support, and I have to rely upon my weekly stipend for that purpose." For a moment I doubted the girl. Was she after all an adventuress who meant to get what she could in advance, and disappear when the time of departure came? No man likes to be made the victim of a schemer. I do not care any more for a few dollars than the average of my fellows, but the thought of having them cheated out of me is not pleasant to contemplate. I imagined my chagrin if I should go sailing off to the Caribbean with the reflection that I had been the victim of a smooth-tongued woman--I, who had been through the same mill, and ought to have learned something. "I see my suggestion does not please you," came in low tones from my companion. "I was a little afraid it would not. I am such a stranger that I cannot wonder if you distrust me. Well, I have no desire to influence you. I have told you my situation." Rousing myself from my reverie I looked earnestly into the fair young face. "Marjorie," I began; "may I call you 'Marjorie?'" "As you please." "I am sure, as I gaze into your eyes, that I trust you implicitly. The recollection of a woman whom I once trusted to my sorrow came between us for an instant, that is all. I am going to believe in you without the slightest mental reservation, but I want to say just one thing. If I discover that I am again deceived it will not be the paltry cash I shall mind. I shall only regret the new wrench to my confidence in the honesty of your sex. What you will need in the present emergency will have but little effect on my income. I would willingly make you a present of it, if no plan such as I have in mind were a part of the contract. Marjorie," I continued, leaning toward her and taking up one of her hands respectfully, "I trust you perfectly. Tell me how much money you wish and I will bring it within an hour. As the expense is caused entirely on my account, I have no idea of deducting a cent of it from your salary, which, if agreeable will be the same you already receive, twenty dollars a week. While I shall not promise too much, let me add that this will not be the extent of your compensation, by any means, if we get along together as well as I hope. Now, my dear girl, say there are no more lions in my path and that your last stipulation is agreed to." She did not answer at once and her delay filled me with the most disagreeable forebodings. "I want to go," she said, at last; and it was something that she did not compel me to release her hand. "I want to go, very much indeed. Only, you must not expect--" she paused again--"anything more than--" "Do not distress yourself," I replied, divining what was in her mind. "I am going to the West Indies. Until the importation of coal begins at Newcastle, no one will dream of taking a woman on such a journey for an improper purpose." She brightened visibly, and although she released my hand at the same moment she did it in a way that implied naught of distrust. "It is a peculiar arrangement, though, take it altogether, is it not?" she asked, softly. "You are a man with, I judge, some knowledge of the world. What would your masculine friends say if you told them your plan? Would they believe in the innocence of your motive, as you ask me to do?" I told her that my masculine friends were like others of their sex, I presumed, and might put the worst construction on anything, if they chose. There was not one of them to whom I had imparted my secret, and there would be none. I had looked over the "Madiana's" passenger list and seen no familiar name. There was not a chance in ten thousand that any person on the boat would know me, and if they did, there was a practical impossibility that they would know my family. I promised the most perfect discretion while on board, desiring as much as she to avoid exciting suspicion. Would she, I asked her, be any better off if I had proved what she imagined when she answered my advertisement--an elderly gentleman with rheumatism and green glasses? The proverb that there is no fool like an old fool might answer that question. As she had remarked in her letter, Mrs. Grundy could not arrange the lives of all her friends, and the best thing was to satisfy one's own self. This seemed to please her, for she dropped the subject and asked particulars about the amount of baggage that each passenger was allowed to carry; which put me in better spirits, for it indicated that her face was at last turned toward the morning. I told her that a steamer trunk for the stateroom, a handbag, and a larger trunk to put in the hold was what I intended to take for myself, and I thought she would need the same. I asked if she had the articles, saying that, if she had not, I would be glad to order them sent to her. "I have only a small trunk--it has managed hitherto to hold what things I have," was her reply. "Then, with your permission, I will procure the entire outfit," I said. "Now, about the clothing and that sort of stuff. How much cash shall you require?" She drew a long breath, and conceiving that she was afraid to name a sum I came again to the rescue. "I will bring you two hundred and fifty dollars this afternoon," I said. "That ought to take you through." Indeed, I thought the amount very liberal, and supposed she would say that it was even more than she expected. She did nothing of the kind, however, but only nodded acquiescence. "There is something I was to ask you," I said, remembering what Mr. Cook's clerk had requested. "The berths are getting scarce on the 'Madiana'--and the agent wishes to know if you are willing to have another person share your room." The young woman drew herself up and surveyed me with a cold expression. It was several seconds before I divined its cause, and then I had sense enough to pretend not to notice. "A passenger who is going to occupy a room in that part of the boat wants, if possible, to have his niece near him," I continued. "She will take the upper berth, if you are willing, in your cabin, but it rests with you. I have arranged for the entire room." Her icy features relaxed and she was herself again. "I am quite willing," she answered. "In fact, had I known you intended to reserve an entire room for me I should have protested. Of course, it adds to the expense and I would rather have some one there than not. Are you going to occupy your room alone?" I told her about Wesson, and she endorsed my action unreservedly. "Where a trip cost so much, there is no need of adding to the expense," she said, thoughtfully. "I want to say another thing: As I am putting you to so much cost, you need not feel obliged on my account to stop at the highest priced hotels, when we are on shore. Anything comfortable and respectable will satisfy me." I laughed as I responded that the best hotels in the Caribbean were neither very dear nor very luxurious. I would take her where I should have gone had I been alone and I hoped she would find herself "comfortable," as she expressed it, at all of them. I glanced at my watch at this juncture and suggested that perhaps I had best be going. If she was to do any shopping that day she would have to receive the "needful" very soon. "Oh, to-morrow will do for the shopping," she replied. "If it is convenient you may send the money to-night, but I could not make much progress after this hour of the day. I shall probably have to get my suits ready made and submit to alterations. There is very little time left us now." There was a partnership in this expression that pleased me greatly. I said as I rose that I hoped no new doubts would creep into her head, for I felt as if the journey we were to make together had actually begun. "I cannot conceive of a reason to change my mind, unless it comes from some action of yours," said Miss May. "And I feel quite certain there will not be any." "You may be positive of it," I replied. "I will go now to order the trunks, which may not, however, arrive before morning. As to the money, I will send it by a messenger as soon as possible. Au revoir." "Au revoir," she said. "Let me add one thing more before you go. I am very grateful for the kindness you are showing me, more so than I fear I make plain, and as far as lies in my power I will endeavor to prove it." "Don't mention it," I said, affected by her words. "All the obligation has been and will continue to remain on my side. Expect me Saturday afternoon." I had again escaped without yielding to a temptation to do something foolish, for which I thanked my stars. It was with positive elation that I walked toward Sixth Avenue. The dream was coming true. She was going with me. Nothing would come between us now! I went without delay to my bank and drew four hundred dollars in fifty dollars bills, three hundred of which I enclosed in an envelope and sent at once to Miss May, by a district messenger. I thought it would drive another nail in the transaction to increase the amount I had promised, and fifty dollars was to me, in this connection, like a brass farthing to a millionaire. Taking a passing car I rode to Macy's, where I purchased a large and a small trunk of compressed bamboo, covered with cloth of imitation leather, the lightest and strongest trunk that human ingenuity has yet invented. The larger one had several trays and a hat box, and was pronounced by the salesman the very latest thing. The bag gave me more trouble, but I settled at last on a tasty affair, with special arrangements for toilet articles, which was to be its main object of use, and heard to my delight that all of the things would be delivered without fail that very evening. On returning to my room I picked up the letters received from the Herald office and read them over again, laughing occasionally at something particularly amusing. What a lot of silly women there must be in New York, when a modest "Personal" like mine had set so many of them spoiling good stationery with such nonsense. The only two worth giving any thought to were those from Marjorie and Miss Brazier. A whimsical notion struck me to write to "Alice" and tell her how near she had been to winning the "prize" in my case. In the course of fifteen minutes I had produced the following letter: My Dear Miss Brazier:--As there were but two answers to my Herald advertisement (out of nearly as many hundred) worth noticing, and as yours was one of them, I may be pardoned for telling you that your Hated Rival has been secured by me for my Tropical Trip. Had you given me the least chance to discover your excellencies, it might quite as likely have been your fate to accompany me, so you will see how very narrow was your escape. Having recently recovered from a long illness (whence the necessity of a Southern voyage) I had no desire to meet your angry relatives, and I have yet to learn how to gauge a young lady's personality by mail. So you put yourself out of the running to begin with. I am sure, however, it will please you to know that Another has satisfied herself with my proposals and is now engaged in preparations to accompany me to a warmer clime. She is not only "all my fancy painted her," but more. As near as I can tell in the absence of actual measurements, she is about S feet 4 inches in height, well made, full chested, with a face to dream about, bluish gray eyes and hair of a rather light shade. But this description fails utterly to convey an adequate idea of her exquisite charm. I am to pay her--imagine making a pecuniary arrangement with an houri!--twenty dollars a week and expenses, only; except that the wardrobe which she finds it necessary to purchase for a climate averaging 78 deg. at this season, is also to be charged to me. Was ever so much given for so little? I shall certainly insist on her accepting a nice little purse of "conscience money" on her return, if we decide, on mature reflection, to terminate our contract at that time. Now, be magnanimous and write me a note of congratulation; I am sure you have a kind heart and will be glad all my correspondents did not threaten me with gouty and quick tempered uncles in case I wished to call on a purely business errand. Very Truly, David Camwell, Lambs Club. New York, Dec. 30, 1897. I summoned a district messenger, by a call in my room, and dispatched this to East Sixteenth Street, though why I did not put it in the mail I do not know. There was certainly no haste required. The steward of the club would send an answer, if one was received, without delay, for I had given him my pseudonym, and he was too wise to ask questions. That night I dreamed I was at St. Thomas; that Marjorie had somehow changed into the Quarantine Keeper's daughter; and that Laps, the Danish dog, was proceeding to tear her in pieces, when I interfered and treated him as Samson did the Lion in the Hebrew tale. The girl had fainted in my arms and, I was calling wildly upon Heaven to restore her senses, when a servant, up late, woke me by knocking on my door and inquiring if I wished for anything. I searched for a bootjack to throw at the fellow's head, and not finding it in the dark, I threw a few uncomplimentary expletives instead. But sleep had vanished for that night, and after taking a cold bath I threw myself on a sofa, where with a pipe in my mouth I spent the long hours till morning drawing pictures of the happiness so soon to be mine. CHAPTER VIII. "A WOMAN I LIKE VERY WELL." The first thought that struck me when I was ready for breakfast was that my new secretary ought to terminate her arrangement with that disagreeably affectionate employer and keep open house during each entire day and evening for my benefit. The mornings that were to elapse before the sailing of the "Madiana" would be terribly dull. I had tried to make it clear to Miss May that her salary had already begun to be reckoned and I did not see why she should carry on two business engagements at the same time. When I rose from the table on which my coffee and eggs had been spread, it was to receive a letter which had passed through the Lambs Club and was undoubtedly a reply to the one I had sent Miss Brazier on the previous day. It would at least entertain me for a few moments to know what that apparently lively young lady had to say: Dear Sir:--[it began--coldly enough, I thought] Your communication has been duly received and its contents noted. Although it is unlikely, and certainly, on my part, not desired, that we shall ever meet, I must inform you that my answer to your advertisement was written purely in fun and without the least idea of accepting your remarkable proposition. I will add that I am surprised that you have succeeded in inducing any woman of the least respectability to undertake such a journey, and I fear that your impression of her high character will receive some severe wrenches before your return. It must require unusual "nerve" to start off for several months with an unmarried man (or a married one, for that matter) putting ones self at his mercy, for that is what it amounts to. When the individual is wholly unknown to the woman who is to accompany him--when he may, for all she knows, be a "Jack, the Ripper"--the foolhardiness of the idea grows on one. I am sure I do not envy your companion, though it is by no means certain but you, and not she, will be the most swindled in the affair. I conjure you, however, though a total stranger, that if your friend proves to be merely a misguided girl of good intentions, you will not soil your soul with the greatest guilt of which a man can be capable. Remember, if your thoughts are dishonorable, that you have or have had a Mother, perhaps a Sister, whose memory should make you pause before you inflict irreparable ruin on one of the same sex. Yours Sincerely, A.B. New York, Dec. 31, 1897. A strange letter, I thought, take it altogether. I read it over slowly for the second time. The first few lines indicated disappointment, and a perusal of the remaining portion did not remove this impression, entirely. The final sentences sobered me. The reflections they induced were certainly not exhilarating. Although I have no sister and cannot remember my mother, I have a great veneration for my lost parents, and there is no string so susceptible of influence on my actions as the one this writer touched. I made a new resolution that I would carry myself like a gentleman in the truest sense of the word with Miss May. I had been honest in the expressions I used when talking the matter over with Harvey Hume. The earnest admonitions of Dr. Chambers had not been without effect. I meant to prove by this journey that I was capable of being in the close companionship of a young lady without becoming either a brute or a Don Juan. Looking at it even from the standpoint of an enlightened selfishness I was sure to get more satisfaction in a voyage with a woman whom I could respect than with one who assumed the role of a cyprienne. Loose creatures are to be found in plenty in the Caribbee Islands, as well as in New York. A sweet, true, honest, intelligent bit of femininity was quite another thing, and infinitely to be preferred, from any sensible view. Marjorie! So far as my uncertain mind could do so I pledged to her a purity of intercourse such as a man might give to his affianced sweetheart. I had folded the letter up and put it in my pocket when a visitor was announced, no less a person than Tom Barton. He came toward me with a distressed look on his honest countenance and it was plain that he was far from being at ease. "Don," he said, paying no attention to my motion toward a chair, "what is the trouble between you and Statia? I can't believe you have done anything intentionally to set her so against you, and yet--" "Sit down and don't get excited," I responded quickly, deciding to dispose of the matter in the calmest way. "Have you had your coffee? If not, let me ring for another pot. You don't seem well this morning, old boy." "I'm not well," he said, in a dispirited tone, taking the chair at last. "But you can make me so with one word. Last night Statia came to me with her eyes full of tears. 'Tom,' she said, 'if you love me I want you to promise never to see Donald Camran again.' 'Never to see Don!' I exclaimed, unable to believe my ears. 'Yes,' said she, 'I've told him I don't wish him to call here and I want you to write him to the same effect.' You may imagine what a staggerer that was. There's not another fellow in the world of whom I wouldn't rather she'd have said that. I tried to get her to give some reason--any reason, or the hint of one--but it was no use. She only cried the harder, and when at last I went to bed, I tell you I didn't get much sleep. Tell me, Don, what it means." "It seems you didn't make your sister the promise," I replied. "And you were quite right. The whim of a girl should not come between stanch friends like us." That did not satisfy him, however. He murmured that we had been good friends--that he couldn't bear to think we should ever be otherwise--but he wanted to understand what his sister meant. As she wouldn't tell him, he had come to ask that favor of me. "Supposing I don't care to say anything about it," I replied, quietly. "If Statia is set on keeping the wonderful secret, how can you expect me to divulge it?" He struggled a moment with this idea, for Tom was always slow in grasping abstruse problems. "You'll have to help me clear up the mystery," he said, at last. "I've only got one sister, Don, and she and I are all there are to the family now. If it comes to losing my sister or my best friend, I must stand by Statia." I felt a chill going over my flesh as he spoke. I liked Tom, and I liked Statia--yes, in spite of the silly meeting of the day before. It was better to back down a little than to lose such friends. "What a serious matter you make of it!" I exclaimed. "You ask me what is the trouble between Statia and me. Well, the fact is, I hardly know. She met me in Broadway yesterday and wanted to make me promise something that I could not see--to be candid--was any affair of hers. When I declined, as courteously as I knew how, she flew at me with the statement that I need never call at her house again. I had no choice in the matter, Tom, not the least. I wouldn't do anything to justify her in talking to me in that way, if I could help it, but one must retain a few of his personal rights, you know." "And what was it about?" asked Tom, very earnestly. "It was about a woman. A woman I like very well, and who happens to be going on the same steamer I am to the Tropics. There! The terrible secret is out." Tom studied the answer a long time, but evidently could make nothing of it. "Statia has always liked you immensely, Don," he said. "I've been almost jealous of you sometimes. She wouldn't go against you all of a sudden without what seemed to her a strong reason." "And I like Statia," was my reply. "Yes, in spite of the ugly attitude she has chosen to take toward me. Why, Tom--I don't know but, under the circumstances, I ought to tell you--I asked her only a week ago to marry me." "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a mixture of happiness and pain, that was very touching. "Yes, and she refused positively. I was disappointed, you may believe, for I had thought she entertained a decided feeling in my favor, and would have asked long before except for that illness of mine. Her attitude might have thrown me back into the doctor's hands, for my head is not yet any too strong, but I managed to crush down my thoughts and bear up under it. I hope it's not wrong to tell you this, old chap, but I don't think I ought to let you go off with wrong impressions of me." He shook his head in mute dismay. "The other woman--the one you and she were speaking about," he said. "Who is she? It seems as if the key to the whole trouble was there." "Now, Tom," I replied, "you have no right to ask me a question like that and I shall have to decline to bring the name of a third person into this discussion. I have the greatest regard for you and the highest respect for Statia. If you decide to throw me over, the responsibility must rest where it belongs." "Would you--would you come round to the house and talk it over with both of us together?" he asked, after a long pause. "It troubles me more than I can tell you. Would you come over, say Tuesday evening?" "Yes," I said, smilingly, "if Statia writes me a letter asking me to do so." "She must write it," he said, brightening. "I can't have our friendship broken up like this. Shall you be at home all day?" I answered that I would be there just before dinner, at least, to receive any communication that might be sent, and Tom, taking my hand in his hearty grasp for the first time since he had been in the room, said 'Good-by' and left me, evidently much relieved. I was by no means as certain as he that Statia would make any such back-down. I have noticed that women are more apt than men to stick to a position they have once taken, even after they find that the mistake is on their side. But, I really hoped some avenue would be opened for a reconciliation without my having to go on bended knees to either of them, which I saw no reason for doing. I had told Tom all it would be safe to tell. He was so immaculate in all his thoughts of women that there was no saying how my plan, if fully presented, would strike his mind. I certainly did not mean to risk it. It was a day that had begun disagreeably and I was looking forward to at least a pleasant afternoon, when a note from Miss May came, to dash that prospect to the ground. Here it is: My Dear Mr. C.:--I fear you have undertaken a larger contract than you anticipated when you began. To be plain, the amount you left in my hands will hardly suffice to provide all the necessaries for a lady travelling as your relation and equal. If you are satisfied I will consent, though I am sure I would not have done so at first, to go as your ward, merely,--as a young woman whom you have promised some friend to see on her journey to a point where she is to be a governess or whatever you like to say. In that case you will not be disgraced if I do not dress very well. I cannot endure the thought of being suspected; and a lady such as you wish me to appear would have three or four gowns suitable for appearing at table, with at least a little jewelry--of which, alas! I have practically nothing. I write you this with a heavy heart, for I fear you will begin to consider me a nuisance, but I hope you will understand. I went out this morning and priced several gowns, but finding that the money you left me would be exhausted before the really necessary things were obtained, I returned to my room without breaking one of the banknotes. Please reply by messenger, stating what you think it best to do. If I am going to cost you more than you wish to expend, tell me so frankly and I will release you from every obligation. I resigned my other position last night, but am certain my old employer will gladly take me back if I have to ask it. Ugh! that is the most disagreeable thought in connection with this entire matter! Understand, I am ready to go with you--I want to go--and I leave the position I am supposed to occupy to your own judgment. If I am to pass as a governess, in whom you have no special interest, you may return me half of the money enclosed and I shall find it amply sufficient. If I am to be your "cousin," I fear it will have to be doubled. Please do not decide in a way you will regret. I am obliged to leave the city on an early train, to remain over New Years with friends, but shall expect you Tuesday at any hour after ten. That is, if you wish to see me again. Yours Faithfully, M.M. P.S. The trunks and bag are splendid. Of course, I shall hold them subject to your orders if you decide to drop our arrangement. I looked at the six fifty dollar bills lying on the table, where they had fallen from the envelope. The messenger boy looked at them also, as if he half wished he had run away with the package instead of delivering it. His presence disturbed me and I told him to walk around the block, returning in a quarter of an hour. This he hesitated to do and I shoved a two dollar bill into his fist, as a guarantee of my good faith. What a criss-cross of ideas piled upon my brain when I was alone! At one instant I said to myself that Miss May was a schemer, who had determined to "play me for a sucker,"--to use a common, though not over delicate expression. She had been indiscreet in returning my cash; I would put it in my pocket and forget her. On the other hand, the thought of going south alone was enough to madden me. I did not care two straws that the cost of the trip would be doubled, if it possessed the charming features I had allowed myself to paint. The woman's going into the country for two whole days when the question was unsettled was also most exasperating. If I could proceed immediately to her room and talk with her face to face it would be easier to decide. The fifteen minutes passed, the boy returned, and I was still in a quandary. Finally, when the young imp presented himself in a business-like attitude, I seized a pen and wrote as follows: _Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one._ Dear Miss May:--["Dear" does not mean anything at the beginning of a letter]--I am very sorry to learn that you feel it necessary to be absent over Monday, as I have many things to say to you. Perhaps, as you can do nothing in the meantime, it is best to let the matter rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call, promptly at ten, and we will decide everything. Yours, D.C. The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had sent a letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that Miss May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give up the whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as enthusiastic as I could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and would have whistled to the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call I took my pen again and indited the following: Dear Marjorie:--for so you said I might call you:--I return the money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday morning at ten, when I will come prepared with a sum which will certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest of them all. Sincerely Yours, D.C. No. -- Thirty-fourth Street. I procured a large envelope and took it into the bedroom, where I could re-insert the bank bills without danger of arousing the cupidity of young Mercury. With a lead pencil I added to the note a request that the recipient would send just a line by bearer to show that my message had arrived safely, and saw the boy depart, feeling that I had at last done the sensible thing. Whether this proved to be the case I will leave the reader to judge when he has finished this volume. CHAPTER IX. A PRIVATE DINING ROOM. Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a pencilled note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will see you Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play called "The Tree of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the brightest things produced on the American stage in years, though I was too full of other thoughts to appreciate it at the time. It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in all fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and was so far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am afraid, but some allowance should be made for a case like the one in the play, where a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football by a girl who does not care if his life is ruined, so long as she accomplishes her designs. I remember being somewhat surprised at the apparent approval of the fine audience, but that may have been due in a measure to the delightful acting of the various parts. I had not been to the Lyceum for a long time and did not remember to have seen the "wronged young man" before, but he made a most favorable impression on me as more natural and less stagey than the average. The "villain,"--the masculine one--was an excellent actor, also. As for the "wicked" woman, I thought, if Marjorie failed me, I would give her an invitation to spend the rest of the winter in the Caribbean. Sunday was weariness itself. I poured over the newspapers, took a walk, managed to get a short nap, for I was tired, ate my lunch, and then, to fill up the time, wrote a letter to Miss Brazier, in defense of myself from the severe attack that unknown young woman had made. It was a silly proceeding, but I liked to write about Marjorie, even to one wholly unknown, and this is what I said, as near as I can remember it: Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):--I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have dreamed of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what way I have offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the case, but as the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I write this is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable public dining room--no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening before the 12th, when I am to sail. If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful creature nor a dunce--just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker after change and rest. And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but as you don't--it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of "soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but if that awful event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!) you will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why did you not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place? That would have disposed of the s--s--possibility. Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage--I judge you to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!--let me be sensible for just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long illness and am as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some work for a typewriter to do, and my physician has advised me to take one. The young lady who has agreed to go is not the sort you seem to imagine. She has consented only after the most distressing stipulations in regard to my conduct--all of which were entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am to file a bond to return her to New York by May 1st in absolutely perfect condition. Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts removed. I won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon my word! Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted respectability, I will meet you there at any hour you choose, after 6 P.M., or I will send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring 'Marjorie'--isn't it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful eyes would say more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is out of town, and I am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if she were here. You'd best come. Yours Fraternally, D. CAMWELL. The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897. It didn't seem too funny, when I read it over, as I thought it would, but I sent it to East Sixteenth Street by a messenger that I summoned, telling him to bring an answer, if there was any, and to return for his pay, if there was none. He came back in half an hour, saying that a boy at the house took the letter up stairs, presumably to Miss B., and returned in a few minutes stating that she would reply by mail. As this exhausted all the fun I could expect out of that matter for the day, I went over to the Club and lounged away the afternoon. It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes when a note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool strain, but its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that. Statia said she was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that, as it distressed Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had made it up with him. She had nothing to take back in what she had said relating to a certain matter, (what woman ever took back anything?) but was willing to admit that it was, really, my personal affair and that she had no right to control my conduct. She believed it best, on the whole, that we should see each other as little as possible before I went away, but she did not wish, on reflection, to make trouble between her brother and his friend. If Tom wanted me to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped I would do it, and she promised to keep out of my way. It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without interruption, something I had not done for the previous fortnight. Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull as Sunday. When I awoke with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday morning, I sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it ran from the street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I repeated the operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my entire body was of a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with care. I was long in selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three pairs of cuff-links before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted, and the newspapers were scanned as if in a dream. All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction of Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself that I was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be apprehended from a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop to think that I was pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration from which I had emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack of control I was exhibiting. Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the room, came straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it heartily in mine, glad that the chasm between us was bridged at last. "Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I misjudged you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my house this evening, tell me exactly what route you are going to take, so I can arrange where to write you." I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send a message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set of small maps which would show my route perfectly and that I hoped for frequent communications with him. Neither of us said anything about Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get along better without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave after a brief call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-door garments and proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss May's residence. The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her bell. It is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an appointment. The woman who attended the door dampened my ardor somewhat, however, by informing me that Miss May had not yet returned. She suggested that I go at once to the lady's room and make myself comfortable till she came, which must be very soon. I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever, oppressed with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come at all. Perhaps she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to parts unknown. Perhaps--oh! the ugly things that came into my head between the lower hall and the door of that empty room. I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things that belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in which she had been seated when I saw her last--happy chair! There was the dressing table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into which she had looked with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and masquerading as a cabinet, yet deceiving no one for a second, was the folding bed that had often received her lovely form, with her head pillowed in happy slumber. It was something to be in the room she occupied, to see the furniture she used. I seated myself in her chair--the one I had seen her in--but almost instantly rose and walked about. My nerves were too much on edge to permit me to remain long without motion of some kind. At the end of half an hour I began to grow incensed again. She had made the appointment for ten o'clock. She knew from previous experience that I would keep it to the moment. Trains from the suburbs ran frequently enough. Did she consider me merely a puppet, to be played with? Between half-past ten and eleven I was a hundred times on the point of descending the stairs and leaving the house, ending the whole affair. But I didn't. She came about ten minutes past eleven, with many expressions of regret at having kept me waiting. The timepiece at the house of her friend had broken its mainspring, or something of the sort, and with the carelessness of a woman she had forgotten to wind her watch the evening before. The family were all deceived by the fact that the sky was cloudy. When she reached her station the train had just gone and she was obliged to wait three-quarters of an hour for another. As soon as she alighted in New York, she took a cab and bade the driver hasten. Had I been waiting very long? I did not know, at that instant, whether I had been a minute or a week, and I did not care. It was enough that I was again in her presence--that she had actually arrived. I begged her to say nothing more about it. "I have kept the cab," she said, looking me full in the face, "thinking you might be kind enough to go with me to the shops and help me pick out my things. If it isn't asking too much--" I assured her it would give me the greatest pleasure to accept the invitation and that I had no engagement so important as helping her to get ready for our journey. With a smile, she took off her hat and arranged her hair at the mirror, with a few passes of the brush and comb. Then she put it on again and said she was quite ready. "Drive to Altman's," she said to the cabman, as she stepped inside the vehicle. We were together, side by side. Had we been on the way to the steamer nothing could have exceeded my delight. These preliminaries all tended in that direction, however, and I was fain to curb my haste and content myself with the present. "I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman who is going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of means," said Miss May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to decide on each article, since the expense is to come out of your pocket. I must say another thing also, at this time. I shall not consider as my own anything I need to buy. I am merely in the position of an actress whose wardrobe is to be provided by her manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will return every article to you in as good shape as possible." I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the sentiment that led her to make it. "What could I do with a lot of gowns--and--lingerie?" I inquired, helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands." "They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very careful of them." "Altered!" I cried. "For whom?" "For the next typewriter you may happen to engage." I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought gave me. "As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I would rather you would be funny on some other subject." She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child who has been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea of scolding her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's. I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she had brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not seem to have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited, where the price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my admiration of the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new headgear. Then we drove to another establishment, where she was obliged to hide herself from view for three-quarters of an hour, with a bill of eighty-five dollars as the result. She explained that she had got nothing she could possibly avoid, when it was considered that we might be several weeks at a time without a laundress, and I said the only fear I had was that she would buy too little. A boot shop came next in order, where I had a jealous pang as one of the salesmen fitted her with various articles in his stock, all suitable for a warm climate, at a total cost of forty dollars. And then we drove about, from glove shop to perfumer's, from umbrella maker to fan dealer, from this to that, and the hands on my watch showed that it was nearly five o'clock. "I think that is about all for to-day," said Miss May, drawing a long breath. "You must be glad it's over." "Not at all," I replied. "Isn't it about time, though, that we had something in the way of refreshment?" (She had declined several offers to lunch during the preceding five hours.) "Mayn't I tell the driver now to take us to a restaurant?" She consented, after a little thought, and also said she would leave the place to me. When I suggested the Hotel Martin, she thought a little longer, and then surprised me with a request that I would get a private room. "Impossible," I said, when I could catch my breath. "They will assign no party of two to a room alone." She blushed, which was not surprising. I had put her in the position of wishing to break a puritanic rule of which she had never heard. I mentioned several other places, and we finally agreed on one some distance up-town, at which I told her the regulation against a single couple dining alone did not apply. She was rather tired and leaned back in the carriage in a manner that showed it. I studied her face as much as I could without appearing to stare, but it was wholly expressionless. "You are very good to me," she said, after a long pause. "And you are very kind to me," I answered. "What a lot of money we have spent to-day," she added. "Aren't you sorry yet?" "No," I answered, smiling. "Not yet." "I shall need almost nothing more," she said, "to appear in a garb that will not disgrace you. Nothing, but a little jewelry, I think." I said we would go to-morrow and attend to that, or she could go alone if she preferred, and send the bills to me. "It must be lovely to have all the money one wants," she remarked, dreamily. "To order whatever you please without stopping to see if you can afford it." "Yes," I assented. "You can do that?" said Miss May, putting one of her gloved hands on my arm. "Within a reasonable limit. My wants are seldom extravagant." "Why," she asked, slowly, "is the world arranged so unevenly? Why are some provided with all they want, and more, while others have to study each item of actual necessity?" "That is a deep question, that I would not like to settle in my present state of hunger," I replied, at which she smiled and sat up in the carriage. "We are luckily near the end of our route. I think I had best dismiss the cab and get another one when we leave." She agreed and then asked if I had any objection to her donning a veil. It was all right, of course--dining in a private room with her employer--but it might not seem so to a casual passer, who would possibly recognize her face at some future period. A woman had to be so particular. I cut her explanations short by saying that I did not object to the idea, but quite approved of it; at which she put on the veil, which to my consternation was blue and quite opaque. I did not wish to let any difference of opinion come between us, but I reflected that if one of my friends saw me, with a woman veiled like that, his conclusions would be anything but pleasing. There is such a thing as going too far. We were shown to a nice little room, where the waiter came near getting himself into trouble by informing me with needless severity that it was not permitted to lock the door. Miss May did not seem to hear what he said. She was removing her blue veil at a little glass that hung on the wall. When she took the chair opposite to me and accepted the menu at my hands, she looked so charming that I had to put a veritable Westinghouse brake on my arms. CHAPTER X. ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD. The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and being provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full justice. Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there was not that flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the place. Miss May seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared, when I rallied her on the point, that she was not down hearted, but very happy to be there. Occasionally when footsteps were heard in the corridor she started nervously, which led me to suppose that she feared intrusion. I thereupon remarked that while it was against the rules to bolt the door of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would secure the privilege; to which she replied, with a vehemence I could not understand, that she would not hear of such a thing. One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder her, so earnest was her protest. "Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only trying to please you." She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial, beginning to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my rescue and soon had me all right again. We talked of the journey, she asking many particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean Islands. She had never been at sea for more than a few hours and wondered if she was liable to that malady so much to be dreaded, seasickness. I assured her it was not nearly as bad as it was painted and told of my own slight experiences in that line, years before. My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal to order champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a veritable tyro in restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the lookout as I was for indications that she might be other than she seemed. She had every mark of the true lady, and I was well prepared to believe it, when I learned, some days later, of the station in which she had been born and in which her childhood was passed. "I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long pauses; "would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I wish, above all things, to avoid suspicion." "I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the passenger list." "Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously. "I presume so." "Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am going." "It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more than one person of that name in the world." She shook her head and bit her lips in distress. "It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'--Heaven help me!--and I dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own." "What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy you, when you were under my protection." "He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell the agent the lady you expected is not going--that she has been taken ill--and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like to do." This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent in the morning any name she desired. "I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there any reason against that?" Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it, not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell. "I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause, "but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great as in the present one." I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list. She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do. It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine, quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good friends and contented fellow voyagers. Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had purchased. She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved hand I held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that any lady might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it. "To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the curbstone. "Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the morning. "I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though. You--you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If there is none, and you prefer--" I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to invite to my apartment any person I pleased. "You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May, tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse--" "I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that purpose. You remember the number, -- West Thirty-fourth." She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended the steps, while I was driven away. "Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect a young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for Mr. Camwell." "There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy. "There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not see him enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here. All you have to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to my door." "I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that showed how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses. "No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do as I order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will see that you get your notice." He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed me a letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr. Barton had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had left no word for him. Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had promised to spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if unable to do so. Well, I would write him an apology before I went to sleep. This is what Miss Brazier said: Dear Mr. Camwell:--I wish I could understand you, but the riddle grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a combination of Don Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector Greyburn. At one moment I believe you the greatest wretch alive; at the next I ascribe your sentiments to the buoyancy of youth and convince myself that you are at heart an honorable man. As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie," though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego. Now, as a last word--for my correspondence may weary you--remember that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you have before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to America with your conscience void of offence toward God and your companion you will have accomplished something of which you may well be proud. Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say that my petition has been answered. Your True Friend, A.B. Jan. 2, 1898. Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom, excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to bed. My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers, if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way. On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand. Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been made so easily. Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of the long companionship we were to have together. She was a little tired, she said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise ring and presented it for her inspection. "I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it." She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling probably accounted for that. "It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind." Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet." "I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I cause you?" I assured her that I was not, in the least. "I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a wedding ring, that belonged to my mother." "And these," I corrected her by saying. "No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the rôle I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the curtain is rung down." She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken. Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me. "Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly. "Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too." "Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my compliment. "I wish to see what it is like." I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys caused her to pause. "I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I imagined." She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in, asking me to keep them till we were ready to go. "You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked, after a time. "How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply. She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure. It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon that remained. When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not been written with accidental meaning--that it contained a message for my eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any kind. And this is what the message said to me: * * * * * Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian to whom her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was left to face poverty alone. Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the poorest manner. Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source. When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on the point of despair; when advertisement after advertisement had been answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and found by the replies received that the majority of the situations promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure--there came a ray of light. A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and assured her that behind this offer there was lurking no sinister design such as she at first suspected. Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose. She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into his hands, and sailed with him on the ship he selected. He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich and what is called a man of the world. What will happen to the girl on that journey? * * * * * There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in the face without a blush--that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a woman who is drowned--that is the other. Let neither delude themselves, when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these two. * * * * * I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to share with her. If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the slightest thought of wrong to Marjorie May, it was crushed out of sight by that pathetic appeal. Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with the dust of years piled above them. CHAPTER XI. A THEFT ON BOARD SHIP. The time before the date set for the sailing of the Madiana passed slowly enough, but contained little that is worth recording at length. Miss May took another dinner with me, though not in the same restaurant as before, she expressing a preference for another in a different part of the city. She came to my room daily about half the time and I went to hers the rest, for our afternoon talks. Her gowns were fitted, her baggage made ready; and she sent the trunks out to have the initials "M.C." marked upon them, to consort with her new title. As the date of sailing approached she grew visibly nervous, saying repeatedly that she would be glad when the ocean waves lay between us and Manhattan Island, in which sentiment I concurred heartily. On the day before our departure she expressed a wish to go to the wharf alone, rather than have me come for her, giving as a reason that she did not like the people at her lodgings to connect us in that move. This seemed sensible and I agreed without demur. I had long since ceased to have any suspicion of her and felt as certain that we would meet at the steamer as that the boat would sail. The evening before the day I was to go, I passed with Tom Barton at his house. It was the second time I had been there within a week. In some way Tom fixed it so that Statia consented to dine with us. She did the best she could, I suppose, to act as usual, but made a poor show of it to eyes as watchful as mine. I got a minute alone with her by accident and tried my best to cheer her up. "I wish you would write me a line or two while I am gone," I said. "If you send to St. Thomas by the 18th, I ought to get it before I leave there. The mails are fearfully slow in that part of the world, but they do arrive eventually. I will let you know how I am getting on, if you wish it, besides what I send to Tom. I'm not going to let you quarrel with me any longer." She said without much enthusiasm that she would be glad to have me write, and that perhaps she would do so herself. I did not care to press the matter, thinking it best to leave it that way. On the morning of the 12th I went early to the steamer, inspected the cabins I had engaged and made arrangements with the head porter to reserve a good place for my steamer chairs on the after-deck. I was rather pleased with the accommodations, for I had not expected too much. Driving back up-town I secured my letter of credit and did a last bit of shopping. An hour before the time the vessel was to slip her moorings I was again on board, not wishing Miss May to arrive and find me absent. As the passengers arrived, one after another, I looked into their faces to see if there was a familiar one, but there was none, until Mr. Wesson came. I exchanged a few words with him about the arrangement of things in the room we were to occupy jointly. When he left, my attention was attracted to a woman, just coming up the plank, whom I certainly had seen before. An elderly man walked just behind her, and as she turned to speak to him I judged they were together. It was some time before I remembered where I had seen that face, and when it flashed upon me I could not restrain a low whistle. She was the woman who had advertised in the Herald "Personal" column that she desired the acquaintance of an "elderly gent," describing herself as "beautiful of face and form," with her "object matrimony." Well, she seemed to have found what she sought and I hoped the "gent" was also not disappointed. I did not believe that the ceremony of marriage had been performed between them, but perhaps a temporary arrangement was equally pleasing to both. One of the stewards took their hand baggage and descended with it, showing them to their rooms. Miss May, arrived finally. I did not recognize her at first, heavily veiled as she was, though happily without the blue article she had worn to the restaurant. I rose and escorted her to her cabin, where she seated herself on the sofa and tried to recover her breath, which I could not see she had any reason to lose. As soon as she could speak she asked which was my room; when I told her, she begged me to wait there a few minutes. Rather distressed by her manner I could, nevertheless, do nothing but comply. After what seemed an endless time I heard her voice, speaking my name in low tones, and went to see what she wanted. "Don't come in!" she said, opening the door slightly. She spoke hardly above a whisper and yet in a way that conveyed an imperative prohibition. "Has the boat started yet?" "No," I answered. "I think it will go in a few moments." "Will you inquire if my baggage has been brought on and have the smaller trunk sent down here as soon as possible?" "You ought to come on deck and see the start," I said. "That is one of the interesting things of a voyage like this." "Oh, no!" she said. "I am feeling faint--I don't know what is the matter--doubtless I shall be better in a few minutes. I am going to lie down and see if that makes me more comfortable. Go on deck and amuse yourself. I shall try to get a nap." Seeing that I hesitated she looked pleadingly into my eyes. "Please go!" she said. I went, swallowing my disappointment. The boat had commenced to move and I witnessed the usual waving handkerchiefs, tearful eyes, loud good-bys, and that sort of thing. The elderly gentleman with his well-formed, matrimonially-inclined lady was apparently enjoying the scene, for both of them looked happy. Mr. Wesson smiled as I approached and uttered some commonplace remark, as he made room for me by his side. Each moment the distance between the Madiana and her late moorings widened; presently we were well out in the river and proceeding down the Bay. Wesson suggested a walk on the deck and as we were both well wrapped up I saw no objection. I remarked what a wonderful thing it was, how soon our heavy clothing would be discarded. Ice and snow to-day and summer garments day after to-morrow. "That is due to the Gulf Stream, of course," he replied. "Yes. In two days any passenger not actually an invalid can bathe with pleasure in water pumped from the ocean." Wesson expressed his surprise at this statement. We fell to talking of the islands we were to visit, he appearing deeply interested in all I had to say. The time was thus occupied until the first dinner bell rang, when I excused myself to go and look after my "cousin." Miss May answered the knock by saying that she had already asked the stewardess to bring her a cup of tea and would want nothing more. She would try to get upon the deck to-morrow, if the water was sufficiently smooth, but at present she was quite unable to move. I was to be at ease about her and not allow her condition to interfere with my enjoyment. As there seemed no help for it, I went back to the deck and soon descended with the others to the dining table. I thought it an odd fate that the "elderly gent" with his matrimonially-inclined companion should be seated at the same table with myself and Mr. Wesson, but odd things happen continually on shipboard and this voyage was to prove the rule. There were just eight of us assigned to that table, a married couple and one man travelling singly, besides those mentioned. Before we separated I took a printed list of the passengers, such as had been generally distributed, bearing on the reverse side a map of the Windward Islands, and requested those present to mark their names, that I might know them better. Wesson and I marked ours first. The "elderly gent" put his cross against two names reading Matthew Howes and Miss Nellie Howes, the married couple endorsed the names of Mr. and Mrs. H.G. Stone and the single passenger claimed the title of Robert Edgerly. The seats had been assigned by the steward with written cards on each plate, and Mr. Edgerly, who sat at my left, took up that of Miss Carney. "We have still another messmate, who has not made her appearance," he said, to the table in general. "Miss M. Carney." "The lady is not feeling well and will not appear to-night," I said. "I believe she occupies the stateroom with me," said Miss Howes, to my surprise. "She is evidently not used to the sea, for she was taken ill before the steamer left the dock." "Miss Carney is my cousin," I explained, forced into it by the inquiring eyes of Mr. Howes, who evidently connected us in some way. "She was not very well before we started, is in fact taking the journey mainly for her health. I hope she will feel able to be out to-morrow." With the freedom that sometimes prevails in parties thrown together at a steamer table the conversation then became general, and before we rose I knew that Mr. Edgerly claimed Albany as his home and Mr. and Mrs. Stone, Montpelier, Vt.; while Mr. and Miss Howes said they resided in Binghamton. It helps very much in remembering people to get a city or town tacked on to their names, and I wrote the locations on my passenger list. It was a dull evening, in spite of the fact that I passed it in the smoking room, where considerable cheap wit was bandied about and my fellow-passengers got acquainted with each other and with me. The push-button was kept busy until the steward in charge of that department gave signs of exhaustion. I drank very little, though I paid for several rounds, after the fashion of most Americans, who think such proceedings necessary to preserve their self-respect. At last, when there was nothing else to do, I went to my cabin and to bed. Before breakfast I saw the stewardess and asked her to learn how Miss Carney was and whether she would be at the table. She soon returned with the information that the lady thought it best not to leave her room, and that she wished me to procure her a list of the passengers. This I did, marking the addresses of those who sat at our table, and scrawling a bit of advice on the margin, recommending her to make her appearance on deck during the forenoon as the sea was remarkably smooth. After leaving the table I took a novel called "His Foster Sister," which somebody told me had a reference to the Islands, and seeking my steamer chair became absorbed in its contents. In a short time Mr. Edgerly came along and dropped into my second chair in a friendly way. He also had a book and it was some time before we engaged in conversation beyond the customary greetings. My first impression of Edgerly was decidedly favorable. He was apparently a jolly sort of chap, ready for a joke or story and not inclined to be a bore. We got along together famously until about eleven o'clock, when Miss May came slowly up the companion way, with the stewardess to assist her. Edgerly saw her before I did and sprang to offer her his arm. As she looked into his face and detected that it was that of a stranger, she drew back, but he reassured her in low tones. "You must permit me to help you to your chair," he said, "which I have just vacated. It's evident you cannot reach it without aid." By this time I had arrived at her side and Miss May took my arm, leaning very heavily upon it. I was surprised to find her so weak and as soon as she was seated I asked if there was anything I could order to give her strength. "No," she replied, faintly. "I shall be better soon. Please wrap the rug around me." The stewardess had the rug on her arm and at my request placed it over the lady's skirts, tucking in the ends about her feet. She wore her cloak and a steamer cap, and seemed provided against the coolness of the air, which was still marked. When the stewardess had gone, and Edgerly also, for he disappeared at once, I waited for Miss May to speak again, but she lay with closed eyes so long that I grew uneasy. "There is a doctor among the passengers," I said. "I think when you go below, you had best let him see you. I am alarmed at your condition." She raised herself and surveyed the decks in every direction. Then she took a less recumbent position. "Who is the man that came to me at the top of the stairs?" she asked, in a whisper. "His name is Edgerly and he is from Albany. I never saw him till yesterday." "He has called at the office of my last employer, and I am afraid he recognized me. Did he say anything to intimate it?" "No," I answered. "There is not one chance in a thousand that he remembers you. I never in my life have looked closely enough at a stenographer to know her if we met outside." "I hope he doesn't," she said, uneasily. "I felt so sure there would be no one here who had ever seen me!" "His chair is next yours at the table," I remarked. "If he intimates that your face is known to him you have only to convince him that he is mistaken." "I want that seat changed," she said, earnestly. "Can't you sit between us? I--I can't explain why, but I don't like him. What business had he to offer me his arm?" I laughed at the serious way she regarded the matter, saying he had only done as any gentleman might, but added that I would certainly put her between myself and Mr. Wesson, if she preferred. "And who is Mr. Wesson?" she asked. "My room-mate, that I told you about. He is a splendid fellow." "Can you see him anywhere at this moment?" she asked, looking around. "Yes--he is there, talking with the second officer--the man with the white cap. If he comes this way I will present you." She said there was no need of haste, that she did not wish to meet the passengers any more than was absolutely necessary; when we went to the table would be quite time enough. "Mr. Camwell," she added, after a pause, "you can't imagine how I feel. If I had dreamed I should experience such sensations I never would have come." "What sensations?" I asked, rather shortly, for I thought she might consider my feelings a little. "The sensation of being a deceiver of those about me; the shame of passing for what I am not; the dread of somehow being exposed for what I am." I grew angrier as she proceeded. "If you were not ill," I said, "I should be out of patience with you. What awful crime have you committed? You are travelling in a perfectly respectable way, with a respectable party of people; occupying a room with a lady; acting in a rational manner except for these vagaries, which I must ask you to suppress. To be sure the name assigned you on the passenger list is not your own, but plenty of people travel incognito, even princes and dukes, for that matter. You make a mountain out of a molehill. Your whole journey will be ruined--and mine, if you care anything about that--if you go on as you have begun." She begged my pardon humbly, saying she would do her best to amend her conduct in the future. And, as usual, the moment she took this attitude, I repented of my hard words and assured her I had no intention of being too critical. "The lady who occupies the room with me is very agreeable," was her next observation. "She offered to do anything she could to relieve my head last night, and this morning she bathed it with cologne for half an hour." "She sits opposite us at the table," I said. "With her uncle." "I am glad of that. I feel quite acquainted with her now." Then she assayed a question of the sort that eminate from women. "Don't you think her very handsome?" "She's not bad looking," I admitted. "I call her magnificent. Such a face and form do not often go together." I wanted to reply, "So she said in her advertisement," but I merely nodded. "There is another woman on this boat that I would not exchange for a thousand of her," I said, presently, in a low voice. "Point her out to me," said Miss May. "I would like to know what your ideal is." "Look in your mirror," I responded. "Why do you think it necessary," she asked, frowning, "to pay me that kind of compliment?" "I think it necessary to refrain from doing so, but sometimes I grow forgetful." She saw that I was very sober again. "If you meant what you say, it would not be so wicked," she replied, gently. "You know very well that I mean it." "Mr. Camwell," she said, leaning very close to me, "we are obliged to lie to outsiders, in the contract we have assumed. Let us always tell the truth to each other." "If I told you the truth," I responded, gloomily, "you would not sit where you are. You would find strength to walk down those stairs and back to your room alone." She grew slightly paler, though her cheeks were waxen enough before. "Then do not tell it to me just now," she replied, with an attempt at a laugh. "I would rather remain on deck where the air is purer." When the lunch bell rang I advised Miss May to take her repast where she was, promising to send a steward to her with a bill of fare. It pleased me to learn when I came back that she had made quite a meal and was feeling considerably better. * * * * * The succeeding two days contained nothing of high importance, but there were several little things that deserve to be chronicled. The first time Marjorie came to the table and was introduced by me to the others as "Miss Carney," I fancied that a smile rested lightly on the features of Miss Howes, for which I could not account. Marjorie was seated between Mr. Wesson and me, and I saw with pleasure that they seemed likely to be good friends. It was desirable in the interest of our general plan that she and I should not act as if there was no one else in the world. Stone and his wife were quiet people, who rarely spoke unless first addressed. Edgerly was good-natured but not obtrusive. The most of the talk, therefore, at table, came from Mr. and Miss Howes, Wesson and myself. We got to be at last a rather jolly party. Carrying out my plan, now that Miss May had apparently recovered from her indisposition, I left her alone a good deal, or rather with one or more of the others as her companion on deck. They aroused in her an interest in the trip, for which I was glad. Edgerly probably talked with her the least of all, and she told me he never mentioned having seen her before. Miss Howes was her most constant companion, quite naturally, when it is considered that they roomed in one cabin. But on the third day out, just before dinner time, Miss May came to me with a distressed face that showed unusual perturbation. She was actually trembling and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping. "A terrible thing has happened!" she said, when I followed her to a place where no one could overhear us. "I would not tell you if I could help it, but you will have to know." Then, in response to my inquiring look, she added, "Some one has entered my stateroom and robbed me!" As far as she could learn, nothing had been taken but her turquoise ring, but the feeling that her effects were unsafe agitated her greatly. In response to questions she said she had left the ring on a little rack above the washbowl, when she washed her hands for lunch, as she had done twice before. She was absolutely certain where she put it, but had made a thorough search of her handbag, the only other place it could have been. I told her not to get excited, but to ask the stewardess, whom I would send to her when she went down again, if she had seen it. I remarked, also, that I believed a theft on that line under such conditions was of extremely rare occurrence, and that she had best quiet her nerves until an investigation could be made. "But it was your ring--it really belonged to you--" she stammered, "and I feel ever so much worse than if it were my own." "That is mere casuistry," I replied, "but, if it pleases you to call all your things mine, of course, you will continue doing so. Whosever it is, we must do our best to recover it." At dinner Miss May whispered to me that the stewardess had made a diligent search, but without effect. The meal passed rather dully. Miss May was pale and distraught. I sympathized with her, though the value of the lost article was not great. I wished I had some of the intuition of a Monsieur Lecoq that I might place the offence on the right person and relieve the strain I could not help feeling. It must be one of the stewards, who were continually in and out of the adjacent rooms, or a fellow passenger. In either case something of the ease and comfort of the voyage was lost. A mosquito who enters your room at night is not as large as a lion nor on the whole quite as dangerous; but he can, if he chooses, banish sleep from your eyes. That confounded ring made a lot of trouble. I began to suspect everybody on board. The stewardess promised to say nothing of the occurrence, and I at first followed the same course. The only one I did tell, and that the next day, was Mr. Wesson, and the contribution he made to the case was merely a depressed shake of the head and a long-drawn sigh. CHAPTER XII. A LITTLE GAME OF CARDS. The reader will doubtless have come to the conclusion that I was by this time tired of my bargain and wished Miss Marjorie May had never come across my path. On the contrary I was well satisfied with the way things were going, in the main. The ocean has a charm for me that nothing else can equal. The bracing effect of the sea air was being felt in every fibre of my frame. Miss May's coolness was not of a kind to annoy me seriously, and much better than the opposite extreme would have been. There was nothing like a breach between us. She was merely allowing me to get the full benefit of my voyage. I had never, at any time, feared that I would experience trouble in passing my time while on shipboard. My dread was of the days to be spent ashore, and for these she would be with me to divert my mind. The matter of the stolen ring was a mere incident of travel, and might have happened anywhere. The intrinsic value of the article was small. It would not be hard to replace it. Miss May asked me the day after the ring was missed if I knew anything about her roommate. She said it in a way that showed suspicion and set me to thinking. "Miss Howes" had plenty of jewelry of her own, and was hardly likely to purloin the turquoise; but I knew her to be rather "off color," and more open to suspicion than a woman of different character. I asked Capt. Fraser, the commander of the boat, what the record of the stewardess was, without leading him to guess my object, and when he told me I dismissed all thoughts against her. It might have been Miss Howes, it might have been one of the stewards. I urged Miss May to think of it as little as possible. But this was not to be. Miss Howes told her during the day that she also had lost some jewelry, taken from a bag that, more careful than Miss May, she had locked. The article consisted of a bracelet of the value of $300, and was a serious affair. Miss May was obliged to relate her own misfortune, and Mr. Howes, when the matter was brought to his attention, went straight to the captain with the news. A vigorous questioning followed of all the steward's staff, but without result. There was nothing to clear up the mystery. Miss Howes being certain that her bag was locked made the theft seem that of an expert, who was provided with keys. Her "uncle" thought it best after that to put the bag into his own steamer trunk, which had a peculiar lock that he did not believe could be opened except by force. Before night I discovered that a diamond stud, the only valuable jewel I ever wore, had been taken from my own room, but when I could not tell. I had not worn it on the trip, nor indeed for some time previous, and had carried it along merely because it happened to be in a small box with some cuff-studs and collar buttons. I locked my trunk after that, but said nothing about the loss. The next morning when Marjorie reported, with tears, that her earrings had also disappeared, I comforted her as well as I could, but I felt that both of us had been culpably careless in leaving our valuables about so loosely. Wesson learned of the loss of these jewels and said in a quiet way that he was going to try to unearth the rascal. He spent hours at a time in our room, listening for approaching steps in that part of the steamer, besides interviewing the ladies at length. I thought he acted as if suspicion might fall on himself, occupying quarters so near the scene of the theft, but this was of course ridiculous. Miss May had now made the acquaintance of several passengers, and had little need of my companionship. I got into the habit of spending considerable time in the smoking room, where cigars and cards were the attraction, besides an occasional story from a passenger. Of course, I played in a few games, sometimes for fun and oftener for a small stake. My luck is usually good, and I began to be pointed out as a man ahead of the game. One evening, on a very low limit indeed, I retired $75 ahead, though at the last I really tried my best to lose. Edgerly, who was on the opposite side, and had given up considerable of this coin, was one of the best-natured fellows I had ever seen. He was equally jolly whether luck was on his side or against him. I chummed with him more than with any of the other passengers, now that Wesson had gone into the business of amateur detective. Sometimes when I was with Miss May, Edgerly would come and sit by us, addressing an occasional remark to her. She had not learned to like him, however, and he did not find it very agreeable. "Miss Carney has never forgiven me for offering to assist her that day she came on deck," he said to me, once. "I meant well enough, I'm sure. I knew that she was in your party, for I saw you when you came on board, and I thought it as easy to help her as to call your attention to her presence." I made light of the matter, saying that my cousin was of a very retiring disposition and made few acquaintances when travelling. In talking with her afterwards I asked her to treat my friend as politely as she could, as I felt that she injured his feelings. "If he was a true gentleman he never would complain of such a little thing," she answered, coldly. "But, of course, I am in your service--" "Then do as I ask," I replied, shortly. "The next time he comes to speak to either of us, don't act toward him like a she-bear." She promised meekly to obey; and an hour later, when I went to look for my steamer chair I found Edgerly in it, apparently on very good terms with his neighbor. They were laughing over something at the moment, which seemed to please both mightily. Rejoiced at the change I did not make my proximity known, but went back to the smoking room. That evening the fact that we were to see our first land the next day was the general topic of conversation. Several of us who had made the voyage before were airing our wisdom, when Edgerly entered the smoking room and, slapping me a shade too familiarly on the back, asked if I was ready to give him his revenge for the times I had worsted him at poker. He was too evidently under the influence of liquor and I did not like to play with him while in that condition. When I made an excuse, however, the Albanian looked so downhearted that I altered my decision and said I would play him for anything from a glass of soda up. There was no need of putting our stakes on the table, as we were both supposed to be gentlemen. All I wanted was to leave the steamer at St. Thomas with none of his cash in my pocket. In this I succeeded, as will appear, even better than I could have hoped. In a quick succession of plays Edgerly convinced me that he had a hand which he could rely on. Before I hardly realized it, I had over $200 in the game. I heard a low whisper at my elbow. It was from Wesson and conveyed a warning to drop out at the earliest opportunity. Edgerly noticed what was up as quickly as I, and neither of us relished the interference. At that instant my opponent raised me $200 and having three aces I called. Edgerly's face lit up with joy as he exhibited a straight flush of diamonds, king at the head. Success had transformed my quiet friend. He put his hand on the cash which I counted out to him, uttering an exultant yell, as he gathered it up, $425. His exultation, or at least his manner of showing it, was quite out of place, I thought, in a game between friends; but I merely rose, and remarking that I would now take my evening stroll and smoke on deck, went out. The moon was at its full. In my admiration for its beautiful effect on the sea I forgot for the moment the folly of which I had just been guilty. But Wesson soon joined me, as was his nightly custom, and began to talk of what had just occurred. "Some other topic of conversation would please me better," I responded. "It is not a delightful reflection that one has been drawn into a course against which his better judgment distinctly warned him." "But the man is a fraud," he persisted. "He did not win your money honestly, and if I were you I would make him give it back." "Pshaw!" said I. "He's the better player, that's all. I lost my head and got over-excited. Now, we must drop the subject, as I wish to think of it no more." Seeing that I was determined, Wesson obliged me and nothing more was said about the unpleasant matter. The next morning Edgerly was not at the breakfast table. Some time later, as I was walking the deck, he came toward me, with a good-natured greeting, though his face bore evidence of the foolish amount of liquor he had swallowed the night before. "I'm afraid," he said, "that I won more of your money yesterday than I intended. I was astounded this morning when I counted what I had in my pocket. You must let me return at least a part of it. In a gentleman's game--" I interrupted with the statement that I had no fault to find and that I should not listen to any proposition of that nature. My pride was hurt by a suggestion that I would crawl out of the result of my own acts. "Oh, well, if you insist," he said, in a disappointed tone. "I am disgusted with myself for getting in that condition, which is something I seldom do. There is one thing you must do, however. Let me give you back the cash in exchange for a check or note. I would not for anything leave you short of ready money on a trip like this, and I know travellers seldom think it necessary to carry a great deal about them." I had not thought of that, but it did occur to me as he spoke that with two persons in my party, and a journey without fixed limits, I might, as he said, run short before I reached home again. There was nothing lowering to my pride in exchanging my check for the money he had won. I thanked Mr. Edgerly and said, on reflection, that if it really made no difference to him, I would write him a check for whatever sum he pleased to exchange. And I proceeded to do so for $350, as he named that figure. Wesson came up just as we parted, but I did not think it necessary to inform him of what had taken place. To tell the truth I did not exactly like the air of protector that he was putting on over me of late. It seemed impertinent when he warned me to leave the card table, just before my heavy loss, for I would rather a hundred times have dropped the amount than exhibit myself as a craven before my fellow passengers. Nor did I fancy his characterization of Edgerly as a sharper. I saw nothing to justify the assertion. He had taken his losses like a man when the luck ran my way, and no one, so far as I was aware, had indicated that I stacked the cards. I resolved to show Wesson, if he interfered any more in my affairs that I resented his conduct. He was a well meaning fellow and I had no wish to quarrel with him; but there are limits to forbearance. "Have you told any one on the steamer that you are going to leave at St. Thomas?" Miss May asked me, soon after breakfast, when the outlines of the island were in view. "The purser has our tickets. Why?" "If we could get away without any of the passengers knowing, I would be very glad. I hate good-bys. Everybody will go ashore. Let us be the last to leave, and put our baggage in a separate boat." I thought her reason a strange one, but she was to be my sole companion for a long time now, and I wished to please her in every way. I responded that I would do as she said, and even ask the purser not to mention my intention to any one. The warm clasp she gave my hand would have repaid me for a much greater effort to suit her. Her eyes shone with a new happiness and her cheeks, which had been pale ever since the boat left New York, took on a faint tinge of color. Lunch was served just before landing and at the table Edgerly asked me what there was to see on the island. I mentioned the points of particular interest, which to tell the truth are few, though the town of Charlotte Amélie is in itself well worth a visit. "I shall spend the day with old friends," I added. "I feel quite like a resident here." Only those who have sailed into this harbor will appreciate its special beauties. I had been a warm friend of the project of annexing the Danish Islands, consisting, besides St. Thomas, of St. Croix and St. John, to the possessions of the United States, ever since I was here before. While neither a jingo nor a land grabber, the value of St. Thomas from a naval standpoint is so apparent to one who will stop and think that I have hardly patience to argue the matter with opponents of the scheme. If the United States is to maintain a navy, an occasional coaling station somewhere away from the coast is of prime importance; and these islands are offered us for an insignificant sum by Denmark, who with her crippled commerce has no longer any use for them. St. Thomas has a harbor that can accommodate a great number of vessels, a floating dock, immense coal wharves, skilled artisans for the repair of ships, and a conformation from which could be made a small Gibraltar with reasonable expense. The Trans-Atlantic cable lands here, giving communication with all parts of the world. In case of a war with any European country the possession of St. Thomas would be of incalculable value to us. However much one may love peace, it is poor policy in these days to be unprepared for a conflict. China is the latest instance of a great country that finds itself open to the assaults of any fifth-rate power. When it was first proposed to sell St. Thomas to the American nation (in 1867, I believe) a vote of the inhabitants showed but 14 opposed to the plan. No European government has expressed the slightest objection to the purchase. I only hope that before this story is published a bill to that effect will have been signed by President M'Kinley. "Aren't you going ashore?" asked Mr. Wesson, as he passed down the stairs to a rowboat, in which the Howes, "uncle" and "niece," and Edgerly were already seated. Just then I heard my name called by a voice from an approaching skiff--my right name, this time. "Camran!" came the voice. It was awkward, but I must try to explain it as an error, in case anybody noticed. It was Edward Moron, agent of the line, whose acquaintance I had made in my former visit. I would have known his white helmet and Dundreary whiskers anywhere, but at the moment he was most inconvenient. I waved my walking stick in reply, and as soon as he could get on board he grasped my hand. Excusing myself from Miss May for a moment, I followed him some steps away. "Confound you!" I said, "my name is not Camran, but Camwell." "It used to be 'Camran,' I'll take my oath to that," he replied. "But, whatever name it is, how are you? Going to stop here, I hope." "Till evening," I answered, for I feared if I told him the truth he might tell it to other passengers, who would be sure to run across him. "Now, answer me a question. Is Eggert's place in quarantine?" It was not, for which I was profoundly grateful. If I was to stay in St. Thomas at all I wanted to stay at the Quarantine Station, where I had been before--the only quarantine in the world where a man is happier inside than out. I went to tell Miss May that we could go to Eggert's, and then to ask my stateroom steward to have my baggage brought on deck. "I don't want you to tell anybody that I leave the boat here," I said, flourishing a five dollar bill in his face. "Now, mind!" He promised. The baggage came duly up and two boats were engaged to take us directly to Eggert's. With the lightest heart I had known for a year, I helped my fair companion down and heard the oars of our negro boatmen splash in the waters of the harbor. CHAPTER XIII. BATHING IN THE SURF. There was something really delightful in the way Eggert received me. (I am not going to put "Mister" before his name--even his wife does not do that, in ordinary conversation.) He heard "Laps," the dog, barking violently and came to the veranda to ascertain the reason. "Do you know me?" I asked. "Know you!" he said, grasping both my hands heartily, and looking from me to Miss May. "Of course, I know you. Where did you come from? I am so happy to see you again!" I introduced my "cousin," and he gave her as cordial greeting as he had given me. "Why, even Laps knows you," he said, as the dog barked and capered around us. "Mother will be very glad to see you. You came on the Madiana? How good you were to think of us and come out here!" Mrs. Eggert soon appeared and answered my numerous questions. The eldest daughter was married and lived in the town. The children had gone there to spend the day, but would soon return. Of course we were going to remain to dinner. When I said we might stay a week or more, it was plain that we were very welcome. Rooms were assigned us, on one of the verandas, I having my old one, by special request, and Miss May the one next to mine. Eggert walked up and down with me, smiling broadly and talking of the old days when our party was quarantined there. There never was another party like it, he insisted. He produced a large photograph that he had taken of the entire group, with donkeys and negroes in the foreground. "This was your room," he said, indicating it. "Mr. A---- had the next one, Mr. H---- the next, Mr. Mapp the other, and so on. We never had a party like that before or since. You were all so good natured and had such a good time!" I responded that he did very well for us, which aided in our enjoyment, and that I had not thought of staying at a hotel unless his place was quarantined; which pleased him mightily. When Miss May retired to her room to arrange her dress, Eggert asked me slyly if she was to be the future Mrs. Camran. This reminded me that I had reached a fork of the road, where I must either take this whole family into my secret or explain my change of name to my companion. The latter was decided upon as the most feasible. When she emerged and drew a chair to the edge of the veranda to admire the prospect of land and sea I told her that henceforth she must call me by a new name. She looked inquiringly into my face. "Do you remember suggesting on the steamer," I asked, "that as we had to lie to others we ought to tell the truth among ourselves? Well, my name is Camran, not Camwell. The family here will call me by that name, and as there is no need of deceiving you, I will admit that it is the correct one." "But why," she asked, "did you use the other? Was it because you were afraid to trust me?" "Remember how little I knew you," I said. "Quite as well as I knew you," she replied, reproachfully. "And have you told me the entire truth in all things?" She reddened deeply. "Your name, then, is David Camran--am I right now?" she asked. "Donald Camran," I corrected. "That is my real name and henceforth you may call me so; unless we come across any of the Madiana's passengers, in which case consistency will compel you to use the old one." Miss May seemed agitated by my last remark. "How can we meet them?" she asked. "Is not our separation from them final?" "It is supposed to be; but how can we tell that some may not follow our example and stop off at one of the islands? In that case it is quite possible we may encounter them as we proceed on our journey." She did not seem to like the idea, but remained silent for some minutes. "Does any person, on the Madiana, know that the name in the passenger list is not your true one?" she said, finally. "Yes. Mr. Wesson knows; and Mr. Edgerly." She put her hand over her mouth with a quick motion, as if to suppress a scream. "How could you tell those casual acquaintances what you concealed from me?" she said, hoarsely. "What difference can it make? I was introduced to Wesson in the office of the steamship agent, some time before we sailed, as I remember telling you. We exchanged cards. When he afterwards saw the way my name was spelled on the list he asked me how it happened and I ascribed it to a printer's error. I added, that as all the passengers would probably call me Camwell, it was easier for him to do so than to explain the mistake to fifty people." "Yes," said Miss May, slowly. "And--Edgerly?" I thought she was awfully pressing, but I wanted to keep on good terms with her and I proceeded to account for his knowledge also. "Well, Miss Inquisitive, Edgerly's case was like this: He won a small sum of money from me at poker and was kind enough to offer to refund it, and take my check for the amount. Thinking I might want the ready money to buy you a paper of pins or something of that sort I accepted his proposal with thanks. Of course, he asked what right I had to sign the name of Donald Camran to the check, and of course, I told him of the agent's 'error' on the passenger list. There! Is there anything else you would like to know?" Saying this I took the hand nearest me in mine, to show that my bantering was entirely good natured, and was surprised to find it quite cold. "Marjorie!" I exclaimed. "You are ill!" She smiled faintly and admitted that she had a slight chill. I persuaded her to take a hot drink and went at once to prepare it. When I returned she had gone to her room and was bathing her face with cologne water. Her hair, which she had combed with care half an hour earlier, was much disarranged and her eyes were swollen. "Come in and sit down," she said. Then, as I hesitated, she added, "Oh, you can leave the door open." The door was a frame affair covered with mosquito bar, there being nothing more seclusive in the house. Cold weather never reaches St. Thomas at any time of year. I explained to her that to leave the door open was to invite the intrusion of insects. "I am going to lie down," she replied. "My head aches." She drank part of the liquid I had brought. "We can't be prudish," she said, then. "The door is practically open at all times, for it is free to admit light and sound. Are you afraid to be alone with me? Perhaps you had best send for one of the servants to guard you." "Or Laps?" I suggested, laughing. I entered and took a chair, while she arranged herself upon the bed, with pillows to prop her up into a half-sitting posture. "Don," she began. "You will let me call you Don?" "You can call me what you please," I said. "Don or anything else that begins with D. 'Dear' or 'Darling,' if that suits you better." I could not make her smile. "Are you very, very sorry you took me with you?" she asked, earnestly. "Not very, very." "But--you wish you hadn't?" I shook my head decidedly. "Of what use am I to you?" she asked. "Women were never made to be of use," I answered. "They are like bouquets, meant to fill the atmosphere with beauty and fragrance." "And--do I do that--for you?" I kissed the fingers she placed in mine. The smile came to her face at last. "I shall be ready to begin the typewriting to-morrow," she said. "I understand the machine now, I think, well enough." (She had practiced on it in her cabin on the Madiana, several days, for some hours.) "I shall be glad when I am doing a little to earn the salary you pay me." I made a grimace. The confounded record of my family's descent was far from interesting me at that moment. "You earn more than your salary every hour," I said. "I am immensely in your debt already. By the way, I must pay you what I owe, before the sum gets any larger. It is quite three weeks and you have had nothing." I counted out sixty dollars in gold coin and she took it without a word. She was always doing something strange and I had ceased to wonder. I had imagined that she would say it was too much--or that I had reckoned the date of service too far back, or something of that kind. "Would you bathe my head a little?" she asked, indicating the cologne. I bathed her forehead, and found it as much too hot as her hands were too cold. It had a soothing effect on me, as well as on her, this action. It made me feel as I had not felt before, that our fortunes were really for the time running in the same mold. "Perhaps you could sleep a little before dinner," I suggested, after a time. "Let me leave you to try." She thanked me and before my hand left her, she put it gratefully to her lips. She did not kiss it, but rather breathed upon it a sigh of appreciation. Thorwald and Ingeborg had just arrived from town and it was evident that the former's claim that he remembered me was founded on fact. The little girl was too young at my former visit to recollect anything about it, but she seemed to know me in a way and nodded when her mother asked if she did not remember my face in the photograph that hung in the dining room. Thorwald was now nine and about the finest specimen of a little man I have ever seen. His father could not conceal his pride in the boy, and I did not blame him. "Ah, I am very happy with that little fellow!" he said, repeatedly. I looked over the harbor just before dinner was served and saw the Madiana getting under way, bound for St. Croix (or Santa Cruz, as we are more apt to call it.) Eggert rigged his powerful telescope for me in the doorway, where I could see without being seen. I easily picked out the passengers who were on deck. Mr. and Miss Howes and Mr. Edgerly were in one group. They were talking earnestly, and I guessed that Miss May and myself were quite likely the subject of their conversation. I imagined them wondering whether our stay on shore was the result of design or accident. I hoped Howes was getting his money's worth and that his "niece" was satisfied with the fish she had caught with her Herald hook. As far as I could judge neither of them had thus far repented of their bargain. I could hardly believe the lady had taken Miss May's ring, that she had entered my room and walked off with my shirt-stud. There was a big difference, it seemed to me, between a love affair based on natural law and a deliberate theft. The mysterious disappearance of the jewelry would probably never be accounted for and I certainly cared very little about it. My companion came to the table, but ate sparingly. The meal suited me to perfection, especially the fresh fish, drawn that day from the Caribbean, which swarms in the most appetizing varieties. The butter came in tins from Denmark, and was not bad. There was a ragout, some cakes, plenty of oranges and "figs," as the small yellow bananas are called in the Islands, good black coffee and cheese, and a fine _petit verre_ of brandy to top off with. Eggert and his wife dined with us at my earnest request. The quarantine master filled up the time with little reminiscences of my former stay, which he remembered much better than I. He pointed to the exact spot where each of the "famous party" sat at the table and laughed himself nearly into a fit as he spoke of the jokes Mapp played on the good-natured Haytian Jew we had named from his home town--"Puerta Plata." One of the guests of that day was the grandson of an American president and another the son of an American senator, but that did not harm either. A more diversified party, it is safe to say, were never placed together in a quarantine, or made the time pass in livelier fashion. When dinner ended the Madiana was out of sight. Miss May's headache had vanished and she passed the evening with me on the veranda, inspecting the stars through the telescope. They seemed brighter and larger than in America and what knowledge I had of their names and locations (gained principally three years before from the grandson of the President, who was an amateur astronomer of no mean acquirements) I imparted freely. "You seem ever so much better in health than when we left New York," said my companion. "I am," was my reply. "The sea always does wonders for me. I have lost entirely the nervous feeling I had before we started." "I wish I could say as much," she said. "I dread, for instance, going to bed alone in this strange place. Those shadows dancing on the grass almost terrify me." "I will get Eggert to put a lock on your door," I said. "He must have one somewhere and he is an excellent carpenter." She shuddered till her teeth chattered. "Not for the world!" she said. "I could not sleep with the door locked. I should feel as if I were choking. There is always a chance that one may be taken ill and have to call for help. With a locked door, what could I do? No, no! I will conquer my fears, which I admit are foolish ones." "The station is surrounded by a high fence," I said, "and the gate cannot be unbarred from the outside. You are perfectly safe. My room is close by. If the slightest thing alarms you, you have only to speak." She breathed with difficulty. It was plain that her terrors were genuine. "You will come--if I call you?" she asked. "Assuredly." "Do you sleep as lightly as that?" "I sleep like a child, as a general thing; but my name spoken by your voice will wake me instantly." We went to her door, where she parted from me with little ceremony and in twenty minutes I was unconscious. The night passed without the summons from her that I half expected. In the morning she admitted that after some delay she had gone to sleep and enjoyed a good rest. Among the articles we brought was a bathing suit for each of us, for I remembered the pleasant beach at the foot of the rocks. At five o'clock, to escape the burning rays of the sun which rises soon after, Miss May came from her room, looking as pretty as can be imagined. Her sleeveless arms were even rounder than I had anticipated, and her low-cut vest told a pleasant tale. The long black hose were filled symmetrically and the short skirt revealed just enough to make the picture enchanting. "You look wonderfully well in that costume," she said, evidently to anticipate what I was going to say. So I contented myself with replying, "And you." The water was quite warm enough and we enjoyed the surf hugely. What I did enjoy however, was the sight of a man on the veranda of Eggert's, apparently awaiting our return. No less a person, in short, than Mr. Wesson, our late fellow passenger, whom we supposed forty miles away at St. Croix! CHAPTER XIV. "OH! THIS NAUGHTY BOY!" As has been intimated once or twice before, I had modified to some degree the liking I at first entertained for Mr. Wesson. He interfered in my affairs rather more than was to my taste. I had never placed myself under his guardianship. He had no right to advise or to warn me on any subject whatever. As I beheld him on the veranda at Eggert's I saw in his presence a new impertinence which I was far from relishing. If there had been any way to avoid him I would have done so gladly. Of course Miss May had no means of knowing what was in my mind. She therefore waved her hand to Wesson as soon as she recognized his face and on coming nearer gave him a cordial welcome. "Well, this is a surprise!" he exclaimed, glancing from one of us to the other. "You did not tell me you intended to stop at St. Thomas and I supposed you still on the Madiana." "How comes it you are here, yourself?" I asked, pointedly. "I do not recollect that you expressed any intention of leaving the boat." "Did I not?" he asked, as if surprised. "I could have sworn I did until you spoke. I certainly made you talk about this island, for hours at a time, and I thought you understood it. I feel almost as well acquainted with Mr. Eggert and his family, through your descriptions, as if I had actually been here before. Being an early riser I inquired the way this morning, at the Hotel du Commerce, and walked out to see the place you had made so attractive. One of the darkies let me in at the gate, and here I am." It was plain enough now. He had supposed I understood his intention, though he had never, I was sure, put the statement into words. He had as much right there as I, if it came to that. There was really no reason why I should treat him uncivilly. Miss May went on to her room and I waited a moment before going to mine. "Now you are here," I said, "you will of course take breakfast with me--or at least coffee, if you are in too much haste to wait longer." "I'm not in the least haste," he responded, "and I accept your invitation with great pleasure." "I've found an old friend here, Mr. Eggert," I said, as that individual appeared in a doorway. "We came on the Madiana together." Asking Eggert to entertain him for a little while I went to dress. Miss May heard me come in and spoke through the thin partition between our rooms. "You didn't act overjoyed to see Mr. Wesson," she said. "No. He's a sort of 'third person makes a crowd,' you know." "You're a selfish fellow. But wasn't that bath delightful!" "Perfection. Did I overstate it, when I described it to you yesterday?" "Not in the least--ough!" "What is the matter?" "I've stuck a pin in my finger." "I'm _so_ sorry!" Then followed sounds which indicated that the finger was being placed in her mouth to assuage the pain. "What a pity you are not a girl!" she said, a little later. "You could help dress me and save a lot of trouble." "I could help dress you without that awful alternative," I replied. "I am like the pilot in the story, I know every rock in the harbor." "Oh, I've no doubt. Look out, like that same pilot, you're not wrecked on one of them some day." "Can you manage a string tie?" I asked, as a more important subject was forced on my attention. I always made a mess of that operation and this morning my luck was worse than usual. "Easily," she said. "Do you want me to fix yours?" "I wish you would." "I will, with pleasure," she said. "Come in here when you are ready; or, shall I come there?" "For goodness' sake don't come just yet!" I exclaimed, thinking I heard her step. "I am not at all prepared. In fact that tie is about the only article of dress I have on." "Don't be afraid," came the mocking tones. "I am in much the same situation. Fifteen minutes from now we will both be ready, and then I shall be at your service." After several minutes of silence I inquired whether any more pins had proved unruly. "No, I'm getting on pretty well. Say, can you get at your soap?" "Why, do you want some?" "Yes." "How can I get it to you?" "Put on your morning gown and come to my door." I did so, with the cake of soap in my hand and met my companion, somewhat similarly arrayed, holding out a bare arm. She did look to my eyes at that moment wonderfully pretty. "Come, Marjorie," I said, dropping into the affectionate form, "you might let me in for a minute or two. You don't know how becoming that attire is." "I know all about it. I've been looking in the glass. Hurry up and finish dressing. I will meet you on the veranda." Wesson came along at that moment with Eggert and smiled. I resented that smile. It meant a hundred things that he had no right to surmise; besides, they weren't true. "It is perfectly lovely here," he commented, to Eggert as much as to me. "My friend Camwell has not misrepresented it in the least." "Camran," corrected Eggert, for which I could have punched his head. Were they going to argue that point over between them? "Camran, I should have said," corrected Wesson. "Could I make arrangements to come out here and board while I remain on the island?" "Damn!" I exclaimed, under my breath, but Marjorie heard me through the partition. "What is the matter?" she asked, sympathetically. "Has something pricked you, too?" "Yes," I said, for the couple on the veranda had moved out of hearing. "Something I don't like. What do you think that confounded Wesson is saying to Eggert?" "I don't know." "He wants to come out here and board." "Well, that idea does credit to his judgment." "But it will put me to lots of bother." "I don't see how." "Why, if he moves out here, you and I will have to move up to the town." She digested this statement for a while, during which she put the finishing touches to her toilet. Then she asked if I was in suitable condition for her to come to my door. "Come and see," I retorted. "I've got on much more than either of us had when we strolled down to the beach an hour ago. I think I heard somebody say yesterday that there was no need of being too prudish." "But at that time I wasn't feeling well." "And at this time I'm feeling devilish bad, myself." She came slowly, with little stops, at which she renewed her inquiries and asked for fuller information. When she finally arrived I proved to be completely dressed with the exception of the tie and a morning coat, and we had a laugh together. "You didn't really mean that you would leave here just on account of Mr. Wesson's coming?" she said, interrogatively, as she arranged the tie. "Yes," I replied, holding up my head to give her fingers full play. Her breath was in my nostrils, sweet breath that made me think of meadows and new-mown hay. "What harm can he do us?" "He'll be continually in the way." "He seems very polite always." "That's just the trouble," I snarled. "If he would only get ugly I could have it out with him in a minute. If he would keep at one end of the veranda while we were at the other, all would be well. He won't do that. He'll be good natured, sociable, all that sort of hateful thing. The quarantine grounds measure only five acres and there's not room enough here for any other man, while it is your residence." She was so near that I could have snatched a kiss before she could stop me. I would almost as soon have bitten her. "Eggert?" she said, tentatively. "He's got to go, too, then?" "No, I make an exception of Eggert. But Wesson--I simply can't have him here. Either he must go, or I shall." We had passed the coffee hour, forgetting it in the pleasure of the bath and the labor of dressing. The regular breakfast was now announced. I determined to be as agreeable to Wesson as I could, but I did not think Eggert need to have placed him on the other side of Marjorie, next to her. Still, how was he to know? "I have been talking with our host about coming out here for awhile," said Wesson, as we were breakfasting. "It is ever so much pleasanter than in the town." He must have seen, in spite of my efforts, that I did not enthuse over the idea, for all I could say was "Ah," and wait for him to proceed. "I hardly think I will do it, though," Wesson went on to say, eyeing me narrowly. "I have a very comfortable room at the hotel. If you don't mind my coming out for a stroll occasionally"--he looked alternately at Miss May and at me--"I think it would help me get over my lonesomeness." Marjorie did not wait to consult me, but said she was sure he would always be welcome. She added that some literary work she and I had to do would keep us very busy for the present. To my joy, Wesson settled his plans on the spot, as he had outlined them. We were to be left alone, after all. Soon after rising from the table Wesson started back to town. I hoped as I saw his form disappear that he did not think I had been discourteous in not endorsing his scheme to make my life a burden. "Now," said Marjorie, brightly, as he vanished through the gate, "let us get to work. You can't imagine how happy I shall be to find myself of use after this long vacation." I got out the memoranda required, from the bottom of a trunk, and arranged the writing machine on a little "dressmaker's table" which I had brought, folded up in a tray. It was exactly the right height, and took up hardly more room than a chess board--I mean the table, of course. For an hour I tried to put the genealogy in shape, and then threw it up with an exclamation of disgust. "Confound the thing! I'm going to drop it for to-day," I said. "It's dryer than dust." Marjorie obediently put away the machine at my suggestion, saying that perhaps we would begin again after lunch. I told her that the next three hours after lunch were sacred to Morpheus, and that we were now in a region where it was impossible to resist the drowsy god with impunity. We drew our rocking chairs together and talked, and I was very happy. Sometimes I took one of her hands in mine. It was very sweet to have her there. "It is going to be dull for you," I suggested, after a time. "Whenever you can bear it no longer say so, and we will move on." "I am in your employ," she answered, "and shall stay or go, as you bid me." "Marjorie," I exclaimed, suddenly, "have you ever been in love?" "I would rather talk on some other subject," she replied, soberly. "Then I know you have. Tell me, is he living? is he still single? do you expect to marry him?" She closed her mouth tightly and I knew no way to open it. "I am such a foolish fellow!" I added. "Does it surprise you to learn that? I don't want you to love any one, or even to think of any one while you are with me. I want you to like me very much indeed." She turned her face toward me and surveyed me leisurely with those blue-gray eyes. "I do like you," she said, kindly, "but--" "You think I demand too much for my twenty dollars a week," I said, with an attempt to be merry. "I know I do. I realize that my contract with you was for typewriting services. There is no doubt you can hold me to that bond if you so elect. All I want to say is, I am like most contractors--and mean to better my bargain, if I can." "What do you want?" she asked, in clear, distinct tones. "We have agreed not to lie to each other. What do you want?" I rose and looked out upon the sea. A tiny sail was visible in the distance. "I want a closer friendship with you," I replied, after studying the form of words. "I think we are pretty close friends already," she said. "I would not have believed, had I been told by some fortune-teller in New York, that in ten days we would be on such perfectly intimate terms." I resumed my seat and stretched my arms above my head. "Why, this--this is nothing!" I said. "I was afraid you would take that view of it," she answered, soberly, "and I hope you will permit me to resume the position called for in what you term our 'contract.'" I was alarmed by her words and the way she spoke them. She might take a notion to carry that idea into effect, and what a dull existence I would have then. "You certainly agreed to act as a 'companion' to me," I reminded her. "And though I have been much more than that, you are still discontented! I have acted as if I had known you for years; in fact, that is exactly the way I feel. You may think me forward--I fear you do--but I have only tried to be natural. You talk to me as to a friend; I reply in the same strain. You take my hand in yours; I do not withdraw it. You call me to arrange a tie; I come as freely as if you were my brother. My head aches; I ask you into my chamber, lie down and submit to your manipulations with the cologne. If all this means nothing to you, as you say, it means very much to me. It means that I like you, trust you, believe you what you claimed to be--when you first told me of this plan--a gentleman." She had put me in the dock and was reading a sort of left-handed indictment, to which I had no intention of pleading guilty. "Listen, Marjorie," I replied. "You must not misunderstand. If any cloud comes between us it will not originate with me, knowingly. If you knew the life I have led hitherto--which you never will--you would realize what an ungovernable chap I am, and how much forbearance you are going to need. I am perfectly contented. If I can make you happy on this journey my greatest object will be accomplished. Tell me how I can best secure that result?" "By not talking about it," she said, with a smile. "And by remembering at all times that the greatest chivalry is due a woman who has placed herself absolutely in your power--to make or mar her life." "If you would only give me one kiss when you say that so prettily," I began-- "Breaking the rules already?" said Miss May, with an admonishing finger. "Oh, this naughty boy! what shall be done with him?" CHAPTER XV. WESSON BECOMES A NUISANCE. It did not seem as if we were likely to have any serious trouble. After a couple of days we actually got down to work on the family tree and began to make some progress. Miss May showed an astonishing aptitude on the unfamiliar instrument, as well as a grasp of the subject we were trying to put into shape. Her white fingers flew over the keys, her quick mind suggested improvements in my phraseology, and she never exhibited the slightest sign of fatigue. Once at it we made a regular thing of working from seven in the morning till eleven, except for a fifteen minute rest, and made the progress that such devotion warranted, to the immense satisfaction of us both. Those days were much alike. We always rose in time to take our ocean plunge at five and the bath never grew less exhilarating. We took coffee at half past five, breakfast at half past six, lunch at twelve, slept from one till four; strolled about the grounds or up to the town--or took a boat ride till seven; dined; talked nonsense on the veranda or played a game of whist with Eggert and his wife till ten, and then went to bed. On Sunday we went to church, for Miss May wanted to go and I could not let her go alone. She had a nice little prayer book which she carried in a most becoming way and she was certainly the prettiest woman in the house. Wesson was there and looked devotional, though his eyes wandered in our direction more than I liked. I began to have an incipient jealousy of the man. It got to be almost a regular thing that he came out to breakfast. Sometimes he stayed and talked with Eggert for an hour after Miss May and I had fastened ourselves down to work. Eggert liked him, which was natural, for he was always bringing something for the children. He had a cigar case, too, that was at anybody's call, filled with Havanas that were mighty good and had paid no duty, St. Thomas being a free port. Then, of course, he paid for his breakfasts, no doubt liberally. One evening when I walked up to town alone, I found him on my return chatting with Miss May in altogether too confidential a manner. I wondered how long he intended to stay at St. Thomas. He acted quite as if he had been naturalized there. Well, we should certainly see the last of him on February 6th, when the "Pretoria" would arrive and bear us away. Wesson stayed to dinner, though I don't know that any one invited him--probably he found the item in his bill. But he went early to town, which was better than nothing. That evening something strange happened. I was looking over a small stock of books that Eggert kept in a case. There was not much choice, for the subjects were mostly dry ones, though I don't know as he will thank me for saying so. I happened to light on the only modern work in the lot, after a long hunt, and brought it to the lamp. It was entitled "Our Rival, the Rascal," if I do not mistake, and was made up of letter-press and illustrations relating to prominent criminals of the day, the work of some heads of a police department, I believe. On the principle of any port in a storm it was worth spending a half hour over. I asked Eggert where he got it and he said it had been given him by a quarantined American not many months before. He looked over my shoulder for awhile as I turned the leaves, and commented openly on the villainy in the great world outside his quarantine fence and little lighthouse, with an air of simplicity that was charming. There were the lineaments of bank robbers, murderers, sneak thieves, shoplifters, etc., by the score, evidently photographed in some cases against their will, with a sketch of the career that entitled each to this dizzy seat of fame. Once in awhile I recognized a name, that had appeared in the newspapers, but the majority were rascals with whom I was wholly unfamiliar. Marjorie was working with a needle at the other end of the room, talking in a low tone with Mrs. Eggert. It occurred to me presently that the book might interest her, and I asked her to come to me. Mrs. Eggert went to see about some household duty and Miss May and I were left quite alone. "Are you interested in criminology?" I asked my companion, as she took the chair by my side. "If you are, here is entertainment for you." She stared at me vacantly, and when I turned one of the pages to her she caught at her throat as if choking. "Oh, this is awful!" she gurgled. "How could you show a thing like that to me?" "My darling," I protested, soothingly, "I did not know you would feel that way. This is a book that Eggert has just lent me and I thought it might interest you." "It is horrible!" she said, going to the open door as if for air. "The one glance I took was quite enough. What good can it do to print the faces of those unhappy people? It seems like catching a rat in a trap and bringing it out for dogs to tear." She shut her eyes and stood there, still panting. What a nervous organism she had, to be sure! "I will put it back on the shelf," I said, "and you shall never think of it again. I seem fated to wound your tender feelings. Dear little girl, you know I do not mean to." But it was she who would not drop the subject. "It is shameful to print such a book," she repeated. "It is like a proposal made just before we left America, to publish the names on the pension roll." I had an opinion on the latter suggestion, decidedly in its favor. So I explained that it was feared there were names on the list that ought not to be there and believed that a publication of the roll would result in weeding these out. "And at the same time expose the honest poverty of half a million brave men!" she said. "All my people were on the Southern side, but I admire courage and devotion, wherever it is found. To expose the recipient of these pensions merely in the hope of detecting a few dishonest ones is shameful! So with that awful book. Some of the men pictured there may be trying to redeem themselves. What chance will they have with their faces exhibited everywhere? Oh, Don, Don! You seem a tender hearted man. How can you endorse such a wicked, cruel thing?" I said I did not wish to argue the matter, but I understood from the preface that only persons belonging to the criminal class by profession were pictured in the book. The miserable man who had made his one error was not in the list at all. "But who can tell," she said, growing earnest, "that even some you mention have not repented of their acts and are trying to redeem themselves? Did you never read these words of Shakespeare? "Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once, And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy!" We went to the other side of the veranda, where the moon was shining beautifully, and took chairs side by side. I gradually succeeded in turning my companion's thoughts from the disagreeable trend into which I had brought them, and for several hours we discussed other matters. We spoke in low tones, for after a short time we were the only persons awake on the premises. We both grew to feel the spell of the Queen of Night, nowhere more lovely than over the Caribbean. Our hands wandered together and I felt strange thrills that made me wish I were even closer to the lovely being at my side. In spite of the promises I had made--to her and to myself--I could not help talking nonsense. "What harm would it do," I said, at 11 o'clock, "when I leave you at your door at night, if you gave me just a little--a very little--kiss? It would sweeten my slumbers, I am sure, and it wouldn't hurt you." "It would sweeten your slumbers--perhaps," she replied, soberly. "And it would drive mine away entirely. Do you think that a fair transaction?" I chose to answer that I thought she was acting cruelly and added that if she was going to treat me in that way I would go to bed at once. She was evidently agitated by my manner, for when we reached her door she stopped. "I am going to tell you something," she said, impressively. "Yes, at the risk of lowering myself in your estimation, unless you bid me pause." "How can I, when I do not know what you are going to say?" I demanded. "Then you wish to hear it?" I nodded, curious to learn what was in her mind. Looking with eyes that scintillated into mine she said, impressively, "Don, you cannot possibly want that kiss more than I want to give it!" "Well," I answered, delighted at her communication. "What prevents you? I promise, on my honor, not to scream--nor even to tell." "If I leave you to decide," said Miss May, with lips that whitened at the words, "what will you advise me?" A chilly breeze swept along the veranda. The figure of Statia Barton came across my vision, with her finger uplifted in warning. Out on the ocean I saw a wave that was transparent and beneath it a beautiful figure, cold and dead. I raised one of her hands to my lips and breathed a sigh upon it. I was quieted so easily! "Good night," I said, with emotion. "Good night," she replied. "You do not--no, you do not hate me?" I had turned away, but I faced her again. "I am--afraid--I love you," I said. "It was not in the compact, I did not mean to do it, but I'm afraid--I love you." She entered her door and I passed to my room. Pulling off my clothes at haphazard I threw them on a chair and donned my pajamas. The bed was hard. I turned every way to no purpose. Sleep would not come. At last I sat up, then opened my door noiselessly and stepped barefooted upon the veranda. Marjorie's light was still burning. The objects in her room showed with perfect distinctness through her screen door. I paused as if petrified at the sight before me. In her white nightrobes she was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands. It was beauty prostrate before its God, doubtless uttering a petition that he would protect her from evil. I paced up and down the veranda noiselessly for half an hour. When I paused again before Miss May's door, the light was extinguished and I could see nothing. "Marjorie," I whispered. "Yes, Don." "Forgive me. I will not offend you again." "Yes, Don. Would--would you like to come in and bathe my head? It aches a little." "I cannot, Marjorie. Shall I call Mrs. Eggert?" "Her hands are not like yours." It was a severe struggle, but I told her I must not come in-that if she would think a minute she would see I must not. She said "Very well," and we exchanged good-nights. I went to my couch very proud of the victory I had won over myself--prouder than it seems to me now I should have been. We must both have slept some, for I was aroused by hearing Laps barking, and Marjorie had not made her appearance when the hands of my watch pointed to half past five. She told me through the partition that she did not feel like bathing that morning, and I decided to omit the bath myself. The barking of Laps was caused by the arrival of Mr. Wesson, whom I blamed without much reason for the headache I had awakened with. The fellow irritated me exceedingly and I made up my mind to get away from the Island without waiting for the Pretoria, if there was any feasible way to do it. CHAPTER XVI. IT IS FROM A GIRL. The arrival of letters, both for myself and Miss May, the next day, made me forget everything else till mine were read and answered. I had not looked for them so soon and do not know yet what course they took to reach us. It is supposed to be a rule of the postal department to forward all mail by the most expeditious route, but previous experience in the Caribbean had taught me that the rule is reversed there in most cases. Eggert brought the things to us, having had sense enough to inquire at the office when he knew a steamer was in. Miss May had taken the precaution to have hers addressed "Care Miss M. Carney," after I told her she would be weighted with this title, and her friends supposed, no doubt, that the unfamiliar name represented the proprietress of a hotel or boarding house. She gave a joyful cry as I held two letters out to her, made the usual feminine inquiry if that was all, and retired to a corner by herself to read them, like a dog with a bone. The first letter I opened was from Tom Barton, the second from his sister. Tom's was merely a recital of the latest happenings that he thought might interest me, and expressions of hope that I would derive great benefit from my cruise. Statia's was a homily on the beauty of holiness and a sermon on the alleged fact that wicked deeds are often punished nearer home than in that subterranean place of extreme heat of which most moderns have begun to doubt. She was evidently in about the same frame of mind as when I last saw her, but I was too glad to know that she cared enough about me to write at all to be severely critical. I liked Statia. She filled a place in my heart that had been vacant before--a sort of sisterly place, as near as I can tell--and I resolved while reading to curb my tendency to joke when I answered her and take a weight off her mind if I could. The next letter was a formal one from Uncle Dugald, reading like an official document. And the only remaining one was--of all things--from Miss Alice Brazier, who had adopted my suggestion and renewed her injunctions at the expense of a five cent stamp. I expected something from Harvey Hume, and when I looked over the odd packages of printed matter I detected his handwriting on several of them. Like Mary of old, he had chosen the better part, and had contributed as much to my happiness as either of the others. Six daily papers and three magazines, besides a new novel, bore his fist on their wrappers, and he had broken the laws of the postoffice by scribbling on stray corners certain "God bless you's!" for which I hope he will be forgiven. "Do you want to read a letter I have received, warning me against you?" I asked, laughingly, going to where Miss May sat. "Or perhaps, to state it more accurately, warning you against me; at least, warning us against each other." She looked rather startled at my first observation and held out her hand for the missive as I finished. I sat down beside her, prefacing an actual exhibition of the note from Miss Brazier by a reminder that I had informed her early in our acquaintance of the lady's answer to my Herald advertisement. She read the note through, as I held it in my hands, and when she had finished wore a very sober face. "This seems to amuse you," she said, regarding me with a strange look. "I do not see why it should. The person who wrote that is actuated by the sincerest regard for your welfare. It would have been much better for you had you taken her on this journey instead of me." "But," I answered, lightly, "it would not have been half so well for you, which is why I did not do it. I want you to understand that I am not here for my own health, but yours. As for Alice Brazier, she wrote me, when she found I would not take her, anyway--that she was surprised at the 'nerve' of the successful applicant." "I am surprised at it myself," said Miss May, refusing to laugh. "I grow more and more surprised at it every day." "I suppose you wish me to believe you are sorry," I said, bridling just the least bit. "No, my dear Don," she replied, gently, "I am very glad I came. It is not that which troubles me. It is the thought that some day it will end." "That thought would spoil the pleasure of life itself," I said, much mollified nevertheless. "I would advise you not to become a monomaniac. Take some of these papers and get into touch again with the planet on which we used to live." She looked them all over, scanning the dates. "Why, who sent you these ancient things?" she said. "The very latest is dated January 18th." "Well, did you expect yesterday morning's?" I asked. "Have you forgotten that we are some little distance from Manhattan Island?" She smiled at last, as the recollection of our situation with regard to news came over her, and thanking me, began to look over the papers, beginning with the day after we left. I took the next one and for some time this occupied us. When either encountered anything of general interest there was an interruption, followed by prolonged silence. "Are you going to answer that letter of Miss Brazier's?" Miss May asked, all of a sudden. "Why? Would you?" "Yes; in a very formal way." Was she attacked with incipient jealousy of this unknown one, even while she approved of her counsel? "All right," I said. "I will let you dictate the words." "What other letters did you get?" she inquired. I showed them to her. She wanted to know what each contained; and when I spoke of Statia, though I did not mention her name, the same smouldering fire flashed up slightly as in Miss Brazier's case. "Who is that lady?" she asked. "The sister of my dearest masculine friend." "Why does she write to you?" "For the same reason as the other girl, to give me good advice." She had to ask the next question. "Is there no love affair between you?" "Not the slightest. I did not think she would even condescend to write a line." Miss May drew a long breath, and then, as if ashamed of the interest she had shown, buried her face in the newspaper. "If you have finished with your cross-questionings," I remarked, "I will take a hand. Who are your letters from?" She clung to the envelopes as if she feared I would try to wrest them from her. "A friend," she answered, frigidly. "Two friends, at least. One is directed in the handwriting of a man. Now, Marjorie, I am not going to permit that sort of thing. I draw the line at male correspondents while you are travelling with me." Hesitating an instant she laid the envelope of which I spoke in my lap. "Read it," she said, looking me full in the eyes. "Not unless you wish me to," I answered. "I do wish it." "Really?" "Yes." "I must refuse to oblige you, for the first time, and I hope the last. I would not read that letter, under any circumstances," I replied. "Then I will read it to you," said Miss May, and she read as follows: Dear Marjorie:--I hope you are well and happy in that far-off land, with the gentleman who has engaged you as secretary, and that you have had no cause to regret accepting his offer. I have no great fears for you, believing that a wise girl will so conduct herself as to disarm the most persistent man, if temptation comes. If Mr. Camwell is all you believed him when last I saw you, your journey must be a continuous delight. If he proves the contrary I shall be sorry, for he can make your path a miserable one, but my confidence in you will be unshaken. The other girls all send love and best wishes. I shall look anxiously for the first letter from you. Mr. Barnard, the cashier, has promised to address my envelope and put on the right stamp. Your Friend, HELEN. I glanced at the writing, which was certainly that of a woman, and again at the envelope, quite as surely in the penmanship of a man. "It is from a girl who used to write in the same office as I," said Miss May. "Now you must hear the other one." But this I absolutely refused to do. She was putting me in a position I did not covet. I said I had some letters to write and would go to my room for awhile. Miss May did not press her point further, but said she would take the time to answer her own letters, if I did not need her. For the next hour I pushed my pen over the stationery, replying to the missives I had received, and also sending brief notes to several of my other friends. When this was finished I went to Miss May's door to speak to her, and found her absent. Looking over the veranda railing I saw her at some distance, frolicking with Laps, the dog, apparently having recovered her spirits, which were rather low when I left her. Glancing back into her room I noticed that a letter she had just written lay open upon the table. To save my soul I could not resist going in, taking it up and reading it. My curiosity about her was intense. There might be something in this letter, either to confirm my belief in her or to dash it to the ground. At any rate, though the act was repulsive to my nature, I could not help taking advantage of the opportunity. Dear Helen [was the way the letter read]:--Many thanks for your sweet note. I am glad to say I can set your mind at rest at once regarding my fate. Mr. C. is one of the kindest men I ever knew. I have lost the apprehension which I had in regard to him during the first few days of our voyage and am as happy as I hoped to be when I told you of the engagement. I only wish you could have seen him before we sailed. You would not wonder I was so pleased to go, though, of course, I had to hide my feelings when talking with him about it. I will try to describe him to you. He is rather above the medium height, four or five inches taller than I, I should think. His hair is brown. He wears a mustache, but no beard--a nearly blonde mustache that adds a charm to a sensitive and finely cut mouth. His eyes are hazel. He is slightly pale, owing to the illness of which I told you, but he has gained immensely since we started. When he smiles I never saw a more engaging countenance; when he is troubled the clouds are like those of a summer sky, and the first puff of wind blows them away. I do not mean to tell you he is perfect in everything. He has not led the best life always, I am afraid, and with a different woman for his constant companion there might be a another story to tell. But when he shows signs of getting unruly, I never fail to quiet him with the right word. He is a gentleman, after all, and I am sure he will never be else than that to me. Helen, dear, I must tell you a great secret. I have all I can do to prevent myself falling head over ears in love with the man. If I were an unscrupulous young woman I believe I could make him care a great deal for me. As I look at it, such a course would be wholly disreputable. He is impulsive and might say things he would regret later in his life. So I keep my heart as quiet as I can, in his presence. He will not guess what I have confided to you and what I never shall tell to another. If I were of his social grade--if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal as a husband. Such thoughts, alas! are not for Your Poor Friend, MARJORIE. St. Thomas, W.I., Jan. 29, 1898. My hand trembled so before I had half read this letter that I could not make out the lines. I had to put it down to finish it. Twice I crept to the door to see if Miss May was still on the lawn, playing with Laps. She was there, absorbed in her amusement and I finally finished it unchallenged. Then I left the room and went to my own, where I fell from sheer weakness upon my bed. Marjorie loved me! The reflection was overpowering. She was battling not only against me but against her own affections. I was absolutely dumfounded. What a train of thought swept through my heated brain! At one instant I resolved to offer her my hand in marriage that very day and have the ceremony performed in the evening, by one of the clergymen of Charlotte Amelie, with Eggert and his wife as witnesses. At the next I planned a slow campaign to win her, which, with the evidence in my possession, could have but one result. The slower way would bring the most pleasure, if I could persuade myself to patience. Again, the vision of my Uncle Dugald rose before me, mutely protesting against an alliance with one of whom I knew practically nothing. Then Tom Barton and Statia joined the procession, shaking their heads dolefully. Miss May's voice at my door aroused me to a sense of my condition and I bade her come in, if she was not afraid. She came quietly, removing as she did so her straw hat. A steamer had just entered the harbor, she said, that I might like to see. I always wanted to inspect each craft, and she supposed I would not like to miss this one. I sat up and listened to her in a half daze. How little she knew that the burning secret under her calm exterior was already in my possession. "Marjorie! Marjorie!" I could only repeat the name in the joy of my discovery; repeat it to myself, lock it in the recesses of my inmost bosom. I bathed my face, after which she took my brush and arranged my hair for me. How delicious her hands on my head! Some day they would be mine, and forever! I suffered her to lead me out of doors and set me a chair before the telescope, which she arranged to command a view of the incoming steamer. Eggert came while we were there, with a little trouble on his mind. The book that had annoyed Marjorie so--that copy of "Our Rival, the Rascal," had disappeared from his bookcase, and he wanted to know if either of us had seen it. Miss May shook her head with disgust, while I responded that I had left it on the table the night he showed it to me, and had never picked it up again. Eggert turned to the steamer I was watching through the glass and said he had known for an hour what it was--his seaman's eye had told him that when only the tops of her smokestacks were visible. It was going down the islands, he said, and would make its next stop at St. Croix. An idea sprang into my head. Here was an opportunity to escape the daily visits of Mr. Wesson! I asked how soon she would leave. Eggert said probably in an hour. "We must pack our things at once, then," I exclaimed. "I have reasons for wanting to get to St. Croix to-day, and this is a chance not to be missed." Eggert pleaded with me to wait for the Pretoria, as I had first intended, but I would not listen. I wanted action; the excitement of departure was just the thing in my state of mind. Miss May dutifully went to her chamber and put her things in their receptacles, coming afterward to mine and helping me appreciably. The covers were down, the keys turned in the locks, the typewriting machine in its bag, and everything ready in thirty minutes. As I left my room my attention was attracted to Miss May, who was talking earnestly with some one from the adjoining veranda. I soon saw that little Thorwald was below, with a handsome mongoose in a trap, which he was exhibiting to her with much pride. "What are you going to do with that poor creature?" she asked the lad. "Going to kill him," he answered, in his sharp, clear way. "Why do you want to kill that helpless thing?" "Why I want to kill the mongoose?" he repeated. "You better ask why the mongoose want to kill my chickens. No, that little mongoose will never trouble my chickens any more." "Will you sell him to me?" she asked, earnestly. "You want to buy a mongoose?" asked the boy, incredulously. "No, you can never tame him. He will only bite you. See:" (he put down the trap and pushed a stick into the wire cage, which the animal bit ferociously.) "I don't think you want to buy that mongoose." "But I do want to buy him," she insisted. "I will give you a dollar for him." (It is a strange fact that the terms of trade are generally spoken of in United States money in these islands, even where the only coins are European.) "You will give me a dollar for the mongoose?" said Thorwald's bright voice. "Yes, I will gladly give you a dollar for him." "You may have him," said the child, hanging up the cage and receiving the money, evidently hardly able to credit his eyes. "But the mongoose is not worth one cent." Taking the trap to the ground on the other side of the house, Miss May lost no time in releasing the little prisoner from his bondage, whereupon he vanished with all speed in the shrubbery. She gave Thorwald his dollar, and as she came to where I stood, there were tears in her bright eyes. I kissed the children hastily, handing them at the same time some small pieces of silver, settled my bill, directed the negroes who were summoned about the baggage, said good-by to everybody, from the Master to the scullery maid, and started down the long path to the boat. In ten minutes more we were being rowed toward the steamer, and a quarter of an hour later were safe on board. As soon as our chairs were arranged on deck and we had dropped into them I felt the old weakness coming on. I could not endure such a strain without showing evidence that I had not yet wholly recovered my form. I asked a steward who happened to pass, to get me a brandy-and-soda. "Close your eyes and try to sleep," said my companion, soothingly, as to a sick child. "You have been overdoing for the last hour." I took her hand and tried to obey her. That dear little hand on which I would one day put the symbol of a love to last through eternity! CHAPTER XVII. A STRUGGLE ON THE BALCONY. It was something to be free at last from Wesson. While I had nothing definite that I could bring against the man, he was in my way. I wanted to be alone with Marjorie. Not literally alone, for wherever we went there were people near by, of course; but alone as far as any one who had ever known us was concerned. As we approached St. Croix, my mercurial spirits began to rise again. When we were once more on shore, and domiciled in the second class hostelry to which we were shown, I could have danced with glee. I could hardly refrain from giving vent to my feelings in a yell that would no doubt have astonished the quiet town as if a cannon had been discharged. All through this part of the world the native population speak in tones so low that a foreigner has to listen intently to know what is being said. It is charming after you get used to it; one wonders how Northerners got into a habit of screaming when discussing the common events of the day. A negro or colored person (colored is only used here for people of mixed race) will address another a hundred feet away in as low a tone as the ordinary American would use at as many inches. I got partially into the same habit before I left the Islands. I only wish I had retained it and could persuade my friends to do likewise. "What is there to do here?" asked Marjorie, as we sat in the evening on the balcony that projected from the house. "Nothing whatever," I replied. "Unless it be to make love, and that, you will remember, is forbidden by our agreement." She bit her lips, acted as if she were going to say something, and suppressed it, whatever it was. "If you wish the stipulation removed," I continued, gaily, "there is no better opportunity than this. I believe I could make love, after my long abstinence, in a way that would do me credit." She turned and surveyed my face for some seconds. "In the same way you have often made love before, I presume," she said, finally; "and with the same degree of sincerity." "No," I said, growing sober. "I have never loved a woman till recently. The others were idle fancies. They lasted, on the average, a week, while this--" "Might last a month?" she interrupted. "Or an eternity." "I think we had best talk of something else," she said, uneasily. "In the morning we must begin our work, bright and early. I suppose there will be no beach bathing here, and we can commence before coffee if you wish. I want to be of all possible use while we are together." "You will never leave me, Marjorie," I answered, "if I am allowed to set the time of your departure. Don't think, I beg, that I would say these things if I did not mean them. I want you for my true and loving wife--understand, that is what I mean--wife; and something tells me that, when you think it over, you will grant my wish." She flushed until her neck was as rosy as her cheek. Several very long breaths came and went to stir her matchless bosom. She seemed as if strangling for an instant and recovered her equanimity with difficulty. "Mr. Camwell--" she began. "'Don,'" I corrected. "No, not at this moment," she answered. "Do you recollect to whom you are speaking? I am a nearly friendless girl--who has trusted herself to your manhood and honor. I am far from my home, if indeed I can truly claim to have one; you know nothing about me. It is madness if you mean what you say. It is villainy of the deepest dye if you do not mean it." "We shall have to call it madness, then," I replied, smiling at the thought that I knew her heart in spite of all her efforts to conceal its true pulsations. "I might fall at your feet, declaim my story after the manner of a stage hero, all that sort of thing. I believe it best to tell you what I have to say in the plain, sincere tone that a matter of great moment should be spoken. I love you, Marjorie! I have loved you since the minute my eyes rested on your face. I shall love no other woman while life remains to me. I offer you my hand in sincere and honest affection, and may God--" She half rose from her chair and lifted a hand deprecatingly. "Don't say that!" she interpolated, with distress in her tone. "I will believe you without the oath. But, I cannot listen. It is impossible. You must not--you must not--" "My darling," I said, leaning toward her, and speaking lower than any native of St. Croix, "I know I have surprised you, by coming to the point in such an unconventional and sudden fashion. We will say no more about it--to-night." "Neither to-night, nor ever," she replied, earnestly. "Oh, why have you done this? We were such good friends; and now, it never can be the same again!" There were tears in her eyes, and at sight of them my resolution to remain cool took wings. Rising, I clasped the shrinking form in my arms, and poured into her ears the love that was consuming me. I said the only answer I would ever listen to from her was "Yes." I would wait, if need be, but I must have it. Never, never, should she separate from me. The love I had to offer was that of a lifetime. "I am not a poor man, either," I added, trying to weight my proposition with all the things that would count. "I can give you a home of comfort, even luxury. The days for you to toil in disagreeable offices are ended. The time when you will count your money to see if you can afford the necessaries of life is past. We will go on long journeys, to interesting lands. Your existence shall be, as far as I can make it so, a dream of happiness. Marjorie, believe me! I want to hear your sweet lips say the word that will make this world a heaven--now!" Instead of being influenced by my passionate flow of language, she seemed only to shrink further and further away. I saw at last that, in some manner I could not understand, I was actually frightening her. Alarmed at her appearance I quickly released my hold and stood there, a very confused figure, panting with the excess of my emotions. Marjorie seemed fainting and in my alarm I begged her to let me go and summon assistance. "No," she whispered. "But you will stop--you will say no more? You may, if you will be so kind, get me--a--glass--of water. I shall be better--presently." It took a long time to get the simple thing she wanted. There are no bells in the house, to begin with. The principal ambition of West India servants is to keep out of sight and hearing, lest they might be asked to do something. When one was at last found he could produce nothing colder than water that had stood in a jug since dinner. This would not do and, by the time he had found the ice, at least ten minutes must have passed. Bringing the glass of water with all speed to the balcony, great was my disgust to find that a man had reached there before me and was even then engaged in conversation with my late companion. He had come upon the balcony from the public sitting room and was trying to persuade the lady to let him fetch something from his own chamber that he promised would speedily restore her. When he turned to meet me I was filled with positive rage. For the man was none other than my old fellow passenger, Edgerly! "Where the devil did you come from?" I demanded, hotly. "I hope I have done no harm," he answered, in an apologetic voice that made me feel as if I ought to punch my own head instead of his, which was my original intention. "I happened to step out on this balcony and seeing that the lady was ill offered to assist her. That is all." He was always offering to assist her, it seemed to me, as I recalled the time when he flew to the companionway of the steamer with the same end in view. "I think I will go in now, if you don't mind," said Marjorie, wearily, after she had sipped the water I brought. "I was overcome by--by the heat--I think, but I am much better." Thinking that Edgerly might wish to "assist her" again I made haste to offer her my arm; but she declined it with a faint smile, saying she had no need of help. Her window was open and she left the balcony as she had entered it, closing the glass doors after her. "You were not very polite to me, a moment ago," said Edgerly, in clear, cutting tones. "I thought it the part of a gentleman not to notice it while the lady was present, but now I am obliged to express my opinion of you; which is," he paused a moment, looking me squarely in the eye, "that you are a cur!" I grappled with him almost before the words were out of his mouth. We went down together in a heap, his hand at my throat, mine at his. I would have thrown him over the railing, or he would have thrown me, in an instant more. A voice interrupted us--the voice of Miss May, through her window. "Mr. Camwell, will you kindly call a chambermaid," she said. It was like the sudden appearance of a flag of truce in the midst of a battle. Edgerly muttered something about seeing me at another time, and released his hold. I did the same, remarking that I was at his service whenever he pleased. We both rose. Edgerly entered the sitting room, lifting his hat ironically as he vanished. I entered my own chamber, reaching the hall in that way. Finding the woman, I sent her to Miss May, telling her to knock at my door when she had executed the lady's requests. Then I threw myself into a chair, and realized for the first time how inadequate my weakened physical strength was to cope with a well man like Edgerly. Had not that voice separated us, I would now have been lying, either dead or mangled, on the stone pavement, twelve feet below! When I thought the matter over, I could see I had been in the wrong. The fellow had done nothing that deserved my abuse, in the first place, and the epithet he had hurled at me was in a measure justified by my conduct. It was now too late, however, to consider the origin of the quarrel. Blows had been exchanged, threats had been passed, we had agreed to settle the matter later. It was not in my disposition to crave the pardon of a man under those circumstances. If he carried out his evident purpose of trying to trash me, I would have to meet him. The fact that I was still in effect an invalid--that I was not in condition for such a game--was no excuse, nor did I intend to avail myself of it. I felt pretty certain that, within a given number of hours, I would be very lucky if I knew myself in the glass. The chambermaid came to say that "Miss Carney" would like to see me after a short time had passed. I therefore made myself as presentable as possible, bathing my heated face, brushing my hair and arranging a necktie that had got sadly out of place. When twenty minutes had elapsed, I went to Marjorie's door and knocked softly. She came and opened it just enough to see who was there, but instead of asking me to enter said she had found, on reflection, that she did not need anything and believed the best course for her was to retire. She evidently either knew or suspected what had occurred and wanted to see if I bore evidence of having been injured. "Very well; good-night," I said, in answer to her suggestion. "Good-night," she answered. And, "God bless you!" she added, fervently. "My love!" I murmured, hoping she would relent and give me a longer interview, but she shook her head with a sad smile and closed the door. I heard the key turn in the lock and, realizing that it was useless to remain longer, re-entered my own chamber and prepared for sleep. In the midst of a sound slumber, for the events of the evening did not much disturb my rest, I suddenly came to consciousness. A figure, distinct enough, stood between me and the window. The bright night of the tropics made the principal objects in the room look almost as clear as day. Half doubting whether I were really awake I sprang up, when a low voice made me pause. "Hush! Not a sound," said the voice. "It is only I." The window was wide open, showing where she had entered, for it was Marjorie that spoke. "I was nervous, and could not sleep, and on going upon the balcony I found your window unfastened." The wonder that she had entered overpowered every other sentiment. How could it be true that this girl, who had nearly fainted with fear when I merely put an arm around her, had come in the night within my bedroom, clad, as I plainly saw, in the garments of slumber. I stretched my arms toward her, but she moved away. What an incomprehensible creature she was! "Do not stir," she continued, earnestly, and with a trembling tongue. "I tried to make you hear me, without entering, but you slept too soundly. It is not well--it is not safe--to sleep with your window unfastened. I thought you ought to know. That is all. Good-night." She was moving toward the exit and I called after her softly. "Marjorie!" I said. "Come here a little while before you leave." She turned her white face--whiter in the pale moonlight than I had ever seen it--toward me, still moving slowly away. "And you," she whispered, "are the man who told me, only a few hours ago, that you wanted me for your wife!" "I do, my darling!" I replied, with all the fervor I could put into the words. "I mean no more than I say when I ask to touch your cheek with my lips, your hand even, the hem of your gown." She was gone; and as I sat there I reflected for the second time that evening what an ass I had been. Marjorie had taken what I thought a harmless request and turned it into an insult. I cursed anew the damnable training I had had in the field of love-making. It had me as unfit to win the heart of a pure and virtuous maiden as a brigand. The worst was, she had gone to her chamber with the thought still on her mind that I was a liar of the meanest stripe. After professing a pure love I had, at the first opportunity, she imagined, showed the emptiness of my pretence, the falseness of my heart. Sleep fled this time from my eyes, and no wonder. I propped my head high with pillows and resigned myself to wakefulness and moody thoughts till daybreak. As soon as it was light I took stationery from my trunk and wrote an impassioned letter to my beloved, that she might see, before we met again, how terribly she had misjudged me. I told her the story as it really was--my sudden awakening, the longing that possessed me for some recognition from the being to whom all my life's love had been pledged. I detailed the sickness of heart with which I realized how woefully my object was misapprehended. I touched on the absence of sleep that followed my error, and in closing begged her to write me just a word to say that I was forgiven, before I underwent the agony of meeting her unjustly accusing eyes. This I signed, "Your husband that is to be--that must be--with all respect and love." It was almost as great a shock as if she had refused to read my note when the maid whom I summoned to deliver it, brought me a tiny sheet of paper bearing these words: "Of course you are forgiven, my dear boy. I understood it all a minute after I left you. Sorry you took it to heart. If you wish to please me do not allude to it when we meet." From some remarks that I heard below stairs I gathered that Edgerly had left the house, taking his baggage with him, before the early breakfast was served. A little later I learned that he had gone to a town on the opposite side of the island where the capital is located. I therefore came to the conclusion that he had decided not to push his intention of mauling me at present. Probably, I reflected, he did not realize how easy a victim I was likely to be in the present condition of my health. We passed the rest of the time while at St. Croix in morning work, midday siestas, evening drives and after dinner talks. Marjorie succeeded in keeping the conversation away from the delicate ground of the former occasion, but she did not succeed in eliminating the subject from my mind. Knowing from the letter I had read at Eggert's, that she cared much for me, I was not to be dissuaded from my intention of taking her home, either as my actual or my promised bride. The security I felt gave me willingness to wait. What I needed now was to strengthen the affection she had admitted until it was too strong for her to resist longer. No shadow came between us during the week that remained before the coming of the Pretoria, on which we were to embark for another voyage. We heard the boat had arrived on the morning of the 8th of February, and would leave late in the evening. I engaged a carriage to drive us to a distant point, so that we might go on board too late to meet any of the Americans with whom the steamer was sure to be filled. That day was one of unalloyed happiness. Alas! that so soon my troubles were to break out afresh! I had arranged with the local agent to secure me the requisite berths and he brought the tickets to the hotel at night when we returned. There was only one unpleasant feature about them--he had not been able to secure a place for the lady very near me--but we had no right to expect anything else, and Marjorie seemed disposed to make the best of it. At eleven o'clock we were rowed out with our baggage and shown to our rooms. Reaching mine, I turned up the electric light and started as I saw the face of Mr. Wesson in that lower berth. "The devil!" I could not help exclaiming, aloud. It seemed to partially waken him, for he turned over and muttered something indistinguishable, immediately relapsing again into sound sleep. I said to myself that this was decidedly too much. I would be d--d if I would sleep there. When I had donned my pajamas, therefore, I went up to the deck above and passed the night on the cushions of the music room, of which I was the only tenant. CHAPTER XVIII. OUR NIGHT AT MARTINIQUE. Of course I had to meet Wesson in the morning; and as I could assign no reason for the distrust which I felt, I had to choose between giving him the cut direct and putting on an air of coolness without a real affront. I encountered him on deck, before I had been down to dress, as I went out to take a view of the island of St. Kitts. He murmured something about being glad to see me again, but did not attempt a prolonged conversation. He evidently had not yet ascertained that I was his roommate. Slightly uneasy to have Miss May so far from me I went as soon as I was dressed to her door and knocked. She was awake and in response to an inquiry said she would be up to breakfast. Luckily she had been given a room alone, due perhaps to a small inducement I had sent in a note left with the agent the day before. As I stood outside I chafed at the restrictions she continually put upon me; and yet I knew very well I had no right to complain. What earthly business had I in the room of a young, unmarried woman, before she was out of bed? The fact that I had been in more than one under similar circumstances did not count in a case like this. The scornful words of my darling came back to me--the expression she had used at St. Croix. I must put better control on my wild thoughts or I would yet do something she might regard as unpardonable. The table to which we were assigned in the salon had no especial interest. The other people had become acquainted from their nine days' voyage together and clearly looked upon us as interlopers. For this I was not sorry. Beyond necessary requests to "pass" the butter or the ice, I had nothing to say to them nor they to me; while Miss May's mouth was sealed entirely to conversation. The succeeding days would have been insufferably dull but for the presence of my idol, as I had been to all the islands on my voyage of three years previous. To show them to her with the confidence of an old traveller was in itself a charm not to be despised. We went ashore together at St. Kitts, and drove extensively; took our turtle dinner at Antigua, where I was much grieved to hear that Mr. Fox, the American consul, with whom I had formerly been acquainted, had died shortly after my previous visit. He was one of the pleasantest men I ever met and an honor to the civil service. A new consul, bound to Guadaloupe, was on board, with his wife--a Chicago man with a French name and the unusual ability to speak the language of the place to which he was accredited. He struck me as much better educated than the average consul and withal a good fellow. In his party, much of the time, were two charming young ladies from Alleghany City, whose father, a German, was taking a well earned vacation from his duties as cashier of a bank there. Had there been any place in my mind that was not filled with Marjorie, I should certainly have tried to become better acquainted with these girls. I also made a smoking room acquaintance with three delightful fellows, a Mr. T----, from Indianapolis, a Mr. S----, from Greensburg, and a Mr. H----, from Brockton, Mass. The first was an attorney; the second engaged in the theatrical business, and the third a license commissioner. I should be sorry to think I had seen either for the last time. At Dominica I went ashore very early and engaged two horses for a ride into the mountains, making arrangements with an individual who seemed (actually) to rejoice in the cognomen of "Mr. Cockroach." He announced himself to me as the owner of that title with evident pride and when we came off after breakfast had ready two of as mean animals, judging by appearance, as could be imagined. They endured the long climb, however, remarkably well, and were as easy to sit as a rocking chair. Marjorie unbent herself more than usual when we were in the heart of the hills, with no one near, for the black boy who was supposed to follow us on foot had a way of cutting across the fields and keeping out of sight nearly all the time. The island of Dominica is very beautiful and I remembered enjoying this ride greatly on my previous visit. The vegetation is thoroughly tropical. The excessive moisture caused by rains which occur daily through most of the year gives to everything a luxuriance not exceeded north of the equator, I believe. The mountain path by which we went is too narrow in most places to ride abreast, but wherever we could get side by side I managed to do so. At such times the sense of companionship was thrillingly delicious, and while I dared not risk offending by becoming too familiar, I managed to play the discreet lover and was very happy. I thought I was certainly improving. There had been a time, not so very long before, when I would Have planted myself in the lady's way, and exacted tribute before letting her by, trusting to her forgiveness after the deed was done. I would have given much to have dared the same thing now, but the thought did not seriously enter my head. I was certainly growing better under my excellent teacher. There was one point at which I had a jealous pang, so ridiculous that I think it only right to detail the occurrence. We went out of our way to view a sulphur pit, where the Evil One or some of his satellites have apparently secured an opening to the air from the very Bottomless Pit itself. The atmosphere is charged with fumes, while the deposit bubbles and froths in a way to strike terror into the heart of an infidel. To get a near view, one must be carried across a small stream by a couple of negroes, or--take off his shoes and stockings and wade. Miss May looked somewhat aghast at both propositions, and I allowed the boys to carry me over first, to show her how safe the process was. But, though it might be safe, it was clearly not graceful, for they handled a human being quite as if he were a sack, thinking their duty done if they got him across without dropping him in the brook. She said, at first, that she believed she would rather wade and sat down to take off her boots. Then, when it came to the hosiery and her fingers had begun to wander toward the fastenings, she had another period of doubt, calling to me to know if there was really anything worth seeing. Finally putting on her boots again, she directed the negroes how to make a sort of "cat's-cradle" chair and arrived safely in that manner. It was then that I had my pang. For she put both her fair arms around the neck of the bearers to steady herself in transit. "I shall insist on being one of your porteurs, on your return," I said, as she was placed on her feet. "If you are going to put your arms around the neck of any man in this island it must be myself." She tried to laugh off the idea, a little nervously, saying she had more confidence in those experienced fellows on the slippery stones than she had in me. I persisted a little longer, till it became evident my expressions were not agreeable. In returning she managed to steady herself by merely touching the shoulders of her bearers, and brought back the smile to my face by calling my attention to the fact, with a comic elevation of her eyebrows. I helped her mount her horse and all the way from there she was kindness itself. On the whole the day was the most delightful I had passed since leaving America. She was to be my wife! This thought was uppermost in my mind. She must be my wife! I would think of nothing but that blissful culmination. It was not the time now to press for an affirmative answer. I must make myself more and more agreeable, more indispensable to her. When the hour came that she was about to leave me--when the alternative presented itself to her mind of going back to her unpleasant struggle for bread or becoming the consort of a man she had admitted was not distasteful to her--I had no fear of the result. The next stop after Dominica is Martinique and here I intended to make a stay of a month at least. My tickets were only purchased as far as this point. Our baggage was taken ashore and, as far as appeared, we had bidden a permanent farewell to the good ship Pretoria. Again, however, my plans were to be altered. The Hotel des Bains at St. Pierre, is not by any means a first-class house, but there is something quaint about it that to me has a certain charm. The meals are served in the French style and not at all bad. The beds are immense affairs, and I never yet saw a bed that was too big. In the centre of what might be called the patio, so Spanish is the architecture of the building, is a fish-pond, giving an air of coolness to the entire place. The patois of the servants is pleasing to my ear. I entered the house in high spirits, remembering a delightful visit there in the former time. The mulatto proprietor recognized me, as did his slightly lighter colored wife, presiding over her duties as only a woman of French extraction can. "A large room with two beds, I presume?" asked the proprietor, in French, bowing affably to Miss May. "He asks if we wish a large room with two beds," I said translating his words into English, smilingly, but she evidently did not consider the joke worth laughing at. So I said that we wished two rooms, as near together as possible. Madame looked up. She was searching, evidently, for the wedding ring that was absent from Marjorie's finger, to explain my decision. A servant was called to attend to us and presently we were established in very comfortable quarters. As I wanted Miss May to see the island as soon as possible, a carriage was summoned immediately, in which we took the road to Fort de France, where we viewed the statue of the Empress Josephine, erected to commemorate the fact that she was born in that vicinity. We had a nice lunch at a hotel there and took rooms to secure the siesta to which we had both grown accustomed. Then we drove back to St. Pierre, and arrived at the Hotel des Bains in season for dinner. The Carnival, which lasts here for four or five weeks, had already begun. The streets were crowded with masquers and sounds of strange music filled the air. There was something very odd in this imitation by the negro race of the frivolities of the Latin countries of Europe as a precedent of the forty days of Lent. Miss May viewed it with me from the balcony of a restaurant until nearly ten o'clock. A number of the steamer people were also there and I fancied we were the object of more than ordinary attention from their eyes. After reaching the hotel again I asked Miss May if she would mind being left alone for an hour or so, while I went to see a peculiar dance. I assured her that the house was absolutely safe. She made no objection and I went with a party of Pretoria people--no women--to witness the spectacle of which I had heard so much. It was not half as entertaining as I had expected, but there were several girls of the Métisse variety that well repaid me for going. The Métisse is a mixture of races, the original Carib prevailing, one of the most fetching types extant. They were dressed becomingly, in thin gowns, of which silk was at least one of the textures used. On their heads were party-colored handkerchiefs, draped as only a Martinique beauty can drape them. At the risk of being thought extravagant in my statement I must say they appeared to me strikingly handsome, both in their faces and their lithe figures. I was told that each of those I saw was the mistress of some well-to-do merchant of the place and strictly true to her lover. The dance was not of a kind one would wish to take his sisters to see, but it was evident the negroes put a less libidinous interpretation upon it than the Caucasian visitors. It was one, however, where "a little goes a long way," and before twelve I was in my room at the hotel. I had just lit the lamp when I was surprised to hear a knock at the door and opened it to find Miss May standing there, with an anxious expression on her face. "Don't undress," she said, in a slightly shaking voice. "I have been full of all sorts of fears since you went away. I want you to sit up awhile and talk to me." I accepted the amendment, as they say in deliberative bodies, with the greatest pleasure, for I would rather sit up with her than to sleep on the softest down ever made into a couch. She went to the window, which was innocent of glass, and threw open the wooden shutters. "What did you hear to disturb you, a mouse?" I asked, jocularly. "I don't know. The place is full of creepy sounds. The noise in the street continues and every step in the corridors makes the boards creak. Did you enjoy your dance?" "Not specially," I said. And then I told her of the Métisse women I had seen, praising their appearance. She did not seem to notice what I was saying. She acted as if in constant fear of something unpleasant. "You do not care to talk as much as you thought you did," I remarked. "No. I was tired and sleepy, but I did not like to be alone. Why can't I--there wouldn't be any harm, would there?--lie on this smaller bed just as I am, and you can get your sleep over yonder?" Conflicting sentiments filled my brain as I listened. What a strange woman she was! Alarmed at the least approach on my part, when we were on a steamer deck, a veranda or in a carriage; and now proposing to drop to slumber in my very bedroom, as if it were nothing at all! A dim suspicion that she meant more than she said forced itself upon me at first. Was I deceiving myself by paying too much attention to her protestations? Had she run away merely for the sake of being pursued? The best method to prove the truth or falsity of this was to take her strictly at her word, which I decided to do. I told her that the room and everything in it was at her disposal, as she very well knew. She might lie on one bed, or the other, or the floor, or sit in a chair. It was unfortunate that in this house, as I had already learned, there were no rooms with communicating doors, or I would get our quarters changed. She thanked me, as if I was doing her a particular favor, and, curling herself up as she had suggested, was soon, to all appearances, sound asleep. Then the thoughts she had communicated to me, about the strange noises in the house, entered my own head. I tossed on my pillow, from side to side, sat up and lay down again a hundred times. There were mice enough in the building to satisfy a cat for a year, if noises went for anything. Late lodgers perambulated the halls, met each other and whispered in tones much more disturbing than loud voices would have been. Somebody, doubtless a servant, entered the next room, the one Marjorie had occupied, and moved about there, as if in stocking-feet. She had left her lamp lighted and this individual blew it out, as I could tell from certain signs. When this was done he went away, but returned again presently, repeating the operation several times. All the nerves in my body quivered with the strain. I looked at my watch every half hour, by the light of the moon that shone clearly through the open window. I thought I must awaken my companion; the loneliness was becoming unbearable. Nothing but shame prevented me--shame and a disinclination to disturb her calm and regular breathing. At last I grew a little calmer. And the next I knew Marjorie was standing by my side, with one of her hands on my forehead and saying in whispers that if I was going to take breakfast I would have to think of getting up. It was after ten o'clock and I had slept the sleep of a tired man for seven hours! CHAPTER XIX. IT IS A STRANGE IDEA. The immediate result of the strange proceedings of the night was that Miss May asked me, before we had finished breakfast, whether I cared much about remaining in St. Pierre. She approached the subject with some timidity, saying she did not like to have me make any change in my programme on her account, but added that she would be very glad if I could, without too much sacrifice, go back to the Pretoria and make the break in my journey at some other point. "Why, my dear girl," I answered, immediately, "if you don't wish to stay here I shall never dream of asking you to do so. Pack up whatever things you have taken from your trunks and we will return to the steamer." She was gratified and showed it so in every line of her expressive face that I was more than repaid for my decision. "You are quite willing?" she said, interrogatively. "Entirely. Where would you suggest that we stop, Barbados? That is the next port where there is a fairly good hotel." After a little discussion we settled upon Barbados and began the labor of packing. I sent a boy off to the steamer with a request to the purser to give me a berth in some other stateroom than the one I previously had, and to reserve Miss May's room for her. I did not mean to get in with Wesson again if I could help it. That afternoon we spent at the market, which is the most interesting I have ever seen, until the time came to go on board. "As we may have to tell a falsehood to some inquisitive person," I said, when we were in the rowboat, "let us tell the same one. Fear of yellow fever quarantine is what led us to change our mind about remaining in Martinique; you understand?" "Yes," said Marjorie, dreamily. "We were to lie to outsiders, if necessary, and always tell the truth to each other." "Are you doing that as faithfully as you promised?" I asked. "What do you mean?" she asked, with a violent start. "Nothing that should induce you to tip the boat over, as you just came near doing," I replied. "I merely asked a question." "You must believe I am deceiving you in some way, or you would not use that expression," she said, eyeing me narrowly. "I have a great deal more confidence in you than you have in me," was my answer. "You can say this--knowing where I passed last night!" she said, reproachfully. "Oh, I don't mean that sort of confidence," I remarked. "I mean the confidence that would make you promise to spend every night as long as you live under the same guardianship." A little sigh came from the lips of my companion, which had whitened suddenly; the kind of sigh that might mean almost anything. The boatmen were too busy to listen to us, even had they understood a word of English, which they did not. "Marjorie," I whispered, for I could not resist the desire to hear her say it, "don't you care for me, just a little bit?" "Please!" was the only word she vouchsafed, and I heeded the request. We came to the steamer's side, meeting many astonished gazes. I gave the requisite directions to the porters who came down the ladder for the baggage. The purser had assigned me another room, as requested, which was something. Wesson lifted his hat and said "Good-afternoon," when we met, but that was all. If he guessed that I had managed to avoid rooming with him by a set plan he made no remark. The purser of the Pretoria is young, handsome and obliging. His father, a custom-house officer from Canada, was making a tour on the boat and struck me as a fine type. I learned that another of his sons was a member of the Dominion Parliament. Capt. McKenzie came up to say he was glad I was going to be on his ship a little longer, which was agreeable, to say the least. I had noticed the Captain before, though I did not get well acquainted with him. He was the sort of man one likes to meet, straightforward, intelligent, understanding his business thoroughly. He knows how to treat the ladies among his passengers equally well, too, instead of devoting all his time to a favored group, like so many sea captains. This in itself is enough to make him a marked man in my memory. The only place we had to call before reaching the island of Barbados was at St. Lucia, where there was little to interest us on shore, but where I was glad to see a troop-ship just arrived from Africa, with a cargo of wives (more or less) of black troops that were serving near Sierra Leone, each one accompanied by a parrot and monkey, beside several small children. The British government had taken them from the West Indies to Africa with their lords (I mean the women) and was now returning them a little in advance of their dusky partners. I asked half a dozen at random if they had ever been legally married and the reply in every case was "No, suh," delivered with a certain pride. The West Indian negro has not yet added matrimony to his list of virtues. Early on the morning of the day our vessel anchored off Greytown, which is the capital of Barbados, I found on deck Mr. "Eddie" Armstrong, manager of the Marine Hotel, ready to answer questions in relation to that hostelry. "Eddie" told me that he had just the sort of rooms I required for myself and "Miss Carney," and put me under obligations by refraining from cheap insinuations, which nine men out of ten in his position would have made. Later he saw us through the custom-house with expedition and sent us in a carriage to the Marine, which is two miles from the centre, in a breezy and roomy location, just enough removed from the noise of the sea waves. Miss Byno, at the hotel counter, greeted me with a precise copy of the smile she had worn three years before, while Mr. Pomeroy, the proprietor, said he was glad to see me, exactly as if he meant it. Our apartment consisted of a sitting room and two connecting chambers on the second floor, which were clean, airy and cosy. It was the nearest to "house-keeping," as I remarked to Miss May, of any place we had found. "We must resume our genealogy to-morrow," she said, as she opened the table and set up the typewriting machine. "We have neglected it dreadfully." "No," I answered, for I had been developing a new plan. "I am going to lay that ponderous history on the shelf for the present and ask you to aid me in another and more interesting task. The family tree is in such shape that it can afford to rest awhile and I am sick to death of it." Then, as the anxious look came into her face--the look that came so easily when I said anything that lacked explicitness--I continued: "Don't laugh at me, but I am going to begin, to-morrow, a--novel!" "A--novel!" she repeated, wonderingly. "Do you write novels?" "I am going to write one, with your help," I said, decidedly. "It won't be exactly a novel, either, because it will be based on fact, pretty nearly all fact--in fact. What would you say to a novel based on the very trip we are making?" She was lost in thought for some minutes. "Are you serious?" she asked, finally. "Entirely." "But, do you think it would be interesting--to--any one else?" "I am sure of it. Of course I shall suppress our real names, but the rest I mean to put in print precisely as it has occurred. If I am not mistaken it will make the hit of the summer season." She was silent again. "Doesn't an author have to know--before he begins his story--how it will end?" she asked, after awhile. "I suppose he does. I certainly know how this one will." "How?" "The hero will marry the heroine, make her the happiest woman on earth, and they will live contentedly ever after." "Hardly exciting enough, I fear, to suit the popular taste," she commented. "A story, like a play, should have a 'villain.'" I laughed and said I would use Wesson for that character. I could, if necessary, invent some disreputable things and attach them to his pseudonym. "And how shall you describe me?" she asked, demurely. "You will have to wait and see. I shall make one important stipulation. Your part of this writing will be merely mechanical unless I call for aid. It is to be my story, not yours." "It is a strange idea," she said, watching my face. "Really, I think you had best keep on with your family tree. I am getting quite interested in the Alexanders and Colins who preceded the Dugalds and the Donalds." "No, I am determined," was my reply. "We will leave those aged gentlemen in their graves and begin the true history of the Marjories and the Dons. There will be time enough for both before you and I end our partnership." She responded dutifully at last that she was at my disposal, as far as the use of her time was concerned. It was agreed that on the very next morning the novel would be begun. "And you must not interrupt me, either with approval or disapproval?" I said. "For whatever is written I alone will be responsible." "That will be hard, when, as I suppose, you will discuss me more or less," she said, with a bewitching pout. "How do I know you will not make me out the most disreputable female that ever lived? But I promise. In fact, I don't see as there is anything else I can do. I am working for wages and I might as well offer to alter a business letter as a story in which I am merely an amanuensis." "I shall carry our original contract into the novel," I said. "There will be no falsehood. If I have suspected any person, or repented of my suspicions--if I have resolved not to fall in love, and afterwards done so--it will be all there. I shall record what has transpired with the accuracy of a Kodak, even if, like the sensitive plate, it has to be taken into a dark room for development." "Such a story ought to interest two persons at least," she said. "I hope you intend to send me a copy or let me know where I can buy one." "Every bookseller in the country will have it," I replied, "and the sale will be phenomenal. You didn't think I brought you out here just to throw away money, did you? I expect to make a fortune out of the portrait I am going to draw." She laughed lightly and we closed the subject for the time, quite agreed upon it. Before we went out she surprised me by asking if it would be convenient to let her have a little money, for I supposed she had the sixty dollars previously paid her, still in her purse. She had never expended a penny that I knew of, except the dollar she gave Thorwald. However, I said she could have any sum she liked; and she asked with some hesitation, if I could spare as much as a hundred dollars. She wanted to send it home and would consider it a great accommodation if I could pay her as far in advance as that would be. She said she would try not to ask me again for anything until we returned to New York. We took a carriage and went to the Barbados Branch of the Colonial Bank, where I could draw money on my letter of credit--if I was willing to wait long enough. I have visited various branches of that Bank in the Tropics and I will challenge any institution on earth to vie with it in slowness of waiting upon customers. I stood at least five minutes at the counter before any of the numerous clerks who sat on high stools condescended to notice me. Then one did see that I was there, and whispered to his nearest neighbor in a way that showed he thought it a rather good joke. Two or three men who seemed of an upper grade of clerks passed near enough for me to speak to them, but none deigned the least reply. After this had gone on until it grew rather monotonous I addressed the entire institution, from president to office boy, with a request to tell me if I was in a deaf and dumb asylum. The youngest clerk thereupon made his way slowly--nobody in the Colonial Bank could move otherwise--to where I stood and mildly inquired if I wished for anything. I told him that, strange as it might appear, I did. I said I wanted $350, and I wanted it d--(that is to say, very) quick. I said I was only going to stay in the island three or four weeks more and I wanted the money to pay my hotel bill when I left. He did not seem to grasp the idea exactly, but he did go to the farthest man in the room and direct his attention to me by pointing, after which he resumed his seat at his desk. The Farthest Man, in a way that showed he had a deep grudge against me for disturbing him, came more slowly than the first one across the room and asked me if I wanted anything. I threw my letter of credit on the counter and said what I had already said to the other, adding for emphasis the name of the deity to my previous observation. The clerk took the letter and went away with it. For some time he was engaged in exhibiting the thing to various clerks, all of whom regarded it with wonder, as if it was a piece of papyrus from some Egyptian tomb. At last he found a chap who took the letter of credit from him and divided the next five minutes between reading it with care and looking at me over his spectacles; having done which the latter clerk came to the counter where I stood and asked what denominations of money I would like. I told him, with some warmth (the thermometer stood at 85 in the room) that I would like part of it in Hardshell Baptist and the rest in African Methodist Episcopal, or any other old thing, but that I did want it in a hurry. He might give me a draft that could be used in New York for $100 of it, and the rest in sovereigns, in case he should decide, on reflection, to give me anything at all. These remarks he met with a vacant stare, but took from his desk, when he had again reached it, two pieces of paper, which he filled with duplicate statements, after the manner of his kind. Reading these over several times, to make sure he had committed no error, he took them to another man (apparently a sort of manager or director) who pretended, as long as he could, not to see his subordinate or to guess that he wished to attract his attention. Afraid, I suppose, to speak, the clerk finally coughed mildly behind his hand, at which the manager glared at him fiercely, and reaching out for the papers, studied them for a long time. When satisfied (though you wouldn't have thought it to look at him) he wrote something on each and the clerk returned to me. If I should detail the manner in which that fellow tried to evade giving me my money, now that he had a chance to do so, I fear I would not be believed. It ended, however, in my being sent to a cashier and getting what I wanted. Tired and hungry I returned to my carriage and was driven back to the Marine Hotel with Marjorie. "Here is your cash, or rather what can be used to get it," I said, drawing a long breath and handing her the draft. "When you have written your name on the back it will be good anywhere." "I don't know how to show my gratitude," she answered, her face flushing. "Excuse me. You know very well, but you refuse," I replied. "Now, here is something for you to think of. All the wicked things you do, the cruelties you practice, are to be spread before the novel reading public of America! That ought to soften your hard heart. You know 'All the world loves a lover,' but there is no proverb to fit a thoroughly heartless girl." "I would like you much better if you would not say such things," she pouted. "You speak as if you did like me a little, even now," I responded. "Like you!" she exclaimed. "That's just it. I like you ever and ever so much. How can I help it, when you are so kind to me? I like you and I want to continue to like you, Mr. Camran. I wish I could think you would never learn to dislike me." As I began an impassioned declaration that the day would never dawn, she started violently and bit her lips till the teeth marks showed plainly. In another instant I saw what had caused her mental disturbance; two men were looking at us from a street car that was trying with some success to reach the hill by the hotel before we did. Those men were Robert Edgerly and Horace Wesson. "Don't let him get you into trouble," she whispered, between her closed lips. "I heard him threaten you at St. Croix. Oh, how did he get here!" She referred, of course, to Edgerly. CHAPTER XX. NEW WORK FOR MY TYPEWRITER. It was plain that these two men had become closer friends than they appeared to be when on the Madiana. Wesson's pretence of regard for me did not sort with this affiliation with a fellow against whom he had been at such pains to warn me. They both seemed disconcerted at our meeting and I learned later that they had decided to stop at different houses. Edgerly registered at the Sea View, a small hotel situated about a quarter mile from the Marine, while Wesson came boldly to the latter hostelry and took a room there. However, as I did not own the house, I was not at liberty to prevent him living where he liked. I made up my mind to avoid him and let it go at that. It began to be apparent that his movements were influenced in a large degree by my own. I wondered if he meant to dog me from island to island during the rest of my journey. On the day following my arrival I began to dictate to Miss May the novel of which I had spoken, or rather a correct transcript of the proceedings that had brought me where I was. You already know the story, and if you care to read it again you have only to turn to the first chapter of this volume and begin at the point where she did. It took me the whole of that forenoon to finish the opening instalment, as I wanted to put it into a shape that would not necessitate its being re-written. Miss May proved a splendid amanuensis and, as requested, made no comments till the lunch hour arrived, though I could not help seeing that she was filled with interest as well as vivid curiosity. When I began to allude to Statia and to detail her conversations with me, my typewriter's face was at times suffused with pink. I fancied, when I came to the place where I asked Statia to be my wife, that Marjorie was about to refuse to continue, but she merely drew a very long breath and let her nimble fingers touch the requisite keys. When Tom's sister declined my offer I heard a light sigh that I took to mean relief. The tale of my visit to the Herald office and of writing the advertisement clearly interested her. She wrote rapidly when I told about the handsome woman who wished the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman, on whom to lavish her beautiful face and form, with her "object matrimony." When I said we would let that chapter suffice for the day she sat back from the table and uttered an uneasy little laugh. "It's not so bad," she was kind enough to say. "I may have to change my mind about your project. But are you going on as you have begun, exposing every thought--making the world your confidant. I am afraid few people could afford to do that." "Precisely," I said. "Men have written fiction so vividly that people have believed it truth. I am going to write truth in such a manner that people will take it for excellent fiction. Yes, I shall follow Othello's advice, 'nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.' It is a camera you are operating, my dear, not a typewriting machine." That afternoon we took a long drive, to Farley Hill, which point is said to be nine hundred feet above the sea. I was tranquil enough now. We were alone except for the driver, whose back was toward us. The long stretches of sugar cane made a pleasing prospect. Every individual we met, mostly people of various degrees of negro lineage, addressed us pleasantly. The trade-winds from the east, that blow over Barbados six months in the year, brought ozone to our lungs and coolness to our faces. The road for the entire distance was smooth and hard. It was one of the most delightful drives I had ever taken and there was nothing to mar the occasion. We passed the evening after dinner in our joint sitting room, with the windows wide open and retired early. "You are the most honest man I ever met," said Miss May, the next morning, when she was in the midst of her work. She had just written this paragraph: I have led a life as regards women that I now think worse than idiotic. I have followed one after another of them, from pillar to post, falling madly in love, getting the blues, losing heart, all that sort of thing. I have never been intimately acquainted with a pure, honest girl of the better classes, except one. "Was there ever another man who would put such things about himself in cold type?" "But, listen," I said, defensively. "See what follows: I need sadly to be educated by a woman who will not hold out temptation. I have an idea that a few months passed abroad, in the society of such a woman, will make another man of me. "Marjorie, my life, I was right. It has made another man of me. I shall never be what I was before--never as long as I breathe." She shook her head, half doubtfully, but declined to discuss the subject further. When she came to Hume's question, "What is to keep you from falling in love with your secretary?" she seemed troubled until she had received the answer I gave him, declaring that my "secretary" would be sent home with a month's advance wages if she allowed me to forget that I was merely her employer. Then she broke the rule we had adopted, and I could not blame her. "You are evidently of a forgetful nature," she said. "The promise you made your friend does not agree with some of the foolish things you have tried to say to me." "But, my angel, I had not met you when I made that assertion. I was speaking of an imaginary woman. Men are not expected to do impossible things. Besides, you do not realize how very ill I had been. I think we shall get on better if you will reserve your comments till the end of each chapter, when I shall be delighted to hear as many as you like." She returned good naturedly to the machine, and recorded the balance of the chapter that is numbered two in this volume. When I said we had done enough for one day, she answered that she thought a little work in the afternoon would hurt neither of us; and that, for her part, she would be glad to begin again after lunch. It was plain that she was becoming interested and wanted to get on as fast as possible. Pleased at this, I consented to her plan. It was only half past eleven when she stopped and a rest of two or three hours would put us both right again. "I don't think I realized you had been so terribly ill," she said, taking a rocker and placing herself at ease. "I don't like to talk much about it, or even to think of it," was my reply, "but you may be sure it was hard enough. I would rather endure any pain than the awful depression that accompanies neurasthenia. When I recovered it seemed as if I had died and been resurrected. My old life was gone and I did not wish to recall it. The new one was full of new possibilities and dreams. How happy I shall be when they are all fulfilled!" "And were you so very--very wicked?" she asked, constrainedly. "I cannot believe it when I look at you. Vice ought to leave some distinguishing mark, but your face is as innocent as a babe's." "You are very kind to say so. But I want to talk about that still less than about my illness. Both of them have come to an end." "Let us trust so," she said, gently. How gently and sweetly she did say it! The third chapter, which we did that day before taking our drive, called for no interruption on her part with one exception, and that was because she did not quite catch one word. It was in relation to the letter of credit that I had brought. "Did you say two thousand?" she asked, "or three?" "Two thousand," I answered, and she went on rapidly, talking down the words as they fell from my lips. The account of Charmion's performance at Koster and Bial's disturbed her visibly, but she went bravely to the end. "Do you really mean that this exposure took place in a New York theatre, at a regular performance?" she asked, when I said that was the end. "Exactly as described." "It is shameful!" she exclaimed, angrily. "If women had charge of the theatres such things would not be permitted." "You forget," I replied, "that half the audience were women--ladies, if you please." She bit her lip. "You ought not to put it in the story, at any rate," she said. "It will only encourage people with debased minds to go to view it." "By the time my book is published there will probably be an entire change of programme," said I. (I wonder if there will.) Another drive, another chatty evening, another morning, and we went on again. Miss May smiled occasionally as I told of my preparations for making this voyage and of engaging a berth for her before I had even received her reply to my advertisement in the Herald. Then she listened with interest to the letter (the first one) I received from Miss Brazier, breaking our rule enough to remark, "That's a bright girl." I took her own reply from my pocket to give it verbatim, upon which she said-- "Have you kept that all this time? Tear it up now and throw it in the wastebasket." "Tear it up?" I echoed. "Money wouldn't buy that little note!" When the end of the fourth chapter was reached, and we took our noonday rest, she spoke at some length about Statia. She wanted me to tell her more than appeared in the story. That was the kind of woman one could admire, she declared. "And yet, how can I judge a girl who has always been under the watchful eye of a kind father or brother?" she added, thoughtfully. "Who can say what evil might have crept into her life, had she been compelled to face the cruel world and fight for her bread?" "But you have done that," I protested, "and are to-day as sweet and pure as if all the fathers and brothers on earth formed your guard." She turned on me suddenly. "How do you know?" she demanded. "You know nothing whatever about me. Oh, Mr. Camran, there are things in my life that would make a novel even more interesting than this one of yours. But I could not sit down and expose my errors as you do. I could not! no, I could not!" I said that all the errors of her young life must be wholly in imagination. She was like some child at a first confession, trying to magnify a baby fault into goods big enough for its new market. She made no reply, but went silently into her chamber where she remained till lunch time. When she came out the matter had slipped my mind and did not recur to me till long afterward. The fifth chapter occupied us during most of the afternoon. Miss May showed great interest when Mr. Wesson appeared on the scene and much more when she herself was first presented. My intense anxiety to meet her seemed to strike her as odd, for she uttered little "oh's" and "ah's" when I described our first meeting. When she came to the expression "she was not handsome," she said "I should think not!" in a tone of disdain. At the end of the chapter she had to talk about it as usual. "Well, it is something to see one's photograph, as it appears to another," she said, smiling. "I don't understand, though, how I managed to produce such a favorable impression. I really had little idea I should be the successful applicant when you left my room that day. I wasn't even certain that I ought to accept, if you offered it to me. I had never heard of an arrangement exactly like it. We were strangers to each other. I had a place that I detested, but how could I be sure you would prove a more considerate employer than the one I was to leave? Had it not been for my desperate plight I must have told you frankly that I could not go." "You are not sorry--yet?" I whispered. "Oh, no! And you can prevent my ever being sorry, if you will." It was useless to begin the old argument. I went down to see if the carriage was ready. Wesson sat in the hallway, where the draft of air was strongest, and did not see me until I was close to him. When he realized my proximity he closed the book in his hands with a bang and looked much confused. But he had not performed the action quickly enough for his purpose. I had seen what he was reading: It was a copy of "Our Rival the Rascal," undoubtedly the one Eggert had missed just before we left St. Thomas. I said nothing, but I thought a great deal. A man who would steal one thing would steal another. If Wesson had carried off that book from the dining room of my host Eggert-- A mile from the hotel I decided to convey to my companion's mind the suspicions that filled my own. "You remember that book I had one evening at Eggert's--the book you did not wish to look at," I began. "That horrible thing!" she exclaimed, with a shiver, nodding an affirmative. "Just before we left Eggert's, you know, he missed the volume. Nobody had been in the house except you and me, and Wesson. Eggert knew me too well to suspect that I would be guilty of such a theft, and yet he was puzzled. Why, Marjorie, what is the matter with you?" My last expression was called forth by a strange look on the face of my companion. She fell against me as if too weak to sit up, and yet her eyes were open and not devoid of intelligence. "My darling!" I cried. "You are ill. Let us return at once." "No," she said, in a whisper. "It is only temporary. But please say nothing more about the book. If anybody took it--ugh!--it must have been by accident." "But, my dear," I explained, when she seemed more comfortable, "you must let me tell you of a discovery I have made. I saw that book--" Rousing herself with difficulty Miss May looked me in the eyes like a sleep-walker. "Don!" she said, vehemently. "Don! Sometimes you tell me you love me! How can you then persist in this torture! I cannot bear to think of that book, to hear it spoken of! You may call me foolish, and probably I am. There are women who are afraid of snakes, lizards, rats; not one of those creatures could disturb my nerves. But when I think of men that live by crime, that rob and steal--and murder--it is as if the hands of one of them was on my own throat!" Soothingly I promised to be careful in the future--sadly I spoke my regrets at the pain I had caused her. I knew too well the vagaries of ill-balanced nerves not to understand that they require no reason to set themselves on edge. I bade the driver cut our ride short and we drove back to the hotel in nearly perfect silence. But I could not help my thoughts. If Wesson had stolen that book, what was there to show that he had not stolen my diamond, and those of Marjorie and of Miss Howes? What could I think but, with his almost exclusive opportunities on the steamer, he was the guilty man? I recalled his offer to watch from our cabin, his assumption of the rôle of a sleuth-hound--undoubtedly to deceive me. What was he doing at Barbados unless to watch for another chance to ply his profession? The more attention I gave to the matter the clearer everything grew. Undoubtedly Wesson was, on general principles, much more than a match for me in shrewdness, but when I started to do a thing I usually accomplished it. I resolved that if he was the thief, I would trace his work home to him and make him restore the fruits of his larceny. CHAPTER XXI. "YOU WERE IN MY ROOM." Letters that came the next morning were hardly read, so interested was I in my plan to entrap my sly fellow passenger. They were from Tom and Statia Barton and from a club friend who had obtained my address from Tom. Statia's had a tone of melancholy that she seemed trying to conceal. Tom's was full of cheer, with wholesome advice about keeping well now I had got into that condition. They had received my first letters, mailed at St. Thomas, and congratulated me on escaping what both persisted in calling the dangers of the sea. How to expose the knavery of Wesson--that was all I could think of consecutively. I told Miss May that I would not dictate to her that morning and she took the opportunity to drive down town, to do, as she said, a little shopping. Wesson also took a carriage about the same time and I heard him tell the clerk, Miss Byno, he would probably be gone till noon at least. When they were both out of sight I began to haunt the vicinity of the Boston man's room, which was on the same floor as mine, though much further down the corridor. When no one was near I tried the door, in a foolish hope that he might have left it unlocked, which, of course, he had not done. If I could get ten minutes alone there I believed I should discover something. At the same time I realized that I was running considerable risk. Should I be discovered in the chamber of another man, rummaging among his things, the fact that I suspected him of having robbed me would be a poor excuse in the eyes of a magistrate. Still, anxious to convince myself, I was ready to dare even the danger of arrest and punishment. It was a very dangerous proceeding, as I now view it, and only to be justified by success. At the time, nothing could have dissuaded me from my purpose. As I strolled back to my own room a chambermaid met me, with a bunch of keys in her hand, and she went directly to Mr. Wesson's apartment. For the next twenty minutes, she remained there, engaged in the customary work of her profession, and then came out and began to turn the key in the lock behind her. This was my time, if ever. Hastening to her side I told her in low tones that I wished to play a little joke on my friend who occupied the room and wanted her to leave the door unlocked for an hour or so, or until I called her. To emphasize my desire I exhibited a sovereign and put it into the hand which she held doubtfully toward me. "I only want to go in a little while," I repeated, trying to force a laugh. "It will be all right. Don't say a word to any one." The woman looked at the coin, representing a month's wages to her, as if to make sure it was genuine. It probably never entered her head that my intention was other than the one I stated. It was not likely that a gentleman of my cloth would have a felonious design or carry it out in this manner. I had only to add that if it was discovered that the door was unlocked I would take all the blame, and the woman slunk away without a word. The first thing I noticed after entering and locking the door behind me was the copy of "Our Rival, the Rascal," that had been stolen from the Quarantine Station. It lay on a table and I took it up with interest. On the fly leaf was written Eggert's name and address, proving conclusively that it was the one I supposed. The baggage in the room consisted of a steamer trunk and a "dress-suit case," both of which were locked. A moment later I had tried both locks with keys from my pocket and found--to my joy--that the one on the trunk yielded to the pressure. I felt awfully uncomfortable, to tell the truth, as I lifted the lid of that trunk. I glanced at the door, wondering if some prying eye might be at the key-hole. Getting a towel from the rack I covered the aperture. The blinds at the window were shut, so there was no other place from which I could be observed, if I except the high heaven above, and the rectitude of my purpose justified me there, in my belief. Carefully I lifted the articles in the receptacle, one by one. They were the ordinary things to be expected in the possession of a gentleman travelling. I had nearly relinquished my search when a little packet wrapped in brown paper, attracted my notice. Taking it up I pinched it carefully for an instant, and then, becoming excited, untied the string. How my heart did beat! For there lay before my eyes the bracelet stolen from Miss Howes, the earrings that Miss May had worn and the stud purloined from my bag! Everything, in short, that we had lost, except the little turquoise ring. I put that package in my pocket, shut and locked the trunk, and was preparing to quit the room when I heard a turn at the handle of the door. Who could be there, at that time of day? Was it possible Wesson had given up his drive? or had the chambermaid returned with some article needed? The fumbling continued for another minute and then a distinct, though rather low knock followed. I call it low, for subsequent judgment so deems it, but at the time it was as loud to my ears as a pistol shot. Still I kept quiet, for there was nothing to be gained by jumping from the frying pan into the fire. If it was Wesson I fancied I had a card to play that would prevent his putting me to much trouble. If it was any one else they would certainly leave when they received no answer to their summons. The person outside renewed the knock two or three times and then moved slowly away. As soon as the noise of his steps ceased I opened the door cautiously and stepped out. It took several seconds before I could remove the key from the inside and put it in the aperture toward the hall. Before I could turn it, I was more than disgusted to see a face peering around the nearest corner and taking in the whole proceeding. It was the face of Robert Edgerly! "Well, well!" he said, coming toward me and leering in an exasperating way. "I took the liberty of calling you a cur the last time we met, but I didn't think--" He stopped and laughed provokingly. "It makes very little difference what you think," I retorted, white with anger. "I can explain this to the only person interested, whenever he chooses to inquire. As he seems to be a friend of yours, you may tell him so, if you see him first, with my compliments." He strode toward me threateningly, his right hand wandering toward his hip pocket. "Have a care!" he said. "You pretend to be a gentleman, and I find you a sneak-thief. Give me another word and I will denounce you to the proprietor of the hotel!" Perhaps he had a right to assume that air. I was not in a very creditable position; but I did not think of this till afterward. He had called me names, had threatened me with violence in the most contemptuous manner. I sprang at his throat with my right hand extended to grasp it and had I succeeded I fear his lease of life would have been short. He was, however, too agile for me. Springing backward he drew a revolver, and the sight of that steelly barrel with five cartridges behind it stopped my headlong course like magic. "Not quite so fast as you were, eh!" he said, between his teeth. "You know a little joker when you see one. Now, turn your face the other way, put your hands to your side like a whipped boy, and march to the end of the corridor. I will follow you; and when I feel sure you are not up to some scurvy trick--of which I quite believe you capable--I will let you crawl to your room and continue the wonderful genealogy of the idiots from whom you sprung." I had thought rapidly since he first produced the weapon. I had no anxiety to be murdered. He had the "drop" on me beyond question. My own revolver was in the bottom of one of my trunks, not even loaded. Discretion was the better part of valor then, if ever since the world was made. Had he not uttered his closing sentence I would have submitted to the humiliation he outlined. But I have a reverence for my ancestors of the Camran race that amounts almost to worship. So far as I can learn I am the only scion of the house who has lowered that distinguished name. To have them dubbed "idiots" was more than I could bear, and I would have died in their defense as cheerfully as any of the Alexanders whose bones whitened the battle-fields of ancient days. With a curse I again threw myself upon Edgerly and so quickly that he had no time to discharge his weapon. We had a fierce struggle on the floor of the hall, which I soon saw was going against me. Physically I was still, with my long illness behind me, no match for my adversary. He was much the cooler of the two and I knew that he was merely waiting till he could get one hand free from my clasp to turn that revolver against my body. In fact, he had nearly succeeded in doing this. I saw a smile of satisfaction creeping over his features and realized that nothing but a miracle could save me. We had not made enough noise to attract attention and no one happened to come along the corridor. The miracle arrived, however, or I should in all probability not be writing these lines. I heard a springing step behind me, saw a form bending over both of us and a strong hand wrenching the pistol from Edgerly's grasp. Then a voice that I recognized as that of Wesson said: "Come, gentlemen, this is carrying your disagreements a little too far." We rose to our feet, both pretty well winded. Then, to complicate the situation still more, Miss May appeared in the hallway. She stopped humming a light air, as she saw us, and turned deathly pale, as was her habit when alarmed. "Hush! Say nothing," whispered Wesson, to both of us at once. "Not a word, remember!" I thought it very wise of him and was more than willing to follow his advice. But Edgerly was not so easily quieted. "I caught this fellow creeping out of your chamber," he said, without mincing matters. "Yes," he added, as if he thought he might be contradicted, "there is the key he used in the lock now." Wesson looked strangely at me. "I have no doubt Mr. Camwell can explain his conduct," he said, and again I noticed the thoughtfulness he used, in referring to me by the name I had registered at Cook's office. "If he will consent to accompany me to my room for a few minutes I shall be glad to hear anything he has to say." Edgerly sneered again. "Camwell!" he echoed. "Why, that isn't even his right name. It will do to travel under, but when he signs checks he writes at the end the words, 'Donald Camran.'" "How do you know that?" asked Wesson, in a startled way. "You are making some grave charges." "He tells the truth," I interposed, anxious to end the scene. "The name he gave is my right one. Why I used the other is a private matter. I shall be glad to accede to your suggestion, Mr. Wesson, and hold an interview with you in private." "If you and Miss Carney will excuse us, then--" said Wesson, tentatively. "Miss Carney!" echoed Edgerly, with a laugh that made me half inclined to try conclusions with him again, now that we were less unevenly matched. "Miss Carney! Ha, ha!" Wesson was evidently watching us, prepared to interfere again, should it be necessary. He managed to end the affair by a display of finesse, asking Edgerly to meet him at two o'clock at the Sea View House, and saying pleasantly to Miss May that he would keep me but a few minutes. I saw the other two going in opposite directions before I followed the Bostonian into his room, which seemed the only thing I could do after what he had heard about me. "Well?" said Wesson, good naturedly, when he had closed the door and, at my suggestion, locked it. "You were in my room? Yes. Do you care to tell me why? I leave it entirely to you, Mr. Camran. If you choose to tell, well and good. If not I shall be perfectly satisfied." His courtesy was complete and, knowing what I did, seemed to me well advised. "Mr. Wesson," I said, "you have just saved me from a disagreeable and possible dangerous situation. That man had a loaded revolver--I had nothing. He is in the best of health; I, as you know, have recently recovered from a long illness. Had you appeared two minutes later it is no exaggeration to say you would probably have found a dead man on that floor." "In that case I am glad I came when I did," he replied, affably. "What was the row about?" I told him briefly of the previous encounter on the balcony at St. Croix and the incentives to the present affair. "Strange!" he answered. "There doesn't seem much to found a murderous attack on in those two things, does there? Had you never met him before this trip?" "Never." "How did he know your right name?" I explained the exchange of my check for the cash he won of me in the smoking room of the Madiana. A peculiar look came into Wesson's face. "That was about five weeks ago," he said, musingly. "About that." He covered his eyes with one hand a few moments as if in deep thought. When he looked up he had regained the pleasant expression with which the interview began. "Now, about your being in my room, Mr. Camran. Do you wish to say anything in regard to that?" I took from my pocket the package I had found in his trunk and silently held it up for his inspection. "You intend to retain those things, I presume," he said, with excessive politeness. "With your permission," I answered, not to be outdone in courtesy by a thief. "Certainly," he said. "And the bracelet, will you do me the favor to find some way in which it may be returned to the owner?" What a cool rascal he was! I could not help admiring his _sang froid_, the like of which I had never seen or heard of. "The shirt stud, I think is yours," he went on, affably, "and the earrings belong to your cousin? Yes, that was my impression. Let me, if I may be so bold, advise you to keep them under better surveillance in the future. Now, that I may not be blamed by Miss Carney for keeping you too long, let me say that if you have finished we will call this interview at an end, except for one question. Do you intend to do anything disagreeable about the matter?" Still as cool as an iceberg, as unruffled as a bank of pansies. "I shall do nothing," I answered. "The service you rendered a few moments ago puts me under a great obligation. Rest assured, sir, you have nothing to fear from me." He walked hospitably to the door and opened it. "You had best avoid another rupture with Mr. Edgerly," he said, in a friendly tone. "He is quick tempered and, as you have well observed, you are not strong enough to contend with him. As to pistols, he is a dead shot. He can knock a penny off a wall at two hundred paces." I thanked him for his advice and went to find Miss May, whom I was not surprised to discover in an excited state, and bathed in tears. "Oh," she cried, when she saw me, "let us return to New York as soon as we can! You have had nothing but trouble ever since I have been with you. Take me to America and end this unfortunate agreement of ours. I knew you and that man would have trouble again. If the other one had not appeared you would now be dead, and he--" Her sobbing broke out again, terrifically. All at once it occurred to me that the news of the recovered jewels would partially comfort her. "Marjorie," I said, "Marjorie, my love! There is a silver lining to the cloud to-day, a golden lining, a diamond lining. Yes," as she looked intently at me through her tears, "I know where my stud is, and your earrings, and Miss Howes'--" Instead of giving the joyful cry I expected my companion uttered a long wail and lay limp in the arms I stretched out to catch her. I cursed my indiscretion and, laying her gently on a sofa, rang for aid. CHAPTER XXII. TOO MUCH EXCITEMENT. It seemed as if I never would learn that my companion could not bear sudden surprises, or mysterious hints. Her delicate nature took alarm at the least departure from the conventional. Before the arrival of the servant I was tempted to imprint on her pale cheeks the kisses she had always denied me, but a spark of manliness still left in my composition prevented. Her swoon was but momentary. Before the slow bell boy could arrive she had roused herself and begged me to admit no one, saying she would be all right again in a few moments. Realizing that I had probably rung already, she asked me to make some excuse to the servant when he arrived and not to open the door wide enough for him to see her. When the boy had come and gone I began my apologies in the most profuse way. "Do not excuse yourself, I beg," she answered. "I was very foolish. You speak of being a convalescent, but you will begin to think I am the invalid. I will try my best not to disturb you again." She was very sober and though she was able to sit upright I saw that her strength was returning but slowly. She would not go down to lunch when the bell rang, and I sent her up a little toast and tea, which she barely touched. As the evening approached I asked if she felt able to drive, but she said if I did not mind she would rather I would go alone, and I complied with her suggestion. On my return two hours later, she was up and about, with a little of the old color in her face. I connected her improved state, in a certain way, with information that I received later from Mr. Armstrong, that Edgerly had left the island on a steamer bound directly for New York. Her anxiety lest he and I should come again into collision was thus abated. In fact, I had never seen her so bright at dinner as she was that day, her appetite good and her manner actually vivacious. The next day being Sunday we went to a church not far from the hotel, where I was struck as before by the devotional bearing of my companion. Not being an Episcopalian, I have always considered it quite a feat to know just when to kneel and to rise, to find the place in the prayer book, to stand and sit at the right places. I watched Miss May carefully, doing exactly as she did, though, I am afraid, the effort detracted from the religious effect on my mind. When the affair was over we walked back to the Marine and went over to the little Park, called for some unknown reason "Hastings Rocks," the entrance of which is guarded by a black Cerberus who demands a penny from each visitor. Here we sat and looked out on the sea, and my mind reverted to Edgerly, now a hundred miles or so to the north of us. If Wesson had only accompanied him, I thought, there would be nothing to disturb the even tenor of my life. Why did he continue to remain at the hotel? He could not hope to rob us again; and he must know that the promise I had given him would not tie my tongue if any other guest of the house should report that his valuables were missing. Perhaps he was waiting now for some steamer bound to South America or Colon. I sincerely hoped that, if this was so, the boat would arrive at an early date. Monday I rose very early, and in pursuance to an arrangement made the previous night, took a carriage before breakfast with Miss May. We drove in our bathing suits and bath robes to a beach about a mile up the road, where we had a delicious bath in the surf. The sight of her again in that attire aroused all the masculine forces in me and made me resolve anew that I would win her for my life mate if there was any possibility of so doing. A more exquisite shape it has never been my fortune to meet, and I must confess I am not exactly an amateur at that business. She seemed wholly oblivious of the effect her charms created, but declared with bright eyes that there was no pleasure in the world half as great as bathing in salt water of that temperature. After breakfast the typewriting machine was put in use again and that day, urged on by Miss May's statement that she was just in the trim for work, we accomplished what are catalogued as the fifth, sixth and seventh chapters of the book you are reading. Marjorie was plainly interested to a high degree now in every word that I gave her to write. The tale of the excited night I passed after first meeting her, my half-formed resolves to give up the plan of taking a companion on my voyage, the celerity with which I changed my mind the following morning, upon awakening, the reception of the next letter she sent me, with my comments thereon, kept her as entertained as if the story had indeed been fiction. She laughed a little when I admitted starting the letter in reply beginning "My Darling, I cannot breathe until once more I am in your loved presence," and paused to remark that she had never known a man so excitable and uncontrollable. My meeting with Statia on Broadway seemed to affect her strongly. All her sympathies were evidently with that young lady, for she shook her head and uttered several sighs as I told how we parted after her withdrawal of the invitation to call at her house. Then came the chapter in which my amanuensis had said at last, "I am going, of course," with the stipulations she had made, her cheeks blushing, as to the conduct she would demand from me. Marjorie smiled again at the letter I wrote to Alice Brazier, in which I tried to describe my "secretary," and the dream I had that night, but she grew as sober as possible when I read the second letter from Miss Brazier, adjuring me to treat my fellow voyager with courtesy and honor. The solemn resolutions I made to comply with this request pleased her, as did the story of Tom Barton's visit to my rooms and his plan for a _modus vivendi_ between Statia and me. Then she had to copy, at my dictation, her own long letter explaining why, if she was to travel as my relation, more money than I had given her would be required. At the end she commented aloud on what she called the mercenary tone of that note. "You had a good many doubts of me, first and last," she added. "First only," I reply, "not last. I'd like to know what could make me doubt you now." The chapter ended (the ninth chapter) with the sentence before the one that now closes it and Miss May rose from her long task with a sigh of relief. Tuesday, both of us being still in excellent trim, the dictation was resumed. That day she finished the tenth, eleventh and twelfth chapters, smiling at the right places and looking pensive when there was occasion. Once she interpolated, "I like that Tom Barton--he is made of true metal," which naturally pleased me. The nervous wait I had at her rooms made her shake her head in a way that meant much, and the excessive joy with which I greeted her when she did come sobered her considerably. "Have you not drawn the long bow a little here?" she asked, pausing. "You need not think it necessary to stretch your sensations just because the object of them happens to be their recorder." "If anything I have understated them," I replied, "Language is wholly inadequate to describe the constant anxiety I felt till you were actually on board the Madiana. But proceed. If I get on that strain I shall never be able to finish." My account of our shopping, with our subsequent visit to the restaurant, made her remark that I was a close observer. She said there was not a thought in her head that I had not photographed. "Who but a born novelist," she said, "would have deemed it worth while to tell that I objected to having the door of our little dining-room locked?" "It is merely to show the reader another proof of your excessively proper conduct," I replied, "and give him an opportunity to appreciate your true character." "You have mistaken your vocation, after all," she said. "You would make a splendid detective. Not even the smallest thing escapes you. You make me think of a hunter on a trail. A broken twig, a nearly indiscernible print on the moss, a leaf brushed aside, show you where the creature has passed." "The only wild creatures I have ever hunted were 'dears,'" I answered, laughing. "Don't you think such earnestness in the chase deserves its full reward?" "The reward is all very well for the hunter," she said, solemnly, "but for the deer there is only the bullet and the knife." She had cornered me there. Instead of trying to straighten out the muddle I went on with my work. Miss May was plainly affected when I told of the remorse I had felt for my ill-spent life, after reading the note she had left on the typewriting machine at her first visit to my rooms. The concluding paragraph of the tenth chapter, as it now appears, had not been written then. Wednesday we did but one chapter--the eleventh. I noticed that my companion appeared fatigued when it was finished and I refused to let her continue. She was intensely surprised when I identified Miss Howes. I detected a repellant shrug of the shoulders as she realized the kind of woman who had occupied the stateroom with her during her voyage from New York to St. Thomas. She showed great interest when I described my fellow passengers at table, and grew white when I came to the point of the larceny of her earrings. Fearing that I would excite some unpleasant memory I made no comment whatever on the occurrence beyond what was in the MS. she was writing. She wanted very much to continue her work, but I would not listen. She was too evidently ill. There is a limit to what even the best natured amanuensis can perform with impunity. When we went on, the next day, I tried to give out my dictation in a slower manner, to conserve Marjorie's force, but it was a difficult thing to do. Her speed was naturally great and I had got into the habit of speaking in much my ordinary manner. She told me twenty times that I might dictate more rapidly, and her fingers flew over the keys at a speed that astonished me. All she would consent to do was to let me order a glass of wine, from which she sipped occasionally. She declared that my "novel" was so diverting that she was anxious to get as far along as possible. The description of my games of cards with Edgerly caused her to have frequent recourse to the wine, but the meeting with Eggert and his family came to relieve the strain. She grew uneasy again when I told of sitting by her bed and bathing her forehead; and reddened like a peony when I remarked how lovely she appeared in her bathing costume that morning we took our first bath on the beach of the Quarantine Station. "Must you put in such things as that?" she asked, pleadingly. "I think it spoils what was getting to be a very entertaining story." "I can leave out nothing," I answered. "Really, Marjorie, you cannot conceive how rapturously beautiful--" She shivered as if a cold wind had blown on her. "Are you dictating?" she asked. "I think we had best keep to the text." "Then do not attempt to go outside your path and province," I said. "Once more, this is my story, not yours, remember. Here is something that will interest you." I gave her the concluding paragraph of that chapter--the one recording the sudden and unexpected appearance of Mr. Wesson. She went on very quietly after that, though the frequent allusions to my growing affection disturbed her visibly. Every evening after our work we went for a drive. On most of these occasions we met somewhere on the road a blue-eyed man and a brown-eyed woman, riding in a cart, drawn by two horses, hitched tandem. I often wonder what has become of them; whether they have decided to go through the world tandem--one in front of the other--or side by side, as I used to see them there. Sometimes they rode bicycles, which they handled equally well. When the darkness settled their lamps were lit, according to the local laws, and the lanterns looked like fireflies as they spun along the hard roads. Perhaps that is what Froude saw which made him say in his book that there are fireflies in Barbados--who can tell? The woman was rather handsome, with a well rounded form, and a mouth made for kisses, though she assured me once that none had ever rested there. If true, it is a sad case of luscious fruit going to waste on a tree well worth climbing. With the exception of the following Sunday we worked every day. Miss May was getting more and more used to hearing her every act recorded and made few interruptions. I warned her when I came to the episode of the book on criminology and she steadied her nerves and went through it like a heroine. She did demur a little--hesitating and flashing an appealing look at me--when I came to her admission that she wanted to kiss me quite as much as I wished her to do so, and she breathed heavily when I told what had caused me to decide that, even if permitted, I must refuse the boon. When I reached the place where I had to admit reading the letter she wrote to her friend Helen she stopped short and we looked for some seconds at each other. "That is the only really dishonorable thing I have known of you," she said, reproachfully. "I do not defend it," was my reply; "but I would not give up the happiness it caused me for all the world." "You surely cannot remember that letter, word for word!" "I believe I can give it literally." "If you have any doubt, I will get the original for you," she said. "When I came to read it over I thought it wiser not to send it. I wrote another in its stead and kept the one you saw--as a warning for the future." She arose, went to her bedroom, procured the letter, and brought it to me. "But it came from your heart, my love," I said, bending toward her. "That is what gives it value. And all this time you have been pretending that my slightest sentiment of affection must be repelled. Have you forgotten our compact, dear one? We were only to lie to outsiders, never to each other. Marjorie, once more, listen to me. I love you! I want you for my wife. Here, with this confession before us, need we go on longer without a definite understanding? Why not say that little word that will make me the happiest man who breathes?" I had not uttered all this without many attempts on her part to stop the flow of words. When I finished she turned her chair directly toward me and spoke with firmness, though her face was as white as I had ever seen it. "Mr. Camran, you are taking an unfair advantage. Having violated the privacy of my room and read the letter I wrote to an intimate friend, you now seek to make that act the basis for renewing a suit I have told you more than once cannot succeed. Ah, no! There are reasons stronger than I care to make known why I cannot be your wife. I beg you do not give me the pain of compelling me to say this again. I will repeat, if you desire, the words I wrote to my friend: 'It is all I can do to prevent myself falling head over ears in love with this man.' "Yes," she continued, "that was true--that is true. It is all I can do; but I can do it, I have done it, I shall continue to do it! Mr. Camran, I esteem you beyond the power of language to express. Your kindness, your consideration, your generosity have affected me wonderfully. Some day you will know to what extent. But there can be no relation between us nearer than the one we now occupy. Never, never, never!" She had covered every point, but like suitors the world over I would not believe her. "Answer me a few questions," I said. "Yes, in justice to my proposal, which I cannot but feel does honor to both of us. Do you mean to say that your final declination of my offer is based on the fact that I read your private correspondence?" "No, it would have been the same without that," she answered. "Let me add that I forgive you freely for what you did in that respect." "Is it because--I want to understand perfectly--you think it dishonorable to wed a man richer than you, whose acquaintance you made in an unusual way?" She shook her head in negation. "Is there, then, anything that you have heard, or suspect, against my reputation?" Again she shook her head decidedly. I took up her letter and read: If I were of his social grade--if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal. Such thoughts, alas! are not for your poor friend, Marjorie. "Those words mean something," I said, earnestly. Tears came into her eyes. "Mr. Camran, do you think it is fair to press me like this?" she asked, with a sob. "There is an adage," I replied, "that all is fair in love. To give you up means to shatter my existence. I have been a reckless boy. With you as my wife I would make a worthy man--worthy of you, of myself, of the noble line from which I sprung. I fear, and I say it deliberately, that if I lose you I shall sink again into the depths from which I have escaped." "All that," she said, gently, "you said when your friend Statia gave you the same answer I am compelled to give now." "It is jealousy!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "You are angry because I asked her, before I had even seen you! Very well. But, understand what you are doing! I cannot go through the agony I suffered a year ago." She sprang up, as if to ward off an impending danger, and came so near that her face was within six inches of mine. I looked her squarely in the eyes. "You cannot fascinate me in that way!" I cried, bitterly. "You have ruined a man who has taken you from poverty and given you for two months, at least, the life of a lady. Don't put your hands on me!" as she attempted to touch my shoulder. "I have finished with you. Take the advance payment you have had and go to your home, if you have one. But, remember, by your own agreement, the clothes in which you stand belong to me. Take them off before you leave this room, give them up, or I will strip them from you by force!" I do not know that I am quoting my exact words, but I am sure this was the sentiment that, in my rage, I expressed. At the moment I hated the woman more than I had loved her a few minutes before. "You shall have them, every one," answered Miss May, without the least trace of excitement. "I will go immediately to the village and buy just enough articles of dress to make me fit to take passage to America. All I had from you shall be packed in the trunks you bought and left behind." "And the jewelry," I added, still blind with my disappointment, for she had received and was wearing it again. "Take those rings from your hands, those diamonds from your ears. They are mine, remember. That was our agreement. I broke into Wesson's trunk and reclaimed them. They are mine!" At the mention of Wesson she paled even more than before, but complied with my request, laying the articles on the table before me, one by one. "Good-by," she said, softly, going toward the door that led to her chamber. Like an avalanche the horror of what I was doing swept over me. I rose, clutched wildly at the air, and fell, not unconscious, but with a deathly nausea. The next moment a woman's form was kneeling by my side and my head was raised to the support of a woman's arm. "Forgive me--oh! forgive me!" was murmured convulsively in my ear. CHAPTER XXIII. A WEDDING RING. For the next week I was a very sick man. I remember almost nothing of what happened, except that I was in bed and that Miss May was nursing me with all the care a mother gives an infant. Yes, I remember another thing--that Mr. Wesson came several times to my bedside and conversed in low tones with my companion and with a physician whom somebody had summoned. I was too weak to think much about it, or I should certainly have objected to his presence, but I knew in a dim way that he was there. Afterwards I began slowly to regain my memory and my strength. My first attempts to engage in conversation were discouraged. Mr. Pomeroy, the proprietor of the house, came in and said sympathetically that if I wanted to get on my feet soon I must be very quiet. "Eddie" Armstrong, the manager, whom I had grown to like immensely, said the same thing. I obeyed their injunctions for several days more; but one morning I awoke so strong in heart that I announced my purpose of rising, though all the doctors in Christendom--or even in Barbados--forbade it. Miss May hesitatingly brought my bath wrap and assisted me to sit up in bed. One movement upon my feet, however, had more effect than all her persuasions. I must wait a little longer. She propped me up and gave me a strengthening drink that was waiting upon a table. Then she sat by my side and, at my request, read extracts from some newspapers that she had obtained in the reading room below. The news was all about a possible war with Spain, on account of the blowing up of the warship "Maine," in Havana Harbor. I grew indignant at the hot-heads in my country who were willing to plunge two nations in the horrors of war without waiting to see if a catastrophe could be honorably averted. When the reading was finished I lay passive for a long time and then my thoughts reverted to the scene that preceded my illness. "I am very, very sorry!" I murmured, drawing Marjorie toward me by the hand which she allowed to rest in mine. "Sorry? For what?" "My cruelty to you." She bade me think no more of what had passed, declaring that the blame, if any, was her own, and that, at least, I must not talk about it for the present. Her manner soothed me more than words and I lay very still, fondling the hand I held and occasionally murmuring grateful expressions. They came to me gradually--all the hateful things I had said and done; and I contrasted them, to my discredit, with the thoughtful care she was giving me. The love that had vanished during my anger returned ten-fold. The doctor came and looked wise. I would be able to sit up in a day or two, he said. Good nursing was what I most required now; as if I didn't know that as well as he! And I had the best nurse in the world--the one I wanted above all others. Could I only be assured I never would lose her! On the third day I refused to heed longer the advice not to talk. I had too much to say that I wanted Marjorie to hear. "If you really wish me to be quiet," I said, "you can stop me very easily. Tell me you will be my wife when we return to New York. Only say 'yes' and I will not speak another word." She leaned over the bed, pushing my hair back gently with her soft white hand. "Only that one word, Marjorie; only that one! And then we will both be still." "When--we return--to New York," she answered, slowly, with a pause between the syllables, "I have--something--of great importance to--tell you. If--after that--you persist in your question--I--I--" "That is enough," was my joyful reply. "You will leave it to me? Dear girl, I ask no more. God bless and keep you!" I fell asleep early that evening and did not waken once till the sun had risen. Then the medicine she had given me showed its efficacious power. I was quite able to rise and even to take my breakfast at the table in the sitting-room with her. Once started on the road to recovery each hour showed a rapid gain. In another day I was taken for a short drive. The next I remained dressed from morning till night, though I reclined part of the time on a sofa. And I could think of nothing but returning to the United States. The sooner the better now, when the wish of my life was to be granted there. Marjorie showed herself a woman of wonderful capacity in more ways than one. She arranged with the Colonial Bank officials to have a draft all ready for me to sign when I drove up one day for money, thus saving what must have proved a weary wait. She bought new steamer chairs, the others having been left carelessly on the Pretoria. She paid the hotel bill and made all arrangements for our departure, having taken pains to learn which steamer would take us away the soonest. We were to go on a Royal Mail boat, "the Don," (happy omen!) to Jamaica, being sure of plenty of American steamers from that point. On the day we were to depart I was nearly as strong as ever. Bidding farewell with some regrets to all the guests I knew, to the proprietor, the manager, Miss Byno and the brown-eyed bicyclist, I entered the carriage with really a light heart. I was going again on a voyage with Marjorie; going, though the route might be slightly circuitous, to a land where she and I were to be indissolubly united. Is it any wonder I was happy? The crowd of boatmen that assailed us at the water's edge nearly carried me off my feet. Money is too scarce in Barbados to make the possible gain of a dollar a light matter. One of the men caught me, however, by the name of his craft, which he repeated loudly. "Here yo' is, Massa; de Marjorie, dat's yo' boat, Massa!" I engaged him on the spot and a black patrolman scattered the horde of disappointed applicants. Our baggage and ourselves filled the little boat, but we knew we were safe. Off we started for the big black steamer, near which I could discern the American man-of-war "Cincinnati," bringing a leap of patriotic blood to my heart. Home? We were almost at home now, with the stars and stripes floating so near us! The "Don" and the "Marjorie." What could be more propitious? "I hope you won't scold me, Don," said Marjorie, in a low voice, "but I have taken a liberty that perhaps I should have spoken about beforehand." "Take any liberty you like, sweetheart," I answered. "I am yours now, to do what you please with." She drew off one of her gloves and advancing a hand asked me to inspect it. After doing so for a minute I told her I saw nothing except the dearest hand in the world; upon which I took it up and kissed it. "Don't you notice that I am wearing another ring?" she said, flushing. She certainly was: A gold ring at that and a plain one. It was on her wedding finger, too. My first thought was that she had summoned a minister and married me during my illness. This was too good to be true and I at once dismissed it. "You are not yet quite well," she explained, demurely, "and I shall have to be in your cabin frequently. I thought it best to avoid attracting notice, and as I had that ring of my mother's--I just--put it on." How sweet it was of her; how confiding! "But our names on the passenger list?" I said. "That is all arranged. We are Mr. and Mrs. Camwell." It was bliss enough for one day. Nothing but the purest thoughts regarding her could enter my head now. She was to be my wife! The next morning she arranged a pleasant way to pass the time. Our cabin was very large and roomy, and she said she could go on with my "novel" quite as well there as on shore. She made me recline on my berth, which had no other above it, and dictation was therefore done entirely at my ease. It was undoubtedly better for me to keep my mind actively employed, and the task to which I set myself was a most agreeable one. My darling recorded the lines I gave her, with rapidity, and made very few audible comments that day, although it was evident from the tell-tale expression of her mobile countenance that she was keenly alive to each situation I detailed. The lines that seemed to affect her most were those wherein I confessed the depth, the sincerity and the purity of the love that had sprung up in my heart. She could not complain that I was misrepresenting her own part in these affairs, for I thought no alteration could improve a straightforward statement of the real facts as they appeared to me. She winced a little--I thought more about that afterwards--when I referred to seeing Wesson in my stateroom on the Pretoria and again when I spoke of meeting him in close converse with Edgerly in Barbados. The nearest she came to a full stop was when I related the reasons I had for believing Wesson stole the book from Eggert and was more than likely the thief who had taken the jewels, but after a second her fingers flew over the keys as usual. The waters through which we were passing were smooth as any millpond. I have never seen so calm a sea, and my tranquil mind sorted with it perfectly. There was nothing that could add to my happiness. I believed each revolution of the steamer's screw brought me nearer the goal of my ambition, the possession of my lovely companion as my true and lawful bride. In the meantime I was producing what I had no doubt would give me a successful embarkation on the sea of literary fame, a voyage I had long aspired to take. During the three days the "Don" occupied in going from Greytown to Kingston we accomplished much. Marjorie gasped several times when I came to the chapter that detailed my entrance into Wesson's room and my success in finding the packet containing the missing diamonds. As I told of my interview with the rascal she grew as pale as chalk, but she did not entirely stop her writing. At last we came to the time when the "novel" itself was begun and she brightened enough to say that we were walking now in our own tracks. But, at the bald revelation of the things I had said to her when I lost my temper, and demanded back the very clothes she wore, she protested. "You are unjust to yourself to put that literally in your story," she said, pleadingly. "Your readers will never feel the extent of your provocation. It makes you appear a very detestable character." "It must go in--exactly as it happened," I answered. "I had no valid excuse for the contemptible things I did. The public will consider it all a piece of fiction. I think it necessary to show the extent to which I lost my reason when I believed I had lost you. It is much safer in a novel to abuse the 'hero' than the 'heroine.'" Seeing that nothing would move me she went on as I dictated and when the boat was due to arrive at Jamaica the next day we had reached the very words you are now reading. I had apparently recovered my strength entirely. That night I slept as soundly as if I had never known illness or mental trouble. In the morning we went early upon deck to see the entrance to the Harbor and had a pleasant talk with Captain Tindall, one of those affable and handsome men that England produces in such numbers and assigns to this duty all over the world. Inquiry had convinced me that there was but one suitable place to stay at in Kingston--the Myrtle Bank Hotel--and the result proved the wisdom of my choice. While open to some slight criticism--as what hotel is not?--it was on the whole a delightful home to us during our brief stay. There being no more work to do at present I occupied the hours in talks, walks and drives with Marjorie, happy as the butterflies among the roses in the pretty park which separates the hotel from the shore. We went one day to visit a camp of soldiers in the suburbs, on another to the Constant Spring Hotel, situated six miles from town in a mountain nook, to Castleton Gardens and Hope Gardens, beautiful for situation and high culture, with lovely roads leading to each. Again, we took the train to Spanish Town and drove to Bog Walk, as pretty a bit of scenery as one could desire. And later we passed several days at Mandeville, some fifty miles or so away, a village perched among the hills 2100 feet above the sea, where the scent of coffee flowers and orange blossoms fairly filled the delicious air and the thermometer recorded a degree of heat more grateful than that to be found in the lowlands. I noted the mercury at 70 when I went to bed, at 60 when I rose, and at 75 when the sun was in the zenith. I really do not know another spot more charming in any land, in March or April. Besides this we visited Montpelier, Montego Bay and Port Antonio, seeing at the latter place a steamer of the Boston Fruit Company setting sail for the Hub with an immense cargo of bananas and oranges. The country thereabout is one field of those fruits, combined with the stately cocoanut palms, while a short distance away tobacco is grown that rivals the famed product of unhappy Cuba. On the 28th we bade farewell to the island, with genuine regret on my part at least, and took the little "Beta" of the Halifax line for Bermuda. Before we left Kingston a batch of letters was received, some for each of us, and I did not attempt to annoy Marjorie this time by prying into her correspondence. My confidence in her was now at its highest point. She did not write any answers, nor did I, as we were so soon to reach home. After three days in Bermuda we started for America. I saw that, for some reason, she wanted to return, and with the hope that filled my breast I had no wish to prolong our absence. It was agreed that we would have to separate when we touched land, she to go to her old lodgings and I to mine, but I stipulated that we were to meet again within a very few days and that she was to write me when to expect her. As I saw her enter her carriage, with her baggage strapped behind, I held myself well in hand, though the wish to embrace her at parting nearly overpowered me. "You will write as soon as possible?" I said, interrogatively. "Yes," she answered. "I will write; and then, if you still insist, I will come to you." If I still insisted! I did not believe as I saw her wheels disappear in the street that anything could change the resolutions I held so dear! CHAPTER XXIV. THE BRUTAL TRUTH. Three days passed--three awfully slow days, though I visited Harvey Hume and Tom Barton, spent every evening at the theatre, and loafed away many hours at the club, where the boys made me tell them of the islands I had visited and asked my opinion over and over, (as if it amounted to anything) in relation to the probability of a war between the United States and Spain. I refused to enlighten Harvey at the time in reference to his question whether I had not been quite as happy "without my secretary" as if I had taken one. I said I would have something to tell him one of these days and that he must be content until that time came. Tom was the same dear fellow as of yore, but Statia, who came in to welcome me, was as sphynx-like as on the eve of my departure. I also had to run in a moment on my Uncle Dugald, who gave me his hand in his old, impassive manner, and expressed the opinion that I looked better, on the whole, than when I went away. A brief call on Dr. Chambers completed my list. I thought that excellent gentleman looked a trifle disappointed when I called his attention to my improved physique and said I was as well as I had ever been in my life. I have no wish to do him an injustice, for it was certainly a feather in his cap when he raised me out of the Slough of Despond and made me fit to travel at all; but it is only natural if professional men are not filled with special delight at announcements that their services are no longer required. On the third evening there came a packet from Miss May--at last! an awfully big packet, which set me to wondering what it could possibly contain. I thought as I received it from the messenger that it would have answered for a presidential message to Congress on the Cuban situation, with all the correspondence that had passed between the United States and Spain since the blowing up of the warship. It may be believed I lost no time in tearing open the paper that encircled the missives. Inside I found a small envelope marked "Open first," and a larger one inscribed, "Read this only after you have read the other carefully." All this was so deliberate and so much like a deep plan that I was far from my ease when I complied with the request and cut the smaller envelope. And the reader may well believe that my sensations were not of a very enviable nature when I read these lines: My Dear Mr. Camran: I know no easy way to break the truth I am obliged to send. If you have any doubt of being able to bear a shock without medical attendance do not read what I have placed in the other envelope until you have summoned your physician. I fear it will not be pleasant reading, but you must have the truth. At least, I must keep my promise now of lying only to others and not to you. With this warning, I subscribe myself, for the last time, Yours, M.M. April 8th, 1898. I was surprised at the calmness with which I saw all my hopes blown to the winds in a single paragraph. Curiosity was the most pronounced feeling in my mind at the moment. I took a long breath, steadied my nerves for an instant, and then opened the larger envelope. There were typewriter sheets, twelve in number, done, apparently, on a Remington machine. And this is what I read: * * * * * Prepare yourself to hear the worst about me, my dear friend, for your imagination could hardly make me out a greater scamp than I am. Know then, to begin with, your companion in the Caribbean was a well-known criminal, whose entire trip with you was planned for the purpose of fraud. If she failed to accomplish that end you must ascribe it to a weak yielding to sentimental considerations, of which she should--from a professional standpoint--be heartily ashamed. If you have survived this statement, read on, and I will be more explicit. I am what is known to the police as a "confidence woman." My usual game is to beguile persons of the opposite sex into "falling in love" with me and then fleece them out of as large a sum as I can do with safety to myself. I may add, without egotism, that I have been fairly successful in this, my chosen field. If you care to get another copy of that book I stopped you from reading at St. Thomas, "Our Rival, the Rascal," you will find on one of its pages a fairly accurate portrait of your humble servant, though the name affixed is not by any means the one I thought it wise to give you. One of my favorite methods of making the acquaintance of probable victims is through the advertising columns of newspapers. I have found no better medium for the purpose than the "Personals" in the New York Herald; it is generally to be supposed that a masculine individual who will use that column or reply to anything contained therein is good game for my purpose. Naturally my attention was attracted to your announcement that you wanted a typewritist to accompany you to the West Indies for the winter. I wrote as modest and taking an answer as I knew how and the fact that it proved most attractive to you out of a hundred you received justified my judgment. The next thing was to hold you fast, when you came to see me, and here again I flatter myself that I evinced the right sort of talent. I sized you up at the start for what you were--a good-natured, easily-led gentleman of means, who would answer very well for my purpose. Now, see how I proceeded: To have accepted your offer at once would have been to awaken your suspicions. I knew better than that, and I played what is technically known as a waiting game. As I look back on our primary interviews and correspondence I do not see a wrong step on my part. I wrote you that I could be seen "only between the hours of two and four," to give you the impression that I was no ordinary girl who would go anywhere, or with any one, and whom you could lead with a thread. You were to come at my hours; I knew you would like that. You came, but it was I who saw and conquered. You told me at once that you had engaged berths for two on the Madiana. This showed that you were not likely to back out, but I did not take your word alone. I had a friend verifying your statement at Cook's office within an hour after you left my room. Had I told you that I would go, that afternoon, you would have had a chance to think it over and perhaps to change your mind. It is the fleeing bird that attracts the attention of the hunter. You gave me the name of "David Camwell, Lambs Club," which before I slept that night I had turned into Donald Camran, from a list of members which I was easily able to procure. I learned that Donald Camran was rich; that he was considered erratic; that he answered your description in personal appearance; and that he had been, as you said, recently ill. The next time you adopt a false name do not use your own initials. Nine-tenths of the people who do this slip up on that banana peel. When you left my room, that first afternoon, I was as certain you would return as that the sun would rise on the following day. The chapters of the "novel" you afterwards dictated to me prove how entirely accurate I was in my estimates. I take much pride, also, in the second letter I sent you, for I covered my "fly" with attractive colors to dazzle your eye and meet every point likely to arise in your mind. My card was to convince you that I was the very proper young lady I professed to be. To do this without acting the silly prude was a task fit only for such thoroughly trained hands as mine. Next I spoke of the matter of compensation, to convince you that I was really a working girl and not a mere adventurer. You had plenty of means and the price of my weekly stipend was not likely to alarm you. As it would really be necessary for me to have considerable money to make a suitable appearance I gently hinted something in relation to that matter, leaving it, however, to your own judgment what should be done. I believe I may claim that in the composition of that letter I showed decided talent. At any rate it accomplished its purpose. When your answer came I knew that I was going. I would not have paid five dollars to be assured of that. But when you returned to me I still had to pretend a little doubt--not too much, that would have spoiled everything. I left it to you to say whether, after all, you really wanted me to take the journey, doing it in a way that alarmed your fears lest you were going to lose me. I had to keep "the scent warm," as the saying is. The rushing way in which you bought my trunks and sent me the first installment of cash would have removed my doubts, had any remained. I then thought I might as well get clothed while I was about it and sent the third letter, which we may call "Exhibit C." In that I appealed to the chivalrous part of your nature, arousing your sympathies, and yet without putting myself for one instant in the rôle of a mendicant. "If I am to go I am unwilling to disgrace you"--that was all there was to it. Again I was justified by the result. You came as soon as I would let you--I had "gone out of town over New Years," you remember, and you showered another lot of bankbills on my head. Now here is just where a less experienced person would have made her mistake. Seeing how easily you could be induced to disgorge, she would have hinted at expenditures that would have caused a revolt even in your generous brain. I came late on purpose that Tuesday morning (I had only been a couple of blocks away) in order to work up the fever that I knew was latent in you. I suggested that you go to the shops, knowing that you would grasp at the chance to occupy so close a position to me as the cab would afford. At Altman's I pretended to be shocked at some of the prices, so that you would pronounce them the extremity of cheapness. (How could you do anything else?) And I hinted bashfully at the question of jewelry, knowing that you would send me all I could reasonably expect, as you did the next day. Then I went to dine with you in a private room, primarily because I was nearly starved to death, secondarily because I knew it would fasten you to me the closer. I put on that awful blue veil to give you the impression that I had never done such a thing before, when as a matter of fact the waiter who served us knows my face as well as he does his mother's, if he has one. He knew enough to conceal that fact, however, as I am certain, from previous experience, every waiter in that house would have done. Now we come to one of the fine points. You did not forget to mention in your description of that evening how I refused to have the door of our _cabinet particulaire_ locked, which you were kind enough to ascribe to maidenly modesty on my part. The fact is, ever since I was imprisoned three years ago for two months, awaiting trial for one of my schemes that went awry, the thought of a turned key on any room I occupy drives me into fits. In that at least I was honest. The scare you gave me in proposing to lock that door took away my appetite to such an extent that I ate, as you have recorded, very sparingly of the excellent dinner. You may remember that I showed similar trepidation at St. Thomas, when you suggested that Mr. Eggert might lock the door of my bedroom. It was enough like a jail with the high fence around the grounds, and I never felt quite easy till we had left the place. I really did not take one good breath there, so vivid is my recollection of the horrible days when high walls and locked doors meant imprisonment. I don't suppose I shall explain everything you will wish to know, but I shall do my best. The next thing that occurs to me is that I refused to allow you to register my name on the Madiana's passenger list as "Miss May." As this was merely a _nom de guerre_ you will wonder why I objected to its going into print. The fact is that my husband--yes, I am married, and by a minister of the church, too--did not like to have me take that journey without going with me on the boat, while I was sure it was much better for him to remain away. He has no jealousy, as you will immediately imagine--he knows me too well to be guilty of such a senseless thing. I love him with all my soul; and I can take care of myself, if it comes to that, against the persuasions or the force of any living man. He merely wanted to be with me, just as you would want to be with your wife, if you had one and loved her. I knew he was not always a safe companion in a game of this kind, that he had a quick temper and was lacking in judgment in any case where I was concerned; and I told him plainly that this was my affair, that I should manage it alone, if at all, and I should not tell him where you and I were going. As he knew your name, having made the inquiries at your club, he would have a double chance to discover us if he saw mine anywhere in print, and "Miss May" was a title he knew I had once before assumed. So I got you to change it to "Carney" in hopes to throw him off the track. He proved too shrewd for me, however, as you will agree when I mention that he travelled on the steamer with us under the name of "Edgerly." I may as well tell you at this point that the "cruel employer" to whom I alluded so often was a creature of my imagination, and that all the typewriting I have ever done has been for my own profit and amusement in schemes like the present one. If you had recorded me as "Miss Camwell" I meant to work another racket on you. I expected to institute a suit for breach of promise on my return, not one to be taken to court, but only to use as a lever to pry a few thousands out of your pocket; I would have done this if you had not, contrary to all precedent, made me an honorable offer of your hand, which spoiled my plan in an unforeseen manner. It was with this in view that I went to your rooms several times before we sailed. It is always handy to have evidence ready in a case of this kind and hallboys are excellent witnesses if wanted. Don't you think I am a lovely girl, now? And aren't you sorry I am not free to wed. What a charming wife I would make for a man like you! Well, to resume, I played what I thought a good card by saying that I should only accept the things you paid for as "the costuming of my part" and return them to you when the show was over. It didn't cost anything to say that and I knew you never would accept them. The little screed that I left on the typewriter at your room was not a bad stroke, either. I flatter myself it was a fair piece of English composition, and although it contained not a word of truth, it answered just as well. It made you think of me with more respect than if you had supposed me a mere waif of the streets. You wondered--didn't you?--why I went to my cabin on the steamer and remained there for part of two days after it started. Perhaps you can guess the reason now. I had seen my husband on deck and not being anxious to meet him any sooner than could be helped I kept out of his way. Before I did come up I received a note from him, by one of the stewards, detailing the course he intended to adopt, which was simply to act as if he had never seen or heard of me in his life. I could not help a slight uneasiness, though, at his presence, for he is not always as shrewd as a husband of mine should be. I was rather displeased that he had come in spite of my advice; and I felt afraid that he would hamper my movements even if he did not destroy my plans. What made me suspect that man Wesson I do not know, unless it was instinct. The moment I set my eyes upon him I put him down for an enemy. I wrote a few lines to my husband, telling him to watch, but he answered that my suspicions were groundless, another proof how much clearer are my intuitions than his. Wesson was always prying around. I had some conversations on deck with him when you left me alone, but could come to no positive conclusion except that I wished he was somewhere on shore. I didn't really guess what he was up to until we had landed at St. Thomas. CHAPTER XXV. "WITH HIS WIFE, OF COURSE." I leave the reader to imagine my feelings, [it is Camran writing now] as I read these lines, if he can. To describe them is more than I am able to do. Suffice it to say that I read on and on, like one fascinated, and there was no sign of the collapse I might have expected from the dreadful revelations. The catastrophe was too immense to be met in any ordinary way. * * * * * You will now need no confession of mine [continued this strange MS.] to inform you who purloined Miss Howes' bracelet and your shirtstud. Who stole my own jewelry might be a harder riddle, so I will make haste to say that I did that also. It was the easiest way to prevent suspicion falling on my head, though it can hardly be said to have been entirely successful, as Mr. Howes never had the least doubt of my guilt. I knew that from the first, by the freezing manner he immediately adopted toward me and the chilling way in which his "niece," or friend, as she afterwards proved, used me until I left the boat. I ought to say here that common thefts are not in my line, and that I regret having been drawn into the commission of these acts. My husband urged the deed upon me, and rather than let him run the risk of doing it himself--which he threatened--I yielded to his importunities. He had embarked with very little ready money, on account of recent ill luck at the faro table, and dreaded being stranded in some foreign port without enough to complete his voyage. I was, as you know, powerless to aid him much in any other way. You will naturally inquire why, if this is true, my husband returned to you the money he won at cards, taking your check instead. He did so because I insisted upon it. I told him, at the rate he was going, we should be high and dry on the reefs before we got back to America. There was little sense in killing a goose (I meant you, my dear Donald) that was likely to lay golden eggs for a long time if properly tended. Wesson worried you at Eggert's, didn't he? Well, he worried me a great deal more. I had an instinctive fear of him and was at my wits' end to give a reason. I knew also that my husband was waiting for me at St. Croix and wished to consult him in regard to several matters. I wished to get away from Eggert, the two or three fainting fits I had there were simulated for the purpose of inducing you to cut your stay as short as possible. I wanted you to make the proposal to leave and at last succeeded. I let you kiss the ends of my fingers; and sometimes I pretended to reciprocate your affection, though I could hardly keep from laughing in my sleeve. Do you remember the time you bathed my forehead with cologne? I could hardly control my risibles at the pathetic figure you made. Oh! It was really too amusing. I took the sea bath every morning, not because I cared for it, but in order to awake your fancies and bind you tighter to my triumphal car. The lovely, silly things you said to me! Now, about that book: I saw it long before you did and tried to think of some plan to keep it out of your way. You might notice the similarity in features Between Miss ---- and myself, if you were allowed to pore over its pages. I had another fear, too, even stronger, for I believe I could have convinced you that the resemblance was merely accidental: I dreaded Wesson's sharp eyes if once they got hold of that volume. So it was I--not he, of course--that put the book out of the way, and it was only by my carelessness that he afterwards got his hands on it. I had ceased to have the slightest fear of you; of course, I never had any for myself--I mean, there was nothing about you to endanger the wifely duty I owed to my dear, unhappy husband. You could be handled as easily as a kitten, by touching your sentimental side. Do you recall looking in at my screen door and seeing me in the attitude of prayer? Why, I had posed in that position, night after night, waiting for you to come! When I asked you to enter, a little later, I knew as well as that I breathed what your answer would be. There never was another man so easy to control. Then there was the letter I received from my dear friend Helen. All arranged for, copied from one I had left with her--before I sailed--just on purpose for you. I forced that card on you as nicely as any conjurer could have done it, didn't I? And my answer--which you entered my room and read--(excuse me while I go behind the door and smile) that was cooked up for your eyes in the same way. I didn't know that you would go into the room, although I hoped so, but if you hadn't you would have been given the letter to mail, with the unsealed envelope turned so as to attract your attention, and you never would have been able to resist a peep, never. How did you like my description of your beauty? The blonde mustache, the "hazel eyes," the "engaging countenance?" If I had been as silly as that letter indicated, it would not have taken a very gay Lothario to accomplish his designs on me. Your reiterated offers of marriage convinced me that I could pull that string whenever I was ready. That I have not pulled it is due to the "weak yielding" of which I spoke at the beginning of this letter. Professionally, I repeat, it was an error. I could have got a nice little pot out of you if I had kept along that line. But I am not the only member of my "firm" who has weak moments. My husband could not keep himself quiet in that hotel at St. Croix, when everything depended on his remaining out of sight. He had to stand in the sitting room and listen to your protestations of affection, until I was frightened out of my wits, for I know what an excitable fellow he is. It is one thing to have your wife let another man make love to her--for a legitimate purpose--and quite another to overhear the burning declarations. I had to play the fainting gag again, in order to send you after water, and--do the best I could--my husband would not run when he heard your returning step. I was in mortal fear that he would kill you and only by the best diplomacy of which I was mistress did I send him away. Even then he had not finished. I went into your room at midnight, do you recollect? to keep him from entering there. Not altogether to save you from injury--though I would have done that, too--but for fear of the legal entanglements into which his rashness might bring him. And in the morning you sent me that sweet letter of apology! Whenever I get the blues I shall only have to take that out and read it. It was so funny! I am afraid you are getting tired of this story, but you might as well have it all. It will cure your complaint called "love," that you have had so severely, if anything will, and that ought to be one comfort. My husband was on the steamer with us when we left St. Croix, and--where, do you suppose? In the stateroom with his wife, where a true man should be, of course. I smuggled him in there and kept him hid till we reached Barbados, if you please. But the night you and I stayed at Martinique, I had a terrible fear that he would come ashore and do something silly. He kept insisting that he had an account which he must settle, sooner or later, with you. So, if you remember, I went into your bedroom and stayed all night, for I knew he would trust me, and that he would not try to touch you in my presence. In the morning you took me back to the steamer, as I had intended you should; and that night and the next I slept again in the arms I love. It was he who was prowling around the Hotel des Bains, who played the part of mice and ghosts. Disguised so that no one on the Pretoria recognized him he made his way to land and back again. It wasn't a bad trick, considering. At Barbados I made him go to the Sea View Hotel instead of the Marine, though with the greatest difficulty. He is so hard to manage when he sets his mind on anything. It was distinctly foolish for him to be seen walking the street with Wesson, for you need never have known he had gone further down the islands than St. Croix. Then why should he come to the Marine in broad daylight, and get into that row, that nearly spilled all the milk? I love the man, I tell you, but I must criticise such conduct. Where did Wesson get the jewelry? will be the next question in your mind. All I know is that our mutual friend "Edgerly" pawned the lot at Martinique for four hundred francs and afterwards sold the ticket for 125 more, like a dunce! to the proprietor of the Hotel des Bains. That is an indication of where Wesson got hold of the swag. But why did he let you take it from him without making the least resistance? This is another riddle which you must discover for yourself. I can't fathom it. If you are trying to find anything in my favor because I forgave your insulting language at the time you bade me give up the clothing you had bought, strike it out of your mind. I was merely doing the prudent thing in keeping you quiet until you paid my expenses back to the United States. As to the clothing I knew very well you would never ask for it, in your senses, nor get it, if you did. I finished the work you asked me to do, with the typewriter, to understand exactly how each item in this account seemed to you at the time. Now, once more, my dear Donald, where does this leave you and me? I might remain in New York without the slightest fear you would molest me, either in person or through the law. No man would like to have this story printed, with his real name, in the daily newspapers; now, would he? Neither is it likely that your fondness for your Marjorie (ha, ha!) will long outlive the confessions she has so freely made. But I am not going to remain in this city. The haunts that have known me will know me no more. I am going far away, with my husband--my darling husband--and I can promise that your eyes have gazed upon both of us for the very last time. Why, now, did I give up attacking your bank account when such a good opportunity still remained? I will tell you, candidly. There are sportsmen, many of them, I trust, who would not shoot a fawn that stood still at their approach. I never supposed there was a man with whom a woman could travel as I travelled with you, who would not give cause to bleed him with a good conscience by the outrageousness of his conduct. I thought, of course, you would be like the rest. In that case the fountains of mercy would have dried up in my bosom and I would have taken the last dollar I could wrench from you without the slightest compunction. It was a game I believed infallible. I had found it, more than once, to work like a charm. There are usually only three moves: 1st, to convince the male animal that I am pure and wish to remain so; 2d, to put myself where he believes he can insult me with impunity; 3d, the insult. I only wanted one move toward the third play on your part to pick you financially to pieces. You did not make it, and I could go no farther. If this leniency of mine is a deadly sin I can only pray that the temptation to commit another like it will not come to me soon. And now, my very dear friend, I must say good-by. Take it altogether, my two months with you have not been unhappy ones. On your part, if you have learned your lesson well, the investment you have made ought to yield a fair dividend. Forget me, if you can, forgive me at any rate. I have already given up my lodgings, so you need not seek me there. My address is for the present a secret. Yours Sincerely, "MARJORIE." Donald Camran, Esq., The Lambs. * * * * * I had finished the entire story and yet I sat upright, with my senses all about me. I was going to bear it very well, after all. A knock was heard upon the door of my apartment. The hallboy entered when I bade him do so and handed me a card, with the statement that the gentleman wished to see me on very important business. The name on the card was unknown to me, but I bade the boy send the owner up. It might prove a diversion and anything was welcome that would take my mind from Marjorie. I rose and was about to greet the new comer in the usual terms when a sight of his face stopped me. "Mr. Wesson, what does this mean?" I asked, angrily. "It means," said the person, with all his old coolness, "that Mr. Wesson has disappeared from the scene, and that I am plain Martin Daly, of the Blinkerdon Police, at your service." Staggered to the last degree I scanned his card again. It read, "M. Daly, Boston." "What do you want of me?" I asked, still standing and allowing him to do the same. "In the first place," he answered, "perhaps you will permit me to take a chair. In the second, you may be kind enough to read a letter which I have brought." He took the chair, without waiting for my permission and I received the letter, which I saw at once was addressed in the handwriting of my Uncle Dugald. My Dear Nephew [it read]:--This will introduce Detective Daly of the Blinkerdons, who, at my request, has been for eight or nine weeks attending to matters of importance to you. He will show you his bill for services and expenses, which I would suggest deserves your early consideration. If you decline, for any reason, to pay the bill, kindly let me know at once, that I may give him my own check for the amount. Yours, etc., DUGALD CAMRAN. New York, April 9th, 1898. I opened the bill, which had fallen upon the table, and read the following: Donald Camran, Esq., to Martin Daly, Dr. To services ninety days at $7 per day $630.00 To expenses of travel, etc., 521.50 To cash paid pawnbroker at Martinique and holder of ticket 125.00 -------- $1276.50 "What the devil does this mean, sir?" I demanded, very red in the face. "It means," said Mr. Daly, affably, "that your uncle engaged me to make the West Indian voyage in your company and protect you from any designing persons. The price per day was the one he himself fixed, and is somewhat less than I am in the habit of receiving. A desire to visit that part of the world induced me to accept the lower rate. The expenses, I hardly think you will deny, have been kept very reasonable." I reddened more than ever. "In plain English, sir, you have been dogging my footsteps, and desire me to foot the bill." "You or your uncle--it is all the same to me," he responded, quite unruffled. "I think you have had some narrower escapes, sir, than you yet realize." With Miss May's confession lying before me on the table I could not well doubt that. Still the shame of my position was no less galling. "We can postpone the consideration of that little matter for the present, if you desire," continued Daly, for such I must now call him. "What is of more pressing importance, is the examination of Jack Hazen, or Robert Edgerly, as you knew him, which is set down for day after to-morrow." "What!" I cried, startled out of myself. "Oh, I forgot. You know the check for $350 that you gave him when he buncoed you on the Madiana? Well, he raised that to $3500, and was arrested while trying to collect that sum at your bank. After you told me you had given him the check I had just time to stop the swindle by cable." Edgerly arrested? Poor Marjorie! That was all I could think of. "He is an old offender," continued Daly, "and will get a sweetener this time. At what hour can I expect you to-morrow at the district attorney's office? Twelve o'clock will suit me. Twelve? All right. I see you are busy. Good day, Mr. Camran." He was gone and I sat there alone with my reflections. It may readily be guessed they were not agreeable. The only thing I was sure of was that I should pay Daly's bill at once, if I had the requisite balance to my credit in the bank; and that I wished he had been in a warmer place than Barbados before he ever interfered in my affairs. CHAPTER XXVI. BEHIND THE BARS. Why should I blame poor Daly for doing what his profession and the law he followed dictated plainly? Why should I blame my Uncle Dugald for putting me under guardianship, after I was supposed to have reached the years of discretion? These are indeed pregnant questions. If the reader has had neurasthenia and only partially recovered, he will know that the victim of that malady needs no legitimate reason for any fancies that possess him. It is plain to me--now--that in sending Daly on my track, my Uncle was acting the part of a considerate and thoughtful relation. It is equally clear to me--now--that the conduct of Daly, from first to last, deserves the highest praise. Instead of demurring for an instant at his bill I would have done well to add $500 to it as a present. At the moment he was to me like a blistering plaster, making me think of nothing but the irritation and pain. It is little consolation to be told, under any circumstances, that one has played the part of a fool. I went to dinner at the club moodily, and on returning to my apartments set myself to consuming as many cigars as possible in a given time. They were cigars I had bought from a Kingston manufacturer and were decidedly better than many sold under the name of "Havanas," since the troubles began in Cuba. I must have smoked at least twenty of them before I paused, put on my hat and light overcoat, and went out of doors, to see if the open air would have any effect in clearing the mist that hung over my brain. I walked aimlessly for some time, in various directions, and found myself standing opposite my own windows an hour after I began. I wondered if I would be able to sleep if I went into the house. Unconsciousness was the thing most to be desired, it seemed to me. As I had about come to the conclusion to try it, a low voice called my name and its tones filled me with a thrill that was indescribable. "Mr. Camran!" "Yes," I replied, laconically. "I know," said the voice, and I saw the outlines of the figure I remembered so well, "I know--that I have no right--to appeal to your pity--or to ask your aid. I have, unfortunately--no other resource--and--I beg you--as you hope for mercy at the bar of Heaven--give me--a few minutes--where I can speak to you--in private." That form was bent, the tears in that voice were real; she was not acting now. "Will you come up to my rooms?" I asked. "I should be so thankful!" "Come, then." We went in together, astonishing the hallboy somewhat, for to do myself justice, he had never seen me enter at that time of the evening so accompanied. When we were in my sitting room, and the door shut--I did not turn the key, remembering her aversion to locked doors--she began to speak, slowly and tremblingly: "I am overcome with shame--I am plunged in a despair that only you can lighten. I know well--that I deserve nothing--at your hands. I--I have robbed you, insulted you--done everything to earn your hatred and contempt; and yet--" "And yet," I interrupted, for her attitude touched me deeply, "and yet--you have not succeeded in earning either." She sprang up with the evident intention of threwing herself at my feet, but I caught her by the hands--those hands whose touch had given me such delight only a week ago! How cold they were! "Let us come to the point," I said, when she was again seated. "Your husband is in jail; you found it out after you sent me that confession; and you want me to free him." She rocked herself backward and forward. "You have known what it is to love," she moaned. "You have not known what it is to be wedded. That man is my very life! If they condemn him to a long term in prison they will, at the same time, condemn me to death. I realize how little right I have to appeal to you--but there is no other way. If you testify against us, we are ruined irreparably. Oh, Mr. Camran--Don!--if there is one bright memory in your heart in all the days you and I passed together, let that one plead now for a most unhappy woman!" I did not want her to suffer. I had no desire to punish her. Had she been unmarried I would have offered her my hand again--yes, after all I knew! "It was not by my wish that your husband was arrested," I said, gently. "In fact, I only learned of it an hour ago." "But you can save him--you, and you alone!" she cried. "What does it mean to you, the money you have lost by us? The check you gave him was never paid, not even the sum for which you wrote it. I know--I know he struck you, he tried to kill you--I know it all! but you escaped unharmed. As for me, I swear to send to-morrow every article you bought--yes, I will get even the money you have paid for my passage and hotel bills. Every penny shall be put into your hands before noon--if you will have mercy on us." "Marjorie," I answered, "I do not know what I can do, but let me assure you I will do all I can. If any act of mine will set your husband at liberty you may rely on me to perform it." She seemed hardly able to believe that she heard aright. She laughed through her tears, discordantly. "You will do this!" she exclaimed. "You are in earnest? And what are your stipulations? Oh! Remember how little I have left of womanly honor, and ask nothing I cannot grant." A whiteness had come to her lips at the sudden thought that alarmed her. "I only ask," I answered, shakingly, "that you carry out the purpose of which you spoke in your last letter; that of going far away from this part of the world--where I shall never set eyes on you again. You are to me like a dream that is past: a beautiful dream I must blot from my brain. Within a week I shall have forgotten the thorns and recall only the perfume of roses. A year later I hope to forget the roses themselves. Marjorie, you are the wife of another man. You are, by your own admission, a woman with whom it would be suicide to link my life. But I love you yet. No, do not start. This is my last word on that subject. After all, you have done something for me. From this day the love of woman will never be esteemed a light thing in my mind. A young roué has had a shock that he will not forget. His idle search for pleasure is ended. I shall be another and a better man--even because I have known you." "And you will save Jack?" she said, entreatingly. "I will do all I can--'perjure myself like a gentleman'--if necessary. I think you may be sure of having him set free within a very few days." "What can I do to thank you?" she asked, the tears streaming again from her eyes. "Nothing," I said, after a moment of hesitation. For a second I had thought of asking one pure kiss, on the lips. I knew, before the next second had passed that she would refuse it, though her husband's freedom depended on the issue. "Nothing," I repeated. As she rose and held out her hands to me in the attitude of parting, I affected not to see the movement. "Good-by," I said, huskily. "No; say no more. Good-by." At the door to which I allowed her to go alone, she had an instant of doubt. "You would not be so cruel as to deceive me?" she said, trembling. I waved my hand in a negative, but I could not trust myself to speak. I was afraid, terribly afraid, that if she did not go at once I should clasp her, willing or unwilling, in my arms, and crush her mouth with my own. And that I would not have done for the world. * * * * * As early the following morning as I could expect to find Harvey Hume in his office I was there. Having nothing whatever to do, as usual, he drew me into a private room, closed the door and asked to what he was indebted for a call at that hour. "I want to consult you on a legal matter," I said, gravely. "Now, do not get excited, for you will need all your wits. Listen!" I told him that a man was lying in jail under the charge of having raised the figures on a check of mine; that it was my desire that the man should go free; and that I wanted him to tell me how to accomplish that result. "He is unjustly accused?" he said, interrogatively. "Whether he is or not doesn't matter. I want him set at liberty." Hume thought deeply for some moments. "Did you give him the original check?" he asked. "Yes." "Then, of course, you remember the figures it bore at that time." "I wouldn't like to swear to them," I said, evasively. "They can't convict him unless you do, if he is well defended." "But," I said, "I don't want him tried at all. I want him released now. Isn't there some way to accomplish that?" Harvey thought a little longer and finally said he would arrange it. He was to go at once to the jail and unveil his scheme to "Edgerly," and afterwards turn up about noon at the district attorney's office. As the clocks were striking twelve I met Daly on the steps of the courthouse. He complimented me on my promptness, with a keen look that showed he scented his prey. As we were entering the room of the dispenser of justice, Hume came along and addressed me. "I say, Camran," he remarked, careful that Daly should hear every word, "I am engaged to appear for a poor chap who is up for raising a check of yours. I was just going in to see the district attorney. I must say, the man seems as innocent of wrong as any fellow I ever met." "Will you kindly introduce me to this gentleman?" asked Daly of me. When this was done, he informed Hume that Hazen was a well known sharper and that in the present case there was no doubt whatever of his guilt. "Mr. Camran gave him a check for $350 to settle the balance of a game of cards that I will swear was a swindle, for I watched it; and when the check was brought into the bank it had been raised to $3500. Luckily I got word that the check had been given in time to put the bank people on their guard by cable and he was arrested on the spot." "Is this true?" asked the lawyer, of me. "I don't know," I responded, carelessly. "I gave him a check--certainly--but for what amount I am absolutely unable to swear. I was confused at the time--a little put out, naturally--" Daly was surveying me with a look of rage. "So you're going to throw it up, are you?" he asked, gutturally. "And one of the prettiest cases I ever worked on, too." "I will mail you the amount of your bill this afternoon," I said, impudently. "The amount of my--" he repeated, dolefully. "Yes; but the gain to my reputation that would have resulted--who will compensate me for that? Gad, I'll never take hold of another case that has a woman in it! They can knock over the best of us. You can let your check-raiser go, for all of me," he said to the district attorney, as that gentleman came to the threshold. "The evidence seems to have petered out." Mr. Hume and I talked the matter over with the official, explained the part he took in the affair, and it was arranged that the case would not be brought before the Grand Jury at all. "I want to say I think you've played it a little low down on a man that interfered to save your life," said Daly to me, as he left the building. "But I'll watch for that fellow and you can bet I'll get him on something yet before he dies." I had no wish to argue with him. He was undoubtedly right, from his standpoint. It was enough for me to know I had succeeded in accomplishing what would put the roses into Marjorie's cheeks once more. CHAPTER XXVII. "I PRESSED THEM TO MY LIPS." I was very lonesome for a few weeks after my return. This it was that took me so often to the house occupied by the Bartons. Tom was immensely glad to see me, at all times, and Statia, though still very sober in my society, began to treat me with her old kindness. One day, when Hazen was out of jail, and undoubtedly far away from the city, I asked Statia if she would like to hear a diary of my journey to the West Indies. She hesitated a little, saying finally that her answer would depend a great deal on what the diary contained. I told her how I had put the entire affair, from the beginning, into shape for publication and what I wanted was her opinion of my scheme. While there were many things that might not reflect great credit on me, there was nothing, I believed, that it would be improper for her to hear. She thought a little longer and then asked if she might not read it for herself instead of having it read to her. I accepted the amendment, being in fact glad she suggested it, and brought Miss May's MS. to her the very next morning. When a couple of days had passed Tom dropped in to say that his sister would like to see me, if I found it convenient to run over. In another hour I was in her presence. She met me with a frown on her pretty face and stood for a minute regarding me silently. "Don, have you told the whole truth in that manuscript?" she asked, then. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me!" I responded with upraised hand. "It is an awful avowal, take it altogether," she said, soberly. "I almost wish you had not brought it to me. I never shall feel quite the same after this. How could a woman of that description so affect a man like you?" "I am not going to discuss that," I answered. "Is it worth publishing, that's the point? I have altered every name, you see, so no one not in the secret will recognize a single person involved. It's a rather unusual collection of occurrences, don't you think?" She assented with a nod to the last proposition, and said as for the literary "market" she supposed in its present state it was not over squeamish. "The success of the season is 'Quo Vadis,'" she added, "and I wasn't able to read half of it. There is at least a lesson to be learned from this experience of yours, if men will only heed the warnings." "Thank you," I said, with polite irony, though I didn't agree with her about Sienkiewicz' great work. "Can you think of anything I might add, to round out the tale, as it were?" A flush came into her face and a slight smile to the corners of her mouth. "Yes. You might say that 'Statia' admitted to you afterwards that the letters signed 'Alice Brazier' were her own, copied by a friend in the handwriting of the latter and sent from her residence." My surprise, which was complete, turned the smile into a little laugh at my expense. "And you might say also," she continued, "that during your absence with 'Marjorie,' your friend 'Tom's' sister was taking lessons in typewriting and became quite proficient in that art. And that she told you, whenever you wanted to take another journey, and needed assistance in literary work, she would apply for the position rather than have you made the victim of any designing creature of her sex." "Statia!" I cried, "you have entirely forgiven me?" "Entirely," she said. "I couldn't wish you any greater punishment than you have endured." A month passed and one day a box addressed to me was brought to my door by an expressman, with the charges prepaid from some point beyond the Rockies. Wonderingly I saw it opened and then, at the first glance into the interior, I told the boy who plied the hammer that I would unpack it myself. It contained the entire outfit that "Marjorie" had bought with my money--the jewelry included. There were the hats which had adorned her fair head; the gowns that had been draped around her graceful body; the shoes, the hosiery, the lingerie--everything! I took them out slowly, one by one. I pressed them to my lips, letting teardrops fall on each separate article. I could only think of what I had lost--of what, in truth, I had never gained. I put the articles away, finally, locking them securely from all prying eyes. This little note was found in the box, pinned to a scarf: My Dear Friend:--Although you told me you did not want to take your things back, I shall feel better to send them to you. It leaves me in your debt only for the other expenses of my voyage, and perhaps the typewriting I did will in some measure compensate for that. Long ago you must have recovered from the tender sentiment with which you used to insist I inspired you, and I hope have also learned to think of me with less aversion than you felt at the last. If I might be permitted to give advice it would be offer your hand and heart to 'Statia Barton.' You need a wife; I am sure, she would make an excellent one. Farewell; this time, forever! M.M. Recovered from my love for you? Not yet, Marjorie, not yet. That will come in time, I trust, but it is still too soon. Offer my hand to Statia? I would not insult that noble girl again with such a worthless gift. As for my heart, it has not come back to me, and I do not know as it ever will. * * * * * "Well," said Mr. Cook, the senior partner of the Dillingham Company, as I signed the contract which gave him the right to publish this "novel,"--"you've had what the doctor prescribed, at least." "A New Sensation," he explained, as I looked at him inquiringly. THE END. SPECIAL NOTE: If this should meet the eyes of Mr. Mathew Howes of Binghamton, or Miss Howes, they are hereby informed that a diamond bracelet is awaiting its owner at The Lambs Club. D.C. THE POPULAR NOVELS OF MAY AGNES FLEMING THE ACTRESS' DAUGHTER. A CHANGED HEART. EDITH PERCIVAL. A FATEFUL ABDUCTION. MAUDE PERCY'S SECRET. THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN. NORINE'S REVENGE. PRIDE AND PASSION. QUEEN OF THE ISLE. SHARING HER CRIME. THE SISTERS OF TORWOOD. WEDDED FOR PIQUE. A WIFE'S TRAGEDY. A WRONGED WIFE. Mrs. Fleming's stories have always been extremely popular. Their delineations of character, lifelike conversations, the flashes of wit, their constantly varying scenes and deeply interesting plots combine to place their author in an enviable position, which is still maintained despite the tremendous onrush of modern novelists. No more brilliant or stirring novels than hers have ever been published, and, strange as it may seem, the seeker after romance today reads these books as eagerly as did our mothers when they first appeared. _All published uniform, cloth bound. Price, 50 cents each, and sent FREE by mail, on receipt of price by_ G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK THE FASCINATING NOVELS OF Celia E. Gardner BROKEN DREAMS (In verse). COMPENSATION (In verse). HER LAST LOVER. RICH MEDWAY'S TWO LOVES. STOLEN WATERS (In verse). TESTED. TERRACE ROSES. TWISTED SKEIN (In verse). A WOMAN'S WILES. WON UNDER PROTEST. These stories are as far removed from the sensational as possible, yet in matter as well as style, they possess a fascination all their own. The author makes a specialty of the study of a woman's heart. Their tone and atmosphere are high; the characterizations good; the dialogue bright and natural. Her books have had an enormous sale. _12 mo. Cloth bound. Price, 50 cents each, and sent FREE by mail, on receipt of price by_ G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK THE CHARMING NOVELS OF JULIE P. SMITH BLOSSOM BUD. COURTING AND FARMING. KISS AND BE FRIENDS. THE MARRIED BELLE. THE WIDOWER. CHRIS AND OTHO. HIS YOUNG WIFE. LUCY. TEN OLD MAIDS. WIDOW GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER. Julie P. Smith's books are of unusual merit, uncommonly well written, cleverly developed and characterized by great wit and vivacity. They have been extremely popular, and they still retain to a great degree their former power to charm. Her pictures of farm life and of rural conditions are wholesome and finely done. The human interest is never lacking from her stories. _All published uniform, cloth bound. Price, 50 cents each, and sent FREE by mail, on receipt of price by_ G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious typographical and printer errors have been corrected without comment. In addition to obvious errors, the following changes have been made: Page 53: removed the word "be" from the phrase "... who is to be become my employee...." leaving, "... who is to become my employee...." Page 153: changed "profoundedly" to "profoundly" in the phrase, "I was profoundly grateful...." Page 234: changed "an" to "as" in the phrase, "... your face is as innocent as a babe's." Other than the above, no effort has been made to standardize internal inconsistencies in spelling, capitalization, punctuation, grammar, etc. The author's usage is preserved as found in the original publication. 
33218	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 33218-h.htm or 33218-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33218/33218-h/33218-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33218/33218-h.zip) A TOP-FLOOR IDYL by GEORGE VAN SCHAICK Author of "Sweetapple Cove," "The Son of the Otter," "The Girl at Big Loon Post" Illustrated by Chase Emerson Boston Small, Maynard & Company Publishers Copyright, 1917, By Small, Maynard & Company (Incorporated) Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. TO MY DEARLY LOVED SISTER ELISE [Illustration: And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend.] CONTENTS I THE NIGHT ALARM II FRIEDA THE ANGEL III I WATCH AN INFANT IV THE BOLT V GORDON HELPS VI A BIT OF SUNSHINE VII THE OTHER WOMAN VIII WE TAKE AN EXCURSION IX I HEAR RUMOURS ABOUT GORDON X THE WORK LOST XI GORDON VACILLATES XII GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED XIII DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK XIV I BEGIN TO PLOT XV THE LIGHTNING STROKE XVI FRANCES READS MY BOOK XVII MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS XVIII DIANA AMONG MORTALS XIX FRANCES GOES TO THE COUNTRY XX RICHETTI IS PLEASED XXI THE CONCERT XXII GORDON RETURNS XXIII THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND XXIV "THE MOTHER AND CHILD" LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend. No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony. Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite. A TOP-FLOOR IDYL CHAPTER I THE NIGHT ALARM I smiled at my friend Gordon, the distinguished painter, lifting up my glass and taking a sip of the _table d'hôte_ claret, which the Widow Camus supplies with her famed sixty-five cent repast. It is, I must acknowledge, a somewhat turbid beverage, faintly harsh to the palate, and yet it may serve as a begetter of pleasant illusions. While drinking it, I can close my eyes, being of an imaginative nature, and permit its flavor to bring back memories of ever-blessed _tonnelles_ by the Seine, redolent of fried gudgeons and mirific omelettes, and felicitous with gay laughter. "Well, you old stick-in-the-mud," said my companion, "what are you looking so disgruntled about? I was under the impression that this feast was to be a merry-making to celebrate your fortieth birthday. Something like a grin just now passed over your otherwise uninteresting features, but it was at once succeeded by the mournful look that may well follow, but should not be permitted to accompany, riotous living." At this I smiled again. "Just a moment's wool-gathering, my dear fellow," I answered. "I was thinking of our old feasts, and then I began to wonder whether the tune played by that consumptive-looking young man at the piano might be a wild requiem to solemnize that burial of two-score years, or a song of triumphant achievement." "I think it's what they call a fox-trot," remarked Gordon, doubtfully. "Your many sere and yellow years have brought you to a period in the world's history when the joy of the would-be young lies chiefly in wild contortion to the rhythm of barbaric tunes. I see that they are getting ready to clear away some of the tables and, since we are untrained in such new arts and graces, they will gradually push us away towards the doors. The bottle, I notice, is nearly half empty, which proves our entire sobriety; had it been _Pommard_, we should have paid more respectful attention to it. Give me a light, and let us make tracks." We rose and went out. A few couples were beginning to gyrate among the fumes of spaghetti and _vin ordinaire_. Gordon McGrath, unlike myself, lives in one of the more select quarters of the city, wherefore we proceeded towards Fifth Avenue. The partial solitude of Washington Square enticed us, and we strolled towards it, sitting of common accord upon one of the benches, in the prelude of long silence resulting from philosophic bent and indulgence in rather tough veal. It was finally broken by Gordon; being younger, speech is more necessary to him. "What about that sarcophagus you've lately selected for yourself?" he asked me. "They are pleasant diggings," I answered. "Being on the top floor, they are remote as possible from hand-organs and the fragrance of Mrs. Milliken's kitchen. The room is quite large and possesses a bath. It gives me ample space for my books and mother's old piano." "Wherefore a piano?" he asked, lighting another cigarette. "You can't even play with one finger." "Well, my sister Jane took out nearly all the furniture, and the remainder went to a junkman, with the exception of the piano. Jane couldn't use it; no room for it in her Weehawken bungalow, besides which she already has a phonograph, purchased at the cost of much saving. You see, Gordon, that old Steinway was rather more intimately connected with my mother, in my memory, than anything else she left. She played it for us when we were kiddies. You have no idea of what a smile that dear woman had when she turned her head towards us and watched us trying to dance! Later on, when she was a good deal alone, it was mostly 'Songs without Words,' or improvisations such as suited her moods. Dear me! She looked beautiful when she played! So, of course, I took it, and it required more room, so that I moved. I've had it tuned; the man said that it was in very good condition yet." "You were always a silly dreamer, Dave." "I don't quite see," I began, "what----" "I'll enlighten your ignorance. Of course you don't. David, old man, you've had the old rattle-trap tuned because of the hope that rises eternal. Visions keep on coming to you of a woman, some indistinct, shadowy, composite creature of your imagination. You expect her to float into your room, in the dim future and in defiance of all propriety, and sit down before that ancient spinet. "You keep it ready for her; it awaits her coming. To tell you the truth, I'm glad you had it tuned. It shows that you still possess some human traits. I'll come, some day, and we'll go over and capture Frieda Long. We will take her to dinner at Camus, and give her a benedictine and six cups of black coffee. After that we'll get a derrick and hoist her to your top floor, and she'll play Schubert, till the cows come home or the landlady puts us out. She's a wonder!" "She's a great artist and a dear, lovable woman," I declared. "That's probably why she never had a love story," conjectured Gordon. "Always had so much affection for the general that she could never descend to the particular. By the way, I went to her studio for a look at her portrait of Professor Burberry." "It's good, isn't it?" "Man alive! It's so good, I should think the old fellow would be offended. Through her big dabs of paint he's shown up to the life. You can see his complacency bursting out like a flaming sunflower. Upon his homely mug are displayed all the platitudes of Marcus Aurelius. He is instinct with ignorance that Horace was a drummer for Italian wines and an agent for rural residences, just a smart advertiser, a precursor of the fellows who write verse for the Road of Anthracite or canned soup, and Burberry has never found it out. He would buy splinters from the wooden horse of Troy, and only avoids gold bricks because they're modern. It's a stunning picture!" That's one reason why I am so fond of Gordon. He's a great portraitist, and far more successful than Frieda, but he is genuine in his admiration of good work. He is rather too cynical, of course, but at the bottom of it there usually lies good advice to his friends. I'm very proud he continues to stick to me. "I understand he was greatly pleased," I told him, "and I was awfully glad that Frieda got the commission. She needed it." "Yes, I told her that she ought to go off for a rest in the country," he remarked, "but it seems she has one of her other queer ideas that must be worked out at once. She itched to be at it, even while she was painting Burberry. Mythological, I think, as usual, that latest notion of hers. Some demigod whispering soft nothings to a daughter of men. Showed me a dozen charcoal compositions for it, all deucedly clever. And how are the other animals in the menagerie you live in now?" That's a way Gordon has. From one subject he leaps to another like a canary hopping on the sticks of his cage; but there is method in his madness. He swiftly exhausts the possibilities of a remark and goes to another without losing time. "The animals," I answered, "are a rather dull and probably uninteresting lot. First, come two girls who live in a hall bedroom, together." "It shows on their part an admirable power of concentration." "I suppose so; their conversation is chiefly reminiscent and plentifully dotted with 'says I' and 'says she' and 'says he.' They are honest young persons and work in a large candy-shop. Hence they must be surfeited with sweets at a deplorably early age." "Not with all of them; they will find some hitherto untasted, but just as cloying in the end," remarked Gordon. "I hope not. There is also an elderly couple living on the bounty of a son who travels in collars and cuffs. Sells them, you know. Then I've seen three men who work somewhere and occasionally comment upon what they see in the newspaper. Murders fill them with joy, and, to them, accidents are beer and skittles. I suspect that they esteem themselves as what they are pleased to call 'wise guys,' but they are of refreshing innocence and sterling honesty. One of them borrowed a dollar from me, the other day, to take the two girls to the movies. He returned it on next pay day." "Look out, David, he may be trying to establish a credit," Gordon warned me. "You are such an easy mark!" "I'll be careful," I assured him. "Then we have a poor relation of the landlady. He looks out for the furnace in winter and is a night watchman in a bank. An inoffensive creature who reads the papers the other boarders throw away." "Altogether it makes up a beautiful and cheering totality of ineptitude, endowed with the souls of shuttles or cogwheels," opined Gordon. "Well, as Shylock says, if you prick them, they bleed," I protested. "At any rate they must have some close affinity with the general scheme of Nature." "Nature, my dear Dave, is a dustbin in which a few ragmen succeed in finding an occasional crust of dry bread wherewith to help fill the pot and make their hearts glad. It is a horribly wasteful organization by which a lady cod produces a million eggs that one fish may possibly reach maturity and chowder. Four trees planted on a hill commonly die, but, if you stick in a few thousands, there may be a percentage of survivals, besides nuts for the squirrels. Humanity represents a few tall trees and a host of scrubs." Thus does Gordon always lay down the law, to which I generally listen with some amusement. He is dogmatic and incredulous, though he lacks scepticism in regard to his own opinions. "Then all honor to the scrubs, my dear Gordon!" I interjected. "I admire and revere the courage and persistency with which they keep on growing, seeking a bit of sunlight here and there, airing their little passions, bearing their trials bravely. But I forgot to mention another inmate of my caravanserai. She's only there for a day or two, in a room opposite mine, hitherto vacant and only tenanted yesterday. I met her as she was coming up the stairs. She walked heavily, poor thing. I could only see her by the dim light of the gas-jet on the landing. It was a young face, deeply lined and unhappy. Downstairs I came across Mrs. Milliken, my landlady, who explained that the person I had met expected to go next day to a hospital. The Milliken woman had known her husband. He went off to the war, months ago, and the young wife's been teaching French and giving piano lessons, till she couldn't work any longer. The French government allows her twenty-five or thirty cents a day." "I'm glad it keeps a paternal eye on the wives of its brave defenders," remarked Gordon. "It does, to that extent, but it doesn't go very far in this country. She has a remarkable face; looks a good deal like that Madonna of Murillo's in the Louvre." "That's a back number at this stage of the world's history. Most of us prefer snub noses. I notice that you said she plays the piano." "I don't see what----" "Well, you've just had yours tuned. Oh! I forgot you said she was going off to the hospital. Never mind, Dave, they come out again, so don't worry. I've known you to be disturbed for a whole week over somebody's sick dog and to go two blocks out of your way to steer a strayed and unpleasantly ragged blind man. What is it, appendicitis?" "Mrs. Milliken darkly hinted, I think, that it was an expected baby." "Oh! Well, I suppose a baby had to go with a Murillo; the picture would have been incomplete. I'm glad that this particular case appears to be a perfectly safe one." "What do you know about it?" I asked. "I mean from your standpoint. I dare presume that the Milliken female has a holy horror of sprouting infants, like all landladies. She would naturally foresee a notice to quit from the old couple, disturbed in their slumbers, and extravagance in the use of hot water and linen would stare her in the face. You have made me sympathize with you for nothing, for your Murillo-woman will vanish into space and become the handmaiden of a scrub in the making. Henceforth, the case will only interest the Bureau of Vital Statistics and the manufacturers of improvements on mother's milk. Give me another cigarette." I handed him the cardboard box, for, although I have a silver case, I never know where it is. If I did, I wouldn't use it since I don't believe in flaunting one's vices. He took a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, and engaged in conversation the lonely policeman, who had strolled over to see that we were not flouting the majesty of the law by dozing on the bench. He remarked that the night was fine but warm, Gordon assenting. Then my friend suddenly asked him what kind of boots he wore, and put down the address most carefully on his cuff, thanking him effusively, after which the guardian walked off, ponderously. "Will you kindly explain your object?" I asked Gordon, who has what the French call the _coquetterie du pied_ and asserts there's only one man in New York who can make boots, a delusion that costs him about fifteen dollars a pair. "You're not lacking in sympathy," he instructed me, "but, on your part, the feeling is but an unintelligent instinct. Any idiot can feel sorry for a cripple or a man compelled by poverty to smoke cheap tobacco. I now call your attention to the fact that this old minion is ancient and corpulent. He's on his feet during all working hours, and his cogitations must often turn to his nether extremities. He carefully nurses them, while he raps those of lawless slumberers on these seats. Civilly, I spoke to him of the subject uppermost in his mind, and now he has left us, happy in the thought that he has put a fellowman on the right road. That's what I call taking a sympathetic interest in a deserving old ass. You didn't suppose for a moment that I'd wear such beastly things, did you?" "You would rather go barefooted," I told him. "I would," he assented. "If Gordon McGrath appeared in the street, naked as to his toes, the papers would mention the fact. The _Banner_ would send me the famed Cordelia, who would insist on photographing my feet for publication in a Sunday supplement, with a hint to the effect that I am a rather well known painter. It would be an advertisement." "If I went without boots, benevolent old ladies would stop me and hand out copper pennies," I remarked, without jealousy. "You just wait till the 'Land o' Love' is out, old man," he told me, "and the same old dames will write for your autograph." Gordon is quite daffy over the book I sent to my publishers last week. He has read the first, one middle and the last chapter, and predicts great things for it. Of course, I know better, for it will be just like the others. From four to six thousand copies sold, a few flattering notices, mostly in journals unheard of, and swift oblivion after some months. But I care nothing that I may be a scrub among writers, for the occupation suits me. I am not ambitious, and I can rise late in the morning, pound the keys of my old machine for an hour before lunch, waste a good part of the afternoon in one of the libraries, and go to work again after the hand-organs and knife-grinders have been abed some hours. Then, some time before sunrise, the rattle of milk-carts remind me of Mrs. Milliken's bedspring and mattress, and I go to bed. I am not doing so badly, and sell one or two short stories every month. Last year I opened an account in the savings bank. The time may come when I shall be classed among the malefactors of great wealth. "But one reader ever wrote to me," I finally answered. "It was a young person anxious to know whether I could recommend the 'City's Wrath' as a birthday present to a Baptist aunt. I advised against it, thus cheating myself out of ten per cent. royalty on a dollar thirty-five." "Oh! She'd have sent a second-hand copy," he answered consolingly, and shifted to a discussion of the ultimate blackening of vermilions, which seemed to give him some concern. After this he looked at his watch and declared he had just twenty-five minutes to get to the Lambs Club. That's just like him; he will loll and sprawl around for hours with you, looking like a man without a responsibility in the world, and suddenly arise and sprint away to far regions, always arriving in the nick of time. My way is to prepare far in advance to meet my rare engagements, to think of them persistently, and, usually, to arrive ten minutes late. I walked over to the subway with him, at such a breathless pace that I wondered if the friendly policeman would change his mind about us, should we meet him in crossing the square. Gordon left me at the entrance, with a wave of one hand, the other searching for a nickel, and I was permitted to return leisurely to my domicile, in a profuse perspiration. I felt my wilted collar, knowing that Gordon would unquestionably reach the club, looking spick and span. That's also one of his traits. As I crossed the square again, I saw a belated tramp leading an emaciated yellow dog by a string. The man looked hungrier than the dog, and I broke all precepts of political economy by handing him a dime. He was blameworthy, for he should have looked out for himself, and not have assumed foolish responsibilities. He was entirely wrong. What business had he to seek affection, to require the faithfulness of a rust-colored mongrel? How dared he ask charity that should have gone to the widow and orphan, wherewith to feed a useless quadruped? I sat down again, for it was only midnight, and thought pleasantly upon the vagaries of human nature. Suddenly, a splendid story suggested itself to me about a dog and tramp. It would be good for about four thousand words, and I hurried away to Mrs. Milliken's lest the inspiration might vanish on the way. I would have a dog all but human, a tramp all but dog, and the animal would sacrifice itself for a master redeemed at last by the spectacle of canine virtue. I knew just what magazine might accept it. A few minutes later I reached the house, which, like the Milliken woman, has seen better days. The frittering brownstone and discolored brick suit me as naturally as a hole in the sand befits a prairie dog. I let myself in, softly, with due regard to the slumbers of people compelled by the tragedy of life to go to bed at the behest of a clock, and trod the creaking stairs in utter darkness, guided by a friendly but shaky balustrade. Then I reached my landing, opened my door, turned on the light, put on my slippers and fired my coat on the bed. As soon as I had dropped my collar and tie on the floor, I was ready for work and sat down to my machine. Thank goodness, the inspiration had remained; clearly and cogently the sentences flowed; after I had finished the first page, I was already weeping in spirit for my noble dog. Then, suddenly, came a rap at my door, hurried, eager, impatient. "Great Heavens!" I thought at once. "I am to be interrupted because that blessed woman objects to loud typewriting at one a.m. I'm glad she's going away to the hospital." I went to the door, assuming my most austere mien, and opened it. CHAPTER II FRIEDA THE ANGEL "Please help me!" cried the woman hoarsely. "My God! What shall I do?" It was, as I had surmised, the Murillo-faced occupant of the room on the other side of the landing. In my dismay the desperate thought came to me that a lonely bachelor was the last individual she should have sought aid from. But her look of haggardness, the teeth pressed into her lips, the clenched hands, the chin carried forward in an expression of agonized supplication rebuked my egotism. "I--I don't know," I confessed humbly. She turned half way around, seized the balustrade and stared at me vacantly. "Allow me to help you back to your room," I suggested shakily. "Then I'll run downstairs and get Mrs. Milliken." She went with me, haltingly, and threw herself upon the decrepit horsehair sofa, as I abandoned her and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my neck on account of my slovenly old slippers. At the landlady's door I pounded till I chanced to remember she had informed me that she expected to spend the night at her married daughter's, in Fort Lee. In despond I bethought myself of the young women who sold candy. No! Such problems were not of their solving. Of course there was the negro cook, hidden in some ancillary cavern of the basement, but cowardice prevented me from penetrating such darkness, and I ran out of the house, coatless. Half way down the block were two doctors' signs. One shining in the freshness of new nickelling; the other an old thing of battered tin, with faded gold letters. "This," I decided, "is a case requiring the mature experience of age," and I rang furiously, awaiting the appearance of the venerable owner of the ancient sign. A shock-headed and red-haired youth opened the door, clad in pajamas and rubbing his eyes. "Yes," he said pleasantly. "I need the doctor's services at once," I informed him. "Hustle him up immediately, my good fellow. Please be quick, it may be a matter of life and death." "Oh! I'm the doctor," he said, "and I'll be with you in a few seconds. Sit right down." He left me in the darkness of the hallway and I sank down on a wooden seat, upon a palm leaf fan that crackled dismally beneath my slender weight. Faintly, in the back, I discerned a ghostly folding bed and heard the swishing of garments flying across the room. In spite of my feverish impatience the doctor came out again as fast as if he had been clothed by some magic art. "What kind of a case?" he asked. "I believe you are wanted to help increase and multiply," I answered. "Should have told me at once. Got the wrong bag!" he reproved me, disappearing. At once he returned. I went out first, and he followed me, slamming the door with a sound that reverberated through the quiet street, and we sprinted off. I used the key with a shaking hand. "Top floor," I informed him. "All my patients seem to live on top floors," he replied. At the woman's door I knocked. "I--I have brought you assistance," I told her. "This--this young gentleman knows all about such things; he's a doctor. I--I'll be in the next room, if there's anything else I can do for you." "Is there no woman in the place?" inquired the young man. "No. Only some girls who know nothing save the price of caramels and the intricacies of tango. But I can find one inside of twenty minutes; I'll go and get her." "That's good," he assented cheerfully, going to his patient, who looked at him in some fear. But I reflected that the doctor seemed kindly, and by no means overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him, so that I took the time to slip on my boots, after which I ran to Eleventh Street, where Frieda Long burrows in a small flat. Her studio, shared with another woman, is farther uptown. Finally she opened the door, clad in a hoary dressing-gown and blinking, for she had not been able to find her spectacles. "Who is it?" she demanded placidly, as if being awakened at two fifteen in the morning had been a common incident of her life. "It's Dave, just Dave Cole," I answered. "I want you, Frieda--that is to say, a woman wants you badly, at my house--taking her share of the primal curse. Don't know who she is, but Mrs. Milliken's away. She's alone with a little half-hatched doctor, and--and----" "Come in. Sit there in the front room. Cigarettes on that table. I'll close the door and be with you in five minutes," she assured me tranquilly. I tried to smoke, but the thing tasted like Dead Sea fruit and I pitched it out of the open window. An amazingly short time afterwards Frieda was ready, bespectacled and wearing an awful hat. I think she generally picks them out of rag bags. As we walked along, she entertained me with her latest idea for a picture. It would be a belted Orion pursuing the daughters of Pleione, who would be changing into stars. She explained some of the difficulties and beauties of the subject, and her conception of it, while I looked at her in wonder. I must say that, from her stubby, capable fingers, there flow pure poetry of thought and exquisiteness of coloring. Her form, reminding one of a pillow tied none too tightly in the middle, her tousled head containing a brain masculine in power and feminine in tenderness, her deep contralto, might be appanages of some back-to-the-earth female with an uncomfortable mission. But she's simply the best woman in the world. She panted to the top floor and, at my desire, followed me into my room, where I had left the door open and the gas burning. She gave a swift glance around the place, and her eyes manifested disapproval. "I wonder how you can ever find anything on that desk," she reproved me, as I searched in a bureau drawer. To my utter terror she began to put some papers in order. "Here's an unopened letter from _Paisley's Magazine_," she announced. I pounced upon it and tore it open, to discover a check for eighty dollars. "Good!" I exclaimed. "I'd forgotten that story. It was called 'Cynthia's Mule'; I wonder what possessed me to write about a mule? Don't know anything about them." "That's why it sold, most likely," said Frieda. "The public prefers poetry to truth in its prose. What are you wasting time for, fooling in that drawer?" "I have it. It's a twenty-dollar bill," I told her. "I put it among my socks so that I shouldn't spend it. Might be very handy, you know. She might need something, and you could go out and buy it." "Can you afford it, Dave?" she asked me. "Of course, and you forget the check I've just received. Mrs. Milliken will cash it for me at her butcher's. He's very obliging." Just then we heard something. Frieda stuffed the bill in some part of her ample bosom and ran away. I heard her knock at the door and go in. There was nothing for me to do but to look at the nearly finished page that was still in the embrace of my typewriter. For some silly reason my gorge rose at the idea of the virtuous dog, but I remembered, as I was about to pull out and lacerate the paper, that my mind sometimes plays me scurvy tricks. When I am interrupted in the beginning of a story, and look over it again, it always seems deplorably bad. Another day I will look at it more indulgently. Moreover, what was the use of thinking about such trivialities when the world's great problem was unfolding itself, just seven steps away over the worn strip of Brussels on the landing. So I settled down in my old Morris chair to ponder over the matter of babies coming to the just and the unjust, provided with silver spoons or lucky to be wrapped up in an ancient flannel petticoat. The most beautiful gift of a kindly Nature or its sorriest practical joke, welcome or otherwise, the arriving infant is entitled to respect and commiseration. I wondered what might be the fate of this one. In a few hours it will be frowned down upon by Mrs. Milliken, who will consider it as an insult to the genus landlady. The mother, naturally, will smile upon the poor little thing; she will dote upon it as women do on the ordinarily useless articles they purchase with money or pain at the bargain counter of life. This wee white and pink mite, since its daddy's away fighting and the mother is poor, must prove a tragedy, I am afraid. It will be a little vampire, pretending to feed on milk but really gorging itself on a heart's blood. My cogitations were interrupted by the rattle of a thousand milk cans, more or less, clattering through the street, on top of a huge, white motor truck. I took off my coat, instinctively thinking that it was time to go to bed, and put it on again because my door was open and it behooved me to keep awake, since I might be required to run other errands. The question of sleep thus disposed of, I brought out my percolator. For a wonder there was alcohol in the lamp, and I found the coffee in a can I discovered in my cardboard hat-box. Two months before, my sister Jane had told me that a silk hat was proper for the following of one's mother to the grave, and I obeyed her. Poor darling! It was the least and last thing I could do for her. The lamp was alight and the steam coming, when the doctor came out, looking rather spectral in a white gown. "Thank goodness!" I exclaimed, dropping some pulverized bean on the floor. "So it is all over!" "Not yet," he informed me, smiling, "but so far everything goes well. The big, fat Providence in gig-lamps is sitting by the patient. Sometimes three make poor company. The solid dame came in and called her 'my dear' and rummaged things out of the trunk and fixed up the bed, and tears began to flow. It must be a wonderful thing for a woman, who feels abandoned of God and man, to have such a big brave creature come in to pound the pillows and make one feel that there is yet corn in Egypt. I left them with their heads together. The poor thing was crying a bit and beginning to tell the story of her past life. Yes, thanks! I'll be glad of a cup, with three lumps of sugar. Great little machine, that! And so I thought I'd walk in here for a minute. Some things a woman tells another must be pretty sacred, don't you think?" I poured out the coffee appreciatively. "The person whom you call the solid dame," I told him, "is no less a woman than Frieda Long, the poet in pigments." "Keeps a Beauty Shop?" he inquired. "If you mean to ask whether she shampoos and manicures females and supplies them with hair," I answered, "your guess is utterly wrong. She paints women, and men too, on canvas, and any ordinary individual, such as you and I, ought to grovel before her." "Just say the word," he answered, "and I'll make a start. She's the best old girl I've come across in many a long day." "Frieda Long is hardly thirty-eight," I told him, "and, to change the subject for a moment, I will acknowledge that I deemed such cases best attended by the sere and ancient. I rang you up because your sign suggested long experience." "Not half bad, is it?" he replied. "I aged it by setting it up in the backyard and firing brickbats at it. Old Cummerly, next door to me, had his replated." He swallowed his coffee, without winking, though I thought it was boiling hot, and left me hurriedly again. I took greater leisure in my own beverage and leaned back in my chair. This young fellow appealed to me. The man of tact is born, not made. What serves him for a soul possesses refinement to dictate his leaving, for a few minutes, while one woman poured out her heart to another. I think he is considerate and kindly; he is probably destined to make many friends and little money. I rose and looked out of the window. The dawn was beginning and promised another stifling, red-hot day. A very _décolleté_ baker had come out of a cave beneath the bread and cake shop, opposite, and sponged off his forehead with the back of his hand. An Italian woman, clad in violent colors, passed with a hundredweight or so of broken laths poised on her head. At the corner the policeman was conversing with a low-browed individual, issued from the saloon with a mop. New York was awakening, and I decided I might as well shave, to pass away the time. Taking my strop and razor I sat down to give the latter a thorough overhauling. I suppose I fell asleep during the process. "Contemplating suicide?" I heard Frieda ask suddenly. I jumped up, startled, with the weapon in my hand. "Put that thing down," she ordered me. "It makes me nervous. She's sleeping quietly, and the doctor's gone. An awfully nice fellow. It's a boy with brown hair." "Not the doctor," I objected, somewhat dazed. "No, the baby, you silly! The doctor is very nice. I am going out to get my washerwoman's sister to come and stay with Madame Dupont--might as well say Mrs. Dupont. Her husband's French, but she comes from Rhode Island. You can go with me. Never mind about shaving now, you can stop at a barber's later on. Your hair needs cutting. Put on a clean collar. After I get that woman, we'll stop at the flat; the milk will be there and I'll give you some breakfast. Come along!" Frieda is a woman of the compelling kind, but it's a joy to obey her. After I had adjusted my collar and tie we started, but when we reached the door opposite she opened it, very quietly, while I waited, and tiptoed in. "She's awake," she said, again opening the door. "She says she would like to thank you for your kindness. She knows she would have died, if you had not sought help for her." "Stuff and nonsense," I said, quite low. "You don't expect me to go in there, do you?" "I certainly do, because she wishes it. Don't be stupid!" So I entered, rather embarrassed, thinking to see the face of a woman crucified. But her smile was the sweetest thing I had ever beheld, I'm very sure. I could hardly recognize her after that memory of haggard and tortured features. She put out her hand to me, weakly. "I--I want to thank you--ever so much," she said. "It was so awfully kind of you, and--and you sent me an angel." "Oh, yes," said Frieda, grinning. "I see myself with wings sprouting from my shoulder-blades. Good-by for a short time, my dear. You'll only be alone for a few minutes. Yes, the baby will be all right; don't you worry. No, he won't be hungry for a long time, the doctor said, and you are to let him sleep and do the same yourself. Now come along, David." I was delighted to have Frieda's escort, as I scented danger below. Her support gave me boundless joy when, at the foot of the stairs, I saw Mrs. Milliken, returned on some frightfully early ferryboat. She looked at us with amazement and suspicion. "My dear Mrs. Milliken," I began, in my most ingratiating tones, "a new boarder has arrived during the night. I can assure you the young man would not have intruded had he possessed greater experience of life. We will have to forgive him on account of his tender youth." "They must be packed off at once," cried the woman. "How could you?" "I beg to observe that it was not my tender heart but yours that gave her shelter," I said. "My own responsibility is extremely limited, and my part in the affair a most subsidiary one." "And besides, Mrs. Milliken," put in Frieda, "no one but David Cole lives on that floor. If he makes no complaint, no others are very likely to, and then it would be inhuman to put the poor thing out now. In a few days she will be able to move. I am going to send a woman immediately, and you won't have the slightest trouble." "For any little matter of extra expense, Mrs. Milliken, I will see that you are properly compensated," I added. Had I been alone, Mrs. Milliken would probably have argued the matter for an hour, at the end of which I should have retired in defeat. But I think Frieda's size overawed her. She only stammered rather weakly that she knew it would all end badly. "Don't mind her, David," said my friend, as we went out. "You can't expect the keeper of a cheap boarding-house to be an optimist. Her prediction may or not come true, but no one thinks that the bit of humanity upstairs can turn the world topsy-turvy for some time." I felt greatly relieved and followed her towards the river, where, just west of Ninth Avenue, we found a tenement on the fourth floor of which there was a sort of rabbit-hutch where dwelt two women and a bevy of infants. I remained on the landing, while Frieda went in. Some of the children came out and contemplated me, all with fingers in their mouths. Remembering that I had changed a nickel on the previous evening, while waiting for Gordon, in order to obtain a cent's worth of assorted misinformation from my favorite paper, I pulled out the four remaining pennies and distributed them. By the infants my action was accepted as gentlemanly and urbane, I think, for they no longer considered me as a suspicious character and the gravity of their expressions changed into a look of unstinted approval. "It's all right," said Frieda, coming out in a cloud of soapy steam. "She'll go at once. Putting her hat on now. Come along. I'm hungry as a hyena." So I breakfasted with her at her flat. She had certainly worked much harder than I, during the night, and taken a great deal more out of herself, but she insisted on my sitting down while she juggled with a gas-stove and bacon and eggs and a pot of jam. Her coffee, I thought, was better than mine. At eight o'clock we parted at the corner of the street. "I must hurry along," she said. "I have an appointment with a man who can pose as Orion." I had time but for a few words of heartfelt thanks before she was in the middle of the avenue, waving a hand to the motorman of her car. She scrambled aboard, smiling at me cheerfully from the step, and I was alone, wondering at the luck of a chap who could pose as Orion for Frieda. I would rather have her think well of me than any one I know of, I am very sure, and I regretted that my lank form and ill-thatched head were so unsuited to the make-up of a Greek demigod. Never mind, I know that when my next book comes out she will send for me, hurriedly, and make me feel for some minutes as if I were really worthy of tying her big, ugly, sensible shoes. She has read every one of my stories and possesses all the books I ever perpetrated, bless her soul! It is good indeed for a man to be able to look up to a woman, to know in his heart of hearts that she deserves it, and that she doesn't want to marry him, and he doesn't want to marry her. It is fine to think they are a pair of great friends just because they're capable of friendship, a much rarer accomplishment than most people are aware of. So I returned to the scene of the night's invasion and climbed up the stairs, rather wearily. I had the morning paper, three circulars and a fresh box of cigarettes. Upon my landing I met a large female with a moustache and decided it must be the washerwoman's sister. She smiled pleasantly at me and I returned the courtesy. In such words as I remembered from my erstwhile residence in Paris I asked how the mother and child were doing. The lady, she informed me, was doing ever so well. As for the infant, it had beautiful eyes and was a cherished little cabbage. Wondering upon the philosophy of endearments as attained by foreign nations I entered my room, closing the door carefully, and looked over those pages about the virtuous dog. They were promising, I thought. After putting them down, I took up my razor, for I hate a barber's scraping, and indulged in the luxury of a shave. The instrument, I thought, possessed a splendid edge. Who knows, some day I might bequeath it to a cherished cabbage. CHAPTER III I WATCH AN INFANT It was all very well for Frieda to tell Mrs. Milliken that, if I had no objection to that baby, no one else could resent its presence. She assumes too much. If I had really belonged to the order of vertebrates I should have objected most strenuously, for its presence is disturbing. It diverts my attention from literary effort. But of course, since I am as spineless as a mollusk, I sought to accept this heaven-sent visitation with due resignation. My endeavor to continue that story was a most pitiful farce. Four times, in reading over a single page, I found the word _baby_ inserted where I had meant to write _dog_ or one of the few available synonyms. I wondered whether it was owing to lack of sleep that my efforts failed and threw myself upon the bed, but my seeking for balmy slumber was more ghastly than my attempt at literature. Never in all my life had I been more arrantly wakeful. A desperate resolve came to me and I flipped a quarter. Heads and I would sit down and play solitaire; tails and I would take a boat to Coney Island, a place I abhor. The coin rolled under the bed, and I was hunting clumsily for it with a stick when a tremendous knock came at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of the washerwoman's sister, whom I afterwards knew as Eulalie Carpaux. I explained my position, half under the bed, feeling that she had caught me in an attitude lacking in dignity, but the good creature sympathized with me and discovered my money at once, after which she insisted on taking my whiskbroom and vigorously dusting my knees. "I have come, Monsieur," she informed me, "to ask if your door may be left open. The heat is terrible and the poor, dear lamb has perspiration on her forehead. I know that currents of air are dangerous, but suffocation is worse. What shall I do?" "You will open as many doors as you please," I answered meekly. "Thank you. One can see that Monsieur has a good heart, but then any friend of Mademoiselle Frieda must be a good man. She is adorable and uses a great deal of linen. May I ask who does Monsieur's washing?" "A Chinaman," I answered shortly. "He scrubs it with cinders and irons it with a nutmeg grater. I keep it in this closet on the floor." "My sister," she informed me, "has four children and washes beautifully. I am sure that if Monsieur allowed me to take his linen, he would be greatly pleased." "Take it," I said, and waved my hand to signify that the interview was closed, whereupon she mopped her red face, joyfully, with her apron and withdrew. Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Immediately the most gorgeous ideas for my story crowded my brain and the language came to me, beautiful and touching. But the Murillo-woman's door was open and so was mine. Since Eulalie had ventured to leave the room, it was most probable that her charge was sleeping. The typewriter, of course, would awaken her at once. Was that infant destined to deprive me of a living, to snatch the bread from my mouth? But I reflected that temperatures of ninety in the shade were inconstant phenomena. It would be but a temporary annoyance and the best thing I could do, since I was driven out of house and home, was to take my hat and go to the beach for a swim. The die was cast and I moved to the door, but had to return to place a paperweight on loose sheets littering my desk, whereupon my eyes fell on the old pack of cards and I threw the hat upon the bed and began solitaire. My plans often work out in such fashion. Ten minutes later I was electrified by a cry, a tiny squeak that could hardly have disturbed Herod himself. But it aroused my curiosity and I tiptoed along the hallway, suspecting that the woman Eulalie might not be attending properly to her duties, whatever they were. Everything was still again, and the unjustly mistrusted party was rocking ponderously, with an amorphous bundle in her lap. She smiled at me, graciously. Upon the bed I caught a glimpse of wonderful chestnut hair touched by a thread of sunlight streaming tenuously from the side of a lowered blind; also, I saw a rounded arm. Eulalie put a fat finger to rubicund lips and I retired, cautiously. How in the world could I have been bothering my head about a trumpery and impossible dog? In that room Nature was making apologetic amends. A woman had obeyed the law of God and man, which, like all other laws, falls heaviest on the weak. She was being graciously permitted to forget past misery and, perchance, dream of happier days to come, while David Cole, scrub coiner of empty phrases, bemoaned the need of keeping quiet for a few hours. I decided that I ought to be ashamed of myself. "The Professor at the Breakfast Table" was at my hand and I took it up, the volume opening spontaneously at the "Story of Iris," and I lost myself in its delight. An hour later came a light step, swiftly, and the little doctor appeared. He is as tall as I, but looks so very young that he seems small to me. He entered my room, cheerfully, looking as fresh and nice as if rosy dreams had filled his night. "Well! How are things wagging?" he inquired breezily. He was fanning himself with his neat straw hat, and I asked him to sit down for a moment. "Sure! But only for a minute or two. I have a throat clinic to attend at one o'clock. There's just time for this visit, then a bite at Childs' and a skip to Bellevue." I looked at my watch and found he had allowed himself just fifty minutes for these various occupations. "Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I--I just wanted to say that I haven't the least idea whether--whether that young creature in the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me--I think that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you will consider me responsible--er--within the limits of a moderate income." "Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you." His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City's Wrath." "Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother's copy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows something about the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city. He's looked pretty deep into people's lives." No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave me greater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad. "Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him. "Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered. I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindest regards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me. "D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, and wrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in some time and--and chat about things with you, any evening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about--about people." "My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to run away with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now, since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient." He tucked his book under his arm and went down the hallway. After remaining in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour, he came out again, cheerfully. "Doing exceedingly well," he called to me. "By-by; see you again very soon, I hope." He vanished down the stairs, and I took up my book again, holding it in one hand while I went to the windows, intending to draw down a blind against the sunlight that was streaming in. The heat was entering in gusts and, for a second, a sparrow sat on my window ledge with head drooping, as if it were about to succumb. Then I drew down the blinds and immediately let them up again, reflecting that in the room opposite mine they were lowered for the sake of darkness and air and that my action would lessen the latter. So I sponged off my cranium and panted. It was being revealed to me that babies, whatever their other qualifications, were exquisitely complicated nuisances. Yet an Arab, I told myself, refuses to step on a piece of paper, lest upon it might be written the name of the Deity, while some Hindoos carry little brooms and sweep the path before them, that they may not tread upon one of Buddha's creatures. Who knows whether divinity does not leave its signature on every infant, and who can reasonably doubt that infinite goodness possesses an equity in prospective men and women. Shall I be less civil than a sand-washed Bedouin or the monk of a Benares shrine? It behooves me to welcome a chance to acquire merit by showing patience. The book I held was as charming as ever, of course, but since I knew the story by heart I dropped it on my knees and waged a losing fight against a fly, which persisted in perching itself on my brow. Before me flitted the idea that a skull-cap made of sticky fly-paper might be patentable and sell by the million, combining protection and revenge; I must look into the matter. Finally hunger troubled me and I decided to go out for refreshment. Before my neighbor's door I stopped for an instant, my eyes seeking to penetrate the dimness. Eulalie came to me at once and began to whisper. "Would Monsieur be so very kind as to remain here for a few moments and watch?" she said. "I am going to run over to my sister's and tell her to buy a chicken and make broth. It will be very good for our poor, dear lady. In ten minutes I will be back." Man's freedom of action is apparently a mere academic concept. Theoretically, I was entirely at liberty to refuse, to look down upon this woman from the superior height of my alleged intellectuality and inform her that my soul craved for an immediate glass of iced tea and some poached eggs on toast. I could have asserted that I did not purpose to allow myself to be bulldozed by an infant seven hours and ten minutes old. As a matter of fact, I was helpless and consented, Eulalie shaking the stairs during her cautious, down-ward progress. It was with some of the feelings of an apprentice in the art of lion-taming that I entered the room. Would the proceeding be tranquil and dignified, or accompanied by roars? I sat down upon the rocker just vacated by Eulalie and gazed on the horsehair sofa as if the package resting on it were explosive, with a fuse alight. I had feared that it would be thrust upon my lap, but it is likely that my competency had been justifiably suspected. I dared not move the chair, fearing to make a noise, and could see nothing of the white arms or the Murillo face. Suddenly, an orgy of steam-whistling began, rousing my apprehensions while recalling workers to their factories. It proved but a false alarm and stillness prevailed in the top-floor back, for at least three minutes, when the dreaded wail arose. "Please, Eulalie," came a husky, low voice. "Give me my baby." It was then that my already damp brow began to stream. She wanted her baby and wouldn't be happy till she got it. My duty, I realized, was to go to the sofa and pick up the animated and noisy parcel. It would then have to be conveyed to the bed! Nervously, I prepared to obey. "Eulalie has gone out for a few minutes," I explained, in the subdued tones I deemed suitable to a sickroom. "Here--here is the bundle. I think it wriggles." "Thank you ever so much and--and please turn him the other way--yes, those are the feet. And would you pull up the shade a little bit, I think I would have more air." I raised the thing, letting in a flood of light, and feasted my eyes in utter liberty. Poor child, she must have a cold, for she suffers from hoarseness. She paid little more heed to me than did the ancient Roman ladies to the slaves they refused to recognize as men. I realized my small importance when she tenderly pushed aside the little folds and revealed diminutive features over which she sighed, contentedly, while I drew my chair a little nearer to the bed. Since a Murillo was on free exhibition, I might as well gaze upon it and admire. That faint little wailing had stopped at once. "Don't you think he is ever so good and well-behaved?" she asked me, after a while. I assented, forbearing to tell her that his existence had not yet been sufficiently long to prove him entirely free from all taint of original sin. "It's such a comfort," she assured me. Already, by the saintly grace of a mother's heart, she was endowing her offspring with all the virtues. The wondrous optics of motherhood revealed beauty, wisdom, good intent, the promise of great things to come, all concentrated in this tabloid form of man. So mote it be! The tiny head rested on her outstretched rounded arm and she closed her eyes once more. The plentiful chestnut hair had been braided tight and pinned at the top of her head. "I wish Gordon McGrath could see her," I told myself. "No, Frieda wouldn't do the picture justice. She would seek to improve on Nature's handiwork; she would etherealize it, make it so dainty that it would become poetry instead of the beautiful plain language the universal mother sometimes speaks. Gordon would paint something that lived and breathed. He would draw real flesh and blood, recognizing that truth unadorned is often very splendid." At this time I bethought myself of the baby's father. The man was over there, taking his part in the greatest tragedy ever enacted. At this very moment, perhaps, he was engaged in destroying life and knew nothing of this little son. I pitied him. Ye Gods! But for the strength and insolence of some of the mighty ones of this earth he would have been in this room, and I should have been quietly engaged in consuming poached eggs. He would have been appeasing the hunger of his eyes and the longing of his soul with the sight of the picture now before me, in the solemn happiness that must surely come to a man at such a time. A feeling of chilliness came over me as I inopportunely remembered an interview I had some months ago with a fellow called Hawkins. I was in his office downtown when the telephone rang, and he took down the receiver. "A son," he called back. "Good enough! I was afraid it might be another girl!" Then he dictated a short letter to his stenographer and calmly picked up his hat. "Come along, Cole," he said. "They tell me I have a boy. Let's go out and have a highball." Knowing Hawkins as I do, I am certain he would have had the drink anyway. This new-born offspring of his merely served him as a peg whereon to hang the responsibility for his tipple. The great and wonderful news really affected him little. But why was I thinking of such monsters? The father of this little baby, I am sure, must be a decent and normal man. He would have come in, hatless and breathless, and thrown himself upon his knees to worship and adore. The very first clumsy touch upon the tiny cheek would have sent a thrill through him, and tears would have welled up in his eyes! Such were my thoughts when I remembered that, as a delver in fiction, it was probably becoming my second nature to exaggerate a little. To me, after all, a recent father was perhaps like the mule whose story had brought the check. My notions in regard to them were of pure imagination, and I only knew them as potentially picturesque ingredients of literary concoctions. Yet, on further reflection, I conceded to myself the right to imagine newly made fathers as I saw fit. Millions of them are produced every year and among them must be some counterparts of my special conception of the type. I was thus comforting myself when I heard a familiar wheezy breathing on the stairs. It was Frieda, who presently irrupted into the room. "David," she commanded, "you go right out and have something to eat. I'm sure you are starving. I will stay here till that woman comes back. I left her at the corner, carrying a fowl to her sister's, and she told me I would find you here." She deposited voluminous parcels on the sofa, handled the infant with absolute confidence in her ability, and waved me out of the room. Some men are born meek and lowly, while others become monarchs and janitors; my place was to obey, after I had caught the smile suddenly come to the Murillo-woman's pale features. Frieda, I know, sees more affectionate grins than any one in Greater New York. Her presence suffices to make them sprout and grow. Mrs. Dupont had also smiled at me, true enough, but I think it was but a ray of sunshine really intended for the baby, and I had found myself in the same general direction and intercepted a trivial beam of it. Downstairs, Mrs. Milliken met me with a frown, but her features relaxed when I handed her my week's rental and board, which I seldom partake of. Seeing her in such a happy disposition, I hastened to the door. "I'm going upstairs to take a look at it," she announced gloomily. I thanked Providence that Frieda was on guard and felt that I had no cause for worry. The landlady, after all, is undeniably a woman and I believe she is the erstwhile mother of several. Her asperity must surely be smoothed down by the sight of the baby's face. As I put my hand upon the door, the old lady appeared. "How is that baby?" she shouted, putting a hard-rubber contrivance to her ear. "Doing splendidly and endowed with all the virtues," I clamored in the instrument. "I'd give him sugared water for it," she responded severely. I rushed out. Dr. Porter had strictly forbidden the stuff, calling it a fount of potential colic. I must say that I felt a sneaking sympathy with the old lady's view. Why refuse a bit of sweetness to a tiny infant, perhaps destined to taste little of it in afterlife? But, fortunately, the realization of my ineptitude came uppermost. That silly, romantic tendency of mine was leading me to think more of future privations than immediate pains in a diminutive stomach. I wondered whether I should ever become a practical member of society. The doctor's orders must and shall be obeyed, or my name is not David Cole! CHAPTER IV THE BOLT "And by the way," asked Gordon, a few days later, "how's Frieda getting along?" "Very well," I answered. "I think she's painting nymphs and angels, as usual." "Angels, eh? The natural history of such fowl is interesting." I had met him in the middle of Bryant Park as I was on the way to the Public Library to look up information in regard to feminine garb of the Revolutionary period. It appeared that he was returning from an interview with a Fifth Avenue picture dealer. At once we sought a bench and found seats between a doubtfully-clean young gentleman, reading the sporting page of a dilapidated paper, and an old lady, with rheumy eyes, who watched a ragged urchin. I nodded, much interested, and he pursued the subject. "You may have noticed that the very first angels all belonged to the masculine persuasion and you are, perhaps, also aware that it was rather late in the world's growth before women were accorded the possession of a soul. Hence, at the time, there could be no female angels, either worthy or evil. To-day, we have changed all that, as Molière said. In order to flatter the feminine taste people began to talk of little boy angels, because women think more of boy babies than of girl ones. The time arrived when men forgot about the women, the dogs and the walnut trees and, instead of taking a club to the ladies, they began to write sonnets to them. It is evident that no one can rhyme words without everlastingly trying to gild the lily. To call a spade a spade, or a woman a woman, became scant courtesy, and, hence, the poets devised female angels. The painters and sculptors naturally pounced upon them, for their decorative effect, and the she-angel took a firmly-established place in art and fiction. Let me see, I think you said that your Murillo lady describes her little sprout as an angel. This merely shows her to be a normal creature of her sex." "You are entirely wrong, if by normal you mean just average," I retorted reproachfully. "Frieda declares that she is the most beautiful thing she ever saw." "Frieda is a waddling and inspired goose, whose goslings are all swans," he asserted disrespectfully. "Through her unbecoming goggles humanity assumes pink and mauve colors instead of remaining drab. It may be good for Frieda and enables her to turn out some very attractive stuff, but it isn't the real thing. Well, I'll have to run away! Couple of fellows waiting to drive me over to Long Beach. By-by!" He was gone with his usual startling suddenness, and I went off to the library, pondering. When Gordon is talking to me, I can hardly help believing him. Indeed, if the man had been a life insurance agent he would have made a fortune. At first, one feels absolutely compelled to accept all his statements, and it is only after he departs that I begin to wonder whether some flaws can't be picked in his arguments. I occasionally discover a few, I am quite sure. Humanity is no more drab than the flowers of the field, except in terms of the million. There is but slight beauty in violets by the ton, as I have seen them in Southern France, brought in cartloads to the perfume factories. They become but a strongly-scented mass of color. I desire to pick mine as I wander afield, one at a time, and admire the petals, while making myself believe that they grew for my pleasure. Gordon would scoff at the idea and declare it an accidental meeting, but what does he know of the forces that may direct our footsteps? There is comfort in the Mohammedan belief that everything is written before-hand. The particular book I wanted was being read by a snuffy old gentleman, seated at the long table in the Department of History. I wondered why he should be interested in the frocks and flounces of a past century, and asked for a volume on Charles the Great, a ponderous tome I carried reverently to the big oaken table. It was exceedingly warm, and flies were buzzing drowsily. A big handsome girl was extracting wisdom from a dusty folio and taking notes on sheets of yellow paper. I remember that her face was finely colored and her lashes long. Three chairs away, on the opposite side, a little deformed man looked up from his book, stealthily, and glanced at her. She never saw him, I am very certain, nor was she ever conscious of the deep-set and suffering eyes that feasted on her beauty. To him she could be no more than a splendid dream, something as far from his reach as the Koh-i-noor might be from mine. But I wondered whether such visions may not be predestined parts of life, making for happiness and charm. The young women at Mrs. Milliken's, who sell candy, will hand you out material sugar-plums, yet even those have but an evanescent flavor and become only memories. Frieda has returned my twenty-dollar bill, which I stuffed in my pocket. "One has to be very careful about such things," she told me. "Neither of us would offend the poor thing for any consideration. I have found out that she has a little money, but it cannot be very much because she was very anxious about the doctor's fee and how much Eulalie would charge. But I didn't think it best to proffer any help just now, saving such as we can render by making her feel that she has a friend or two in the world. Isn't it hot?" I assured her that it was and said I was very glad that Mrs. Dupont was not quite destitute. By this time the baby was a week old and most reasonably silent. Mrs. Milliken felt reassured, and the two young women who sold candy had come up, one evening, to admire the infant. From the goodness of their hearts they had brought an offering of gummy sweets, which I subsequently confiscated and bestowed upon Eulalie for her sister's children, who, she assures me, are to be envied in the possession of iron stomachs. The commercial young men have instinctively slammed their doors less violently, and the deaf old lady, precluded by age from ascending to top floors, sent up a pair of microscopic blue and white socks and a receipt for the fashioning of junket, which, I understand, is an edible substance. "Tell you what!" exclaimed Frieda. "You might take me to Camus this evening. Dutch treat, you know. I insist on it. I'm tired to-day and don't want to wrestle with my gas-stove. Besides, I want to talk to you about Kid Sullivan." "I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with the youthful Hibernian," I said. "Is it another baby that you take a vicarious interest in?" "No, he would have been the lightweight champion, but for his losing a fight, quite accidentally," she explained. "He told me exactly how it happened, but I don't remember. At any rate, it was the greatest pity." "My dear Frieda," I told her, "no one admires more than I a true democracy of acquaintance and catholicity of friendship, but don't you think that consorting with prizefighters is a little out of your line?" "Don't talk nonsense," she said, in her decided way. "I just had to get a model for Orion, and he's my janitress's brother. The most beautiful lad you ever saw. He already has a wife and two little children, and his shoulders are a dream!" "So far," I told her, "I have fought shy of the squared circle in my literary studies and know little about it. But I surmise that, if your Orion continues his occupation, he is likely to lose some of his good looks. Be sure and paint his face first, Frieda, while the painting is still good, and before his nose is pushed askew and he becomes adorned with cauliflower ears." "I know nothing of such things," she answered, "and he's a delight to paint." "But for that perfectly accidental defeat, the man would have refused to appear as a demigod," I asserted. "A champion would think himself too far above such an individual." "That's neither here nor there," she asserted, impatiently. "When I try to talk, you're always wandering off into all sorts of devious paths. What I wanted to say was that, if any of your acquaintances happen to require a very competent truck-driver, the Kid is out of a job. Of course I can't afford to pay him much. He poses for me to oblige his sister." "The youth appears to have several strings to his bow," I remarked, wondering why Frieda should ever think I could possibly know people in need of truck-drivers. But then, she never leaves a stone unturned, when she seeks to help more or less deserving people. In my honor she put on her most terrific hat, and we went arm in arm to Camus, where she revelled in olives and radishes and conscientiously went through the bill of fare. "Do you know, Frieda, I am thanking goodness for the advent of that baby," I told her. "It has permitted me to enjoy more of your company than I have for months and months. Every minute I can feel that you are growing nearer and dearer to me." She showed her fine teeth, laughing heartily. She delights in having violent love made to her by some one who doesn't mean it. To her it constitutes, apparently, an excruciatingly funny joke. Also to me, when I consider her hat, but, when she is bareheaded, I am more serious, for, then, she often looks like a real woman, possessing in her heart the golden casket wherein are locked the winged passions. _Quien sabe?_ She is, perhaps, fortunate in that filmy goddesses and ethereal youths have so filled her thoughts that a mere man, to her, is only the gross covering of something spiritual that has sufficed for her needs. Poor, dear, fat Frieda! A big gold and crimson love bursting out from beneath the varnish covering her hazy pigments would probably appal and frighten her. "Will you have some of the _sole au vin blanc_?" she asked, bringing me down to earth again. I thanked her and accepted, admiring the witchery whereby the Widow Camus can take a vulgar flounder and, with magic passes, translate it into a fair imitation of a more heavenly fish. One nice thing about Frieda is that she never appears to think it incumbent upon her companion to devote every second of his attention to her. If I chance to see a tip-tilted nose, which would serve nicely in the description of some story-girl, and wish to study it carefully and, I hope, unobtrusively, she is willing to let her own eyes wander about and enjoy herself, until I turn to her again. I was observing the details of a very fetching and merry little countenance, when a girl rose from an adjoining table and came up to Frieda. "I happened to turn my head and see you," she exclaimed. "So I just had to come over and say howdy. I'm so glad to see you. I have my cousin from Mackville with me and am showing him the town." She was a dainty thing, modestly clad, crowned with fluffy auburn, and with a face pigmented with the most genuine of cream and peaches. Frieda presented me, and she smiled, graciously, saying a few bright nothings about the heat, after which she rejoined her companion, a rather tall and gawky youth. "She posed for me as Niobe two years ago," said my friend. "At present, she teaches physical culture." "What!" I exclaimed, "that wisp of a girl." "Yes, I don't know how many pounds she can lift; ever so many. She's a perfect darling and looks after an old mother, who still deplores Mackville Four Corners. Her cousin is in safe hands." I took another look at the six-footer with her, who smoked a cigarette with evident unfamiliarity. "Would," I said, "that every youth, confronted by the perils of New York for the first time, might be guided in such security. She is showing him the revelry of Camus and has proved to him that a slightly Bohemian atmosphere is not incompatible with personal cleanliness and a soul kept white. It will broaden his horizon. Then she will take him home at a respectable hour, after having demonstrated to him the important fact that pleasure, edible viands and a cheerful atmosphere may be procured here out of a two-dollar bill, leaving a little change for carfare." "If I were a man," said Frieda, "I should fall in love with her." "If you were a man, my dear, you would fall in love a dozen times a day." "Gordon McGrath says it's the only safe way," she retorted. "Don't be quoting him to me," I advised her. "To him it is a mere egotistic formula. Like yourself, he has always been afraid to descend from generalities. I don't like the trait in him, whereas, in you, I admire it, because, with you, it is the mere following of a tendency to wholesale affection for your fellow-beings. Yet it is a slightly curious and abnormal condition." "Like having to wear spectacles," she helped me out. "Just so, whereas in Gordon it is simply the result of a deliberate policy, a line of conduct prepared in advance, like a chess-opening. Some day, in that game of his, a little pawn may move in an unexpected way, and he will be hoist with his own petard." "I hope so," she answered cheerfully. "It will probably be very good for him." "But it might also break his heart," I suggested. "Don't get gloomy," Frieda advised me. "What about yourself? Here you are abusing your friends because they fight shy of the archer godling. I should like to know what you have done to show any superiority." "Well, if my memory serves me right, I have proposed to you, once or twice." "O dear no! You may have meant to, perhaps, but never really got to the point," she answered, laughing. "I haven't the slightest doubt that once or twice you came to my flat all prepared for the sacrifice. But, suddenly, you doubtless became interested in some other trifling matter. Give me three lumps of sugar in my coffee, and don't let them splash down. This is my best gown." We left Camus and returned together to Mrs. Milliken's. Frieda had a curious notion to the effect that, as she hadn't seen the baby since several hours, something very fatal might happen to it, if she failed to run in again. My landlady and her ancient male relative were sitting on the steps, fanning themselves and discussing the price of coal. By this time, the woman ate right out of Frieda's hand, although the latter does not seem to be aware that she has accomplished the apparently impossible. The old night-watchman informed us that he was enjoying a week's holiday from the bank. He was spending it, cheerfully, dividing his leisure between the front steps and the backyard. He also told us of a vague and ambitious project simmering in his mind. He was actually planning to go all the way to Flatbush and see a niece of his. For several years he had contemplated this trip, which, he apprised us, would take at least an hour each way. I bade him good courage, and we went upstairs. While Frieda went into Mrs. Dupont's room, I turned on the gas in mine and sat before my window, with my feet on the ledge, smoking my calabash. "Has Monsieur looked upon his bed?" Eulalie startled me by asking suddenly. Now, in order to respond with decent civility, I was compelled to remove my feet from their resting place, to take the pipe from my mouth and turn in my chair. Women can sometimes be considerable nuisances. "No," I answered, "I have not looked upon the bed. Why should I? A bed is the last resource of the weary and afflicted, it is one of the things one may be compelled to submit to without becoming reconciled to it. I take good care never to look at it so long as I can hold a book in my hand or watch passers-by in the street." "Very well, Monsieur," she answered placidly. "It is all there, and I have darned the holes in the socks." This was highly interesting and I hastily rose to inspect her handiwork. She had placed my washing on the coverlet and the result looked like an improvement on Celestial efforts. I took up the topmost pair of socks and gazed upon it, while a soft and chastened feeling stole over me. "Thank you, Eulalie," I said, with some emotion. "It is exceedingly nice; I am glad you called my attention to it. In the future I shall be obliged, if you will stuff it in the chiffonier. Had I first seen all this on going to bed, I am afraid I should have pitched it on the floor, as usual, and been sorry for it next morning." She smilingly complied at once with my request and withdrew, bidding me a good night, while I sat again, feeling great contentment. I had now discovered that a man, if lucky, might have his socks darned without being compelled to take a wife unto himself, with all the uncomfortable appurtenances thereof. It was a new and cheering revelation. No sooner had I begun to cogitate over the exquisiteness of my fate than I was disturbed again, however. Frieda partly obeyed conventionality by knocking upon my open door and walking in. "Frances Dupont wants me to thank you ever so much for the pretty roses, David," she told me. "It was really very kind of you to bring them. I have snipped the stems and changed the water and put them on the window sill for the night." "Yes," I explained, "I had to change that twenty-dollar bill, and there was a hungry-looking man at the corner of Fourteenth Street, who offered them to me for a quarter. So we had to go over to the cigar store to get the note broken up into elementals. The fellow really looked as if he needed money a great deal more than roses, so I gave him a dollar." "But then why didn't you take a dollar's worth of flowers?" asked Frieda, high-priestess of the poetic brush, who is a practical woman, if ever there was one. "Never thought of it," I acknowledged; "besides, he had only three bunches left." "And so you didn't want to clean out his stock in trade. Never mind, Dave, it was very sweet of you." She hurried away, and, finally, I heard the front door closing, after which I made a clean copy of that dog story, flattering myself that it had turned out rather neatly. It was finished at two o'clock, and I went to bed. The next morning was a Sunday. I dawdled at length over my dressing and sallied forth at eleven, after Mrs. Milliken had knocked at my door twice to know if she could make the room. If I were an Edison, I should invent an automatic room-making and womanless contrivance. These great men, after all, do little that is truly useful and practical. My neighbor's door was open. I coughed somewhat emphatically, after which I discreetly knocked upon the doorframe. "Come in, Mr. Cole," said a cheery, but slightly husky, voice. "Come in and look at the darling." "That was my purpose, Madame Dupont," I said most veraciously. "Eulalie has gone out again," I was informed, after the infant had been duly exhibited, as it slept with its two fists tightly closed. "She has gone for a box of Graham crackers and the Sunday paper." I smiled, civilly, and opined that the day's heat would not be so oppressing. "Don't you want to sit down for a moment?" she asked me. I was about to obey, when I heard the elephantine step of the washerwoman's sister, who entered, bearing her parcels and the _Courrier des Etats Unis_. "Excuse me for just a second," said the husky little voice. I bowed and looked out of the window, upon yards where I caught the cheery note of a blooming wisteria. Suddenly, there came a cry. The bedsprings creaked as the young woman, who had raised herself upon one elbow, fell back inertly. "_Oh, mon Dieu!_" bellowed Eulalie, open-mouthed and with helpless arms hanging down. I rushed to the bed, with some vague idea of bringing first aid. In the poor little jar of roses I dipped my handkerchief and passed it over Mrs. Dupont's brow, scared more than half to death. Presently, she seemed to revive a little. She breathed and sighed, and then came a flood of tears. She stared at me with great, deep, frightened eyes, and with a finger pointed to a column of the paper. I took it from her and held it out at a convenient distance from my eyes, about two feet away. There was a printed list referring to reservists gone from New York. For many weeks, doubtless, she had scanned it, fearing, hopeful, with quick-beating heart that was only stilled when she failed to find that which she tremblingly sought. I caught the name, among other announcements of men fallen at the front. --Paul Dupont-- I also looked at her, open-mouthed, stupidly. She stared again at me, as if I could have reassured her, sworn that it was a mistake, told her not to believe her eyes. Then, she rose again on her elbow and turned to the slumbering mite at her side, but, although the salty drops of her anguish fell on the baby's face, he continued to sleep on. CHAPTER V GORDON HELPS The passing of the next week or two can only be referred to in a few words, for how can a man gauge the distress of a soul, measure the intensity of its pangs, weight the heavy burden of sorrow? That good little Dr. Porter came in very often. Most tactfully he pretended that his visits were chiefly to me, and would merely drop into the other room on his way out of mine; at any rate the smallness of the bill he rendered long afterwards made me surmise that this was the case. In the meanwhile, the weather remained very warm and the doors were often left open. I went into the room quite frequently. Eulalie is the salt of the earth, but she still has a little of the roughness of the unground crystal so that, for conversational purposes, Frances Dupont perhaps found my presence more congenial. Her faithful, but temporary, retainer was always there, exuding an atmosphere of robust health and lending propriety to my visits. She was generally darning socks. The hungry one snatches at any morsel presented to him, while those who are dying of thirst pay little heed to the turbidity of pools they may chance upon. The poor Murillo-girl, perforce, had to be content with such friendship and care as her two new friends could give her. Frieda always came in once a day, but she was tremendously busy with her Orion. Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses of comfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies in efficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take. From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude, and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. I believe that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited the infant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that he smiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blow had been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to grow shorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought a little consolation. I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatly made up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. I insisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair, knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to my consternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she did not want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyes were a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that it gave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter of confidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp and woof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads and heart-strings sorely strained. She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing in Providence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel of great price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad, the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over. There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointments and rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher had begun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other young women had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge of merit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, Paul Dupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize of the _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man. There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sung Gounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was then that, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to the vibrant notes the man could cause to weep and cry out in hope, her song had sounded like a solemn pæan of victorious achievement. Critics had written of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution. And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, and she had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cry out the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftness of a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends present to witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness. Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espouse a Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never show her face in Providence again! But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosy and bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to Aunt Lucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might be looked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautiful songs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together. Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to America and give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought she was getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a little husky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest would certainly make everything all right. But in New York she had been compelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, with hosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to take and charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growing huskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagement had been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be better by and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everything went on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a most marvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been very happy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul had taken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She would follow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would wait for him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people, cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They had been ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them several times, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that the small village in which they lived had been razed to the ground. It was over there on the other side of the Marne. And now it was ever so long since she had received any word from Paul, and they had saved very little, because money came so easily, and--and now Paul was dead and she couldn't sing! Frieda was in the room with me when the tale was told. She rushed out, and I found her, a few minutes later, in my room, her nose swollen and her eyes devastated by weeping. But she used my wash-basin and towels for plentiful ablutions and returned to the room where I left her alone with Frances Dupont, realizing the futility of a man in such circumstances. At the end of another week our stout angel burst again into my room. Eulalie had been discharged, with mutual regrets, and little Paul was growing apace. Three and a half ounces in seven days! "Dave! We've got to find something for Frances to do! In a very short time she will not have a penny left. Go to work at once and, in the meanwhile, I'll do my best also. Yes, I know perfectly well that the two of us will see that she doesn't suffer, but she doesn't want charity; she wants work!" She was off again, and I knew that she would at once inquire of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker in regard to positions suited to a young woman with a Murillo-face and a baby. I put on my hat and went at once to Gordon's studio, facing Central Park. I was lucky enough to find him in. "Sit down and don't bother me," he said pleasantly. "I must use up the last of this light." Before him stood an easel with a wonderful portrait of a young woman endowed with splendid neck and arms. He was working at some detail of the gown, which the lady had evidently sent over for him, since the garment was disposed about a large mannikin with a vacuous face. I watched delightedly the sure touches with which he reproduced the sheen of the silk. Gordon doesn't want to talk while he paints, pretending that in order to do his best work a man must bend all his energies to it, whether he is sawing wood or writing elegies. "People wouldn't begin chatting to a fellow while he played Chopin," he told me one day. "What right have they to disturb the harmonies in a man's mind when he's creating melodies in color? Hang their impertinence!" I presume, however, that painting a silk dress was somewhat mechanical work to him, for, after some minutes of silent toil, during which he only stepped back once to survey his work, he began to speak. Like many other people, he has not the slightest objection to the infringing of his own rules. It only behooves others to obey them. "That's Miss Sophia Van Rossum," he told me, taking his short pipe out of his mouth and putting it down on his stool. "She's been coming in from Southampton three times a week, to pose. Drives her own car, you know, and has been arrested a dozen times for speeding. So I finished the face and hands first, and now I'm sticking in the dress. Don't need her for that." "Very rich people, are they not?" I asked. "You bet. Zinc and lead, I believe; the old man made it in. Fine buxom creature, isn't she? And mighty good hearted in her way. She hasn't much more brains than a linnet, I think, and she swims and rows and shoots. Golf and tennis, too. Found her rather hard to paint, because it's difficult for her to keep still. Keeps on asking indignantly why I put blue on her nose, and reaching out for the box of chocolates. I told her last time I couldn't paint her with one cheek all bulged out with _pralinés_. It made her laugh, and I lost fifteen minutes before I could quiet her down." He worked hard for another ten minutes, during which I considered that he was rather severe on the young lady, or else had idealized her, which is not a habit of his. To me she looks kindly and not a bit unintelligent, a rather fine specimen of the robustious modern young woman. Gordon picked up his brushes. "That'll do," he said. "The light is changing. Now what the devil do you want? Awfully glad to see you." My friend is a good listener. I told him about Frances Dupont, giving him a brief account of her story and explaining that Frieda and I wanted to find something for her to do. "Of course," I finally said, "I suppose that you are going away very soon to spend the rest of this hot summer in the country. Otherwise, I would have asked if you couldn't make use of her for a model, at least till we can find something else." "I'm not going away yet," he answered, "and I emphatically cannot employ her, or, at any rate, I won't, which comes to the same thing. Hitherto I have kept my serenity of mind unimpaired by the simple process of fighting shy of females in distress. There are lots of models who can be depended on to keep their mouths shut and not bother a fellow. My interest is in my picture and nothing else, and I refuse to have it diverted by the economical problems of ladies on their uppers. If you want a check, I'll give it to you for her, not on her account, but because you're the best, old, weak-minded idiot in this burg and I'm glad to help you out, however silly your quixotic ideas may be. Wait a minute, I'll write one out for you." "No," I answered, "I've just sold two stories and got some advance royalty on my novel. I'd come and ask you for money, if I needed it, urgently. I might have to, some day. But this poor thing's worrying herself to death and that's what I want to remedy at once, if possible. A little occupation would give her something else to think about. If I tell her that she will have to pose in silence, that it's a part of the work she's engaged for, she won't say a word. She's an intelligent woman." "Why doesn't Frieda employ her?" he asked. "Because she's no slender, ethereal sprite. Doesn't have anything of the woodland nymph about her, that's why. Besides, Frieda's doing an Orion with a covey of Pleiades scattering before him, at present." "I have nothing for the Winter Academy, just now," said Gordon, appearing to relent a little. "Strangely enough, Miss Van Rossum doesn't care to have her portrait exhibited. If I really found a remarkable type, I'd like to do a mother and child. If you really think this Mrs. Dupont will keep still and is willing to earn a few weeks of bread and cheese by the silence of her tongue and some ability to sit quietly in a chair without getting the fidgets, I shouldn't mind trying her. But, of course, she'd have to come up to specifications. I'll have to look at her first. Have you spoken to her about it?" "Not a word," I answered, "I didn't want to see her disappointed." "Of course, it's a foolish thing to do," he said, "but you're so anxious about it that I'll see whether it can be managed. She's just heard of her husband's death, has she? Well, she won't be thinking of other men for a while and won't expect to be made love to. Take up your hat, and we'll go over to that nursery of yours. I'll look her over." If I hadn't known him so well, I should have been provoked at his speaking as if the woman had been some second-hand terrier I wanted to dispose of. We took the elevator and were shot down to the ground floor. "Mind you," he warned me, "it's ten to one that I'll discover something that will make this errand useless. The mere fact of a woman's having a broken-down voice and a baby doesn't necessarily qualify her to pose as a mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her with good looks that exist only in your imagination." To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented to investigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes later we were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoological boarding-house. On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turned to me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of his sarcastic grins. "Who's that playing your piano?" he asked. "I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's very much alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing and walked in, not knowing that I should return so soon." "Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if a policeman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear old boy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you old Bactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamite in New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit the laying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were I the world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way. They're dangerous things." Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural to one who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simple language, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer; also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs. I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending the remaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thing with recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; I think it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, and she ceased at once, startled and coloring a little. "I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I told her. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhaps once in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; she wasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is a great painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda." This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend of Frieda's must be very welcome to her. "Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't you oblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act and deserve the penalty of being humbly begged to play that over again." She looked at me, uncertainly. "It would give me ever so much pleasure," I assured her. At once she sat again and touched the keys. I know so little of music that my opinions in regard to it are utterly worthless, but I knew at once that she was no marvelous pianist. No, she was only a woman with a soul for harmony, which found soft and tender expression on my mother's old Steinway. Gordon, I noted, sat down in my worst chair, with an elbow on his knee, his chin resting on the closed knuckles. It was evident that he was watching her, studying her every motion, the faint swaying of her shapely head, the wandering of her hands over the keyboard. Once, she stopped very suddenly and listened. [Illustration: No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.] "I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought it was Baby." She went on, reassured, to an ending that came very soon. It left in me a desire for more, but I could not ask her to continue. She had brought a tiny bit of herself into the room, but she belonged body and soul to the mite in the other. "I am ever so much obliged to you," I said, as she rose. "Madame," said Gordon, "it was indeed a treat." "I am very glad you liked it," she said very simply, "and--and now I must go back." She smiled, faintly, and inclined her head. We had both risen and thanked her again. She passed out of the room and, once she had regained her own, I heard her faint, husky voice. "It's mother's own wee lamb!" it said. Gordon picked up one of my cigarettes, looked at it, put it down, and took one of his own from his case. Then, he went and stood in front of my open window, looking out, with his hands stuffed deeply in his trousers pockets. I maintained a discreet silence. "Come over here," he ordered, brusquely, as is often his way, and I complied, holding on to my calabash and filling it from my pouch. "Dave," he said, very low, that his voice might not carry through the open doors into the next room. "Those powder-wagons aren't in it. When the dynamite happens to blow up some Dago, it's a mere accident; the stuff itself is intended for permissible purposes. A woman like that is bound to play havoc with some one, and I'm afraid you're the poor old idiot marked by fate. You're as weak as a decrepit cat. I can see the whole programme; sympathy at first and the desire to console, all mixed up with the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o' Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in some decent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!" "Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe. "All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes. And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal telling you that the coast is clear." "I know nothing about fishing," I answered. "Then go and learn." "You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him. "I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if she takes to posing, properly." I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot. "Come in with me," I told him. "Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face." I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window with the baby in her arms. "Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you. It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By the way, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so they can't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep very still. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work." The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up to it and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had been revealed. "A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I--I don't know----" Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone. "It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be a picture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when we came in. Of course, if you don't care to----" "Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and--and grateful," she answered, very low. "I will do my best to please you." "Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten." "Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered. "Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish I could dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment to meet some people at Claremont. Good-by." He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone. "Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimes rather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right." "Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff, but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done." "Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered. "Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully. "You're the best and kindest of friends." With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordon wouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement of all his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble with being so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism. CHAPTER VI A BIT OF SUNSHINE The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellent and far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriously sustained a thesis upon "_De Omne Scibile_." Now we have to confess that human knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, is altogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all. The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at an encyclopedia always fill me with humility. Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and, foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, and then at me, with a rather pitiful air. "I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But this black one might do, if----" This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my own limitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by the garment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who was talented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This one looked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityingly informed that some things were to be added and others removed, before it could possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, were either too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and the skirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or, possibly, too wide. Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed the matter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the East River. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directing her attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received a confident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with an ample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, and pulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the result of their excursion. "How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam of triumph. "I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to put it on," I told her. My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from many angles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudly informed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eight seventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Street before they had unearthed it. "It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't much choice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits her remarkably well." "It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may be glad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and are to bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait. I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is rather doubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a risky departure from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such as it is." "Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it will sell just like the others." "I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by going over to Camus for dinner?" "Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont. "In--in the first place it is much too soon--after--and then you know I haven't a thing to wear." "In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Frieda firmly, "and, in the second, you have a hat anyway, and I'm going to fix that black dress a little. Just a dozen stitches and some pins. Come into your room with me." She dragged her out of the room, and I was left to wonder how that complicating baby would be disposed of. I had begun to think the infant sometimes recognized me. When I touched one of his little hands with my finger, he really appeared to respond with some manifestations of pleasure; at least it never seemed to terrify or dismay him. His mother was confident that he liked it. Perhaps an hour later they came out, and I looked at Frances in some surprise. I gained the impression that she was taller and more slender than I had thought. "You give me that baby," commanded Frieda. "I want you to save your strength, my dear. I should make David carry it, but he would drop it or hold it upside down. Come along, my precious, we're going out to walk a by-by." Master Paul seemed to make no objection. I call it a dreadful shame that Frieda never married and had a half a dozen of her own. She's the most motherly old maid in the world, and infants take to her with absolute enthusiasm. I followed them, somewhat doubtfully, wondering what figure Master Paul would cut at Camus. I knew that they allowed little dogs and there was a big tortoise-shell cat that wandered under the chairs and sometimes scratched your knee for a bit of fish, but I had never seen any young babies in the widow's establishment. This one might be deemed revolutionary or iconoclastic. Should we be met by uplifted and deprecating palms and informed with profuse apologies that the rules of the house did not favor the admission of such youthful guests? In a few minutes my doubts were set at rest, for we walked off to the hive inhabited by the washerwoman. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Dupont kissed her baby, as if she were seeing it for the last time. Then Frieda hastened upstairs with it and came down, two minutes later, blowing like a porpoise. "He'll be perfectly safe," she declared. "Madame Boivin says he is an angel, and Eulalie was there. She said he would sleep straight on end for two hours. I told her we should be back before--I mean in good time. Now come along!" I could see that the young mother only half approved of the scheme originated in Frieda's fertile brain. Two or three times she looked back as if minded to return at once and snatch up her baby, never to leave it again. "My dear," said Frieda, "don't be getting nervous. Nothing can possibly happen, and you know how very careful Eulalie is. Little by little you must get back into the world. How are you going to face it, if it frightens you? Put on a brave, bold front. Here is a chance for you to have a few moments of enjoyment. Seize upon it and don't let go. A dark cellar is no place to pick up courage in, and you must come out of the gloom, child, and live a little with the others so that you may be able to live for Baby Paul. There's a good girl!" Frances opened a little black bag and pulled out a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes once or twice. Then she looked up again. "Oh! Frieda! I ought to be thanking God on my bended knees for sending you to me, and--and Mr. Cole too. Indeed I'll do my best to be brave. It's--it's difficult, sometimes, but I'm going to try, ever so hard." I am afraid that the little smile with which she ended these words was somewhat forced, but I was glad to see it. It was a plucky effort. She was seeking to contend against a current carrying her out to sea and realized that she must struggle to reach the shore in safety. I saw Frieda give her arm a good hug, and the three of us walked to Seventh Avenue, then north a couple of blocks, after which we turned to the right till we came to the electric lights of the Widow Camus's flamboyant sign, that winked a welcome at us. I remember little about the dinner itself, but, after the rather insipid fare at Mrs. Milliken's, I know that Frances enjoyed it. The place did not surprise her, nor the people. During her life in Paris, after her marriage, she had probably been with her husband to some more or less Bohemian resorts, such as are beloved of artists. At first, she choked a little over the radishes and olives, but took her _consommé_ with greater assurance and was quite at her ease before the chicken and salad. With her last leaf of lettuce, however, came over her a look of anxiety, and I pulled out my watch. "Don't be afraid," I told her, "we have only been away from the washerlady for fifty minutes. See yourself, there is no deception." "I am absolutely certain that he is sleeping yet," Frieda assured her, and turned to the perspiring waiter, ordering three Nesselrodes and coffees. Now, when I treat myself to a _table d'hôte_ dinner, I love to linger over my repast, to study the people about me, or at least pretend to. Also, I sip my coffee very slowly and enjoy a Chartreuse, in tiny gulps. Frieda, if anything, is more dilatory than myself. But the dear old girl positively hurried over the little block of ice-cream, and I suspect that she scalded her mouth a trifle with her coffee. A few minutes later we were out in the street again, hurrying towards Madame Boivin's, and I wondered whether such unseemly haste could be compatible with proper digestion. We reached the tenement in a very short time. "Frances is going upstairs with me," announced Frieda. "You had better not wait for us, for we might be detained a little. I'll bring her home, and we shall be perfectly safe. You go right back and smoke your old pipe till we return." "Don't hurry," I told her. "I might as well wait here as anywhere else. It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll stroll home; take your time." So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned against a decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men were assembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, in repeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fat man sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gave me an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs. Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly and assumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as a policeman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewhere west of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but, suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressed to a deep bass by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sins were proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expression that excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man's head appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplating self-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in the street, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armed with an empty beer-pail. With this he faded away in the corner saloon, to come forth again with his peace-offering. With such observations I solaced myself and whiled away the time. Humanity in the rough is to me fully as interesting as the dull stones picked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed, while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of the first water. Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon the railing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with Sadie Briggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me in the way of love and passion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married a blacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family, while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, in shirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviable mortal responsible for no human being's bread and butter but his own. Then Frieda and Frances appeared. The latter held her baby in her arms, surely feeling that it had received enough vicarious attention. "Why, Dave!" exclaimed the former. "I'm awfully sorry you waited so long. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessed angel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, and we just talked about starch and cockroaches and things, and then Paul awoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearly time anyway and--and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleeping again." I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyed himself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lips had not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a _ravigote_ that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. I wished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting now for whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be little of sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow are indispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease. I noticed how well the young mother walked with her burden. It appeared to lend her form added grace and to complete her beauty. On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearly all the lodgers were assembled, taking the cool of the evening. The two girls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old lady looked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been in bed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained a neutral attitude. One of the young men assured Mrs. Dupont that her baby was a corker. "This," said Mrs. Milliken, urbanely waving her hand towards a heavy and florid gentleman, who had kept in the background, "is Mr. O'Flaherty. He owns the garage on the next block and has the second floor back." This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and gave me a crushing grasp. I rejoiced for Mrs. Milliken that she had the room rented, but promised myself to keep my hands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to share the steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the baby down on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you ever so much. Indeed I enjoyed every minute of it." So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feeling that I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont says that my typewriting does not trouble her at all, and I went to work, having thought of a story about a blind man. I wrote a couple of pages and then had to stop and close my eyes. How do blind men really feel, and through what gift from on high does that peculiar smile come, which their faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in the place of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, but he answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I have spoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of course I laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call the other chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one's heart. Then Frieda came in for a moment, to say good night. "It has done the poor child a lot of good," she said. "I am sure she will have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged to you." She went away, ponderously and yet swiftly. The night was becoming cooler and the door opposite was closed. I also shut mine and lit the calabash. It didn't seem so difficult, after all, to write about the blind man. When you think of it, it is possible that the difference between him and ourselves is merely one of degree. A few more days passed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shame that I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paul to keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for having failed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her good luck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problem of keeping body and soul together, poor girl. Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the Erie Basin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fall into it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon some accuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, was condensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word for them, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasing the small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with a gentleman on a canal boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's buttons in a box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to his wife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one that offered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along the tranquil borders of canals, edged with lush grasses and silvery willows. It was ideal! What more could a man require for happiness? When I returned, I was very anxious to interview Frances and ask about her experiences with her first day's posing, but her door was closed. No longer was she a sick woman, one whose bed was the clothing of illness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since I could bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right to intrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimed her again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She was working now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for her child. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. All that I could do now was to hope that, if she chanced to need any aid, she would recognize some little claim upon her friendship by coming to me again, as a bee may return for honey, leaving behind some of the pollen that means life prolonged and other flowers to come. To me such fertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life that was sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger and mayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All this she could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have been like asking for a return of the few half-faded roses I had brought her, or payment for the running of a few errands. So I closed my door also and took up the "Light That Failed" and my calabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading and puffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. I was wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she had found the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinking wearily about having to return there on the morrow? Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. I have not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen as mine, and, of course, she could not have a man's reasons for discretion, knowing that her coming would be hailed with an exclamation of pleasure, or, perhaps, only a sigh of relief. I recognized her weighty steps on the landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again to cogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda can always be relied on. Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den. "Oh! You're in!" she exclaimed. "I asked Frances, and she said you must be away since you would surely have knocked at the door. Of course she wouldn't take the chance of disturbing you, if you had returned." "Well, I didn't want to intrude either," I answered; "she might have been changing--changing her boots for slippers or--or refreshing the baby." "You might have tried to find out." "Yes, that's obvious. I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duty," I replied, duly chastened. Thus it was that the best of intentions had, as usual, gone to the place paved with such things. Yet I was rather pleased than otherwise. I learned that I was firmly enough established in the good graces of these dear women to be permitted to lay aside minor points of etiquette and act according to my first impulses. Since these must always be based on high regard and friendship, I can have little fear that they will ever be misunderstood. CHAPTER VII THE OTHER WOMAN As we were speaking, Frances came to my room and I advanced a chair for her. "Thanks," she said, "I am not at all tired, Mr. Cole." "Yet I beg that you will sit down for a moment," I asked her. "I shall take the piano-stool and you ladies will give me the delightful feeling of receiving a pleasant visit. I shall do my best to entertain two callers charitable enough to penetrate a sere and yellow bachelor's quarters. I shall proceed to make some tea." "Gracious, Dave!" exclaimed Frieda hungrily, "you live in the lap of luxury." "At least your presence here gives me the illusion of it," I answered, pulling out my alcohol lamp and other utensils. There is little excuse for poor tea, unless it be considered as a vulgar flavoring intended to lend a different taste to the water taken from the faucet. A pound of the best lasts me for the greater part of a year, for I take it seldom, and a dollar more than the price of green and fibrous rubbish permits me to offer my friends and delight myself with a cup such as brings joy and an eagerness for a second filling. "Of course, I was a little afraid at first," confessed Frances, as I measured out a spoonful for each of us and one for the greedy pot. "Mr. McGrath was exceedingly civil, however, and briefly explained that for the time being I must consider myself as one of his materials, like a tube of paint or his easel." "That's just like Gordon," I interjected. "Well, it seemed quite right," she went on. "He made me sit down a dozen times, in various ways, and then he'd look at me and move my chin a little, or change the position of my arm. It took him quite a long time and the more he shifted me around, the more he frowned, so that at last I asked him just what he wanted. "'I want you to hold that baby and look at it as if it were the biggest thing on earth, and forget me, and forget that you're posing,' he said, and I asked him to let me try all by myself. So I moved around a bit and held my head differently, and he said that was just what he was looking for. He told me to keep still and went to work at once. In a half an hour he asked me if I didn't want to rest, and I told him I had pins and needles in my legs, and he said I must get up and walk a few times around the studio. A few minutes later I sat down again, and--and that's all, I think." "What did he talk about?" asked Frieda. "He didn't talk; just kept on glaring at me and then staring at his canvas and working away, ever so quickly. At the end of an hour he asked me how it was that the baby kept so quiet, and I told him it was asleep. "'When he wakes up he'll howl, won't he?' he asked me. "'I don't think so. Paul never howls,' I told him, and just then the poor wee thing woke up and began. It was perfectly dreadful! He never cried so loud before. Then Mr. McGrath told me to go into the next room and see if it was pins or hunger and to take my own time. So when I came back he was walking up and down in front of his canvas and paid no attention to me for the longest time. Then he said we might as well go on, and I suppose he worked for another hour. He stopped suddenly and told me I could take off the queer shawl he'd put about my shoulders and run away. He warned me to be on time to-morrow, because he didn't like to wait. After that he took his hat and went away and his Japanese man showed me out, when I was ready." "I told you it wouldn't be so dreadfully hard," said Frieda, "and Gordon, in spite of his queer ways, is a very nice and decent fellow. He paints like an angel, he does, but he's as cold-blooded about his work as a pawnbroker." "I'm glad," said Frances. "It makes it much easier." I poured out the tea and produced a small box of vanilla wafers, which Frieda is ever so fond of. "I wonder Gordon didn't get mad, when Baby Paul began to scream," she said. "My dear," I remarked, "a man generally gets angry only at the unexpected. He had made up his mind that the weather would be squally and would have been rather disappointed if no shower had come. Before I had the pleasure of Master Paul's acquaintance, I mistakenly thought that every interval between waking and feeding, in a baby's life, must be taken up with lusty shrieking. I'm positively frightened and hopeless, sometimes, when I think of how much there is for me to learn. I know I'll never catch up." "You know good tea, for one thing," answered Frieda. "Give me another cup." I complied, and, presently, Frances, at our urging, sat down to the old piano and played something that was very pretty and soft. And then the old desire to sing must have come upon her, suddenly, for her low and husky voice brought forth a few words of a sweet, old French song. This, all at once, must have evoked some of the memories that weighed so heavily upon her heart. Her hands went up to her face and she sobbed. Frieda rose, swiftly and silently, and put her big, able hand upon the girl's shoulder. "I--I can't even sing to my baby!" Frances moaned. What a cry from the heart! All else would have amounted to so little, if she could only have poured out some of the melody in her soul to the poor little mite. She was brave; working for Baby Paul was of small moment; even the loss of the gallant soldier lad who had poured his stream of life for the motherland was not for the moment the paramount source of her distress. No! She could not sing for the diminutive portrait of himself, the man had left behind! As usual, in the presence of a woman's tears, I was mute and incapable of giving comfort. I feared to utter some of the platitudes which cause the sorrowing to revolt against the futility of wordy consolation. Frieda's kindly touch was worth more than all I could have said in a dog's age. Soon, the streaming eyes had been dabbed again to dryness, but the smile I had hoped for did not return. "I--I am sorry I was so weak," said Frances, and ran away to her room, possibly for the powder surely invented by a great benefactor of humanity, since it may serve to obliterate the traces of women's tears and enables them to look at you again, hopefully and with courage renewed. * * * * * After this, three weeks went by. The literary agent upon whose kindly head I pour my short stories announced the sale of my virtuous dog's tale, on the strength of which I took Frieda and Frances to a moving-picture theatre, one Saturday night. The latter's posing for Gordon was always a subject of conversation. The picture, it appeared, was now quite finished, and we were moving heaven and earth in our endeavors to find something wherewith a woman with a young baby might earn a few dollars. Frances spoke little of her experiences at the studio, except to gratify our curiosity. It was always the same thing. Baby was generally ever so good and Mr. McGrath fairly patient with his occasional relapses from slumbering silence. An impression made its way in my mind to the effect that Gordon rather awed his model. She had watched the picture's growth and this process of creation, utterly new to her, seemed to fill her with some sort of amazement. "Tell me just what it is like," I asked her, as we sat on the stoop, waiting for Frieda to turn up. "I suppose it looks like me," she said, doubtfully, "but then, it isn't a portrait, of course. I--I don't think I look just like that. Sometimes he stands in front of me for the longest time and glares, looking more and more disappointed, and all at once he says I've got a Sphynx of a face or a deuce of a mouth, or something just as complimentary. Then he turns to the picture again and changes something, with merely a touch of one of those big brushes, and plasters on another dab of paint and moves off to look at it. After this, he says it's much better, or declares he's spoiled everything, and he lights his pipe and goes to work again. Sometimes he wears the expression of a bulldog worrying a bone, and a minute later he'll be just as nice as nice can be. He's a strange man." "He certainly is," I assented. "At any rate, I am glad that your experience with him, on the whole, has not proved a disagreeable one." "Indeed, sometimes I have rather enjoyed it. Yesterday, I didn't. He began, _à propos_ of nothing, to tell me about one of your books, and said that your idea about a girl called Laura was so silly he had no patience with you, because you had idealized her until it was rather a caricature than a portrait, and you didn't know any more about women than the baby did. So, of course, I got angry at him and he looked at me, with a smile that was half a sneer, and told me to keep on looking just like that. It seems that I had just the expression he wanted to bring out. When you look too long at the baby,' he said, 'you get the likeness of a girl who's been scolded at table and is going to cry into the soup. I thought I'd wake you up!' I was ever so provoked, and he painted right along without minding me in the least. When he was through, he put on his most polite air and told me that all he had said about that Laura was nonsense, and that she was just a fool girl like any other. As for the picture, he said it would make some fellows sit up and take notice. He appeared to be intensely pleased with it and thanked me for being so patient with him." "I am not surprised," I told her. "When our good little friend, Dr. Porter, who is the best-hearted chap you'll meet in a long day's journey, becomes very interested in some dreadful malady and wants to make experiments, I am sure he considers guinea-pigs and rats in the light of mere material. Gordon will not have the slightest compunction about vivisecting a model, if it suits his purpose." "But he can be ever so kind. He very often is," declared Frances. "On the very first day he told me not to allow myself to get overtired, and he's kept on asking me ever since, if I didn't want to take a rest. Sometimes he made me stop, when I could very well have kept on." Frieda appeared, coming around the corner under full steam, and we got in the car and went off to the movies. The services of Eulalie had been obtained, to mind the baby for a couple of hours. She likes to do it, and it gives her an opportunity to go into my room and rummage in my bureau drawers, where she hunts for missing buttons with the eagerness of a terrier looking for rats. When we returned, satiated with picturesque tragedy and second-rate vaudeville, Frances, as usual, flew upstairs, obsessed with the idea that obviously grease-painted and false-whiskered villains such as we had seen on the screen must have penetrated the citadel and stolen her baby. Frieda had left us at the door, and I climbed up in more leisurely fashion, meeting Eulalie on the stairs, loaded with my soiled linen, who bade me good evening, pleasantly. Frances was waiting for me on her door-sill. "Paul is all right. Nothing has happened," she confided to me. "Good night, Mr. Cole, and thank you ever so much." She smiled at me, and I was pleased that I had been able to divert her thoughts for a few moments. How glad I should be if I could render more permanent that little look of happiness she showed for an instant! On my desk I found a message from Gordon, asking me to come to the studio next day, which was a Sunday, for lunch. I kept the appointment, walking all the way up. As I passed Bryant Park, I noticed that the leaves were becoming slightly yellow. It was evident that the summer was giving a hint of impending departure. I reached the big building, just before noon, knowing that I should be somewhat ahead of time, but glad to have a chat with Gordon. "I know you've been dying to see that canvas," he told me. "That young woman's a wonder. A clever and intelligent woman's the one to really understand what a fellow's after and help him out. I really think she took some interest in the thing. If she isn't otherwise occupied when I return from Southampton, I might possibly make use of her for another week or two. And there's Spinelli, the sculptor, who has a commission for a big group of sirens, for a fountain. He was in here and looked at the picture. Asked about her, he did, but I told him I didn't think she'd pose that way." "I should think not," I declared. "You needn't get mad," he retorted. "I've been looking around to see if I could get her something to do. Come in the front room and light your pipe, if you want to. Windows are open. I'm expecting a couple of women in to lunch. Glad you came in early. Yumasa's juggling in the kitchenette; the chap's an artist, when it comes to playing tunes on a chafing-dish. Well, how does it strike you?" The picture stood before me. It was practically finished. I sank down on the cushioned bench that ran beneath the broad window facing the north and stared at the canvas. "Great Heavens, Gordon!" I exclaimed. "It hits right out from the shoulder, doesn't it," he said. "Ever see anything much more alive than this?" "She's going to lift her eyes from the baby," I answered. "She's going to indulge in that little half-timid and half-boastful look of the young mother challenging the whole world to say that her infant isn't perfection in flesh and blood!" Gordon made no answer. He was standing before the canvas, his left arm crossed over his breast with the right elbow resting upon it and the square bluish chin in the grasp of long thin fingers. "You've evidently stuck to the model a great deal," I commented further, "but you've also idealized, made poetry of her." "And you're talking like a donkey," my friend told me, rather impatiently. "I simply have better eyes than you. Of course, I suppose you've seen a lot of her, for she seems to think the sun rises and sets on you, but you haven't studied every bit of her face as I've done. I've idealized nothing at all, but my own appreciation of her, and perhaps a trick or two, have caught you. The light came right through this open window, naturally, and caused that glint of the fluffy ends of hair, like powdered sunlight dusted over the dark chestnut. It also threw those strong high lights over the edges of the features. Then, I stuck those roses between her and the window and they gave the reflected tints. It's just a portrait, you old idiot, and nothing else, except perhaps for the fancy shawl. Of course, everything that wasn't directly illumined was in subdued tones, which account for the softness. You may think it's rather ideal, but that's only because I saw her right and got an effective pose. Hang it all, man! If I gave you a pond and a bunch of trees and blue hills back of them, you might describe them accurately, and yet make the picture an interesting one, in one of those fool stories of yours." "She is very beautiful," I said, knowing that he expected no direct answer to his tirade. "If she hadn't been, I shouldn't have bothered with her," he replied, in a tone that rather rasped on my feelings. "That's just what's the matter with her; she's a good-looker and you daren't change anything. If I were to use her again for anything important, fellows would ask if I intend to stick to the same old model, all my life. If I get her to pose just once more, it will be about the end of her usefulness to me, and I'd do it just for the fun of making another study of an interesting type, something to stick among the unframed things piled up against the wall and show people, after this one's sold." He moved off to get a cigarette from the small square stool on which he keeps brushes and tubes, leaving me to stare in great desolation at the picture of Frances and her baby. So he's going to sell it! Indeed, the more I looked at it the better I realized that it was the woman herself, described by a master. He had naturally seen things I had not noticed, that was all. I think I've never had a great desire for money, but the idea was very irksome that her portrait would be sold and that it would hang on some rich man's wall, stared at only by people merely concerned with the beauty their dollars had bought. It is, perhaps, just as well that I have some sense of humor. The idea of this wonderful thing hanging in my rather dingy room suddenly struck me as rather incongruous. As well think of a necklace of brilliants about some ragged pauper's neck. To the best of my belief I have never envied the people who can afford to possess the gauds I have sometimes admired in the windows of shops, in which only the rich can ever deal. Why this sudden obsession of a desire to have that picture of the young woman where I could look at it, daily, and delight in its perfection? I have often thought that in my den or in her own room she is as nearly out of place as her picture would be. She impresses one as being able to lend further grace to the most splendid dwelling-place. Once more I catch myself communing with my folly. After all, Madame Dupont is just a woman; her smile gives charm to her surroundings. When she sits in my old Morris chair, she converts it into the throne of beautiful motherhood and the place into a palace of grace. Why should I care for daubs, for splashes of paint never so cleverly put on, since I can see the model from time to time and rejoice that she counts me among her friends? "You're the grumpiest old curmudgeon I ever knew," said Gordon, interrupting my cogitations. "You haven't said a word for ten minutes. And so you like it, do you?" "You've never done anything half so good," I affirmed. "To tell you the truth, I've a notion I've happened to do something pretty big," he said, nodding. "But a fellow's apt to get hypnotized by his own work, sometimes. I'll have to stop looking at the thing. It'll stay here while I go off to the country for a few weeks and, when I come back, I'll have the right perspective again. But I know it's devilish good. I feel as I did once at the _Salon_, when I got the _Mention Honorable_ for that codfish and lobster on a marble table. You know, the one Tilson bought. I knew it was right, as soon as I'd finished it." Mutely, I committed him to the devil and all his fallen angels. What had this picture to do with still-life in a fishmonger's shop? Hang it, I really believe Gordon has no soul! Or can it be a part of the pose inseparable from him, of which he certainly is sometimes unconscious? At this moment, the bell rang and Yumasa came out of some cubby and rushed to the outer door. Gordon followed him and warmly welcomed a rather stout lady of uncertain age and very youthful hair, after which he held out his hand to the original of Miss Van Rossum's portrait. "The steamer was awfully early," explained the young lady, "but she took forever to dock. Don't you think we were awfully good to come in town on such a warm day? I could have played thirty-six holes, you know, but, of course, we hadn't seen Dad for a long time. Mamma asked him to come with us, but he said he'd have to run over to the Club. He'll join us here at three." "Let me see, he was gone four months, wasn't he?" said Gordon. "Yes, something like that," answered the mother, holding up a tortoise-shell lorgnette and looking at me. "I want to introduce my friend, David Cole, Mrs. Van Rossum," hastened Gordon. "Miss Van Rossum, David is my very best pal. He's the novelist, you know." "How very interesting!" clamored the young lady. "Gordon has given me two of your books to read. Now that I have met you, I shall certainly have to begin them. You see, there is so much to do in summer, Mr. Cole." "Indeed there is, Miss Van Rossum," I assented. "I hardly find time even to look over the morning paper." "Oh! Newspapers are such rubbish," she declared, airily. "Why, Sophia!" cried Mrs. Van Rossum. "One of them had your picture last week." "It was rotten," said Miss Sophia, with some firmness. "Oh, my dear! Why will you use such dreadful language?" the mother reproved her. "That's all right, Ma, every one says it now." Miss Van Rossum, having thus established the status of her vocabulary, at least to her own satisfaction, took a few steps across the big studio and stopped before the picture. "Oh! I say! Did you do that, Gordon?" she asked. "Isn't she a stunner? Was it her own baby or did she borrow it? Cunning little mite, isn't it?" "A study from a model," Gordon informed her. "Yes, it is her own baby." The older lady also came forward and inspected the painting. "Of course, you must have flattered her a great deal," she opined. "You have _such_ an imagination, my dear Mr. McGrath!" "It isn't a patch on David's," he replied. "Novelists can beat painters all hollow at that sort of thing." "I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Miss Van Rossum. "Had to get up at an unearthly hour to come down and meet Dad." At once we went to the small table in the next room. The flowers were exquisite. The young lady crunched radishes, with enthusiasm, and spoke disparagingly of a certain hackney which, according to her, had unfairly been awarded a blue ribbon at Piping Rock, gaining a decision over her own palfrey. Also, she discussed Mrs. Pickley-Sanderson's form at tennis and spoke of the new shotgun her father had brought over for her, from England. "What's your handicap at golf, Mr. Cole?" she asked me, graciously. "I'm afraid David's a fossil," put in Gordon. "He's utterly ignorant of the most important things of life." "What a pity," she sympathized. "And how do you manage to spend the time?" "I--I don't spend it, Miss Van Rossum," I answered, inanely. "I try to save it and make it last as long as possible." "How funny," she declared, and gave me up as hopeless, directing the remainder of her conversation at Gordon. Finally, I took my leave, conscious that I had been asinine in my remarks and had made a deplorable impression. Upon the picture I cast one more look before leaving. Those wonderful eyes of Frances were directed towards the baby, of course, but for an instant I felt that she was about to raise them and smile at me. At any rate she doesn't consider me as a useless incumbrance of the earth because I can't play golf or shoot birds. She is restful and gentle, whereas Miss Van Rossum appears to me to have the soothing qualities of a healthy bass drum. But then, I may be mistaken. CHAPTER VIII WE TAKE AN EXCURSION The day was a hot one. In Gordon's studio a slight breeze had blown in and mingled with the scent of the flowers with which his table was adorned, and the behavior of my collar had been of the best. The ladies, secure in the absence of starched things such as we men throttle ourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in the street I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey the instinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed for time. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few, leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the most harrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day, whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages. I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in the studio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by his first name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probably old acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them in Paris. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his knees when she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, for she outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger and just as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon is a misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly, artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a young lady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name. Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for the portrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality. The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsome creature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as she does the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she is too ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her very simple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scale she is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions in regard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she had come, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs with truffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the baby belonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life, but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beauty that is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be already considered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that a model was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it is likely that she would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. But then, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deem beneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but the outward semblance of humanity. The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actually resented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had looked at the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it a valuable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. But then, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a Van Rossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of such moderate worth. Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who stand behind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of aching heads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the million considered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part of fate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens, destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and the constant effort to smile in spite of these. And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child. It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the most glorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward lies in the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep body and soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms, in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail to be squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Her gift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bring bitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, there would have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, no tiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a nice schoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her care and tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there might have been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day, when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach little pupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come to all. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who was looking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, and who shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, at other times, they deepen his darkness. Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I have just formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of an actuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way he speaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may, perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge such weakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model. He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas, destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezed out paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He has obliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playing golf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality in paint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tennis court inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facial characteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had shown a little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability to employ her further. After all, she has inspired him to great accomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of our mutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the door was a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where we had left the ladies. "I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said. The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture of Frances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady he thus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. The man's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probably turn out to be that of a fish. My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidated state of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as I reached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer and lighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When I came out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting in the armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted me with could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey to unhappy thoughts. "Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality. "It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers from it. Do you think he is looking pale?" At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea would probably not have entered my head without her suggestion, but an uneasy feeling came over me, born probably of reading something in the paper about infant mortality. I took a blessed refuge in prevarication. "He is looking splendidly," I told her. "But they take sick babies and give them long jaunts out on the bay, with nurses and doctors. If that sort of thing can cure an ailing infant, it must make a healthy one feel like a fighting-cock. Get ready, and we'll take the boat to Coney Island and spend a couple of hours at sea. It will put better color in the little man's cheeks and do no harm to your own. I'm craving for the trip, come along and hurry up!" She began the usual objections, to which I refused any attentions. I suspect I have a little of the bully in my nature. At any rate we sallied forth, soon afterwards, and went to the Battery, where we percolated through the crowd into a couple of folding seats on the upper deck. "Oh! It is such a blessed relief," she said, after the boat had started and made a breeze for us, since, on the water, none but the tiniest flaws rippled the surface. I called her attention to the remarkable sight of Manhattan fading away behind us in a haze that softened the lines, till they appeared to be washed in with palest lavenders and pinks. "The insolence of wealth and the garishness of its marts are disappearing," I told her. "Our moist summer air, so worthless to breathe and cruel to ailing babes, is gilding a pill otherwise often hard to swallow. All about us are people, most of whom live away from the splendors we behold. Some of them, like ourselves, burrow in semi-forgotten streets and some dwell on the boundary where humanity rather festers than thrives. They are giving themselves up to the enjoyment of a coolness which, an hour ago, appeared like an unrealizable dream. Let us do likewise." Frances smiled at me, indulgently. Like all really good women, she has an inexhaustible patience with the vagaries and empty remarks of a mere man. Women are more concerned with the practicalities of life. About us the fairer sex was apparently in the majority and the discussions carried on around us concerned garments, the price of victuals and the evil ways of certain husbands. Young ladies, provided with male escorts, sprinkled poetry, or at least doggerel, over the conversation of more staid matrons. Their remarks and exclamations seldom soared to lofty heights, but in them there was always the undertone of present pleasure and anticipated joys. One thin little thing, who had mentioned a ribbon-counter, looked up with something akin to awe at a broad-faced and pimply youth, who spoke hungrily of a potential feast of Frankfurter sausages. I have no doubt that to her he represented some sort of Prince Charming. Close to her a buxom maiden addressed a timid-looking giant, all arms and legs, and described the bliss of shooting the chutes. It was evident that he aspired to the dignity and emoluments of a gay suitor, but was woefully new or incompetent at the game. She was helping him to the best of her ability, with a perseverance and courage entitling her to my respect. In her companion she must have discerned the makings of a possible husband or, at least, the opportunity to practise a talent of fascination she thinks ought not to lie fallow. "And how is Baby Paul enjoying himself?" I asked my companion. "For the time being, he is asleep," she answered, "and so, I suppose, is having an excellent time. He's an exceedingly intelligent child and of the happiest disposition. I'm sure he is aware that he has a mother to love him, and that's enough to keep him contented." "Of course," I assented. "That somewhere there is a good woman to love him is all that a baby or a grown man needs to know in order to enjoy perfect bliss. Those who are fortunate enough to reach such a consummation are the elect of the world." She looked at me with a smile, and I saw a question hanging on her lips. It was probably one I had heard very often. Frieda and some others, when hard put to it for a subject of conversation, are apt to ask me why I don't get married. I tell them that the only proof of the pudding is the eating and that, strangely enough, all the good wives I know are already wedded. Moreover, I know that very few women would deign to look with favor upon me. I have always deemed myself a predestined bachelor, a lover of other people's children and a most timid venturer among spinsters. Frances, however, permitted the question to go unasked, which showed much cleverness on her part. She recognized the obviousness of the situation. As we went on, she gazed with admiration upon the yachts, many of which were lying becalmed, but picturesque. The big tramps at anchor awakened in her the wonder we all feel at the idea of sailing for faraway shores where grow strange men and exotic fruits. Then, when the steamer had turned around the great point of the island and her eyes caught the big open sea, I saw them filling, gradually. She was thinking of the gallant lad who had fallen for his first and greatest mother. Recollections came to her of sailing away with him, with hopes and ambitions rosier than the illumined shores before us, that were kissed by the sun under a thin covering veil of mist. She remembered the days of her toil, rewarded at last by the ripening of her divine gift, and the days of love crowned by the little treasure on her lap. But now, all that had been very beautiful in her life was gone, saving the tiny one to whom she could not even sing a lullaby and whose very livelihood was precarious. I knew that when she was in this mood it was better to say nothing or even appear to take no notice. Suddenly, a child running along the deck fell down, a dear little girl I ran to and lifted in my arms. Confidingly, she wept upon my collar which, fortunately, was a soft one. A broad shouldered youth made his way towards me. "Hand her over, Mister," he said, pleasantly, "she's one o' mine." He took the child from me, tenderly, and I looked at him, somewhat puzzled, but instant recognition came to him. "Say," he declared, breezily, "you's the guy I seen th' other day when I wuz havin' me picture took." He extended a grateful hand, which I shook cordially, for he was no less a personage than Kid Sullivan, who would have been champion, but for his defeat. On my last call upon Frieda at her studio I had seen him in the lighter garb of Orion, with a gold fillet about his brow, surmounted by a gilt star. I bade him come with me, but a couple of steps away, to where Frances sat, and I had left a small provision of chocolate drops. "This," I said, "is my friend Mr. Sullivan. The child belongs to him, and I have come to see whether I cannot find consolation for her in the box of candy." Frances bowed pleasantly to him, and he removed his cap, civilly. "Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kids over to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's only a coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses. They're them big French dappled gray ones." I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bring back to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing the Montmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is the throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers. "I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly. At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was averted. "She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances. "Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter see Buster. Wait a minute!" About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous infant. "Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole." "No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a cigar?" "I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the ring now, so I don't train no more." The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon a pleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindly to the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she was interested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs. Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls one sees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable information in regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in a millinery shop. "I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in a high-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain't the feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat. It's the head it goes on to." As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She was unconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated a deduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was the black one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out on the sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me. Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms of endearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeks old, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veteran as compared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the same age, there might have been comparisons, and possibly some trace of envy, but in the present case there could be nothing but mutual admiration. "Is you folks going ashore?" asked the Kid. "We were thinking of remaining on the boat," I told him. "Say, what's the matter with goin' on the pier and sittin' down for a while? 'Tain't as cool as the boat, but it's better'n town, and the later ye gets back, the cooler it'll be." Mrs. Sullivan confirmed her husband's statements. I looked enquiringly at Frances, who listened willingly to the words of experience. In a few minutes we landed and found a comfortable seat. Suddenly, as we were chatting pleasantly, there passed before us Mr. O'Flaherty, of the second floor back. He wore a cap surmounted by goggles and an ample gray duster, and with him walked several other large and florid-looking gentlemen. His eyes fell on Frances and then upon me. I thanked goodness that her head was turned so that she could not possibly have seen the odious wink and the leer he bestowed upon me. "Say," whispered Mr. Sullivan, in my ear. "D'ye see that big guy look at ye? Made ye mad, didn't he? For two cents I'd have handed him one." "My good friend," I whispered back, "none of us are beyond reach of the coarse natured." "That's so," he answered, "but a wallop in the jaw's good for 'em." An hour later we took the boat back. The little girl slept all the way home, in her father's arms. Frances gazed dreamily on the water. Little Mrs. Sullivan sat on a chair very close to her husband, with the baby secure on her lap. Her head soon rested on the young prizefighter's shoulder, and she dozed off. I am sure he endured exquisite discomfort with pins and needles rather than disturb her. And I, like a fool, worried on account of a man perpetually scented with gasoline and spotted with transmission grease who had taken the infernal liberty of winking at me because of my being with poor Frances, taking the air on a proletarian pier. "The world," Gordon had told me, one day, "utterly refuses to permit a man and woman to be merely good friends. Since the days of Noah's Ark, it has been recognized as an impossibility, and, therefore, society has ever frowned down upon any attempt in so foolish a direction." I replied hotly that the world was evil-minded, at times, and he retorted that the world was all right, but some men were jackasses. He remarked that Carlyle had been too lenient when he declared that his countrymen were mostly fools. But then, Carlyle was insular, after all, and unduly favored the inhabitants of his isle, as any British subject would. Nearly all men all over the world were fools, Gordon asserted. Coyotes and foxes had an instinctive dread of traps, but men walked into them so innocently that merely to behold them was enough to drive a man to drink. After all, I don't care what O'Flaherty and such cattle think! As long as I can save Frances, or any other good woman, from shedding one more tear than has been ordained for her, I shall do so. I refuse to be envious of the intelligence of foxes and coyotes, and I will always resent uncouthness and mean thoughts. She looked rather tired when we came down the steps of the elevated road. I begged her to let me take Baby Paul in my arms, and she finally consented, after first declining. It did not awaken him, and we reached the house in becoming tranquillity. Some of our fellow lodgers were on the steps and greeted us civilly. They were the three young men and the two girls. Thank goodness they appeared to be too unversed in the wickedness of this world to entertain such ideas as must have passed through the bullet-head of O'Flaherty! * * * * * On the next day, I went up to Gordon's studio, and I confess it was with the purpose of looking again at that picture. He was superintending the packing of his suit cases and a trunk. I told him something of my experience, my indignation throbbing in my throat. "You're a donkey, Dave," he consoled me. "What right or title have you to the belief that the millennium has come? I suppose the poor girl is entitled to some commiseration, for her troubles are in the nature of a series of accidents and misfortunes which no one could foresee. Yours, on the other hand, are simply due to congenital feebleness of some parts of your gray matter. By-by, old fellow, my taxi's waiting for me!" CHAPTER IX I HEAR RUMORS ABOUT GORDON When we reached the top floor, Frances took the baby from me, while I lit her gas-jet. She kissed Baby Paul effusively, and placed him on the bed, after which she turned to me. "It has done him ever so much good," she declared. "See how splendidly he looks now. Tell me, why are you so kind to me?" Women have been in the habit of propounding riddles ever since the world began. This was a hard one, indeed, to answer, because I didn't know myself. I could hardly tell her that it was because, at least theoretically, every beautiful woman is loved by every man, nor could I say that it was because she had inspired me with pity for her. "We have had a few pleasant moments together," I replied, "and I am ever so glad that Baby Paul has derived so much benefit. The kindness you speak of is mere egotism. I have given myself the great pleasure of your company. I do not suppose you realize how much that means to a chap whose usual confidant is his writing machine, and whose society, except at rare intervals, is made up of old books. My dear child, in this transaction I am the favored one." I was surprised to see a little shiver pass over her frame. "Oh! Mr. Cole, sometimes I can't help feeling such wonder, such amazement, when I think of how differently all these things might have come to pass. I--I was going off to the hospital on the next day. I should surely have met kindness and good enough care, but no one can understand what it was to me to have Frieda come in, with her sweet sympathetic face. It was as if some loving sister had dropped down to me from Heaven, and--and she told me about you. I--I remember her very words; she said that you were a man to be trusted, clean of soul as a child, the only one she had ever met into whose keeping she would entrust all that she holds most dear." "Frieda is much given to exaggeration," I remarked, uneasily. "She is not. Think of what my feelings would have been on the day when they would have sent me out of the hospital, with not a friend in the world, not a kindly heart to turn to!" "My dear child," I said, "I believe that, if you have not been altogether forgotten by the gods and goddesses, it was because you were worthy of their kindest regard. I am confident that our little trip on the water will make you sleep soundly, and I trust that you will have pleasant dreams." Yes! I occasionally call her my dear child, now. Neither my forty years nor the thinness of my thatch really entitles me to consider myself sufficiently venerable to have been her parent. But I am the least formal of men and find it difficult to call her Madame or Mrs. Dupont. If I did so now, I think that she would wonder if I was aggrieved against her, for some such foolish reason as women are always keen on inventing and annoying themselves with. Once in a while I even call her Frances, but it is a habit I ought not to permit to grow upon me. There are altogether too many O'Flaherty's in the world, masculine, feminine and neuter. She closed her door, after a friendly pressure of our hands, and I went to my room to write. The ideas, however, came but slowly and, upon arrival, were of the poorest. I, therefore, soon took my pipe, put my feet on the window ledge and listened to a distant phonograph. At last, came silence, a gradual extinguishing of lights in windows opposite, and yawns from myself. I must repeat these trips, they make for sound slumber. On the next day I took it upon myself to go to the small house in Brooklyn where Frances had formerly boarded. She was anxious to know if any letters might have come for her that had not been forwarded. She had wondered why her husband's parents had never written to announce the dreadful news which, however, had been briefly confirmed on inquiry at the Consulate. In the eastern section of our Greater City, which is about as familiar to me as the wilds of Kamchatka, I promptly lost myself. But kindly souls directed me, and I reached a dwelling that was all boarded up and bore a sign indicating that the premises were to be let. Thence, I went to a distant real estate office where the people were unable to give me any indication or trace of the former tenants, who had rented out rooms. On my return I found Eulalie rummaging among my bureau drawers. She held up two undergarments and bade me observe the perfection of her darning, whereupon I assured her that she was a large, fat pearl without price. "_Oui, Monsieur_," she assented, without understanding me in the least. "Madame Dupont has gone to my cousin, Madame Smith. Her name was Carpaux, like mine, but she married an American painter." "An artist?" I inquired. "_Oui, Monsieur._ He used to paint and decorate and put on wallpaper. Then, he went away to Alaska after gold and never sent his address. So Félicie has opened a cleaning and dyeing shop and is doing very well. She has not heard from Smith for sixteen years, so that she thinks he is, perhaps, lost. She has told me that she wanted an American person, who could speak French, to wait on customers and keep the books and send the bills and write names and addresses on the packages. She lives in the back of the store. There is a big bed that would be very commodious for putting the baby on. Madame Dupont has gone to see. Next week I go to work there also and I will keep an eye on the baby when Madame is at the counter." I know the shop; it is on Sixth Avenue, not far away. In the window always hang garments intended to show the perfection of dyeing and cleaning reached by the establishment. There is a taxidermist on one side of it and a cheap restaurant on the other. When weary of the odor of benzine and soap suds, Frances will be able to stand on the door-sill for a moment and inhale the effluvia of fried oysters or defunct canaries. Eulalie left my room, and I remained there, appalled. I wish I could have found some better or more pleasant occupation for Frances. When the latter returned, she looked cheerfully at me and announced that she had accepted the position tendered to her. "I shall be able to have Baby with me," she explained, "and it will keep our bodies and souls together. I hope I shall suit Madame Smith. Do you know anything about how to keep books?" At once I took paper and pencil and launched into a long explanation, undoubtedly bewildering her by the extent of my ignorance. Then I went out and got her a little book on the subject, over which she toiled fiercely for two days, after which she went to work, bearing little Paul in her arms, and returned at suppertime, looking very tired. "It is all right," she announced. "Félicie is a very nice, hard-working woman, and tells me that Baby is a very fine child. I'll get along very well." When a woman is really brave and strong, she makes a man feel like rather small potatoes. Her courage and determination were fine indeed, and I must say my admiration for her grew apace. After the hopes she had entertained; after the years spent in study, the fall must have seemed a terrible one to her. Yet she accepted the pittance offered to her, gratefully and with splendid pluck. A week after this Gordon ran up to town in somebody's car, to make a selection of cravats at the only shop in New York where, according to him, a man could buy a decent necktie. "Your limitations are frightful," I told him. "I know of a thousand." "I know you do," he replied, "and most of your ties would make a dog laugh. The rest of them would make him weep. Come along with me for a bite of lunch at the Biltmore." Over the Little Neck clam cocktails he announced some great triumphs he had achieved at golf. "And I can nearly hold my own with Miss Van Rossum at tennis," he said. "She's a wonder at it. We got arrested last Friday on the Jericho turnpike for going fifty miles an hour, but she jollied the policeman so that he only swore to thirty, and we were let off with a reprimand. Good thing she was at the wheel. If I'd been driving, I'd have been fined the limit." "You would have deserved it," I told him. "I think the old judge knew her father; pretty big gun on the island, you know. By the way, what's become of--of the Murillo young woman?" I explained to him how she was occupied. "The deuce! You could certainly have found something easier for her to do, if you'd tried hard enough," he reproached me. "I did all I could, and so did Frieda, but our hunt was in vain, on account of the baby." "Yes, there's that plagued infant," he said, reflectively. "I'll be glad, if you can shed the light of your genius on the situation, old man," I told him. "Among your enormous circle of friends----" "You go to the devil! I'm not going to have people saying that Gordon McGrath is so interested in his model that he's trying to get rid of her by placing her somewhere or other. No, old boy, if I should hear of anything, I will let you know, but I'm not going to hunt for it. Do you know, that woman's got a wonderful face. Did you ever see such a nose and mouth? When she opens those big eyes of hers and looks at you and speaks in that hoarse voice, it's quite pathetic. I--I think I'll take her on again, for a short time." "I'm afraid you won't," I replied. "I wouldn't advise her to lose steady employment for the purpose of posing a couple of weeks for you." "I suppose not. How do you like that Spanish omelette?" Thus he cut short all reference to Frances, and, soon afterwards, we parted on the Avenue. * * * * * During the next two months there was little worthy of being chronicled. Frances, I think, grew a little thinner, but always asserted that she was in the best of health. Baby Paul was rapidly accumulating weight, and Frieda and I offered him a small baby carriage, which folded up most cleverly and took little room in the shop or at home. It was on the occasion of the completion of his fourth month that the presentation was made by my dear old friend. "There, my dear, is a gimcrack thing David insisted on buying. The man at the store swore it couldn't possibly fold up suddenly with the baby in it. And now what do you think of my having that old blue dress of mine dyed black?" The reply of Frances was a heartfelt one as to the perambulator, but discouraging in regard to the garment. "Oh, never mind," said Frieda. "I'll make paint rags out of it, then. I only thought I'd help out the shop. Now let us get David to give us a cup of tea." We were talking cheerfully together, when Gordon dropped in from the skies, most unexpectedly. We were glad to see him and, since four people in my room crowded it considerably, my friend took a seat on the bed. I had first met him in the Bohemia of the Latin Quarter, when his necktie out-floated all others and any one prophesying that he would become the portrayer in ordinary to the unsubmerged would have been met with incredulous stares. At that time, for him, Béranger was the only poet and Murger the only writer. And now his clothes are built, while his shoes are designed. Yet, in my top floor, he showed some of the old Adam, joining gladly in our orgy of tea and wafers and utterly forgetting all pose. I noticed that he looked a great deal at Frances, but it was no impertinent stare. She was quite unconscious of his scrutiny or, if at all aware of it, probably deemed it a continuation of his method of artistic study. She had become accustomed to it in his studio. "David tells me that you are lost to me as a model," he said, suddenly, with a sort of eagerness that showed a trace of disappointment. "I must now plod along without interruption," she answered. "I had thought of making another study. The finished thing is all right, but one doesn't come across a face like yours very often." "No," put in Frieda, "and it's a good thing for you that you've had the exclusive painting of it. If she had continued as a model and been done by every Tom, Dick and Harry----" "True. Since I can't paint her again, I'm glad no one else will. No, thank you, I won't have any more tea. How's the new picture, Frieda?" For a few minutes the two monopolized the conversation. To some extent they spoke a jargon of their own, to which Frances and I listened with little understanding. "And what do you think of it, Dave?" he asked, turning abruptly to me. "It is a beautiful thing," I answered. "If I had Frieda's imagination and her sense of beauty, I should be the great, undiscovered American novelist. She makes one believe that the world is all roses and violets and heliotropes, touched by sunshine and kissed by soft breezes. It is tenanted only by sprites and godlings, according to her magic brush." "The world is no such thing," he retorted, sharply. "The world is what one's imagination, one's sentiment and one's conscience makes it," I asserted, "at least during some precious moments of every lifetime." "Oh! I know. You can sit at that old machine of yours and throw your head back and see more upon your ceiling than the cracked plaster, and Frieda does the same thing. Now my way is to take real flesh and blood, yes, and dead lobsters and codfish and dowagers and paint them in the best light I can get on them, but it's the light I really see." "It is nothing of the kind," I emphatically disclaimed. "It is the light your temperament sees, and your rendering of it is not much closer to truth than Caruso's 'Celeste Aïda' can be to an ordinary lover's appeal. There is no such thing as realism in painting, while, in literature, it has chiefly produced monsters." "Isn't he a dear old donkey?" Gordon appealed to the two women. "One of those animals once spoke the truth to a minor prophet," remarked Frances, quietly. "You are quoting the only recorded exception," he laughed, "but the hit was a good one. Yet Dave is nothing but an incurable optimist and a chronic wearer of pink glasses." "That, I think, is what makes him so loveable," put in Frieda, whereat Frances smiled at her, and I might have blushed had I not long ago lost the habit. Gordon rose, with the suddenness which characterizes his movements, and declared he must run away at once. He shook hands all around, hastily, and declined my offer to see him down to the door. "In Italy," said Frieda, "I have eaten a sauce made with vinegar and sweet things. They call it _agrodolce_, I believe, and the Germans make a soup with beer. Neither of them appeal to me at all. Gordon is a wonderful painter, but he's always trying to mix up art with iconoclasm. It can't spoil his pictures, I'm sure, but it may--what was the expression Kid Sullivan was fond of using? Oh yes, some day it may hand out a jolt to him. He has a perfectly artistic temperament and the greatest talent, but he stirs up with them a dreadful mess of cynicism and cold-blooded calculation. My dear Dave, let you and I stick to our soft colors and minor tones. If either of us ever abandoned them, we should be able to see nothing but dull grays." "We understand our limitations, Frieda," I told her, "and there is nothing that fits one better to enjoy life. Gordon says that it is all foolishness, and can't understand that a fellow should walk along a mile of commonplace hedge and stop because he has found a wild rose. The latter, with due respect to him, is as big a truth as the privet, and a pleasanter one." Presently, Frieda, after consuming a third cup of tea and finishing the crackers, said that she must be going home. I insisted on accompanying her down the stairs and naturally followed her to her domicile, where she informed me that she was going to wash her hair and forbade my entering. On the other side of the street, on my return, I saw Frances going into Dr. Porter's office. He has prevailed upon her to let him do something to her throat, and she goes in once or twice a week. He has begged her to come as a special and particular favor to him. I'm sure I don't know what he expects to accomplish, for he is somewhat reticent in the matter. Perhaps he may have thought it well to arouse a little hope in her. I am afraid that in her life she sees a good deal of the dull grays Frieda was speaking of. * * * * * And now a few more weeks have gone by and the middle of winter has come. On Sunday afternoons we always have tea in my room, except when we go through the same function at Frieda's. To my surprise, Gordon's visits have been repeated a number of times. Frieda and he abuse one another most unmercifully, like the very best of friends, and he persistently keeps on observing Frances. It looks as if she exerted some strange fascination upon him, of which she is perfectly ignorant. He never goes beyond the bounds of the most simple friendliness, but, sometimes, she sharply resents some cynical remark of his, without seeming to disturb him in the least. Meanwhile, my friend Willoughby Jones has told me that Gordon is doing Mrs. Van Rossum's portrait, while the younger lady roams about the studio and eats chocolates, talking about carburetors and tarpon-tackle. The family will leave soon in search of the balmy zephyrs of Florida. My friend's chatter also included the information that Gordon might soon take a run down there. "They say he's becoming a captive of her bow and spear," he told me. "It looks as if he were trying to join the ranks of the Four Hundred. It has been said that the Van Rossums, or at least Miss Sophia, show some willingness to adopt him. Wouldn't it be funny?" Funny! It would be tragic! I can't for an instant reconcile myself to such an idea, for I hardly think that Miss Van Rossum is the sort of young woman who would inspire Gordon with a consuming love. Come to think of it, I have never known him to be in love with any one, so how can I know the kind of fair charmer that will produce in him what the French call the lightning stroke? And then, Willoughby Jones is known as an inveterate and notorious gossip. The whole matter, if not an utter invention, is simply based on Gordon's policy to cultivate the people who can afford to pay five thousand for a full-length portrait. I wonder whether it would not be well for me to give him a word of warning? No! If I did such a thing, he would certainly tell me not to be a donkey, and I should deserve the rebuke. CHAPTER X THE WORK LOST However platitudinous it may sound, I am compelled to remark how the time flies. From the calendar's standpoint there are but three weeks to come before the advent of Spring, and I trust the sprite will be better clad than she is in one of Frieda's pictures. In this particular latitude March is not very apt to temper the wind to such a shorn lamb as smiles out of that painting, clad with Cupid-like garments of infinite grace, but questionable warmth. She should have worn a heavy sweater. Day by day I have watched the growth of Baby Paul, but it is only on Sundays that I have been able to see much of his mother, who comes home rather weary, as a rule, and always has ever so much sewing to do after her return. I have heard her discuss ways and means with Frieda, till I felt my small allowance of brains positively addling. Together they have been planning tiny garments for the babe and larger ones for themselves, while I sat there conscious of my inferiority and looking at them admiringly, but with something of the understanding of an average lap-dog. I find them very indulgent, however. Dear me! What a time we had of it at Christmas. My midday meal took place at my sister's, in Weehawken, but the dinner was at Frieda's, where I was permitted to contribute the turkey. It could not be made to penetrate the exiguous oven of the little gas-stove, but we bribed the janitress to cook it for us. I had been in grave consultation with my dear old friend in regard to the toys I might purchase for Baby Paul, being anxious that his first experience of the great day should be a happy one, but Frieda frowned upon woolly lambs, teddy bears and Noah's Arks. "If you will insist, Dave," she told me, "you can go and buy him a rubber elephant or some such thing, but he is altogether too young to play games. I know you have a sneaking desire to teach him checkers. If you will persist in wasting your money on presents, give me a five-dollar bill and I'll go around and buy him things he really needs. I'll put them in a box and send them with your best love." "What about Frances?" I asked. "A good pair of stout boots would be wisest," she informed me, "but perhaps you had better make it flowers, after all. More useful things might remind her too much of present hardship and poverty. A few American Beauties will give her, with their blessed fragrance, some temporary illusion of not being among the disinherited ones of the earth. I--I can give her the boots." And so we had that dinner, just the three of us together, with Baby Paul just as good as gold and resting on Frieda's sofa. There was a box of candy sent by Kid Sullivan to his benefactress, and, although the contents looked positively poisonous, they came from a grateful heart, and she appreciated them hugely. I had brought a little present of flowers in a tiny silver vase, and they graced the table. I wore a terrible necktie Frieda had presented me with. It was a splendid refection. The little dining-room was a thing of delight. From the walls hung many pictures, mostly unframed. They were sketches and impressions that had met favor from their gifted maker and been deemed worthy of the place. The table was covered with a lovely white cloth, all filmy with lace, and there was no lack of pretty silver things holding bonbons and buds. It all gave me a feeling of womanly refinement, of taste mingled with the freedom of an artistic temperament unrestrained by common metes and bounds. Frances had one of my roses pinned to her waist, and often bent down to inhale its fragrance. When will some profound writer give us an essay on the Indispensability of the Superfluous? Again we had a feast on New Year's eve, in my room. Gordon, who was going to a house-party at Lakewood, lent me his chafing-dish. I'll say little about the viands we concocted; at least they were flavored with affection and mutual good wishes, with the heartiest hopes for good things to come. It was not very cold, that night, and on the stroke of twelve I threw my window wide open. We listened to the orgy of sound from steam-whistles and tin horns. There floated to us, through the din, a pealing of faraway chiming bells. When I closed the window again, Frieda took the chafing-dish for a housewifely cleaning. Baby Paul had been sleeping on my bed and Frances was kneeling beside him, looking at the sleeping tot. For a moment she had forgotten us and the trivialities of the entertainment, and was breathing a prayer for her man-child. Thus passed the New Year's eve, and on the next morning Frances was up early, as usual, and went off to work. I pottered idly about my room till Mrs. Milliken chased me out. On the afternoon of the first Sunday of the year Gordon came in again. Until last Autumn he had invaded my premises perhaps once in a couple of months, but, now, he is beginning to come as regularly as Frieda herself. He gives me the impression of being rather tired, and I explain this by the fact that he leads too active a life and takes too much out of himself. I am sure few men ever painted harder than he does. When I watch him at his work, it looks very easy, of course, but I know better. His is powerful, creative work, such as no man can accomplish without putting all his energy into his toil. I am often exhausted after a few hours of writing, and I am sure that Gordon also feels the drag and the travail of giving birth to the children of his soul. Then, after a day of this sort of thing, he goes out to the theatres or the Opera and prolongs the night at the club and delves into books, for he is a great reader, especially of what he terms modern thought and philosophy. The first rays of good working light find him again at his canvas, sometimes pleased and sometimes frowning, giving me often the impression of a latter-day Sisyphus. "I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that. The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and dried." "I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But----" "Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for." "I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a leisurely way as you hope to." "Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and how to go to work to obtain it." "I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next Sunday." "Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply. "Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on that day." "I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry." I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at him, he seemed slightly embarrassed, although I may have erred in so thinking. Frieda seized upon the chocolates, greedily. She is one of those dear stout people, who assure you that they hardly ever eat anything and whom one always finds endowed with a fine appetite. "It's too bad about Baby Paul," she said. "He is yet too young to be stuffed with sweets or amused with toys." "I presume that a nursling is the only really normal human being," remarked Gordon. "He possesses but the most natural desires, has no ambitions unconnected with feeding and sleeping, and expresses his emotions without concealment. Affectation is foreign to him, and his virtues and vices are still in abeyance." "Paul," declared Frances, indignantly, "is extremely intelligent and has no vices at all." "I stand corrected, Mrs. Dupont. He is the exception, of course, and I only spoke in general. Frieda, my dear, won't you be so obliging as to open the piano and play something for us? I don't suppose it will awaken the baby, will it?" "He just loves music," asserted his mother. "When I play, he often opens his eyes and listens quietly, ever so long. I know that it pleases him, ever so much. His--oh! He must have music in his soul! How--how could it be otherwise?" Frieda hurried to the piano and opened it, after giving the stool a couple of turns. She began with some Mendelssohn. Frances was holding her baby in her arms, her wonderful head bent towards the little one, with a curve of her neck so graceful that it fascinated me. Gordon was also looking at her with a queer, eager look upon his features. He knew as well as I that she had heard again some vibrant music of former days, had felt the sound-waves that trembled in her own soul, and that, to her, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a lost happiness. "Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some Chopin." At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and, in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano, though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand; what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution. Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips. I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most wonderful musicians of the world. Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berçeuse_." Then the young mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and sweetness with a blessed peace of soul. When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about, searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the street or, even, I may attempt to read books upside down. Is it possible that Gordon suffers from similar limitations and needs to muse and toil and delve before he can bring out the art that is in him? Only yesterday I saw in the paper that he led a cotillon at the Van Rossums. Moreover, at the Winter Exhibition I had the shock of my life. I hurried there to see again the "Mother and Child," instead of which I found his signature on the portrait of a railroad president. The papers spoke of it as a wonderful painting, and one of them reproduced it. I freely acknowledge that it deserves all the encomiums lavished upon it, for it is a bold and earnest piece of work. But he has never done anything like the picture of Frances. I met him there and looked at him, questioningly. He understood me at once. "I'll get half the financial big guns now," he told me coolly, and left me to greet a millionaire's bride. I am not so foolish as to think he can be in love with Frances, and I doubt very much whether he is in love with any one else, in spite of the gossip that has reached me. No, he must simply be thinking of some great composition with which he expects, in his own good time, to take the world by storm. And yet, what if I should be mistaken? The mere idea makes me feel very cold and uncomfortable, for no reason that I know of. When he finally took his leave, he thanked Frieda for playing to us, and said good-by to Frances as perfunctorily as he does everything else. We began to clean up the teacups, and Frieda folded the frivolous little tablecloth she has contributed to my outfit and put it away, while Frances and I quarreled. "I am not going," she said firmly. "You are utterly mistaken," I insisted, "and you're a bold, mad, rebellious creature. You will go at once and put on your best hat, and your cloak, and dab powder on your nose, if it will make you happy, and come along like a good child." "But what is the use of my paying board to Mrs. Milliken and then having you spend money for dinners at restaurants?" she objected. "The use is obvious. It affords us the joy of permitting ourselves, once in a blue moon, to behave like spendthrifts; it allows us to indulge in the company of the young and ambitious, as well as of the old and foolish. Moreover, an occasional change of diet was recommended by Hippocrates. Who are you to rebel against the most ancient and respectable medical authority, pray?" "It is utterly wrong," she persisted. "I am always accepting your kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return, and--and----" She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoarse and muffled as ever, and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any, good. "My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then, she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready. There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you want me to." So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often rebels like this, yet generally succumbs to our wiles. The pair of us, fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against. Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers, finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I have ordered the newsman at the corner to deliver me the Sunday number regularly. But to-day she has been busy with a lot of mending so that it remained unopened. My first glance revealed a column giving a list of unclaimed letters in the hands of the French Consul. There was one for Madame Paul Dupont, it appeared. I seized the paper and ran with it to the door of her room. My hand was already lifted to knock, when I bethought myself that a delay of a few minutes would be unimportant, and that it was best to run no chances of interfering with Baby Paul's entertainment. I returned to my room and paced up and down the worn Brussels. She had often told me how sorry she was that she had never heard from her late husband's parents. This letter, in all probabilities, was from them. If I told Frances about it immediately, she would worry over it until next day. Why not wait at least until our return from Camus, or even until the morning? If she knew about it, she would probably not have a wink of sleep. I determined to postpone the announcement. Poor child! She will be harrowed by that letter. It will give her such details as the old people have been able to obtain and bring the tragedy back to her. She will read the lines breathlessly. The months that have gone by have assuaged her pain a little, I think, but, now, it will return in full force, as poignant as ever. I am sorry that I looked at that paper. If I had put it aside as I often do, without even looking at it, I should never have known anything about that letter and it might have been better for her peace of mind. Now, of course, I feel bound to let her know, but, at least, I will let her have a tranquil night! How keen and shrewd women are! No sooner did they return to my room, all primped up and ready to go, with Baby Paul clad in his best, than Frieda innocently asked what was the matter with me. Frances also asked if I were angry. Had she made me wait too long? I was compelled to declare that my feelings were in apple-pie order, that happiness reigned in my bosom and that I enjoyed waiting, before they were satisfied. I wish my emotions did not show so plainly on my face. It is for this reason, I suppose, that Gordon once adjured me never to learn the ancient game of draw-poker. He said that fleecing me would be child's play for the merest beginner. We went down and directed our steps towards Madame Félicie Smith's shop. One can get in, even on Sundays, since the good woman lives there. She is always delighted to mind Paul for a couple of hours, and this arrangement is far superior to the old one, which entailed a long westerly jaunt to the home of the washerlady, besides the climbing of many stairs. The folding baby carriage was left at home, for the walk is but a short one and Frances loves to carry her little one. My offer to assume the charge was at once rejected, Frieda complaining that even she was considered somewhat unreliable as a beast of burden. Frances laughed, cheerfully, but held on to her treasure. She is no longer nervous and fretful when leaving Baby Paul for a couple of hours, knowing that, if he happens to awaken, there will be soothing words of affection for him. We had to ring a tinkling bell for admittance and Félicie, buxom and of high color, welcomed us all. Certainly she would care for the angel; most evidently she would look after the precious lamb; with not the slightest doubt she would love and cherish the little cabbage. While I remained in the penumbra of the half darkened shop, it took the three of them to see the baby properly installed on the bed in the back room. Frances and Frieda heard the solemn promise made to them, to the effect that there would be no adventitious aid to happiness such as a lump of sugar tied in a rag, and presently we sallied forth. Lest my readers be already weary of Camus, I can only say that I am one of those individuals who stick to old friends, either through an inborn sense of faithfulness or, more probably, because of a tendency to slothfulness, which makes me consider it exceedingly troublesome to wander afield and search for pastures new. We had our dinner in quiet enjoyment and felt, as we came out again, that the world was a very fair sort of a dwelling-place. We had enjoyed the food and I fancy that, under the table, my foot had beaten time to the melody eked out by the orchestra. The fiddler, I am glad to say, is looking somewhat stouter. The good meals provided by the widow may be responsible for this. At any rate, I rejoice to think so, since it would go to show that a dinner at Camus is not only a pleasant, but also a hygienic, pursuit. For an instant our enjoyment of the music was interrupted by the clang and clatter of passing fire engines. We looked about us, perfunctorily, and decided that the conflagration was neither under our chairs nor above our rafters and continued to sip our coffee with the contempt due to a New Yorker's familiarity with steam-pumps and water towers. A couple of minutes later we left and, reaching Sixth Avenue, found it somewhat crowded. A block further we came to a panting engine and hurried on. Cars were blocked by a line of hose stretched across the street. Frances caught my arm, nervously, and a look of terror came over her. Then we ran, Frieda puffing behind. The fire was in the middle of the block and streams of water crashed through windows. Ladders were going up and the firemen, conscious that it was but a moderate blaze, from their standpoint, worked calmly and effectively. "You stay there!" I shouted to my two companions and elbowed my way through the crowd, which was being pushed back by policemen. One of them seized me and threatened to use his locust on my cranium if I advanced any farther. I drew back and dashed through another opening till I reached Félicie's door, entering the place and nearly falling over a large osier basket in which were piled up a lot of tangled garments. "Take de handle!" commanded the good woman. "The baby! Little Paul!" I shouted. "Under the silk dress. Take de handle," she repeated. We issued from the place, meeting with a policeman who suspected us of unworthy motives. We had to exhibit the infant and establish our identity before he would let us proceed with the huge basket. It was about time! Firemen bearing a length of pipe dashed by us and entered the cleaning establishment. The fire, it appeared, was in the restaurant next door and threatened to invade Félicie's premises. My two friends were wringing their hands as they dashed towards us, and upon their heads their hats were awry. "Paul is all right!" I assured them. "But they took us for robbers." Frances picked her infant out of the basket, hysterically. She had tried to follow me and had wrestled with a sinewy policeman, who had defeated her. We reached Mrs. Milliken's, where Paul was deposited on his mother's bed, soundly sleeping, and the basket, which it had taxed the good woman's strength and mine to carry upstairs, was placed on the floor. After this, Frieda threw her fat arms around my neck and called me a hero. Frances would have followed suit but, being forestalled, had to content herself with embracing the cleaning lady who, puffing, soon disengaged herself and fanned herself with a newspaper. "The brigands," she declared, "will soak everything with water, but I have saved most of my customers' things." She finally went off to spend the night at Eulalie's sister's, leaving the plunder in our care. On the next morning, when Frances went off to work, she found that the fire had invaded a part of the shop, that the plate-glass window was broken and chaos reigned. Félicie was there and deplored the fact that, until insurance matters were adjusted and repairs made, all business would have to be suspended. The poor girl came home to throw herself on her knees beside little Paul. Then, she bethought herself of me and knocked at my door, hurriedly. I opened it. My face, unfortunately, was covered with lather. "I--I'm out of work. It--it will be several weeks before Félicie can open the shop again. Oh! What shall I do?" "My dear child," I said, "you will, for the time being, return to little Paul and let me finish scraping my face. You will also please remember that you have some good friends. As soon as I am shaved, we will hold a session and form ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means. In the meanwhile remember about the little sparrow falling to the ground." "I--I'm afraid a cat often gets him," she said sadly, and went back to her room. CHAPTER XI GORDON VACILLATES It behooved me to waste no time and, as soon as I was ready, I briefly conferred with Frances, telling her that Gordon would probably be very glad to employ her for a short time that would tide over the interval before Félicie would be ready to resume business at the old stand. She looked at me, rather uncertainly, as if the suggestion were not altogether a pleasing one. At any rate a tiny wrinkle or two showed for an instant between her brows. "Don't you think it is a good idea?" I asked her. "I--I suppose it is," she answered slowly, and then, impulsively, put her hand on my arm. "Of course it is, you dear good friend," she declared. "I am ready to go there as soon as he may want me. He--he has been so friendly, of late, bringing us candies and flowers, and chatting with us, that--that it will seem a little bit harder, but, of course, it will be just the same as before, and he will think of nothing but his painting." "I will go and see him at once," I told her, "I may find that he is busy with a portrait and has no time for other work, but I might as well go and ascertain." I was being shot up the elevator towards Gordon's studio when I suddenly remembered that letter at the consul's. I must confess that it had altogether escaped my memory. I consoled myself with the idea that my interview with Gordon would be brief, and that I should immediately return and tell Frances about it. Perhaps she would allow me to go downtown with her to obtain it. She must not go alone, of course, since she would open the thing there and then. I could imagine her in that office, among indifferent people, weeping and without a friend to take her arm and lead her out, with not a word of consolation and encouragement. Yes, I would go with her! "Hey, Mister! Didn't you say the tenth floor?" Thus did the elevator boy interrupt my cogitations; but for him I might have kept on going up and down a dozen times, so busily was I engaged in picturing to myself the emotions of Frances when she should receive that letter. I got out of the cage, hurriedly, and rang Gordon's bell, the Jap opening with a polite grin of recognition. "Can I go into the studio?" I asked. "Is Mr. McGrath engaged?" "No, sir, but I tell him." The man went in, after taking my hat and coat, and Gordon rushed out to meet me. "Hello, Dave!" he greeted me. "When you rang the bell, I thought it was Lorimer--the Lorimer. He told me last night at the Van Rossums that he would drop in and see me." "You are certainly making good headway among the millionaires," I told him. "They're the fellows I'm gunning for," he answered quietly. "Look here, Gordon," I began at once. "Frances Dupont is out of a job. Fire in the shanty next door, and her employer has been flooded out. You were saying something about wishing to--" "Yes, I know I was," he replied, staring vaguely at the floor. "I--I'll have to think about it." "I suppose you have some other pressing work on hand." He made no answer, going up to the humidor on the mantel and selecting a cigar, which he lighted very deliberately. "Have one?" he asked me. "No, thanks," I declined. "I'll help myself to a cigarette. One of those perfectos so early in the morning would set my head whirling." He looked at me, twirling his fine moustache, without appearing to see me, and began pacing up and down the wonderful silk rug on the floor, his cigar in his mouth and his hands deep in his trousers pockets. "I'll tell you, Dave," he began, but was interrupted by another ring at the bell. A moment later Mr. Lorimer was admitted, a big man with a leonine head, strong and rather coarse features and eyes like Toledo blades, who spoke slowly, weighing his words. "Good morning, Mr. McGrath," he said. "I shall be obliged, if you will show me some of your work." "I want to introduce my friend, David Cole," said Gordon; "he's a writer of charming novels." "Always glad to meet any one who can do things, Mr. Cole," said the big man, putting out his hand. "What have you written?" Gordon at once came to my rescue, mentioning two or three titles of my books. "'The First Million'! You wrote that, did you? Read it on my way to Europe, three years ago. You're a clever man, Mr. Cole, but it was a mistake on your part to make a millionaire sympathetic and refined. Didn't make much out of the book, did you?" "It only sold about four thousand," I acknowledged. "Thought so. That fellow Lorgan was neither fish, flesh, fowl or good red herring. In a novel, a very rich man should be made bearable by foolishly giving away huge sums of money, or else unbearable in order to show the contrast offered by the poor, but honest, hero. That's what the public wants, I should judge. As a simple human being a magnate is impossible in modern fiction." "My friend Gordon works from the model and sticks to it," I ventured. "I have been silly enough to depend altogether on my imagination, Mr. Lorimer, but I'm getting cured of that failing. In future I will cling to the people I have an opportunity of studying." "You'll turn out something pretty good, one of these days," he said. "And now for the paintings, Mr. McGrath. I have only a few minutes to spare." He looked at a few portraits and a still-life or two, resting his square jaw in the palm of his hand. "I've been a bit of a doubting Thomas," he suddenly said. "Had an idea that a chap who goes in so much for society couldn't do very serious work, but this is first rate. Good, honest stuff, I call it, but I doubt if you will keep it up. Let's have a look at something else." He paid not the slightest attention to Gordon, who looked as mad as a hornet. The Japanese servant lifted up a picture that was turned with the face against the wall. "Not that one," directed Gordon, but Lorimer had caught a glimpse of the canvas as the Japanese turned. "Oh, yes! Put that on the easel," he said. "That seems to be in a rather different style. Now, my dear sir, if you keep on all your life working like that, I'll take back what I said. A man capable of doing that can take Sargent's place, some day, but he'll have to stick to his last to keep it up. How much do you want for it?" "It--it isn't for sale," said Gordon, hesitating. Lorimer stood before the picture, with his hands clasped behind his back, for several minutes. Then he turned again to Gordon. "Already sold, is it?" "No, Mr. Lorimer, it is not. But it's about the best thing I ever did, and yet I think I can improve on it. I shall keep it for comparison, as I intend to try another from the same model, in a somewhat different manner. After it is finished, I shall be glad to have you look at it again, and perhaps----" "I'm afraid that what I said rather sticks in your crop, Mr. McGrath, but don't be offended. When I began life my knowledge of men was about the only asset I had. It didn't come by study and I take no credit for it. I was born with it, as a colt may be born with speed in him. Some Frenchman has said that the moneymaking instinct is like the talent of certain pigs for smelling truffles. In Perigord they pay a high price for a shoat with that kind of a nose. I have learned something about painting because I love it, and I know how to make money. But if I stopped for a year, I'd get so rusty I'd be afraid to buy a hundred shares. Same way with you. If you stop painting and putting in the best that's in you, then you'll go back. That's the reason I wanted this picture, but I'm willing to wait and see the other. Let me know when it's finished. Glad to have met you, Mr. Cole. Thank you for showing me the pictures, Mr. McGrath. Must run downtown now. Hope to see you again soon." He walked off, sturdily, Gordon accompanying him to the door while I sat down in front of the picture. Ay, Lorimer was a mighty good judge; of that there could be no doubt. He had at once appreciated the powerful rendering, the subtle treatment, the beauty that radiated from the canvas, grippingly. But I could only see Frances, the woman beautiful, who, unlike most others, has a soul to illumine her comeliness. I filled my eyes with her perfection of form, tall, straight and slender, with all the grace that is hers and which Gordon's picture has taught me to see more clearly. I felt as if a whiff of scented breeze came to me, wafted through the glinting masses of her hair. The eyes bent upon the slumbering child, I felt, might at any moment be lifted to her friend Dave, the scribbler, who, for the first time in his life, was beginning to learn that a woman's loveliness may be beyond the power of a poet's imagining or even the wondrous gift of a painter. The scales had indeed fallen from my eyes! At first I had thought that Gordon had idealized her, mingling his fancy with the truth and succeeding in gilding the lily. But now, I knew that all his art had but limned some of the tints of her sunshot hair and traced a few points of her beauty. I did not wonder that he was eager to try again. Wonderful though his painting was, the man's ambition was surging in him to excel his own work and attain still greater heights. Could he possibly succeed? "Well, what do you think of millionaires now that you have met one in the flesh?" asked Gordon, returning. "This one is pretty human, it seems to me, and pretty shrewd." "You're not such a fool as you look, Dave," said my friend quietly, but with the twinkle in his eyes that mitigates his words. "One moment I could have clubbed him over the head, if I'd had at hand anything heavier than a mahlstick, but I daresay he knew what he was talking about. I'll have to work harder." "You already toil as hard as a man can, and are doing some great stuff," I replied. "The trouble is that you keep altogether too busy. It might be worth your while to remember that a man who accomplishes so much is at least entitled to eight hours' sleep a day." "You're a fine one to preach, you old night owl." "In the first place, I am only David Cole. Besides, I put in a full allowance of time in bed. Mrs. Milliken daren't come in before eleven. Then, I don't smoke strong perfectos, especially in the morning, and I have a drink of claret perhaps once a week." "Yes, I'll paint you with a halo around your old bald head, some day," he retorted. "And now, what shall I say to Frances?" I asked, deeming it urgent to revert to my errand. "I don't want her! Busy with other things!" I looked at him, in surprise and disappointment, and walked off towards the hall where hung my hat and coat. "Very well," I said, "I shall try and find something else for her to do. Good-by, Gordon." "Good-by, Dave. Come in again soon, won't you?" I made some noncommittal reply and rushed over to the elevator, ringing several times. When I reached the street I hurried to the cars, thinking that _la donna_ may be _mobile_, but that as a weathercock Gordon was the limit. I got out at the Fourteenth Street station and soon reached home, at the very same time as a big scarlet runabout which I had noticed in the street, in front of the studio building. It halted with a grinding of brakes. "I say, Dave! Tell her to come to-morrow morning. I am off to lunch at Ardsley. By-by." It was Gordon, bearing in his pocket a summons for overspeeding, which he proudly exhibited. "I got the car this week," he informed me. "It's a bird to go. So long!" He was off again, skidding around the next corner in such fashion as to make me sympathize with his life insurance company, and I started up the stairs to see Frances. I must say that I was rather nervous. The task of telling her about that letter seemed, now that it was so nearly impending, a rather tough one to carry out. As usual in such cases, my footsteps became slow on the last of the stairs. I knocked at the door, which was opened by Frieda. "Come in, Dave," she said. "I thought I'd drop in to see that Baby Paul was none the worse for his experience. I might as well have saved my breath, as far as I can see. Frances needs a little bracing up; I think she's rather discouraged this morning." "One moment," I excused myself. "I forgot a paper I wanted to show her." My room appeared to have been ransacked, but I saw that Mrs. Milliken, in spite of my stern commands, had indulged her passionate longing for putting things in order. A quarter of an hour's arduous searching, however, revealed the journal I sought. The door had been left open, and I walked right in. "Good morning," I said. "I have seen Gordon this morning and he will be pleased to employ you again, Frances, and--and I have a paper here. It is yesterday's, and I found something that may perhaps interest you, and--and----" But she had risen quickly and took the paper from me, her voice trembling a little. "Where--what is it?" she asked eagerly. It took me a minute to find that column again. When I pointed out the notice, she took the sheet from me, staring at it as if doubting her eyes. "Yes--it is for Madame Paul Dupont. I--I must go there at once! Oh! Frieda dear, will you mind little Paul for me while I am gone? I will go and return just as quick as I can and won't keep you very long." "I will do anything you want me to, Frances, but you are not very familiar with downtown streets. I had better accompany you there. We can take little Paul with us." "I had intended to offer my services as a guide," I put in. Frances had sunk in her chair and was still looking at the paper, as if, between the lines, she might have been able to find more than the mere mention of her name. "You must let me go, Dave," whispered Frieda to me. "She--she might faint, poor thing, or feel very badly, and--and a woman is better at such times. I will try to make her wait until we get back, before she opens the thing, and you can be here when we return." Man, that is born of woman, is commonly her humble slave. I could do nothing but bow to my stout friend's will and retired to my room to leave their preparations unhampered by my presence. When I propose a dinner or the moving pictures, they always hurry as fast as they can and are usually ready in fifteen or twenty minutes. On this occasion, about ninety seconds seemed to suffice. "Good-by, Dave," they called out to me, waving their hands and disappearing down the stairs. I had any number of important things to do. A fine disorder, said Boileau, is an effect of art. It behooved me to disturb the beautifully orderly and thoroughly deplorable piling up of my books indulged in by Mrs. Milliken. Also, there were separate loose sheets of virginal paper to be separated from those bearing my written vagaries, for she had played havoc with them. Moreover, I had been told that my hair ought to be cut. Then, I ought to have sat down and continued a short story I had made a fine beginning of, about a poverty-stricken young lady finding an emerald necklace. The plot was most exciting and the ending possessed what the editors call a good punch. I had a plethora of things to do, wherefore I lighted my pipe and pondered upon what to begin with, seated the while in front of my window and observing the houses opposite. It took me but a moment to decide that quietude would be wisdom. How could I accomplish anything requiring judgment and calmness of mind, while I was so obsessed with problems of many kinds! What would be the effect of that letter on Frances? Would it make her feel so badly, that she would be unable to go to Gordon's on the next day? Why had my friend first manifested eagerness to make another picture of Frances, then refused to employ her, and, finally, risked breaking his neck in his haste to have me make an appointment with her? I have always been a poor hand at riddles and actually resent being asked why a chicken crosses the road. Such foolish queries constitute a form of amusement quite unable to appeal to me. I dislike problems and complicated things that have to be solved. Once, I tried to write a detective story, but was wise enough to tear up the thing as soon as it was finished. In the first place, it looked like an effort to encourage crime, which I abhor, and my detective was so transparent and ingenuous that an infant would have penetrated his wiles. He was positively sheeplike in his mansuetude, whereas I had intended to make him a stern avenger of virtue. An hour went by, and then another, during which I rushed to the balustrade on the landing every time I heard the front door opening. Disappointment came so often that I determined to move no more, until I could hear their voices. Since the stairs make Frieda quite breathless, she insists on talking all the time while she climbs them, and her puffing carries up at least two flights. Finally, I heard them. For a wonder Frieda was silent, but there was no mistaking her ponderous step. Frances came behind, carrying Baby Paul. They came to my room, hurrying across the landing. The young mother looked at me, one corner of her lips twitching nervously. "David!" she cried. "Oh, David! There--there are two women called Madame Paul Dupont and--and the other one got my letter! She came to the Consulate early this morning." "But how do you know that it was your letter, then?" I asked. "Well! Of course, I don't really know, but--but it should have been for me, of course. They gave me the other woman's address. She lives in Little Ferry in New Jersey, and I'm going there at once." CHAPTER XII GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED Frances and I started away on the trip, immediately, for there was not a moment to lose. That letter must at once be retrieved. The dreadful woman had evidently seized upon one never meant for her, and must be bearded in her den. From her the missive must be rescued, by force of arms if necessary; it must be snatched from the burning, seized and brought back, even at the cost of bloodshed. This, it may be, is but the vague impression I gathered from the profuse and simultaneous conversation of my two dear friends. When I humbly suggested again that the Jersey person might perhaps have a perfect equity in the document, they looked at me with the pitying condescension accorded the feebleminded and the very young by the gentler sex. Also, I proposed to hie me to Little Ferry alone, interview the termagant in question and make her disgorge, in case she was illegally detaining words meant for another. This was once more met by a look from Frieda to Frances, and vice-versa, which was then turned upon me and made me feel like an insignificant and, I hope, a harmless microbe. "My dear Dave," said Frieda, tolerantly, "you are not Madame Paul Dupont. Why should that abominable woman give up the letter to you?" "When she sees me and Baby," declared Frances, "she will not have the heart to refuse." The upshot of it was that we departed, leaving Frieda behind. For the first time in his life little Paul was shot through a tunnel, emerged in Jersey, none the worse for his experience, and was taken aboard a train. Soon afterwards we were observing the great meadows and the Hackensack River, a vacillating, sluggish stream, running either up or down, at the behest of a tide that always possesses plenty of leisure, through banks winding in a great valley of cat-tails and reeds among which, in the summertime, legions of grackles and redwings appear to find a plenteous living. But at this time the stream was more than usually turbid, filled with aimlessly floating cakes of ice, and the green of fairer weather had given place to a drab hue of discouraged weeds awaiting better days. While waiting at the station, I had found that the Telephone Directory contained at least a dozen Duponts, that the City Directory held a small regiment of them, and considered that New Jersey had a right to its share of citizens of that name. The train stopped, and we got out in a place that was mostly constituted by a bridge, small houses lining a muddy pike and a vista of many houses partly concealed among trees. After consultation with a local butcher, followed by the invasion of a grocer's shop, we were directed to a neat frame cottage within a garden. I opened the gate and walked in, first, deeming it my duty to face the dangers and protect the convoy in my rear. There was no need to ring a bell. The front door opened and a white-haired woman appeared, her locks partly hidden under a white cap that was the counterpart of many I had seen in the Latin Quarter, among janitresses or ladies vending vegetables from barrows. Her form was concealed in a wide, shapeless garment, of the kind adopted by French women whom age has caused to abandon the pomps and vanities. I believe they call it a _caraco_. The cotton skirt was unadorned and the slippers ample for tender feet. Also, the smile on her face was welcoming in its sweetness. Near her a fat blind dog wheezed some sort of greeting. "Madame Paul Dupont?" I asked. "_Pour vous servir_," she answered politely. So this was the Gorgon in question, the purloiner of correspondence, to be placated if possible and defeated _vi et armis_ in case of rebellion! Frances hastily pushed me to one side, though with all gentleness. She spoke French very fluently. I easily understood her to say that she was also Madame Paul Dupont, that her husband had been to the war, that she had heard of his being killed, that--that---- She was interrupted. The white-bonneted old woman took her to her bosom, planting a resounding kiss on her cheek, and clamored in admiration of the baby. "Come in the house," she said. "I am delighted to see you. I shall have to ask Paul if he ever had any cousins or nephews who came to this country. But no; he would have told me. I am sorry that Paul is not here to see you. He is the pastry-cook at the Netherlands; you should taste his puff-paste and his _Baba au Rhum_. He did not go to the war because he is fifty-nine and has a bad leg. But I have a son over there. He has killed many Boches. I have thirty-seven postal cards from him." "But, Madame," I put in, "we came on account of a letter written in care of the Consulate, and we were informed----" "That was a letter from my niece Pétronille, whose husband keeps a _café_ in Madagascar. She wanted to let me know of the birth of her fourth daughter. Have you ever seen a letter from there? It is a country very far away, somewhere in China or Africa. I will show you." She sought her spectacles, looked over a large and orderly pile of papers, and brought us the document. "Please read it," she said, "it is very interesting." Frances glanced over it, looking badly disappointed, and passed it to me. It contained vast information as to Pétronille's growing family and the price of chickens and Vermouth in Antanarivo, also certain details as to native fashions, apparently based on the principle of least worn, soonest mended. Before we left, we were compelled to accept a thimbleful of _cassis_, most delectable, and to promise to return very soon. Her husband would make us a _vol-au-vent_, for which he had no equal. He would be sorry to have been absent. She wished her son had been married to such a nice woman as Frances and had possessed a son like Baby Paul. Alas! She might never see the boy again, and then there would be nothing left of him, no little child to be cherished by the old people. It was such a pity! She insisted on seeing us all the way back to the station and on carrying Paul, whom she parted with after many embraces. Peace be on her good old soul, and may the son come back safely and give her the little one her heart longs for! "She is a darling," said Frances sorrowfully, "and, oh! I'm so terribly disappointed." The poor child had so hoped for news, for some details as to the manner in which her own Paul had been sacrificed to his motherland, and this visit made her very sad. For many days afterwards her thoughts, which had perhaps begun to accept the inevitable with resignation, turned again to the loved one buried somewhere in France. Neither Frieda, who came in after suppertime, nor I, was able to give her much consolation. Again, I wished I had never seen that announcement and deplored my well-intended folly in calling her attention to it. She seemed very weary, as if the short trip had been a most fatiguing one, and retired very soon, alleging the need to rise early to do some mending of Baby's clothes, and acknowledging the fact that she felt headachy and miserable. Frieda looked at me indulgently, but I suspect that she blamed me strongly for the whole occurrence. Doubtless, I ought not to have looked at that paper, I should not have spoken of it, and my permitting Frances to go to Jersey had been a sinful act of mine. But, after all, Frieda is the best old girl in the world, I believe and declare. She patted my shoulder as if I had promised her never to be wicked again, and permitted me to see her home, as some snow had fallen and she was dreadfully afraid of slipping. I prevailed on her to accept pair of old rubbers of mine and, once in the street, she grasped my arm with a determination that left a blue mark next day. "So she is going again to the studio," she said, after I had piloted her to her flat, which she invited me to invade. "Do you really think that Gordon has the slightest idea that he can improve on that first picture?" "I suppose that he just hopes to," I replied. "Whenever I begin a new story, I haven't the slightest idea whether it will be good or not. Sometimes, I don't even know after it is finished. Take the 'Land o' Love,' for instance; I really thought it a good piece of work, but Jamieson looks positively gloomy about it." "He must be a very silly man," said Frieda, unswerving in her loyalty to me, but swiftly changing the subject. "Baby Paul is becoming very heavy. He'll be seven months old, come next Friday, and Frances looks dreadfully tired. It is hard for her to take him every day to that studio and back." "I could get up early in the morning and help her," I suggested recklessly. "And then you could wait outside for two or three hours and help her back," she laughed. "No, Dave, it isn't so bad as all that. But I'm afraid she's badly discouraged. That little Dr. Porter is still fiddling away at her throat, training it, he calls it, but she's not a bit better. In fact, she thinks it's getting worse. And she says she can never pay him for all he's done and she might as well stop going. On Sunday morning he says he's going to do something to it, that may hurt a little, and she's afraid. She asked me to go with her." "I'll go with you, if she will let me and Porter doesn't chase me out," I proposed. "I have great confidence in that boy." "So have I, but he hasn't assured her that it will bring her voice back." I told her that this showed the man was not a cocksure humbug, and expressed fervent hopes as to the result, after which Frieda made a disreputable bundle of my rubbers and I left with them, in a hard flurry of snow. My room, after I reached it, seemed unusually cold. The landlady's ancient relative sometimes juggles rather unsuccessfully with the furnace, and she bemoaned before me, yesterday, the dreadful price of coal. Hence, I went to work and warmed myself by writing the outline of a tale with a plot unfolding itself during a hot wave of August. So kindly is my imagination that, by midnight, I was wiping my brow and sitting in my shirt-sleeves, till a sudden chill sent me to bed. This, I am glad to say, had no serious consequence. I remember wondering about the new picture Gordon would begin and, before I fell asleep, some trick of my mind presented the thing to me. It was a queer composite of the Murillo in the Louvre, of Raphael's Madonna of the Chair and of Frances herself. From the canvas she was looking at me, with lids endowed with motion and smiling eyes. There came to me, then, a dim recollection of some strange Oriental belief, to the effect that on the Day of Judgment sculptured and painted figures will crowd around their makers, begging in vain for the souls that have been denied them. But I felt that Gordon's "Mother and Child" will never thus clutch despairingly at their painter's garment. The very soul of them is in that picture, already endowed with a life that must endure till the canvas fritters itself away into dust. When I awoke, I found, with shamed dismay, that it was nearly ten o'clock. On leaving my room I saw that the door opposite was wide open, with Mrs. Milliken wrestling with a mattress. Frances was gone, bearing her little Paul, through the still falling snow, to that studio where Gordon would again spread some of her beauty and soul on the magic cloth. A few hours after, she returned in a taxicab. "He insisted that I must take it," she explained. "He came downstairs with me and told the man to charge it to him, at the club. The light was very poor and he could do no painting. Spent the time just drawing and rubbing the charcoal out again. I think he must be working very hard, for he looks nervous and worried. No, I'm not hungry. He made me take lunch at the studio, while he went out to the club. He--he seems very impatient when I hesitate or don't wish to--to accept his kindnesses, and becomes very gruff. He hardly said a word from the time when he returned, till he bade me go home in the taxi. And--and now I must do some sewing." I left her, having an appointment with my literary agent, who has asked me for a story for a new magazine. I reached his office and was asked to wait for a few minutes, as he was busy with an author whose words are worth much gold. On the oaken table in the waiting-room, among other publications, there was a weekly of society and fashion. I took it up for a desultory glance at the pages. The first paragraph my eyes fell upon stated that the most distinguished of our younger painters, it was whispered, was about to announce his engagement to a fair Diana whose triumphs over hurdles, on the links and on the tennis courts were no less spoken of than her wealth and beauty. I supposed that Gordon had seen those lines, for he takes that paper. According to Frances, he is worried and nervous. How can this be? She must surely be mistaken. He has captured and safely holds the bubble of reputation, his work commands a reward that seems fabulous to such as I, and now he is to marry beauty and wealth. Can there be any hitch in his plans? After I had finished my business with my agent, I strolled out with a commission to write a five thousand word story. My way then led me up Fifth Avenue, to the place where I get the tea Frieda and Frances so greatly appreciate. At the Forty-Second Street crossing my arm was seized from behind. "Hold on, old boy. Those motors are splashing dreadfully," said Gordon, rescuing me from a spattering of liquid mud. "Come with me to the club." I followed him with the sheeplike acquiescence that is part of my nature, feeling rather glad of the opportunity to talk with him and perhaps congratulate him. As usual, he was most spick and span. His fur coat had a collar of Alaska seal and the black pearl in his necktie was probably worth a couple of square feet of his painting, though the general effect was quiet and unobtrusive. We sat down in the most deserted corner he could find and looked at one another in silence, for a few moments. It is to be presumed that my patience outlasted his. "You're the dullest old curmudgeon ever permitted to come into polite society," he declared, looking aggrieved. "I was serenely waiting for your announcement," I replied. "Oh! So you've seen that thing also!" he retorted, with evident annoyance. "Well, my dear fellow, I wanted to know whether to congratulate you or whether the information was somewhat premature. Come, Gordon, I used to think that we were a replica of Damon and Pythias! Won't it do you a bit of good to talk it over? Do you never feel the need of confiding in a friend, nowadays?" For a moment he looked down at his boots, after which he deliberately placed both elbows on the little table that separated us and stared at me. "The announcement is all right. Bought a solitaire for her last week. I suppose that she is wearing it. There is to be a reception soon, and you'll get a card to it." I pushed my hand over to him and he took it, rather lukewarmly. "Oh! That's all right! I know you wish me happiness. Well, I'm getting it, am I not? I'm just as merry as a grig. Here, boy!" The lad in buttons took his order for whiskies and soda, after which Gordon glared at the portrait of the club's distinguished first president. "Rotten piece of work, I call it. Chap who did it used a lot of beastly bitumen too, and it's cracking all over. Awful rubbishy stuff." "I suppose so," I assented, on faith. "Ben Franklin was a shrewd old fellow," he continued, with one of his habitual lightning changes. "Tells us that a man without a woman is like half a pair of scissors. I'm to be the complete thing, now. Stunning girl, Miss Van Rossum, isn't she? She talks of having a studio built at Southampton, for effect, I presume. How the deuce could a fellow expect to paint with a parcel of chattering women around him?" "Oh! I daresay you might get used to it," I told him, soothingly. "I won't! She is going to read books about painting. Told me she wanted to be able to talk intelligently about it, and I advised against it. People don't talk intelligently about painting, they only pretend to. They must insist on airing their views about futurists, or the influence of Botticelli or such truck. They make me yawn, and I try to turn the conversation, but it's a tough job. Why the deuce are you looking at me like that?" He snapped the question out so quickly that I was somewhat taken aback, and he began again, without waiting for an answer. "Oh! It's no use trying to make a practical man of the world out of a sentimental writer of impossible love stories. You're staring at me because I don't answer to your preconceived ideas of a fellow contemplating the joys of matrimony. Why the deuce should I?" "I don't know, old fellow," I confessed. "I acknowledge that I have always regarded wedded life in the abstract, but I must say that my----" "I know. Your ideal is a freckled youth with a left shoulder upholding the head of a pug-nosed girl, who weeps tears of joy in his bosom, the while he gazes up at the heavens in thankfulness. I'm all right, Dave! I've accomplished all that I was aiming at, and there are no problems left to solve. Where's that devilish boy with those drinks?" I could not help looking at him again, for I was becoming more and more convinced that he was far from representing the happy man I had been eager to congratulate. Our beverages came, and he tossed his down, hurriedly, as if it furnished a welcome diversion to his thoughts. Five minutes later, I was walking alone to the shop where I buy my tea. "I wonder what's wrong?" I asked myself, pushing the door open. CHAPTER XIII DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK On Saturday, I received the card Gordon had mentioned. It was a tastefully engraved thing, merely announcing that the Van Rossums would be at home on the Seventeenth of March, from four until seven. In a corner, in smaller letters, was written "To meet Mr. Gordon McGrath, N. A." I don't know whether I have mentioned the fact that Gordon is really an extremely handsome fellow, in a strong and masculine way, with a pleasant voice and manners that can be quite exquisite, at least when he isn't talking to an old pal. I am not at all surprised that Miss Sophia, or any other woman, for that matter, should have been attracted by his looks, while his great talent and growing reputation must have added to his ability to find favor in her eyes. His is not a descent from an old family, I believe, for the dead and gone McGraths dealt in pottery, in a small way, and left him about a thousand dollars a year, upon which he managed to go abroad and study art, to return, at last, and take New York by storm, at least from the standpoint of portrait painting. The young lady, I am sure, is a woman of ready affection, of easy enthusiasms and hopeful disposition. I honestly believe that she deserves much happiness and that she is capable of giving a sturdy love to a decent fellow, who will not interfere too much with her passion for various sports. An uncomfortable feeling comes to me that she is worthy of something better than Gordon will give her. I may be an old donkey, but, for the life of me, I can see no indication of true love in his feelings. The thought is rather revolting that he is marrying her as a mere incident in a line of conduct mapped out long ago, and it makes me feel less friendly to him. If my deductions are correct, there can be no excuse for a behavior which bears the earmarks of cynicism and cold calculation carried too far. May I be forgiven, if I err. Indeed, I earnestly hope that I am mistaken and that he is a man who conceals sentiments really creditable to him under an exterior less attractive. Frieda and Frances were in my room, that afternoon, when the card arrived. I passed it to Frieda, who handed it over to her friend. The reception referred to led the former to some discussion of prevailing fashions. The painter of Orion dresses in a manner all her own, while the slender purse of Frances compels a garb of nearly monastic simplicity. But they appear to have a great knowledge of stylish clothing and an interest in it, which must be rather an instinct than the result of deep study. I have not mentioned Gordon's engagement to them, probably for the reason that the subject is somewhat distasteful to me. Since my friend has not spoken of it to his model, there is no particular reason why I should do so. Let him attend to his own announcing. In the evening, I took both of them to the movies. This was the result of a conspiracy between Frieda and myself, as we had agreed that it would be best to try and amuse Frances, if possible, and make her forget the morrow's ordeal. Yet, on our way home, the poor child could not help mentioning it. "He says that my throat is beautifully trained and he can touch all sorts of things in it, now, with his instruments. I no longer mind it in the least. He tells me that he doesn't think it will hurt me, but, of course, I care nothing about a little pain. He's an awfully good fellow. What I'm afraid of is that it will do no good and that I shall never be able to use my voice again. I'm awfully hoarse now." It was quite true that her voice was more husky, and the element of sadness in it made it sound worse. She spoke very low as she bade us good night, for I was going to take Frieda home. In the morning I rose at an unearthly hour, spurred by the knowledge that I was going to the doctor's with Frances at eleven o'clock. I was bathed, shaved and clad in my Sunday suit by nine, after which I went out and brought back an armful of Sunday papers, which I tossed on my table and never looked at. Soon afterwards, Eulalie came in, rather bashfully, to ask me if I could lend Madame Dupont the _Courier_. Also, she confided to me the fact that she was to mind Baby Paul during our absence. "The doctor is going to cut the poor lamb's throat and it is terrible, Monsieur, but she is not afraid. I am going away for a half an hour now, because it will do no harm to burn a candle before the Blessed Virgin for the success of the operation. Yes, I think I will put two candles. Now if Monsieur believed----" I swiftly pulled a bill from my trousers pocket. "Here, Eulalie, is a dollar," I told her. "You will be so good as to dispose of it as if I were a brother to a cardinal. Faith, I believe, comes before hope and charity. Would that mine were as strong as your own, especially as concerns a certain friend of mine. Hurry away and return with seven-leagued boots." "Monsieur is a very good man; any one can see that. _Ça vous portera bonheur._" Her assurance that my offering would bring me happiness comforted me, I think. Few of us can resist the temptation to think that luck is a manna whose falling may occasionally be guided by our actions, and that ill-chance may be averted by touching wood or, as is the way of Italians, extending the fore and little finger as a safeguard against the evil eye. For a time, I sought to read, but the pages of the Sunday papers seemed to be blurred. I paced the room, nervously, thinking of Gordon and of Frances. The latter had described her recent visits to the studio as funereal functions, during which Gordon painted fast and doggedly, while biting at the stem of an empty pipe, and occasionally swore at the canvas. Sometimes, he tired her nearly to death, working for hours without interruption, while, on other occasions, he insisted on her resting every few minutes and called himself a brute for taking advantage of her patience. "But then, you know, Mr. McGrath is a very peculiar man," she said, as if this condoned all his faults. Presently, Eulalie returned, knocking violently at my door, and assured me that every cent of my dollar was now burning brightly, where it would do most good, and informed me that the two ladies were waiting for me. "It is time to go, Dave," said Frieda, who seemed to be making hard weather of her efforts at composure. "Frances is all ready and Baby Paul is sleeping. Eulalie will take the best care of him. Come along!" And so we trooped off to Dr. Porter's office. He was waiting for us, clad in an immaculate white jacket. Frances entrusted her hat to Frieda and sat down quietly on a chair in a dark corner. Porter drew down some blinds, whereby we were plunged in semi-darkness, and turned on a powerful light which strongly illumined a small circle of his patient's face. I was sitting down on a sofa, rather close to Frieda. A few moments later we were leaning on one another for support. One of her good fat hands was trembling a little, in mine, which may possibly have been similarly affected. "We'll take lots of time," I heard Porter say. "Yes, this is novocaine. Open wide now--breathe through your mouth--slowly. That's very good--now rest a little. Once again, I want to get a thorough anæsthesia--another little rest--we are in no hurry. Don't be afraid. You have the finest throat to work on I ever saw, a superb control over it. That comes from all the training I have given you--now the last touch of novocaine--that's all right--you'll feel nothing--I'm very sure." Frieda was digging her nails into my hand, excruciatingly, and we both breathed hard as we saw Porter take up other long and shiny tools that gleamed in the obscurity. He was doing something with them, quietly, with a constant flow of encouraging language. I wondered how the man's voice could remain so calm. Frieda's left heel rested for a moment on my right big toe, crushingly, but she knew not what she was doing, and I bore the torture without a cry, till I could push her away. I had not realized that a man could suffer so much. And Porter was still working away, looking ghostly in the penumbra. Then, suddenly, he let out an ejaculation imitated from the Comanches, rose from his chair, ran to the window and admitted a flood of light that nearly blinded us. Frieda, shamefaced, lifted her head from my shoulder and rose with incredible swiftness. "Is--is it all over?" she asked, tremulously. "Surest thing you know," replied our young friend. "The finest little growth upon the right chord you ever saw. I had made up my mind not to go at it halfcocked, and that's why I've taken so much time to get her so that a fellow could do anything he wanted to her larynx. But it pays, I can tell you!" "And--and will I be able to sing again?" asked Frances, hoarsely. "You will have to use your voice just as little as possible for a few days," he answered. "Not a word more than you can help. I hope--I believe that you will be able to sing again, after the chord heals up, but you must not try for a long time. And then it will take a lot of practice, of course, because your throat has forgotten nearly all it ever knew about singing. It will have to come back slowly and gradually. Be sure and come in to-morrow and let me have a look at it." Frances thanked him, huskily, and Frieda and I wrung his hand. After this we left, in the bright sunshine of a day of cloudless skies, and returned to Mrs. Milliken's, where I left the two women at the door, returning a half an hour later with a small bunch of pink roses. When I reached my landing, her door was open; Frieda was at work with a crochet needle on a diminutive blue sock, while Frances was lying down on the sofa. She never looked up as I came in, for her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite. [Illustration: Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite] "Maybe I shall sing to you after all, _mon petit Paul chéri_," she said, hoarsely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanishing as she saw the buds I was bringing her. My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence. "You have spoken to Master Paul," I said, "and we will have to forgive you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now, Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these flowers in water?" A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him, because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she passed it over to me. It was one of Gordon's, marked "With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for a few days until you are quite well." "Isn't it nice of him!" exclaimed Frieda, rushing out of the room. Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a delightful odor they had. "I--I never told him I was going to have the operation," whispered the latter. "I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago," I said, "and he evidently remembered." "Gordon is the dearest fellow," declared Frieda. "Frances, you will have to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like. Here is the fashion part of the _Times_. There is not the slightest doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part, I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening dress!" I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Passing in front of the erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered paint had been scraped off and read a sign stating that the shop would be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper. Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor. When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs, rushing over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portière. A look of relief came to his features, and he came to me. "Anything wrong?" he asked. "No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of tea?" "Yes, and anything else she wants. Don't you want to come in the office and meet some fellows? We are playing penny ante. You'll take a hand, won't you?" "Young man," I said, severely, "gambling is frowned upon by the police." "Well, the sergeant of the precinct is one of us," he replied. "Plays a mighty good hand." "Then you have my blessing," I replied, "but I can't accept. I must go back at once and make the tea. Another time I shall be delighted to lose my coppers to one of our brave defenders. Good-by and good luck to you!" I went away, clad with authority to dispense the cup that cheers, and reflected with regret that Gordon would no longer drop in, as he had been wont to. All his spare hours he would now spend with Miss Van Rossum. I supposed that they would sit on a sofa and hold hands, a good part of the time, unless this occupation be also one of the many inventions issued from the brains of fervid writers. But why do I keep on thinking about him? I am beginning to disapprove of him, and he is drifting away from me. He has crossed a Rubicon and left no bridge for me to go over. I would give anything to know that he is desperately in love with Miss Van Rossum. It would exalt him in my eyes. Her wealth means nothing. True love comes in spite of iron bars or golden ingots. In his attractive personality and wonderful talent he has fully as much to offer as the young woman can bestow upon him. The question before me is whether he is really giving her all he has; his heart as well as his genius; his faith and passion as well as the solitaire she is wearing. I hope I am not unjust to him. But whether I am or not, I presume I am now destined to see little of him. It makes me rather sad to think that one more of my few golden links of friendship is to be broken or slowly dissolved. For a few moments I stood before the outer door, with the latch-key in my hand, cogitating so deeply that I forgot to fit it in the lock. Presently, I sighed and went in, making my way up the stairs quite slowly and heavily, as if a few more years had suddenly piled themselves up on my head. The ancient stair-carpet looked more than usually unattractive and the wallpaper more decrepit. The fourth step on the second flight, ever inclined to complain, positively groaned under my weight, perhaps mistaking me for Frieda. Finally I reached my landing. "He's such a dear old stick-in-the-mud," I heard. "Never happy unless he's worrying over some lost sheep or puzzling over the way of being kind to some one. Frieda, you ought to take him by the nape of the neck, hale him to the Bureau of Licenses, and thence to a parson. After that you could roll him up in cotton-batting and make him happy all his life." "I'm much too busy," replied Frieda, laughing, "and I don't really think he would like it." I took a few quick steps and the three looked up. Gordon was sitting on the corner of the bed, looking very fine with a gardenia in his buttonhole. Frieda's face was expanded in the fat and lovable smile it always bears when any one speaks of her marrying. Frances just welcomed me as usual, with a look of her wonderful eyes. "Hello, Gordon! What's new?" I asked him, rather embarrassed. "Nothing very much," he replied. "Thought I'd like a cup of tea." CHAPTER XIV I BEGIN TO PLOT I had the mourning band taken from my silk hat, while I have worn my frock coat so little that it looked very nicely. A new pair of gloves and a scarf purchased for the occasion completed my war-paint for the Van Rossum reception, as I made my way to the mansions glorifying the eastern edge of the Park. It was a civility due to my friend and a mark of respect I was only too glad to pay so handsome and unaffected a young millionairess as Miss Sophia; moreover, as a second, and perhaps unworthy, thought, I considered that a visit to such a princely establishment might give me the atmosphere I so often needed during the course of some of my stories. Hummingbirds, bees and novelists gladly draw sustenance from the humblest flowers, at times, but are never averse to the juices of scions of the horticultural nobility. My hat and coat were seized upon in an anteroom, after I had deposited my card in a great chased receptacle, and I made my way up the wide staircase, softly carpeted in crimson and adorned at the sides with balusters of ancient, black, carved oak. The great hallway I had just left gave an impression of respectable age, like a neat and primped up old gentleman still able to wear a flower in his buttonhole. There were just enough ancient cavaliers looking from the walls to afford, with two shining suits of armor, a suggestion that the Van Rossums were reaping the just reward due to the offspring of noble swashbucklers. In my ascension I closely followed three young ladies and blessed the fate that had abolished long trains. But for its decree, I should have been filled with the hot trepidation of the man who knows that he is apt, at the slightest opportunity, to tread on sweeping flounces, and who has had his share of furious and transfixing haughty looks. Others were coming behind me in a stream. The music of fiddles and mandolins hidden in a bower of palms, on the landing, mingled with a murmur of many voices. I soon entered a great parlor, through huge doors, and followed a line of matrons and damsels diversified by a scattering of the masculine element. I immediately recognized Mrs. Van Rossum, very resplendent in pearl gray silk, and her daughter's goodnatured face, very smiling and friendly to all. Gordon was standing quite near, chatting with some ladies. Mr. Van Rossum I knew at once, since his countenance has been, many times and oft, represented in the press among other portraits of enviable men of wealth. So urbane and mild did he look that I wondered how any one could hesitate to borrow a million from him. My chance to make my bow came very soon. The elder lady smiled to me most charmingly, in most evident and utter forgetfulness of my identity, but Miss Sophia showed an excellent memory. "My dear Mr. Cole! How very kind of you to come! Yes, it's a most charming day. Lucy, dearest, this is Mr. Cole who writes the most delightful books. You must read them, but he will tell you all about them." Swiftly, she turned to others and I was left in the care of the dearest little lady, just five feet nothing in highest heels, who looked like a rosebud wrapped in lace, and smiled at me. "I am going to take you right over there by the window," she said. "I just dote on people who write books and I remember your name perfectly well. You are the author of 'The World's Grist' and 'Meg's Temptation.'" She sat down, with a little sign extending her gracious permission for me to do likewise, whereupon I hastened to assure her that I made no claim to the reputation so thoroughly deserved by the authors of those magnificent novels. "Then, tell me the names of your books, won't you?" Somewhat diffidently I acquainted her with a few of the titles, whereupon she joyfully declared that she remembered one of them perfectly. "The heroine was called Rose," she said, triumphantly. "It seems to me that it was Kate," I replied, modestly. "Yes, Kate, of course, and do you really think she was happy ever after with that extraordinary man Jonas?" "I think I recollect marrying her off to one Fitzjames, but that is only a minor detail. A novelist, my dear young lady, may assert with some show of confidence that the weddings he brings about are warranted not to crock, but you must remember he deals with fiction. The future lies in the hollow of no man's hand and, since I write chiefly of modern days, I save myself the saddening task of following my heroines to the grave. To me they are all alive, yet, happy as the day is long, revelling in sunshine and basking in undying love." She folded her little hands on her lap, opened her big blue eyes very widely and sighed gently. "How awfully delightful!" she said, "and I think you're ever so clever. But--but I think you'll have to pardon me." I rose, as she gained her feet and smiled at me again. Then she rushed off to another corner of the room and placed her hand on the coatsleeve of a six-footer who looked at her, joyfully. Her little turned-up face, in a fraction of a second, must have spoken several volumes. Then, slowly and very casually, they drifted off towards the big conservatory to the left. Twenty minutes later, floating with the crowd, I chanced to be behind them. It is possible that they had found the retreat too populous. "I am sure that you must have flirted disgracefully before I came," the man accused her, tenderly. "Not a bit! I just sat down with the dearest old fogy who is supposed to write novels, so that you shouldn't be jealous, if you saw me," she replied, contentedly. I moved away, rather swiftly. I should evidently have been delighted at the opportunity of rendering such signal service to so charming a little person. I had served as an ægid for her, as a buckler to protect her innocence and display it to the world in general and to six feet of stalwart manhood in particular. Yet, I confess that this little bud had driven a tiny thorn in me. "Well," I reflected, "it is perhaps good to be an old fogy with scanty hair and the beginning of crow's feet. At any rate it helps make Frieda fond of me and has given me the trustful friendship of Frances. Baby Paul, I think, also appreciates his venerable friend." Just then, Gordon came to me. "By Jove, Dave! You're rather a fine figure of a man, when you're properly groomed," he told me. "That's nonsense," I told him, severely. "I have just had a wireless informing me that I am a back number. Why are you no longer receiving at the side of your intended bride? She looks exceedingly handsome and graceful." "The engagement has really not been announced yet," he answered. "It is not official. The Van Rossums are going to Florida, because the old gentleman has lost some tarpon he wants to find again. After that they are going to California where he is to look up something about an oil well. I may possibly run over there to see them. The--It won't happen for ever so long, perhaps not till fall. Wish I could go out with you and beat you at billiards, but I'm to stay till the bitter end. Isn't she looking splendidly?" My eyes turned to where Miss Van Rossum was still receiving guests. She was certainly a fine creature, full of the joy of living. If some of her tastes in the way of pursuits were somewhat masculine, it detracted nothing from her elegance and charm. These might, in later years, become rather exuberant, I reflected, looking at the amplitude of form displayed by her parents, but, after all, none of us are beyond the grasp of Father Time. "Just as splendidly as she does in your exquisite painting," I replied, nodding towards the portrait, wonderfully framed, that stood on an easel in the best light that could have been found for it. A moment later he was torn away from me. From time to time he returned to the side of the young lady, who was always much occupied in conversation and pleasant laughter with many friends. If Gordon thinks that the engagement is as yet something of a secret, he is badly in error. Hints, glances, little movements of heads in his direction, constantly apprised me that the information was scattered far and wide. Two dowagers close to me indulged in a stage whisper that revealed to me the fact that they wondered whether the projected marriage would not be something of a _mésalliance_ on the part of dear Sophia. "After all, you know, he's nothing but a painter, and no one heard of him until three or four years ago!" "But they say he charges enormously," said the other. This, evidently, was quite a redeeming feature in my friend's favor, but I am afraid it was the only one, from their point of view. I soon decided that I had done my full duty and sought the stairway again. Here, I once more ran into Gordon. "I know just what the hippo in the zoo feels like," he confided to me, "and he has the advantage of a thicker skin. But I'm putting it all down to advertising expense. Good-by, Dave, old boy, give my kindest regards to--to Frieda." I was glad when I reached the sidewalk again. I am no cynical detractor of the advantages of wealth, breeding, education and all the things that go towards refining away some of the dross which clings to the original man. Were it not for the hope of lucre, how many would be the works of art, how great would be the achievements of the world! Still, I felt that a man can have a little too much of the scent of roses, a surfeit of gilded lilies and gems in profusion. The good, old, hard sidewalk seemed to give me just as pleasant a welcome as that extended by softest rugs, while the keen and bracing air filled my lungs more agreeably than the warmed and perfumed atmosphere I had just left. I climbed on top of one of the auto-busses, holding on to my hat, and was taken all the way down to Washington Square, where some of the ancient aristocracy of Gotham lives cheek by jowl with the proletariat burrowing a little further south. I walked away, slowly, seeking to remember in that crowded assembly uptown some face I could favorably compare with that of Frances. No, it had been a road from Dan to Beersheba, barren of such beauty as blossoms on the fourth floor back, of what Gordon calls my menagerie. One of my venturesome fancies painted for me the Murillo-woman gliding through those rooms. She would have been like a great evening star among twinkling asteroids. My imagination vaguely clothed her with a raiment of beauty, but the smile of her needed no changing. I reached the house just as the young ladies who sell candy were returning. My silk hat, I think, impressed them, as well as my yellow gloves and the ancient gold-mounted Malacca I inherited from my father. "My! Ain't you handsome to-day, Mr. Cole!" exclaimed one of them. "You been to a weddin', Mr. Cole?" asked another. "I have been to pay my respects to two people who are drifting that way, if signs don't fail," I answered. "I should be happy indeed to look just as handsome whenever any of you favors me with an invitation to her marriage." At this they giggled, appearing rather pleased, and I made my way upstairs, glad indeed to climb them. How fortunate it is that I selected the higher levels, considering that they would give me greater privacy and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I so decided, was plainly in its apogee. I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened. It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless _ritournelle_: _Gaiement je chante et chanterai; Ti-ho-ho, Car mon bonheur je garderai. Ti-ho-ho-ho._ For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes that had stolen the man's heart? A tiny pain shot through me. The bird was finding its song; would it now also use its wings? Is Frances destined to become a great singer again? Will her life, after a time, be led away from humbler surroundings, from her modest friends, and is her personality to become in my memory but one of those dear and charming recollections every man stores away in his heart, as some hide away faded flowers, a scented note, or perchance the glove that has touched a beloved hand? I coughed, prudently, to announce my coming. She was in the big chair with Baby Paul on her lap and put her finger to her lips, thus announcing that her offspring had fallen asleep. I entered on tiptoe and drew a chair towards her, with due precaution, assuming the air of a Grand Inquisitor. "Frances," I accused her, severely, but in a low voice, "you have been guilty of singing. This you have most certainly done without the faculty's permission. Dr. Porter would scold you most sternly, if he heard of it, and I feel that it is my duty to take so disagreeable a job from his shoulders. You are a bad, bold, rebellious creature and I don't know what I shall do to you!" "I--I think I shall be able to sing again," she whispered, her eyes shining brightly. "Dear--dear David, I--I am so happy!" Across the body of Baby Paul she extended her arm and hand. I took her fingers in mine. "You deserve to have them well rapped with a ruler," I told her, "but, as no such instrument of torture is at hand, I shall punish you otherwise." So I was bold enough to touch them to my lips for a second and abandoned them, suddenly possessed by a huge fear that I had taken an inexcusable liberty, but she looked at the baby, smiling. "Indeed, Frances, I share your happiness and trust that your anticipations are to be realized in fullest measure. A mean, little, selfish feeling came to me, a moment ago, that the fulfilment of your hopes might take you away from us. I confess that I am shamed and contrite at the thought, but I have become very fond of--of Baby Paul. Now, however, I rejoice with you. But, my dear child, for Heaven's sake remember what our good little doctor told you! I beg you not to spoil his magnificent work!" "Oh! David! I'll be ever so careful, I promise, and, whatever happens, you will always be the same dear old David to us. I assure you I won't try again, for ever so long. I think I just began without knowing what I was doing. The first thing I knew I was just humming that bit of song to Paul, and then the words came quite clear, so easily that I hardly realized I was singing. But I won't try again, until Dr. Porter allows me to. And then, it will be very little at a time, ever so little." "And then, you will have to go to the very best man in New York, and take more lessons and practise a lot, because your throat has been idle so long that it has forgotten all it ever knew, and--and----" "And it would cost a dreadful lot of money, and I have none, and it is all a great big lovely dream, but I must awaken from it and go back to Mr. McGrath's for a few days more, and then to Félicie's shop, because it opens again next week and she declares she can't get along without me. I am afraid, my poor David, that I shall have to be quite content with singing to Baby Paul, as best I can, and, perhaps, to Frieda and you." I rose, angrily, and paced the room several times. "That's arrant nonsense," I finally declared. "You will go to Gordon's and you will also return to Madame Félicie Smith's, for a short time. In the meanwhile I will have the piano moved into your room, because it is a silly incumbrance in mine. You can practise a little by yourself, if Porter allows you to. Then, as soon as he says it is all right, you will go to the Signora Stefano, or to Richetti or some such expert teacher. I have some money in the bank and I am going to advance it to you, because you can return it later on, when you give concerts or sing at the opera. If you don't give it back, I'll dun you, sue you, set the minions of the law after you, if such a promise can give you any comfort. Don't you dare answer, it is bad for your throat to speak too much, especially when it is nonsense. And I'm going to make a lot more money besides. I have an idea about an old maid and a canary that the magazines will bid for, hungrily. It's the finest thing I ever wrote, although it is still incubating in my head." She rose, ever so carefully, so as not to awaken Baby Paul, and deposited him in his crib. Then she came to me with both hands outstretched. "Do you really think, David, that I would squander your poor little savings? Do you think I am one to speculate on friendship and try to coin money out of kindness?" She held both my shoulders, her great beautiful eyes seeming to search my soul, which the tears that trembled on her lashes appeared to sear as if they had been drops of molten lead. With some effort, I brought a smile to my lips and shook my head. "You are a silly infant," I told her, gravely. "Little Paul, on the other hand, is a man, an individual endowed with intelligence beyond his months. He will understand that you are not at all concerned in this matter and that I only want to help him out. I want to give him a mother of whom he will be proud, one who will make the little scrivener she met on a top floor ever boastful that once upon a time he was a friend and still maintains her regard. I am only seeking to help him, since we are great pals, to graduate from long frocks to trousers, in anticipation of college and other steps towards useful manhood. He is a particular friend of mine; he smiles upon me; he has drooled upon my shirtfront and pulled my moustache. We understand one another, Paul and I, and together we deplore your feminine obstinacy." To my frightful embarrassment Frances let go of my shoulders and seized my hands, which she carried swiftly as a flash to her lips, before I could draw them away. "When I teach him to pray, you will not be forgotten, David. We--we will speak of this some other time, because, perhaps, after all, my voice will never return--as it was before, and then all this will have been but--but idle speculations--and--and I will never forget your goodness." Just then, Baby Paul, perhaps thinking that our conversation had lasted long enough, gave the signal for me to retire. He is a rather impatient young man, and I stepped out, closing the door behind me, and went to my room where I thankfully removed the frock coat, after which, David was himself again. Richetti, I have heard, is a marvelous teacher, and there is no better judge of the possibilities of a voice. I am going to interview him and explain the intricacies of the case. Then, I shall tell him that if he sees the slightest chance he will put me under lasting obligation by sending the bills to me, meanwhile, assuring Frances that he is teaching her gratuitously, in order to enhance his reputation by turning out such a consummate artist. She will fall in my snare and be captured by my wiles. There are various fashions, I have always heard, of causing the demise of a cat. Here is where the shrewd and clever conspirator is going to use the plots of his fiction in real life. I am thankful that my professional training is at last to serve me so well! CHAPTER XV THE LIGHTNING STROKE More days have gone by. This morning I happened to meet Jamieson, who is always exceedingly kind and urbane to his flock of authors. "My dear fellow," he told me, "you must not be discouraged if the 'Land o' Love' does not sell quite so well as some of the others, for I have not the slightest doubt that your next book will more than make up for it. A man is not a machine and he cannot always maintain the same level of accomplishment. We are only printing a couple of thousand copies to start with, but, of course, your advance payment, on the day of publication, will be the same as usual." He said all this so pleasantly that I almost forgot that this payment was called for on my contract and felt personally obliged to him. "We will send you a few advance copies by the end of the week," he said. "It might pay you to look one of them over, carefully. You have not read the thing for a good many months, now, and you will get a better perspective on it. I have no doubt that you will agree with me that a return to your former manner is rather advisable. I am ever so glad to have seen you. Now, don't worry over this because you have not yet written half the good stuff that's in you, and I certainly look forward to a big seller from you, some day." I shook hands with him, feeling greatly indebted, and walked slowly home. There can be few better judges than Jamieson, and his estimate of the "Land o' Love" leaves me rather blue. I have been so anxious to make money in order to be able to help in the improvement of those repaired vocal chords of Frances and start her on the way towards the success I believe is in store for her, that I feel as if the impending failure of my novel were a vicious blow of fate directed against her. Why was I ever impelled to leave aside some of the conventions of my trade, to abandon the path I have hitherto trodden in safety? One or two multimillionaires may have been able to condemn the public to perdition, but a struggling author might as safely, in broad daylight, throw snowballs at a chief of police. Before I go any further I must carefully read over the seven or eight score pages I have already done for the successor of "Land o' Love," and find out whether I am not drifting into too iconoclastic a way of writing. With my head full of such disquieting thoughts I walked home. As I turned the corner of my street, I saw Frances, a good way ahead of me. She was doubtless returning from Gordon's studio. Her darling little bundle was in her arms and she hurried along, very fast. "Baby Paul must be hungry," I decided, "and she will run up the stairs. No use hastening after her, for her door will be closed. Frieda will soon come in, and we shall all go over to Camus, as we arranged last evening." Once in my room I took up my manuscript and began to study it, trying to disguise myself under the skin of the severest critic. I started, with a frown, to read the lines, in a manner that was an excellent imitation of a grumpy teacher I remembered, who used to read our poor little essays as if they had been documents convicting us of manslaughter, to say the very least. And yet, so hopelessly vacillating is my nature that I had read but half a chapter before I was figuratively patting myself on the back, in egotistic approval of my own work. I continued, changing a word here and there and dreamily repeating some sentences, the better to judge of their effectiveness, until there was a knock at my door and Frieda came in, looking scared. "See here, Dave, I've just been in to see Frances. She's come back with a dreadful headache and can't go out to dinner with us. I asked if I could make her a cup of tea and she wouldn't hear of it. The room is all dark and she's lying on the bed." "I'll go out at once and get Dr. Porter!" I exclaimed. "No, I proposed it, but she won't see any one. She assures me that it will be all right by to-morrow and insists that it is not worth while bothering about. She wants us to go without her." "Well, at least I can go in and find out whether there is anything I can do," I persisted. "No, Dave, she told me that she wanted to be left alone. Please don't go in. Her head aches so dreadfully that she must have absolute quiet, for a time." I looked at Frieda, helplessly, and she returned the glance. This was not a bit like Frances; she is always so glad of our company, so thankful for my stout friend's petting and so evidently relieved by such sympathy as we can extend that we could make no head nor tail of the change so suddenly come upon her. The two of us felt like children open-eyed at some undeserved scolding. "Well, come along, Frieda," I said, much disgruntled. "I suppose we might as well have something to eat." "I don't care whether I have anything or not," she answered, dubiously. "Neither do I, my dear," I assented. "Then put on your hat and coat and come to the flat. I have half a cold chicken in the icebox and a bottle of beer. I don't want to go to Camus." So we departed, dully, passing before the door that had been denied us for the first time in lo, these many months. The loose stair creaked dismally under Frieda's weight, and the dim hall lights reminded me of Eulalie's churchly tapers. On the way to the flat I stopped at a bakery and purchased four chocolate éclairs wherewith to help console Frieda. Once in the apartment, my friend seemed to regain some of her flagging spirits. She exhumed the fowl from her icebox and cut slices from a loaf of bread, while I opened a can of small French peas, which she set in a saucepan placed on her gas-stove. Also, I laid the éclairs symmetrically on a blue plate I took from the dresser, after which Frieda signalled to me to open the bottle of beer and our feast began in silence. "I wonder how Trappists enjoy their meals," I finally remarked. "They don't!" snapped out Frieda. Yet a moment later she was talking as fast as usual, giving me many interesting details in regard to the effects of sick-headache on womankind and gradually abandoning the subject to revert to painting. "I have sold Orion," she said. "He is going to Chicago. I have been thinking of a Leda with a swan, but I'm afraid it's too hackneyed. Why don't you suggest something to me? That beer is getting flat in your glass; you haven't touched it. Hand me an éclair." I held the plate out to her, the while I sought to remember something mythological, and she helped herself. With profound disdain she treated the few suggestions I timidly made. "You had better go home, David," she told me at last. "We are as cheerful as the two remaining tails of the Kilkenny cats. Good night, I am going to darn stockings." So I took my departure and returned to Mrs. Milliken's where I found a message waiting for me: "Why the devil don't you have a telephone? Come right up to the studio. "GORDON." I knocked very softly at the door of the room opposite mine and was bidden to come in. Frances was lying on her sofa, and the light was not turned on. I saw her only vaguely and thought that she put a hand up to her forehead with a weary motion rather foreign to her. "I hope you will pardon me," I said. "I have just come back from dinner and find that I must go out again. Before leaving, I wanted to make sure that you were not very ill and to ascertain whether there is anything I can do for you." "No, David. Thank you ever so much," she answered. "As always you are ever so kind. By to-morrow this will have passed away and I shall be as well as ever. It--it is one of those things that never last very long and I am already better. Mrs. Milliken sent me up something, and I need nothing more. Good night, David." She had spoken very softly and gently, in the new voice that was very clear. The change in it was most remarkable. I had been so used to the husky little tone that I could hardly realize that it was the same Frances. And yet its present purity of timbre was like a normal and natural part of her, like her heavy tresses and glorious eyes or the brave strong soul of her. "Well, good night, Frances," I bade her. "I do hope your poor head will let you have some sleep to-night, and perhaps dreams of pleasant things to come." So I hastened down to the street and to the station of the Elevated, on my way to Gordon's, wondering why he was thus summoning me and inventing a score of explanations, all of which I rejected as soon as I had formulated them. When I pressed the button at his door, my friend opened it himself, his features looking very set and grave. I followed him into the studio, that was only half-lighted with a few shaded bulbs, and sat down on the divan by the window while he took a cigar and cut off the end, with unusual deliberation. "Hang it all!" he finally grumbled, "why don't you speak? Have you seen--Mrs. Dupont?" "Yes, I have," I answered, rather surprised, because to me he generally called her Frances now, as we all did. "And she has told you all about it, of course!" "She only told me that she had a severe headache, and would see no one, not even Frieda." He looked at me, sharply, after which he lit a match for his cigar, with a hand that was decidedly shaky. Then he paced up and down the big room, nervously, while I stared at him in anxious surprise. "Oh! You can look at me!" he exclaimed, after a moment. "I'm the clever chap who warned you against that woman, am I not? Marked _explosive_, I told you she ought to be. And now you can have your laugh, if you want to. Go ahead and don't mind me!" For a moment I felt my chest constricted as with a band of iron. I felt that I could hardly breathe, and the hand I put up to my forehead met a cold and clammy surface. "For God's sake, Gordon!" I cried, "what--what have you----?" He pitched the cigar in the fireplace and stood before me, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his voice coming cold and hard, the words forced and sounding artificial and metallic. "What have I done? You want to know, eh? Oh! It's soon enough told. First I did a 'Mother and Child,' a devil of a good piece of work, too. And, while I was painting it, I saturated every fiber of me with the essence of that wonderful face. Man alive! Her husky little voice, when I permitted her to speak, held an appeal that slowly began to madden me. Oh! It didn't come on the first day, or the first week, but, by the time I was putting on the last few strokes of the brush, I realized that I was making an arrant fool of myself, caught by the mystery of those great dark eyes, bound hand and foot by the glorious tresses of her hair, trapped by that amazing smile upon her face. Then, I worked--worked as I never did before, fevered by the eagerness to finish that picture and send her away, out of my sight. I was tempted to leave the thing unfinished, but I couldn't! I wanted to run away and called myself every name under the sun, and gritted my teeth. Up and down this floor I walked till all hours. I decided that it was but a sudden fever, a distemper that would pass off when she was no longer near me. Every day I swore I would react against it. What had I in common with a woman who had already given the best of her heart and soul to another man, who still goes on weeping for his memory, who is but one amid the wreck and flotsam of that artistic life so many start upon and so few ever succeed in! And the picture was finished and I gave her the few dollars she had earned and sent her away, just as calmly as if she'd been any poor drab of a creature. My God! Dave! If she had stood there and asked me for all I had, for my talent, for my soul to tread beneath her feet, I would have laid them before her, thankfully, gladly. But I took her as far as the door of the lift, forsooth, and gave her my coldest and most civil smile. I'm a wonderful actor, Dave, and have mistaken my profession! I hid it all from her--I--I think I did, anyway, and she never knew anything, at that time. So, when she had gone, I told Yumasa to turn the picture to the wall and then I went out to the club, and treated myself pretty well, and then to the theatre and back to the club. Some of the fellows are a pretty gay lot, sometimes, and I was good company for them that night!" For a moment he stopped and took up another cigar, mechanically, while I kept on staring at him in silence. "Oh! I was able to walk straight enough when I came home. The stuff had little effect on me. In the taxi my head was whirling, though. But I got back here and took up the picture again and placed it on the easel, in a flood of light. It was wonderful! It seemed to me that she was coming out of the frame and extending her round arms and slender fingers to me till my heart was throbbing in my throat and choking me!" He stopped again and took up his pacing once more, like some furred beast in a cage. "In the morning I looked at myself," he resumed. "A fine wreck of manhood I appeared, bleared and haggard and with a mouth tasting of the ash heap. But, after a Turkish bath, I was like some imitation of my real self again, for I could hold myself in and think clearly. It meant the abandoning of all my plans and the awakening, some day, in a period of disillusionment, with a woman at my side carrying another man's child and bestowing on me the remnants of her love. Ay, man! I was egotist enough to think I should only have to ask, to put out my hand to her! But I gripped myself again and felt proud of the control I could exercise over my madness. The Jap packed up my things, and I went away over there, where the other woman awaited me, with her horses and her autos, her rackets and her golf-clubs, with other rich women about her, laughing, simpering, chattering, but culling all the blossoms of a life I had aimed for and was becoming a part of. I had paid for it, Dave, in toil such as few other men have undergone, at the price of starvation in garrets, over there in the _Quartier_. No light o' loves for me, no hours wasted, never a penny spent but for food of a sort and the things I needed for painting. And it took me years. Then the reward was before me, for I had won time. Yes, man! I was the master of time! Fools say it is money! What utter rot! Money is time, that's what it is. It can bring time for leisure, and to enjoy luxury, to bask in smiles, to lead a life of ease and refinement, and time also to accomplish the great work of one's dreams!" There was another pause. "I didn't forget her, of course. She was before me night and day, but I thought I was mastering my longing, beginning to lord it over an insane passion. I could golf and swim and dance, and listen to fools prattling of art, and smile at them civilly and agree with their silly nonsense. They're not much more stupid than most of the highbrows, after all, and, usually, a devilish sight more pleasant to associate with. None of Camus's poison in their kitchens! And--and that other woman was a beauty, and she held all that I aimed for in her hand and was stretching it out to me. And she's a good woman too and a plucky one! Rather too good for me, I am sure. It was at night, going forty miles an hour, I think, that I finally made up my mind to ask her. And--and she consented. She was driving and never slowed down a minute, for we were late. I was half scared, and yet hoping that she might wrap that car around a telegraph pole, before we arrived. When we finally stopped, she declared it had been a glorious ride, and gave me her lips to kiss, and--and I went up to my room to dress for dinner, feeling that I had made an end of all insanity, that I had achieved all that I had fought so hard for! "Then, later on, after some months, you came around to ask me to use Frances as a model again. I thought I was quite cured at that time, and I refused. Oh, yes! I had been coming to that shack of yours. On those Sunday afternoons the devil would get into me. A look at her would do no harm. You and Frieda would be there too. And I would come and sit on your rickety bed and look at her, and listen to you all, and watch you pouring out tea. But I thought all the time that I was keeping a fine hold on myself, just tapering off, the dope-fiends call it. Then it was that you came to me. You're ugly and gawky enough, Dave, but no evil angel of temptation was ever so compelling as you. I remember how you stared when I said I didn't want her. And you hadn't been gone ten minutes before the devil had his clutches on me and flung me in my car and I met you at your door and told you to let her come! "And I've been painting her again. Such beastly stuff as I've turned out! Daubing in and rubbing out again, and staring at her till I knew she was beginning to feel uneasy and anxious. But I always managed to keep a hold on my tongue. God! What a fight I was waging, every minute of the time, crazy to fling the palette to the floor, to kick the easel over, to rush to her and tell her I was mad for the love of her! And to-day the crisis came; I'd been shaking all over; couldn't hold a brush to save my life. I--I don't know what I said to her; but it was nothing to offend her, I am sure, nothing that a sweet, clean woman could not hear and listen to, from a man who loved her. But I remember her words. They were very halting and that poor voice of hers was very hoarse again. "'Oh!' she cried, 'I--I am so miserably sorry. I--I thought you were just one of the dear kind friends who have been so good to me. I--I never said a word or did a thing to--to bring such a thing about. Please--please let me go away. It makes me dreadfully unhappy!' "And so she picked up her hat and put it on, her hands shaking all over, and took the baby to her bosom and went out, and--and I guess that's all, Dave." He sank down on the teakwood stool he generally uses to put his colors on and his brushes. His jaws rested in the open palms of his hands, and he looked as if his vision was piercing the walls and wandering off to some other world. "Why don't you speak?" he finally cried. "Because I don't know what to say," I replied. "I've an immense pity for you in my heart, old man. You--you've been playing with fire and your burnt flesh is quivering all over." "Let it go at that, Dave," he answered, rising. "I'm glad you're not one of the preaching kind. I'd throw you neck and crop out of the window, if you were." "What of Miss Van Rossum?" I asked, gravely. "They went off a week ago to Palm Beach. Looking for those tarpon. Come along." "You haven't treated her right, Gordon." "Know that as well as you. Come on out!" I followed him downstairs. His car was drawn up against the curb and he jumped in. "Want a ride?" he asked. "No, I think I had better go home now." "All right. Thanks for coming. I didn't want you to think I had behaved badly to Frances, for I didn't, and I had to talk to some one. Good by!" He let in his clutch, quickly, and the machine jerked forward. He turned into the Park entrance and disappeared, going like a crazy man. So I returned home, feeling ever so badly for the two of them. I honestly think and hope that I am of a charitable disposition, but I could not extend all sympathy and forgiveness to my friend. He had deliberately gone to work and proposed to a woman he did not truly love, and she had accepted him. The poor girl probably thinks the world of him, in her own way, which is probably a true and womanly one. And now, after he is bound hand and foot by her consent, he goes to work and lays down his heart at the feet of another. Honor, manliness, even common decency should have held him back! I wondered sadly whether the best and truest friend I ever had was now lost to me, and I could have sat down and wept, had not tears been for many years foreign to my eyes. And then the picture of Frances seemed to appear before me, in all its glory of tint, in all its sweetness and loveliness, and I shook my head as I thought of the awful weakness of man and of how natural it was that, before such a vision, no strength of will or determination of purpose could have prevented the culmination of this tragedy. I am sure that he resisted until the very last moment, to be at last overwhelmed. Poor old Gordon! Her door was closed and there was utter silence when I returned. I tried to write, but the noise of the machine offended me. For a long time I stared at the pages of an open book, never turning a leaf over, and, finally, I sought my bed, more than weary. At two o'clock, on the next afternoon, I got a wire from Gordon. "Am taking the _Espagne_. Lots of sport driving an ambulance at the front. May perhaps write. "GORDON." I stared at the yellow sheet, stupidly. After this there was a knock at the door and the colored servant came in, bringing me a parcel. I opened it and found some advance copies of the "Land o' Love," which I threw down on the floor. What did all those silly words amount to! CHAPTER XVI FRANCES READS MY BOOK. A great extravagance of mine lies in the fact that I pay my board here, for the sake of Mrs. Milliken, and take a good many of my meals outside, for mine. Strange as it may seem to the inveterately domestic, I enjoy a little table of my own, with a paper or a book beside me and the utter absence of the "please pass the butter" or "I'll trouble you for the hash" of the boarding-house. Hence, I rose from my chair for another refection outside and debated as to whether I might venture out without my overcoat, when Frieda came out of Frances's room and penetrated mine. "She is all right now," I was informed. "Her headache has quite left her, and Madame Smith has been in to inform her that the shop is to be opened to-morrow. So I have told Frances she had better continue to lie down and have a good rest. I may come in again, later this afternoon, for a cup of tea." "You are a million times welcome to it," I said, "but you will have to make it yourself. I have to go over to my sister's where there is another blessed birthday. I shall have to go out now and pick out a teddy bear or a Noah's ark. I am afraid they will keep me until late. Give Frances my love and insist on her going out to-morrow evening with us, to Camus." "Very well, I certainly will," answered Frieda, bending over with much creaking of corset bones. "What are these books on the floor? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for ill-treating valuable, clean volumes." "They may be clean, but I doubt their value," I said. "They're only copies of the 'Land o' Love.'" "What a pretty cover design, but the girl's nose is out of drawing. Sit right down and sign one of them for me and I want to take another to Frances. It will help her to pass away the time." I obeyed, decorating a blank page with my illegible hieroglyphics, and repeated the process on a second copy for Frances, after which I departed. Goodness knows that I love the whole tribe of my sister's young ones, and my sister herself, and hold her husband in deep regard. He is a hard-working and inoffensive fellow, who means well and goes to church of a Sunday. He proudly introduces me as "my brother-in-law the author," and believes all he sees in his morning paper. Despite all this, I abhor the journey to their bungalow although, once I have reached it, I unquestionably enjoy the atmosphere of serene home life. The infants climb on my knees and wipe their little shoes on my trousers, bless their hearts! To little David, named after me, I was bringing a bat and baseball mitt, with some tin soldiers. He is now six years old and permitted to blow his own nose under his mother's supervision. The pride he takes in this accomplishment is rather touching. A large box of candies would permit the others to share in my largess, and I arrived at the top of the Palisades laden like a commuter. After the many embraces, my expert advice was sought in regard to the proposed location of an abominable bronze stag, purchased cheap at an auction, and the thirst I was supposed to be dying from was slaked with homemade root beer. Thereafter, I was taken for a walk and made to inspect a new house under construction, that was being erected by an individual who is godfather to little Philippa. Upon our return, the scratchy phonograph was called upon to contribute to the general entertainment, my sister constantly running in and out of the parlor to the kitchen, where a perspiring straw-headed Swede toiled at the forthcoming dinner. From this I arose at last, quite happy and slightly dyspeptic. In honor of the day the children were allowed an extra half-hour of grace before being driven off to bed. After peace reigned upstairs, I was consulted at length in regard to my views concerning the future prospects of the sewing-machine trade, in which John is interested, while my sister requested my opinion as to an Easter hat. I finally left, after contributing the wherewithal for a family visit to the circus, and John was so good as to accompany me all the way to the trolley tracks. They are lovable, dear people, prudent in their expenditure in order that their offspring may be well brought up, and happy in their modest and useful lives. If I were only a successful writer, a maker of best sellers, I should rejoice in the ability to help them carry out their plans and achieve their reasonable ambitions. As it is, I can only assist Santa Claus in his yearly mission and try, at various time, to bring extra little rays of sunshine to them. As the trolley and ferryboat brought me home, I had the feeling that the night was far advanced and that I had been on a long journey which rendered the prospect of bed and slumber a highly desirable one. But once in the embrace of the big city, I realized that it was but the shank of the evening and that the hurried life of the town, maker of successes and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watch showed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed up the last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance that might awaken Frances and her little one. To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding my book, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw her wonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with hand outstretched. "Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul is sleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk to you about that book. But--but before I speak of it, I want to have a long, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David--you haven't changed a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew how big, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!" "My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good. Jamieson doesn't think very much of it." "It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been able to keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David, where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discover and reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats of struggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that this book of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feel like a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness. Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank you still more for the strength and the courage those pages have brought me!" I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had read the volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, of the interest she takes in my work. "My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able to gather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You have hypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from your friend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, and especially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impression may be shared by others." "I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It is perfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this one is different." "That's the trouble," I informed her. She shook her head, as if in despair at my pessimism. "Don't be foolish, Dave. You have done a fine piece of work. Oh! You can smile, if you want to. I know I am nothing but a girl--I mean a woman--but since early girlhood I have lived in an atmosphere of art, which is nothing but truth expressed in all its beauty. I think I have always understood the big things in painting and in music, instinctively, and in this book I find a melody that uplifts me, a riot of splendid color which appeals to me, because it is all true." "Gracious! My dear Frances!" I said, laughing. "I fear that, if you are ever tempted to read it again, you will meet with a great loss of illusion." But she laughed also, her low sweet voice coming clear and happy. "I--I had been feeling so badly, David, and the moment I set foot in your dear 'Land o' Love' I was glad again to be alive. My baby looked more beautiful than ever to me, and the years that are to come, more hopeful. Dear friend, I am so glad and proud that a man like you has come into my life!" For a second only I looked at her, and then my eyes fell. I was glad indeed of her words, but I felt that her regard and affection would be all I should ever obtain from her. The love of so glorious a creature was never meant for a little scribbler, but how splendid a thing it was for a man to have been able to gain her esteem, to have succeeded in having her call him, trustfully, by his first name and permit him to sit beside her in the little room where she spends so many hours and croons to her baby! "Dr. Porter says that my throat is doing ever so well," she told me, after a moment of silence. "He sees no objection to my beginning to sing a few scales. I must keep very carefully to the middle of my register, so that I may put no undue strain on my voice. Oh! David! I have always doubted that it would ever come back. Isn't it queer? Since I finished the book, I feel uplifted, hopeful. Indeed, I am beginning to believe that some day I shall sing again, just as I did when----" A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. She was evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back. But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with hands folded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in her sweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and she leaned forward, swiftly. "Did--did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked. "He sent for me last night," I acknowledged. "And--and of course he told you----" "Everything, I suppose." She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly at the worn carpet. "At--at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me days and days ago that he was engaged--she had seen it in a paper. Of course, he never spoke to me about it. When--when he began to say those things, I thought he was out of his senses and--and I was afraid. He was pale and trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me to marry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. My baby was in my arms--and this meant that I should always have bread for him--that he could be taken care of--that it wouldn't matter, then, if I ever could sing again. I--I could buy health and happiness for him, and strength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went away again, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should have to give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle, yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him as a loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, so frightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and--and then I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and so considerate--not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you, but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightest idea that--that he had--that he was in love with me. And--and is it true, David, that he is engaged to another woman?" "I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman, and--and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, of course, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he had mapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. And then, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him, that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and that the real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!" I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been a shock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for a love she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately come into her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, full of gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain on him, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak and trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of her room. "I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when--when I saw that terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things? Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and repeat the words after me. I--I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize how splendid and disinterested your friendship is." She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul was sleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as if the pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with a sense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't and couldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with such intensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs. Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old one was still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again but whose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her, a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said for him and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved, but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. I would fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her, for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemed me, to whom she could at least give affection and trust. "It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will read that last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep. It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring the blessedness of new hope." "I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my room where I touched a match to the gas and filled my big calabash. As I looked about me, I felt that my little kingdom was a rather bare and shabby one. Hitherto it had been perfectly sufficient for my needs, nor had I ever seen in it anything to find fault with. In fact I had many a time thought myself fortunate in having so secure a retreat, which only the feet of faithful friends could be attracted to. They would come to it only for the sake of their old David. They were content to sit on the edge of the bed, if the chairs gave out. But now I realized that for some time strange dreams had been coming to me, of a possibility that in its occupant a marvelous and glorious creature might one day find something kindred, a heart to which her own would respond. I had begun to lift my eyes up to her and now I saw how pitiful the room and the lodger must seem to her. I felt that all that I should ever get out of life would be fiction, invention, the playing of tunes on hearts of my own creation that would never beat for me saving in printed pages. Never could they become my very own; always, they would go out to others, to laugh or weep or yawn over. They would represent but pieces of silver with which I might perhaps bring a bit of happiness to a few, after paying for my shelter and food, and the clothes which Gordon asserts are never really made for me. Poor old Gordon! Frieda predicted that he would be hoist by his own petard, some day, and it has come to pass. He is now far out of sight of land, and his head is still awhirl with the amazing wrecking of his schemes. It would have been a bigger thing for him to do, and a braver, to have gone to that splendid girl Sophia Van Rossum and confessed he had sinned against her, and begged her pardon, humbly. I suppose he has written to her and explained that he has lost the right even to touch the hem of her garment. It is good that he had the saving grace not to keep up his pretence of love for her, but his sudden and amazing departure shows how keenly he has felt the blow. His ambitions have flown, his plans gone a-gley, and the one thing that could remain was the eager searching for an immediate change, for a reckless occupation in whose pursuit he might gamble with his life and, perhaps, throw it away. I saw his purpose, clearly. In the ambulance corps there would be no long months of drilling, no marching up and down fields and roads clear of any enemy. He could at once go to work and play his part in the great game. May he return safely, and may the hand of time deal gently with him! Were I fitted for it, I should gladly take his place. The idea of also running away, before temptation becomes unendurable, is beginning to appeal to me with no little strength. But what could I do at that front where they want men of youthful vigor and bravery, in whom the generous sap of life at its finest runs swiftly? I think I will have to remain here and continue to turn out my little stories. I will keep on giving them a happy ending, that my readers may finish them contentedly. But always I shall remain conscious of the tale of my own life, in which there will never be an entrance into that happiness I so freely bestow on the poor little children of my imagination. Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me. She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my heart. CHAPTER XVII MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS For some time I have permitted these pages to lie fallow. I thought I would not continue to jot down the events and the feelings that crowded themselves upon me, since they could serve only to make more permanent to mind and memory a period of my life in which there has been much sweetness and comfort of mind mingled, however, with the sadness that comes upon the man who knows he can never achieve his heart's desire. I deemed it best to cease my unprofitable ruminations over things flavored with some distress. Why keep on rehearsing them over and over again and sitting down in the wee small hours to make confidants of heartless sheets of paper? Yet to-day I feel that, in after years, they may possibly prove of value to me. Man is so fortunately constituted that he remembers happiness and joy more vividly than pain. The day may come when I shall pick up these sheets and smile a little over my sorrows, whose edges will be blunted, and think, dreamily and with a mind at ease, over many hours scattered here and there, which made up for the days of unprofitable longing. Many surprising things have happened since I last wrote. In spite of what Frances told me, David Cole seems to have changed. In my own purview I can distinguish no alteration in my personality, but it appears to be rather evident to some of my acquaintances. Jamieson, some weeks ago, met me on Broadway. His wide and hearty palm failed to smite me as usual on the back. He rushed across the street with hand extended and greeted me as a long lost friend, instead of a pleasant business acquaintance. His memory, the excellence of which I have heard him boast of, appeared to have suffered a partial lapse. "Why! Mr. Cole!" he exclaimed. "Ever so happy to see you! I always told you I had every reason to believe that some day you would make a killing. It is great! Have you seen the _Nation_, and the _Times_, and the _Springfield Republican_ and the _Boston Observer_? Of course you have! They're giving columns to the 'Land o' Love.' The biggest shop on the Avenue keeps its show-windows filled with it. The first printing melted like a snowflake on a hot stove. Five more of them already, and another on the way. How are you getting on with the new manuscript?" In his enthusiasm he appeared to remember nothing of his former rather dark views as to the prospects of my book. He was now exuberant, enthusiastic, and quite impressed by his infallibility. I informed him that the new book was coming on fairly well and expressed my delight at the popular demand for the novel so kindly spoken of by the critics. He insisted on my taking lunch with him, deplored my inability to accept his invitation and made me promise to dine with him very soon. He was anxious that I should meet Mrs. Jamieson and the children, and carefully saw to my safety as far as the Subway station. Needless to say that this sudden stroke of good fortune, after first leaving me somewhat dazed, has given me a great deal of happiness. It was only a couple of days after I had been first informed of the way the public was clamoring for the book that I invaded my neighbor's room, stormily. "Frances," I announced to her, "I have just been to see Professor Richetti. I had an introduction to him from Jamieson, who knows everybody. He received me very charmingly, quite in the manner of the _grand seigneur_, and then just melted. His bow is a revelation, and his smile a treat. It appears that he has heard of you. 'I know, I know,' he exclaimed, as soon as I mentioned your name. 'La Signora Francesca Dupont, oh, yes. More as one year ago I 'ear of la Signora. My friend Fiorentino in Paris he wrote me she come right away to America. Him say she has one voice _di primo cartello_, a very fine beautiful _mezzo-soprano_, very much _maravigliosa_. I much wonder I do not 'ear about the Signora. Her disappear, no one know nothing. Ah, her was sick in de throat! And now all well again. No use the voice long time. _Per favore_, Signor Cole, you bring me him lady _subito_, and I listen, I 'ear 'er sing, I take 'er and make a great _cantatrice_ of 'er again!'" Frances looked at me. She rose from her chair and paced about the room, once or twice. Then she leaned against the piano, that had been placed in her room, and held her forehead in her hand. "Listen, David," she said slowly. "Don't make me do this. Don't put such temptation before me. I'm only a weak woman." "Frances, but for the thinness of my locks I'd pull out my hair in despair at your obstinacy," I cried. "I am telling you that they are selling that book faster than they can print it and that money will soon be flowing into my coffers. Jamieson has intimated that I could have a large advance at once, if I wanted it. Moreover, Richetti is--he isn't going to charge anything. He--he says that you can pay him long after your tuition is ended." She came to me, swiftly, and put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes searching mine, which could not stand her gaze. "My poor dear Dave. You--you are such a poor hand at deceiving. I--I don't think you could fool even Baby Paul. There is too much candor and honesty in you for that sort of thing." "Well," I answered, rather lamely, "I--I told him, of course, that I would guarantee the payment of his honorarium, and he answered that he must try your voice first, because, if it was not promising, he would refuse to waste his time on it. He was very frank. Then he told me that Jamieson's note stated that I was a _scrittore celebre_, a _romanziero molto distinto_, and that whatever arrangements I wanted to make would be perfectly satisfactory. He declared, with his hand on his heart, that money was a great means to an end, but that the thing that really mattered in this world was art, _Per Bacco_! and the _bel canto_ from voices divine! And now, my dear child, you and I are trembling over the edge of a most frightful quarrel, of a bitter fight, of weepings and gnashings of teeth! You shall obey me, or I will take Baby Paul and feed him to the hippopotamuses--no, they eat hay and carrots and things; but I will throw him to the bears in the pit or squeeze him through the bars of the lion's cage. Do you hear me?" She took a step back and sank in the armchair, her hands covering her face. "Hello! What's the matter?" came from the open doorway. It was Frieda, a fat and rosy _dea ex machina_, arriving to my rescue. "Frances," I informed her, "is beginning to shed tears, because she is going to Richetti's to have her voice made over again, renovated like my gray suit. She wants to weep, because she will have to sing scales and other horrid things, and be scolded when she is naughty and does not open her mouth properly." "Oh! I'm so glad!" chuckled Frieda, her double chin becoming more pronounced owing to the grin upon her features. "Isn't it fine!" "But--but it means that David wants me to be a drag on him," objected Frances, rising quickly. "He is guaranteeing the fees, and--and I should probably have to stop working at Madame Félicie's, and it means----" "It means that he will have to advance a little money for your expenses while you study," said Frieda judicially. "Yes, of course, and after months and months of study we may find out that my voice will never again be the same, and that all this has been wasted, and that I shall never be able to pay it back. He has always worked dreadfully hard and denied himself ever so many things in order to be kind to others, and now----" "And now he is making money hand over fist. I just went to see a friend off on the steamer to Bermuda and every other passenger has a copy of that blessed book in his hand. Now that Dave is being rewarded at last, and is entitled to a bit of extravagance, to a little of the comfort money can bring, you won't help him. You know that it will make him perfectly miserable, if you don't accept. Oh, dear! I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense. Do behave yourself, Frances, and let the poor fellow have his own way, for once." And so it was finally settled, after another tear or two and some laughter, and Frieda joyously sat down to the piano and began to play some horrible tango thing and Baby Paul awoke and protested, as any sensible infant would. The next day, I took Frances over to Richetti's, and he was ever so pleasant and courteous to her, and most sympathetic. I left her with him, fearing that my presence might distract her attention from more important matters, and went to a tailor to order a suit of clothes. It gratified me considerably to feel that, for the time being, there would be no sinful extravagance in eschewing the ready-made. There is indeed a great comfort in the inkling that one is beginning to get along in the world. After this I had my hair cut, and returned, exuding bay rum, to Richetti's studio. Frances was waiting for me. The _maestro_ was already engaged with another pupil, and we went out to find seats on an open car. "He says he thinks it will be all right," she told me, eagerly. "The tone is there and the volume. All I need is exercise, much judicious exercise. He is the first teacher I ever met who told me that my breathing was all right. They always want you to follow some entirely new method of their own. He will give me three lessons a week, in the morning. That will be enough for the present. At first, I must only practise an hour a day. And so I can go back to Madame Félicie, because she will be very glad to have me every afternoon and three mornings a week and so I can keep on making a little money and I won't have to borrow so much from you. Isn't it splendid?" "I wish you would give up the shop," I told her. But she shook her head, obstinately, and, of course, she had to have her own way. That evening we went to Camus, and I doubt whether the place ever saw three happier people. Frieda beamed all over and gorged herself on mussels _à la marinière_. She had just finished a portrait that pleased her greatly, and was about to take up a nymph and faun she had long projected. "I don't suppose I would do for the nymph?" asked Frances. "You a nymph! I want some slender wisp of a child just changing into womanhood, my dear. You are the completed article, the flower opened to its full beauty. If I ever paint you, it will have to be as some goddess that has descended to the earth to mother a child of man." "And I presume that as a faun I should hardly be a success," I ventured. "What an idea! Frances, think of our dear old Dave prancing on a pair of goat's legs and playing pipes of Pan." They laughed merrily over the farcical vision thus evoked, and, of course, I joined in the merriment. We remained for some time, watching the dancing that took place in a space cleared of tables. Not far from us rose an old gentleman who might have been profitably employed in reading Victor Hugo's "Art of being a Grandfather," who danced with a pretty young girl who looked at him, mischievously. From the depth of my virtue I somewhat frowned upon him, until he returned to the table where a white-haired old lady and a young man were still sitting. The girl put her hand on the old lady's arm, and I heard her say something to the effect that Daddy was growing younger every day, so that I felt properly contrite. There may be much folly in all this dancing, in the spending of many hours that might be employed in more useful pursuits, but, after all, our hearts are in great part such as we make them. The wicked will always find no lack of opportunity for the flaunting of evil ways, and the good will never be any the worse for anything that cheers them, that lightens drearier bits of life, that may bring smiles to lips trained to the speaking of truth and kindness. After this little feast of ours, some more weeks went by, marked by the parading in the streets of a few old men engaged in selling pussy-willows, after which the shops displayed the first lilacs which presently grew so abundant that they were peddled on every street-corner, wherefore I knew that the Spring was fairly established and swiftly turning into summer. Frances was going to Richetti's, regularly, and practising every evening, with the assistance of my piano. To me her scales and exercises sounded more entrancing than any diva's rendering of masterpieces, I think. It was all in the voice, in the wonderful clear notes which, like some wonderful bloom come out of a homely bulb, had so quickly sprung from the poor little husky tones I remembered so well. Even then there had been charm and sweetness in them, but, now, her song added greater glory to Frances and seemed to be taking her farther away from me, to make her more intangible. I met Richetti in the street, the other day, and he grasped my arm, enthusiastically. "But a few more weeks of lessons," he told me, beamingly. "After that the _cara signora_ Francesca will work by herself for a few months, when I go to Newport. By September I return and we begin again. Ah! Signore Cole, we give again to the world a great voice, a ripe full-throated organ, with flexibility, with a timbre _magnifico_! She makes progress so quick I cease not to marvel. By middle of winter I give my concert of pupils. Yesterday, I make her sing Massenet's 'Elégie.' It make me cry very nearly. She have a soul full of music, _per Bacco! Addio, caro signore_! I see my friend Gazzoro-Celesti. A thousand pardons!" He shook hands effusively and ran across Broadway, where he greeted the great _basso buffo_ of the Metropolitan, and I was left to rejoice by myself, as I went into a shop to buy a new typewriter ribbon. And so a time came when the lessons were stopped for some weeks. Richetti deplored the fact that Frances could not go to Newport, where he would have kept on teaching her, but assured her that she was getting on marvelously and that her practice would suffice to prevent her from losing anything she had gained back. With the beginning of the hot weather, Frances grew somewhat anxious about Baby Paul, who was weaned and did not keep up his steady gain in weight. She was looking rather tired, and I insisted on calling in Dr. Porter, who advised an immediate change of air. "What you need is a month or two in the country," he declared. "You have been working very hard in that shop, and practising at night, and looking after that young ogre. If you expect to keep your health, you must take care of it. Without it, there can be no good singing, nor any big, vigorous Baby Paul." "It isn't possible," asserted Frances. "It is, and shall be done," I contradicted severely. "When I took my gray suit over to Madame Félicie to clean and press, she complained that there was very little business now. I know that she can spare you for a time. She will have to do so anyway, when you begin to sing in public. I know just the place for you to go to." "Good!" exclaimed Dr. Porter, "and you, Mr. Cole, had better do the same thing. You ought to take a holiday. Get some of the cobwebs off your mind and gather in a little country atmosphere to put into your next book." "All I need," I said, "is some pills. I shall get you to prescribe them for me." "I won't," he retorted rudely. "You must go to bed at a reasonable hour, consume regular meals, and breathe clean air and take plenty of exercise. So long, get a move on you and take my advice at once, undiluted." "It would be ever so nice, if you could go, David," said Frances, as soon as our good little doctor had left. "I am sure you are tired also. As for me, I know it is not so bad as he thinks. I can take Baby up on the Palisades, and to Staten Island and back on the ferry, and perhaps on the Coney Island boat, and----" "Nothing of the sort," I interrupted. "Of course I don't care anything about Baby Paul and yourself, but I have a great pecuniary interest in your voice and I am going to have my money back, and you will have to sing in order to earn it, and----" "And you can keep on saying all the horrid things you want to," she put in. "Now, David, be reasonable. You know that a stay in the country would do you ever so much good." "Very well," I answered. "Then I shall hire Eulalie to elope with Baby Paul and I'll go along to watch his teething, and you can stay here and inhale benzine at Madame's, and lose all your voice and grow thin and ugly, and be well punished for disobedience and rebellion, and by the time you've----" We were interrupted by the sound of steps on the stairs. They were somewhat heavy, but not the deliberate thumps of Frieda's climbing. It was a swift and confident progress, in which I recognized none of the inmates of our menagerie. A second later I turned. A fine young woman of healthful color and dressed in excellent taste stood at the door. "I--I beg your pardon," she said. "The colored woman told me to go right up to the top floor. How--how do you do, Mr. Cole?" It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum, big as life, with a face perhaps more womanly and handsome than I had ever given her credit for possessing. In our surroundings she appeared like a fine hot-house flower suddenly transplanted to a poor little tenement yard. She was looking curiously at Frances, who was standing at my side. CHAPTER XVIII DIANA AMONG MORTALS "I am awfully sorry that you took the trouble of coming all the way up here," I told her. "I am afraid that the colored maid is little accustomed to social usages. There is a little parlor downstairs." "Oh! It's all right, Mr. Cole. I asked for you and she just pointed up with her thumb and said 'Top floor,' so I climbed up." She took a step towards Frances, extending her hand. "I know I have seen you before," she said pleasantly, "but I can't for the moment remember where we met." "I think, Miss Van Rossum, that you have only been acquainted with Mrs. Dupont through the medium of my friend Gordon's talent. You may remember a 'Mother and Child' in his studio." "Of course. I remembered the face at once. Gordon is such a wonderful painter, so clever in obtaining the most marvelous likenesses. And--and he didn't flatter his models a great deal, either. I am very glad to meet you, Mrs. Dupont." Frances smiled, in her graceful way, and expressed her own pleasure. "You--you also know Gordon, of course, since you posed for him, Mrs. Dupont. I--I came here to speak with Mr. Cole about him." "I can hardly offer you the hospitality of my room, Miss Van Rossum," I told her. "It is a rather disorderly bachelor's den. If you will allow me to lead you downstairs to the little parlor the landlady provides her guests with, I shall be delighted to----" "No, if you don't mind, I shall remain here for a moment. Mr. Cole, you are Gordon's best friend; he used to say that you were the great exception, a man one could always trust in everything. I hope Mrs. Dupont will not mind, she--she is a woman and may be able to advise me. I have legions of friends--we know thousands of people, but it doesn't seem to me that there is another soul to whom I may come for--for a little----" She interrupted her words. I had pushed a chair forward for her and she acknowledged the offer with a smile, but did not avail herself of it at once, for she went to the bed where Baby Paul was, for a wonder, lying awake and rolling his eyes about. On his face, however, there was something that Frances and I considered a polite little grin. "Is this the dear baby of the picture?" she asked. "He has grown such a lot. What a dear lamb of a child it is! Oh! Mrs. Dupont, how proud and happy a woman must be to be the mother of such a darling!" Decidedly Miss Sophia was revealing herself in a very fine light. For all of her riding astride after hounds, and her golfing and shooting and tennis, she was a very real woman and her heart was in the right place. Frances took up Baby Paul and sat down with him on her lap, where he promptly went to sleep again. "I remember how Gordon spoke of you, several times, Mrs. Dupont," said Miss Van Rossum. "He said a queer thing, once, one of the strange little sentences he always used to bring out. I was looking at your picture and told him it represented a very beautiful woman, and he answered that she was one of those ideals the other fellow always gets hold of. But--but I don't see that there was anything very ideal about that painting. It was just you." For a moment Frances looked away. The phrase reminded her of an unhappy circumstance, I have no doubt, but, to me, it represented cynicism carried to an unpermissible length. "But I must come to the point," continued Miss Van Rossum, with a slight frown, which I deemed an indication that she had something rather difficult to say. "Of course you've been wondering at my coming here. I know it's a bit unconventional, but I didn't want to write and ask you to come and see me. We have only just returned from California and are off to Southampton in the morning. I--I simply felt that I must take my chance of finding you at home. I told you a minute ago that Gordon always said you were a man to be trusted to the utmost, and--and I want to find out something about him. Please, Mr. Cole, have you any news of him?" "I have received but one very short letter," I replied. "I will go and get it for you." I think I was glad to escape for a moment and leave her with Frances, for I foresaw a long cross-examination. She had looked very brave and strong at the moment of her amazing arrival, and I had wondered at such an unusual proceeding. But now I realized that she was very profoundly disturbed, that her show of pluck was but a veil to cover a heart which could suffer the same pains as gnaw at the breasts of so many of her sisters of humbler station. Gordon, old friend, I fear I shall never quite forgive you! You have done vivisection without the excuse of scientific need, without the slightest idea that it could profit any one but yourself! I found the note, but did not return immediately. I asked myself how much she knew, seeing that there were many possibilities of inflicting further pain on a very fine young woman who was already undergoing unmerited punishment. Finally, I went back, slowly, to find her sitting in front of Frances, with their two heads quite near one another and their eyes directed to Baby Paul's little pink mouth. "I have it here. Miss Van Rossum. You will see that it is quite short. He must be tremendously busy and surely snatched a precious moment for a word to an old friend." I handed her the letter, in an envelope that had been opened by the censor and pasted over with a bit of thin paper. She took it with a very steady hand. The girl was engaged in playing a game, I could plainly see. It was one in which her heart was involved and perhaps her pride somewhat aroused. She opened the thing and looked over the brief sentences. "_Dear old Dave_: "Found a lot of fellows I knew. Didn't have a bit of trouble getting in. I'm going to drive one of those cars I wouldn't have been found dead in, in old New York. They tell me they do very well as ambulances, though. I'm close to the front now and have seen a good deal of the crop being garnered there. It makes a fellow feel that he doesn't amount to much. There isn't any harrowing of one's own mind that can last very long in the presence of this real and awful suffering. "Ever your old GORDON. "P.S. Give my love to Frieda." Miss Van Rossum read it over at least twice. Then her eyes slowly rose from the page and, perhaps, without seeing very clearly, swept over Frances and me. She folded it and replaced it in the envelope, very carefully, before handing it back. "I--I have no doubt that it has greatly appealed to him," she said, now vaguely looking out of the window into yards chiefly adorned with fluttering raiment dependent from a very spider's web of intricate lines. "It--it was a sporting thing to do, you know, very manly and fine. But he also wrote to me and--I have never been able to understand. Of course I wouldn't have interfered with--with a plan like that. I have only wished I could have gone over and done something too--something that would count and make one feel that she could be of some use in the world. Yes--it's a big thing he's done--but why did he write me such a letter?" She opened a small bag she had been carrying and pulled out a missive that bore my friend's monogram, a very plain G.M. cleverly interlaced. "Won't you please look at it, Mr. Cole? I got it the day we left Florida. I--I was rather bunkered at first, you know." I took it from her, doubtless displaying far more nervousness than she was showing, for she appeared to be quite calm. I saw that she had taken the blow as Frieda's pugilistic friend might have accepted what he calls a wallop, with a brave smile, after the first wince. I also read it over twice. "_My dear Sophia_: "It's rather hard on a fellow to be compelled to acknowledge he's anything but a decent sportsman. I'm afraid I shall have to. In your kindness you may, perhaps, forgive me. I have made a bad mess of things. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't hitting you also, because you're a good pal and a splendid girl who deserves a better chap. I'm off abroad to play chauffeur to the cripples, and, of course, there is no telling when I'll be back. "I hope to God you will find some decent fellow who really deserves you and will make you happy. "Affectionately, "GORDON." After I had finished this horrible and clumsy message, I looked at Miss Van Rossum. There was something very wistful and strong in the glance that rested upon me. I had no doubt that she had been studying my face, as I read, and watching the impression made on me. Of course, he had been greatly agitated when he wrote. I felt sure that he must have torn up one letter after another and finally sent the worst of all. It had dwindled into a few lines, which explained nothing, being merely brutal and final, like a knockout blow. He had made a mess of things, forsooth! Well, the reading of such a letter might have made one think that he had robbed a bank or cheated at cards! "You see, Mr. Cole, it doesn't say much, does it? I just had to tell my mother that Gordon had felt called upon to go off and--and do a big thing, and that of course the--the whole thing was put off indefinitely. I--I don't think she was disappointed. Of course, they had allowed me to have my own way, and they liked Gordon very well, but they had a notion that in our own circle--But, of course, that's neither here nor there. Naturally, I knew at once that Gordon could never have done anything really wrong. He's a very true and genuine man, in his way, and incapable of--of a nasty action. So I just had to suppose that perhaps some other woman had come into his life and that he didn't love me any more. And he--he was never very demonstrative, you know; it wasn't his way. But he had always been such a good friend, and so wonderfully clever, and--But of course, you know all that. His letter to you, I think, gives me what they call a clue. He--he sends his love to--to somebody I don't know. Of course I'm not going to ask--I really only came to know whether there was anything I could do. I wondered whether there was, perhaps, some money trouble, or something like that, and I'd have been so glad to--to help out. You were his best friend and could have told me how to manage it, but now I see----" She interrupted her words, rising from the chair I had offered her and looking very handsome and, I must say, dignified. "I wouldn't have troubled you, you know, but I have been all at sea. It--it has been rather tough, because Gordon is a man whom a woman could love very deeply--at any rate I never realized how I felt towards him, until I had gone away and then received this letter." I had been listening, looking into her fine, clear, blue eyes, which honestly and truly, with the frankness and candor of the child or the chaste woman, had expressed the love that had been in her heart and, perhaps, lingered there still. So intent had I been upon her words that I had failed to hear adventitious sounds. Frances, also, with her hand pressed to her bosom, showed eyes dimmed by gathering tears. She had risen with the impulse to go forward and press this suffering woman to her heart. I was about to explain the message of love in Gordon's postscript, when there was a wheezing at the door, which had been left open. Fat and beaming, with her most terrible hat and a smudge of yellow ochre on her chin, Frieda came in. "Beg your pardon," she panted. "It's getting real warm and the stairs are becoming steeper every day. How's the angel lamb?" "Miss Van Rossum," I said, "let me introduce our excellent friend Miss Frieda Long. Every one who knows her loves her. She's the next best painter to Gordon in this burg, or any other, and a second mother to Baby Paul." Miss Sophia stared at her for an instant. Then, came a little smile in which there was relief and comprehension. She advanced with arm outstretched, and Frieda went right up to her. "My dear," said the latter, "our dear old Dave and Gordon have told us enough about you to make me feel glad indeed to know you. I saw that portrait of yours and it didn't flatter you a bit, in fact, it seems to me that it missed something of your expression. But it was mighty good, just the same, like everything he ever did." She backed off as far as the bed, on which she sat down, fanning herself violently with a newspaper. An instant later she rushed to Frances, took up the baby with the usual robust delicacy she always shows in that process, and began to ask news relating to important developments in dentition. Miss Sophia observed her. I saw that some ray of gladness had entered her heart since a terrible question appeared to be settled satisfactorily. To her tall and graceful womanhood the idea that our darling, pudgy Frieda, with her crow's feet, from much staring through her spectacles, with that fright of a hat, could for a second have been mistaken for a rival was nothing less than amusing. "Well, Mr. Cole, I think I will have to be going now," she said. "I--I am glad--oh, I mean that I hope you will be so kind as to let me know whether you get any further news. I shall always have a deep interest in Gordon's welfare. Letters would reach me at Southampton, all summer. Good-by, Mrs. Dupont, I am delighted to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Mrs.--I mean Miss Frieda, I hope you will be so kind as to let me see your pictures, some day. I remember now that Gordon showed me one of them at the winter exhibition. I wanted to buy it, but somebody had already snapped it up, of course, because it was so lovely. No, Mr. Cole, please don't take the trouble." She had shaken hands with my two friends and insisted on kissing the baby, who appreciated the attention by crowing at her. I followed her out in spite of her request. "You must permit me to see you to the door, Miss Van Rossum," I said, "it is the least I can do. I will surely let you know, if I hear anything." She nodded, very pleasantly, and went down the distressing stair-carpet with the ease of her perfect physical training. At the door there was a big brute of a sixty horsepower runabout and a chauffeur, who swiftly cast aside a half-consumed cigarette and stood at attention. She stopped on the stoop and turned to me. "I--I don't think I know any more than when I came," she said, rather haltingly. "There--there wasn't anything wrong, was there, Mr. Cole?" "My dear young lady, I am proud to say that Gordon is incapable of doing anything that would infringe the laws. But he certainly has done an evil thing, for he has treated you very brutally, and I will never forgive him. He has failed to appreciate--to understand. If he has discovered that his heart--that he was incapable of giving you the strongest and most genuine love, it is his misfortune and--I am afraid, perhaps yours, and he did well to go away. But he should have been more considerate, he ought to have explained things in person instead of----" "But you must remember that I was in Florida, Mr. Cole," she interrupted. "Then he should have taken the first train and joined you there. A man has no business to shirk a duty," I said indignantly. "Oh! Mr. Cole! You must remember that Gordon isn't--isn't a man quite like others. He has the quick and impulsive temperament of so many artistic people." "He always pretends to be so cool and to act only after the most mature deliberation," I objected. "True enough, but then, you know, that sort of thing is often rather a pose. I suppose that none of us is quite free from a little pretense, under which the true man or woman shows." "I am glad indeed to hear you take his part," I told her, "and I hope he will do some fine manly things over there and return in his right mind, with his eyes open to--to what he has been so foolish as to----" "I know that he will give the best of himself, Mr. Cole," she put in. "Gordon is a first rate sportsman, and that means a man who will play the game, strongly and honestly, without taking the slightest advantage. And perhaps----" "My dear lady, I know a good woman who burns candles when she wants anything badly, and prays before the Virgin. I shall get her to exert her good offices in our behalf. I'd give anything to know that everything will turn out as I heartily wish it may, for both your sakes. In you, I know that he has found all that a man may wish and long for in the world, and yet has failed to appreciate his good fortune." She put her gloved hand in mine. "Thank you," she said simply. "I--I'll wait, a long time." She went down the steps and entered the machine, sitting before the big wheel, strongly aslant and grooved to give a strong grip. The chauffeur jiggled something, whereat the great beast began to hum. She nodded again to me and started without the slightest jerk. Evidently she drove better than Gordon. She turned the nose of the thing around till the front wheels were an eighth of an inch from the sidewalk, backed again in circular fashion, and swept off towards the avenue. Sixty horses, I reflected, could lie obediently in the hollow of her hand, but just one man, who should have thanked Heaven upon his knees, had squirmed away like an arrant fool. I went up the stairs, slowly, chewing upon the fact that I had given her no inkling of how matters really stood. But, in deference to the feelings of Frances, it had been impossible for me to do so, especially since she was no longer an element in the case. Gordon had given up all hope of her and run away, so that this closed one part of the incident. Then, if I had told Miss Van Rossum of Gordon's proposal to Frances, it would have made her very unhappy and she might possibly have blamed the model. Women, the very best and dearest of them, are sometimes not quite fair to their own sex. Yes, it was a matter that belonged to Frances and Gordon, and I had no right to be a bearer of tales, so that Miss Van Rossum is unaware that Gordon went away for love of another woman. I hope she never hears of it. Should anything happen to him, while driving his ambulance at the front, she will be able to maintain a high regard for his memory. As the months pass on, her feelings may become easier to bear. I wish she could meet and become fond of some fine fellow, who would recognize what a splendid woman she is and adore her ever after. I feel that she deserves it. When I returned upstairs, I found my two friends discussing Miss Van Rossum, together with her nose and complexion and other appurtenances, including her dress. Their criticisms were highly flattering, I remember. Our stout friend soon left, having merely come in for her daily inspection of Baby Paul. "Now, David," said Frances, "I must say that I feel more unhappy than ever over Mr. McGrath's conduct. It was abominable of him to jilt that girl, let alone proposing to me. She's a perfectly lovely woman." "I am disposed to agree with you, Frances. His conduct is inexcusable. At the same time, I cannot blame him for falling in love with you. Any properly constituted man would do that without the slightest difficulty. I myself----" "Please be serious, David," she interrupted. "I was never more serious in my life," I assured her, "but--but tell me how you are getting on with the singing." "I really think I am doing very well," she told me. "Listen, I will sing you a little thing. Baby likes it ever so much." She sat right down to the piano, beginning at once without the slightest hesitation. It was the lullaby from _Mignon_. I remember hearing Plançon sing it once; it is a beautiful thing. Frances didn't put all her force in it, the whole strength of her voice, of course, but so much tender sentiment and such sweet understanding that the melody held me in thrall and made me close my eyes. What a fool I have been ever to have thought that a woman holding such a treasure would perhaps bestow herself, some day, upon an insignificant writer! CHAPTER XIX FRANCES GOES TO THE COUNTRY I am very fond of my room on the top floor of Mrs. Milliken's house, but, as regards privacy, I might nearly as well have lodgings in a corner grocery. I had finally arranged that Frances was to go to a hilly part of New Jersey, near a very pretty lake, and gather health and a coat of tan for herself and Baby Paul. I was to leave with her on the one forty-five, in order to help her on the journey and see her safely installed. The noon hour had struck and the whistles of a few thousand factories were confirming the announcement, when a vision presented itself at my door. It was very prettily clad, with a love of a hat and a most becoming gown, and smiled engagingly. She had fluffy hair and first rate teeth. Also, she immediately developed a slight lisp that did not lack attractiveness. "Mr. Cole!" she exclaimed. "May I come in? I am from the _New York Banner_. I should like to have you tell me all about your novels and your impressions of modern literary activities, and something as to your views upon the war, and----" She was already in the middle of my room, and I could do no otherwise than to advance a chair for her. "Pray take a seat, Miss----" "I am Cordelia." "Cordelia!" "Yes, privately Josie Higgins. I hope that you can give me a photograph of yourself that we can publish. The public is dying to hear all about you. I must interview you or die in the attempt, which would be very inconvenient as I have an appointment to see Gretz at two-thirty, fellow who killed his mother-in-law. Thanks, I will take the chair. It is getting quite warm again, isn't it?" She pulled out a small note book and a business-like pencil from a frivolous handbag, as my heart sank within me. I shared the feelings of a small boy haled before the principal of his school. She looked small and inoffensive, but I knew that pencil of hers to be sharper than the serpent's tooth. Heavens! She was looking at the slouchy slippers I still wore and at the bed, yet undone, since I had told the landlady she might as well have it attended to after my departure. Her eyes wandered swiftly from the inkspot on the carpet to the bundle of collars and shirts Eulalie had deposited on my trunk. She also picked up my fragrant calabash from the desk close at hand and contemplated it, curiously. All this quick as a flash. After this, she scrutinized my countenance, with her head cocked a little to one side, and jotted down something. "That's good," she declared, apparently much gratified. "I think I know what you would say, but you had better tell it yourself. For nothing on earth would I fake an interview, and anyway you look very kind and obliging. Now tell me how you ever happened to think of 'Land o' Love.'" "I'm sure I don't know," I answered truthfully. "Undoubtedly," she acquiesced. "Ideas like that just worm themselves into one's head and one puts them down. But, of course, that won't quite do. Don't you think we had better say that you have long been impressed by the sadness of most lives, in the end, and were anxious to show how, from unpromising beginnings, an existence may turn from dross into refined gold by the exercise of will, of human sympathy, of tolerance of foibles and love for one's fellow man? That will do very nicely!" She was putting down her words with lightning speed. "Now tell me. Did you ever really know a counterpart of Jennie Frisbie?" she asked again. "She has become a sort of classic, you know. Women are weeping with her and love her to distraction. They wonder how a mere man can have so penetrated the inwardness of their sex and painted such a beautiful picture of it at its best." "Don't know that I ever did, my dear young lady," I replied reluctantly. "Of course you didn't. They're not really made that way. For my part, I think that a lot of women are cats," said the famed Cordelia. "But naturally we can't say it in print. Your answer should be that beneath the surface every woman holds the potentialities of a Jennie Frisbie. 'No, I have never known my heroine in person,' said Mr. Cole, looking dreamily out of the window, 'but I have known a thousand of her. She is a composite photograph, the final impression gathered by one who has done his best to obtain definite colors wherewith to paint a type, accurately and truthfully.' Yes, I think that'll do." Her pencil was flying, as I looked at her, aghast. "Miss Cordelia," I said, "you're a very attractive and bewitching young fraud." She showed her pretty teeth, laughing heartily. "I'm not at all a fraud," she disclaimed. "I deliver the goods, at least to my paper, and I never hurt people who are decently civil. How about your views on the Great American Novel?" "It will probably be written by a Frenchman or a Jap," I answered, "for no man can do perfect justice to his own people." "That's not so bad," she approved, "I think I'll put that down." She asked me a few more questions, which I mostly answered with my usual confession of ignorance and which she replied to in her own fashion. "Well, that's a tip-top interview," she declared. "I'm ever so much obliged to you and delighted to have met you. I don't think you look much like one's idea of the writer of that book. I think I will say that your eyes have a youthful look. It will please the women. Why don't you live somewhere else?" "Don't know," I said again, with little candor. "I had better put down that in this bit of old New York you find an outlook more in sympathy with your lovable and homely characters. Wisteria blooming in the backyard," she observed, rising and leaning out of the window. "Geraniums on the sills opposite and an old granny darning socks, her white-capped head bending over her work and framed by the scarlet of the flowers. Neat little touch. Hope you'll like my article. Look for it in the number for Sunday week. My murderer goes in day after to-morrow. He won't keep much longer, people have already stopped sending him flowers. Well, good-by and thank you." I pressed the little hand she laughingly proffered, and she tripped out, meeting Frances in the hallway. "Isn't that a duck of a baby!" she exclaimed, smiling at the mother and running downstairs. "Frances, I am famous," I said. "Sunday after next I'll be in the _Banner_, three times the size of life, in at least three columns. That chit of a girl who just went out is the celebrated Cordelia. She has interviewed me and written down a thousand beautiful things I never said. She's a bright little creature." "She wears nice hats," commented Frances. "I hope she will do justice to you. It is time we went down to lunch, if we are to catch that train. Is your suitcase packed?" "Never thought of it!" I exclaimed. "You go right down and begin. I'll follow in a moment." A half an hour later we were in a taxicab, speeding to the station. Eulalie was with us; I had insisted on her being brought along. How could Frances obtain the full rest she needed, unless some of the details of existence were attended to for her? She had objected strenuously and even threatened to unpack her little trunk and remain in New York, but I successfully bullied her into acceptance by commenting on the alleged peaked look of Baby Paul. Maternal fears, despite the infant's appearance of excellent health, prevailed at last. A man, I discover, needs a firm hand in dealing with the opposite sex. My dear sister had indicated to me a small farm near the lake, where three rooms were to be rented. According to her the cows gave absolutely genuine milk and butter, while the hens laid undeniable eggs. Vegetables grew in profusion, the post office was but a half-mile away and the railway station within twenty minutes' walk. Privacy was also insured by the fact that the big hotel and boarding houses were reasonably far away. Mrs. Gobbins, who bossed the farm and its lord and master, was exceedingly particular as to the occupants of her spare rooms, requiring on their parts qualifications, which appeared to range between the Christian virtues and appetites that would not crave too strongly for city fleshpots. I was agreeably disappointed by the place. The lake was within a short walk; centenarian elms grew at the sides of the wide main street of the village close at hand; the hills were clad in tender greens, only streaked here and there by the trunks of blight-killed chestnuts. On the road a pair of bluebirds had flitted in front of our chariot, like two racing sapphires, and swallows perched on the telephone wires, twittering. Holstein cows in a pasture envisaged us with a melancholy air, deeming us harbingers of the summering crowd that would compel them to work overtime to supply the dairies. But for the snarling of a couple of dogs having a misunderstanding, far away, the atmosphere was one of peace. Also, we passed a small forge where the blacksmith paused in the shoeing of a sleepy and spavined steed, the better to gaze at us. He nodded to our driver and resumed his occupation, unhurried. "This, Frances, holds some advantage over Washington Square as a place wherein to enjoy ease with dignity," I commented. "View the pretty house at the turning of the road. One side is nearly smothered in climbing vines and the picket fence has the silvery look of ancient split chestnut. The cherry trees, I should judge, are ready to awaken the ambitions of youthful climbers. I hope your domicile will prove half as pretty." She assented, smilingly, and assured Baby Paul, sleeping in her arms, that he would be very happy and comfy and grow fat. At this moment our Jehu stopped before the very house I had pointed out and turned the horse's head into a grassy driveway. Then he drove on by the side of the house and swept, at a mile and a half an hour, in front of the back door. A large and beaming mongrel rose on the small porch, wagging a remnant of tail. Chickens had been fleeing before us, suspecting the purity of our intentions in regard to broilers, and three fat ducks waddled off, greatly disturbed. An ancient turkey-cock uplifted his fan and gobbled a protest, but Mrs. Gobbins appeared, smiling and clad in highly respectable black, relieved by a little white at her neck. "Welcome, ma'am," she said. "Just hand me that there baby and then ye can get out handy. Look out for that dust on the buggy wheels. That's right! Howdy, Mr. Cole, I'm glad to see ye. I can see you favor your sister some, not but what she's a good lookin' woman. When she wrote as 'twas her brother wanted to come I knew ye'd be all right. Walk in." We trooped into the kitchen, neat as a pin, whereat Eulalie smiled in approval, and were shown upstairs. A large room facing the north was papered with a design of roses about the size of prize cabbages. The windows were shaded by a couple of the big cherry trees. "In a few days you will be able to pick ripe fruit by merely putting your hand out," I told Frances. "Yes," Mrs. Gobbins informed us. "Your sister's two boys was always at them and filled theirselves so full they couldn't hardly eat no decent victuals, let alone havin' stomach ache. This here small room will do for the other lady and yours is over on the other side of the house, sir." My own residence was also spick and span, and I decided that we had fallen into an oasis of delight. A few minutes sufficed me to repair the damage done by the journey, and I went downstairs. The front door was now open. To one side of it there was a dining-room adorned with chromos advertising gigantic vegetables and fruit, apparently imported from the Promised Land. Opposite this was a parlor where bottle-green plush reigned in unsunned violence of hue and aggressive gilt frames surrounded works of art of impetuous tints. On going out I was met by the dog, who accepted my advances with the greatest urbanity. Towser had still a touching faith in human nature and deemed me inoffensive and fully competent to scratch the back of his head. Presently, arrived an elderly gentleman in blue jeans, his chin ornamented with whisker and his mouth with a corncob pipe. "How be ye?" he asked. "Gettin' real hot and the corn's comin' up fine. Wonderful year for strawberries an' sparrer-grass. How's things in the city?" He sat down on the steps of the veranda, inviting me to do the same, with a civil wave of his pipestem, and we entered into pleasant converse, until the voice of his mate shrilly commanded him to arise and wash his hands and shed the overalls, whereat he hastily deserted me. Came a supper at which I was able to comment agreeably on the cream served with the berries, whereat Mr. Gobbins gave out dark hints of watery malefactions on the part of some of the keepers of boarding houses in the neighborhood. There was cold pork, usually potent to bring me nightmares, and an obese pie to be washed down with pale tea. Under my breath I deplored the luck that had made me forget to bring digestive tablets and, spurred by unusual appetite, I gorged myself. The evening was a short one, spent on the porch where I lolled in a hammock, while Frances rocked in a big chair. There was no need to talk, for it was all very new and beautiful. The katydids and tree-frogs took charge of the conversation for us. After a time Eulalie joined us, sitting modestly on the steps. With much genuine sentiment she spoke of the cabbages of her own land and of cows she had once cherished. "It is like the heaven of the _Bon Dieu_ to smell these things again," she informed us, and I decided that she had spoken a great and splendid truth. We retired early. In my own little room, with the oil-lamp burning, I commented sadly on the fact that it was only half past nine, the hour at which my busy life commonly begins. Upon the bed I looked hopelessly; it was inviting enough, but, at this time of day, about as attractive as plum-pudding for breakfast. For an hour I read a magazine; the katydids were still clamoring softly and, in the distance, in the direction of the lake, I heard the plaintive notes of whippoorwills. Then I caught myself in a blessed yawn and went to bed. But a few moments seemed to have gone by, when I awoke in a room flooded with sunshine and penetrated by a myriad of joyful sounds coming from the Noah's Ark of the farm. Looking out of the window I was shamed by the sight of Eulalie who, with Baby Paul in her arms, strolled about the kitchen garden, evidently lost in rapture at the sight of leeks and radishes. I hurried my dressing, donning a pair of white flannel trousers I had bought for the sake of bestowing upon myself some atmosphere of the country, and found Frances sitting in the hammock with Towser's big, nondescript head in her lap. "I hope you slept ever so well," she told me, looking very radiant and putting out her hand. "And, David, I'm so wonderfully happy. Look at the beautiful lake! We will have to go over there after breakfast, and, perhaps, you can row in a boat, and we will take Eulalie and Baby with us. Or perhaps you can go fishing, or may be you would rather stay quietly here and have a nice long rest. And just listen to that wood-thrush over there. She's up in the cherry tree; or perhaps it's a he, and probably there's a nest somewhere with dear little fellows just hatched out. Isn't it lovely?" My enthusiasm was just as great as her own. There seemed to be altogether too many beautiful things to do, and to look at, and to allow to soak into one, like some penetrating water from the fountain of youth. "I'm so glad you like it, Frances," I told her. And so we spent a heavenly day, and, in the morning, I took the early train and went back to the city, Frances looking rather regretfully at me. But I had decided that I must not remain there; it would not do. One evening after another, of moonlit glory, of whispering winds bearing fragrance and delight, of nearness to this wonderful woman with the heart of a child and the beauty of a goddess, endowed with that voice sounding like melodies from on high, must surely break down my courage. How could I stand it day after day? No, I intended to return for weekends, propped up by new resolve to be silent. A chill would come over me at the idea of suddenly blurting out my love to her and having her look at me as she once gazed on Gordon, perhaps even more sorrowfully, because I think I have become a more valued friend. I explained to her that I had some most important work to do and imagined all sorts of meetings with publishers. Also a moving-picture gentleman had thrown out dark hints. The atmosphere of the blazing city, I told her, was utterly needed for my new book. All she had to do was to be very patient, grow strong and brown, watch Baby Paul thrive, and await my coming on Saturday afternoons. In the meanwhile I would send her books and magazines, besides a button hook she had forgotten, and a package of the tea we were partial to, and--and a week was an exceedingly short space of time. So I said good-by and waved my hand at the turning in the road, and returned to the big city, which I could, without much regret, have seen reduced to the condition of Sodom and Gomorrha, since it would have given me a good excuse to take the next train back. Upon entering my room, I decided that it was a beastly hole. So hateful did it seem that I strolled off into the opposite one. It seemed like a rather sneaking and underhanded thing to do and, I dare say, I had some of the feelings of a burglar. My old piano was there, upon which she played softly and sang exercises that were perfectly beautiful, and songs beyond compare. The very atmosphere of her was still in the place and things of hers were yet on the dressing table, including the button hook, which I pocketed. They made me think of saintly relics to be worshipped. Baby Paul's crib appealed to me. She had so often bent over it, wistfully, as I watched her, admiring the wondrous curve of her neck, the sunlit glory of her hair. Mrs. Milliken suddenly caught me there, and I felt a sense of heat in my cheeks. "Yes," she said, "I'll give it a thorough cleaning. It needs it real bad. And next week I'll put new paper on the walls and have the carpet took up and beaten. I was wishin' you'd stay away long enough so I could do the same to yours. I've known all my life men are mussy, but that room of yours is the limit, Mr. Cole, all littered up with paper so a body don't dare touch anything." I made no answer. I suppose that house cleaning is a necessary evil but her contemplated invasion of Frances's room seems to me like the desecration of a shrine. It should be locked up and penetrated only by people soft of foot and low of voice. CHAPTER XX RICHETTI IS PLEASED Goodness only knows how many pages I blackened with the experiences of this short summer, but I have thrown them away, in small pieces. They were too introspective; mere impressions of one week after another, when I would take the train and join Frances again, under self-suggested and hypocritical pleas. My wisdom was needed to see to it that Baby Paul grew and thrived. His teething necessitated my worrying Dr. Porter half to death as to the possibilities of such portentous happenings. It was also indispensable that I should accurately ascertain the mother's condition of health and listen to Eulalie's observations. In other words, I pretended that I was a very important person. But in the heart of me, I knew myself to be like some drug-fiend, only permitted to indulge his destructive habit once a week. The work I turned out of nights, I am afraid, was worth little and will have to be subjected to plentiful alterations. In the day I wandered over the superheated city and occasionally took a boat for a lonely excursion over the Bay, for the sake of fresh air and unneeded rest. But from the Monday morning to Saturday afternoon the fever was always on me to hasten back, to drift with Frances over the little lake, to stroll with her in the woodland roads or among the fields, to steep myself in the atmosphere she radiated, of sweetest womanhood, of tenderness she displayed only to Baby Paul, but some of which was reflected on me. The mere speaking voice of her, telling me of rumbling bull-frogs, of a terrible little garter-snake beheld on the main road, of a tiny calf which, she feared, was destined to go the way of all veal, was melody and charm and delight. Gordon once told me that a man and a woman cannot be true friends long. There is no middle ground, he explained, it must be either more or less. But I would meet her on the road on the days of my arrival. She would walk all but the last quarter mile, that ran along a sun-beaten lane surfaced with red-hot dust, and wait for me beside a little watering trough usually tenanted by a beady-eyed froglet, which she counted among her friends. From afar she would wave her hand, her face joyous and welcoming, and would insist on knowing at once the contents of the packages I was always laden with. On our way to the farm she would faithfully recount the incidents of the past week, and finally we would sit down on the little porch and thirty-six hours of heavenliness would begin. And always, she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend which Gordon deemed an impossibility, and I firmly endeavored to follow her lead. Yes, there were evenings of starlight, afternoons among the oaks and chestnuts of the hillsides where we sat on ground heavily carpeted with last year's leaves and moss of silvery green, early mornings by the side of the lake under the caress of the rising breeze, and ever I managed to padlock my heart, to control the shakiness of my voice, to laugh out gaily as if the world's beauty could not possibly leave room in a man's soul for hopeless longing. And then back to the city again! Frances had often urged me to stay a little longer; it would do me so much good. She sometimes thought I looked tired, but I refused with the obstinacy of the weak. She argued that I was utterly master of my time and, one day, with a trace of woman's injustice, said that thirty-six hours of her company was all that I could stand. I remember feeling a terrific wave of heat coming to my brow. Never was I nearer to an indignant protest to be followed by the blurting of the whole truth, of nothing but the truth, to the effect that I loved her madly, wildly, and could have crushed her in my arms till she cried for mercy. But I laughed, stupidly, with my finger-nails digging into the palms of my hands and called her attention to a reticulated pickerel poised beneath some lily-pads, motionless, watchful, gavial-snouted and yet graceful, ready to convert itself into a flashing death for other fishes. I pointed to gossamer-winged dragon-flies, which used to frighten her, till I declared them to be friendly devourers of mosquitoes, and both of us remained breathless when a golden oriole perched on some hazel bushes near at hand, for a moment's display of its gaudiness. She told me of the wood-thrush we had seen on our arrival, and how she had found the nest with the dainty blue eggs, and how one day these had been converted into great big little mouths ever clamoring for a distracted mother who could never find food enough. "But they grew up all right and took lessons in flying and, by this time, are far away, and the little nest is abandoned," she informed me. "I hope they will all come back another year." And thus a moment of terrible danger passed. The peril was perhaps averted by the saving grace of that pickerel. I trembled to think over what might have happened. She would have looked at me, astonished and alarmed, with those big, beautiful eyes shining, and she would have sorrowfully shaken her head, and--I could never have returned again--and I would have been compelled to leave Mrs. Milliken's, and the whole beautiful, useless dream would have been ended because Gordon is right, as far as I am concerned. Yet I can remain a friend to Frances! Please God, I may remain one all my life and never reveal myself to her! But my friendship will never be a perfectly genuine one since, underlying it, there will always be the quivering of a passion held in gyves and suffering, as suffers some gold and ruby-winged butterfly pinned to a card and denied the mercy of a drop of chloroform. I had received another letter from Gordon, telegraphic in brevity, and sent it to Miss Van Rossum. He was well, having a most wonderful and heartrending experience. He had met some stunning fellows. The taking of awful chances was a daily occurrence, with the little ambulances darting among the wounded, sometimes under shell-fire. He asked me to drop into his studio, from time to time. He had discharged the Jap, but still kept the place. It was looked after by an elderly woman he had installed there, who was supposed to sweep and dust and let some air and light into the studio. I was to see that she kept at it and guarded his accumulated rubbish. So, of course, I went there, and the ancient party looked at me suspiciously, till I identified myself. Then she gave me the freedom of the place and I hunted high and low, till, finally, I discovered the "Mother and Child" hidden in a large closet and brought it out. I placed it on the easel and glared at it till it grew dark. The wonder of that picture! Great Heavens! I remembered how I had once accused Gordon of having been imaginative in his rendering of the model's beauty. At that time my vision must have been coarse and untrained. His genius had at once seized upon her glory, whereas I had dully and slowly spelled it out. But now my eyes were open! It was Frances herself, it was truth, it was the greatness of motherhood revealed, it was the charm and sweetness of the woman who exalts and uplifts, it was art _grandiose_ held beautifully in bond by the eternal verity. I saw that some bright gobbets of flashing paint, that had surprised me at first, were amazing touches of genius. He had played with colors as a Paderewski plays with notes, to the ultimate rendering of a noble and profound reality, of poetry made tangible and clear, of ringing harmony expressing true heartbeats. And now my friend Pygmalion had been spurned by his statue come to life and was picking up shattered heroes, that he might forget. I can honestly say that the ancient dame, who saw to what Gordon was pleased to call his rubbish, was faithfully watched. I would come in at odd times, when the spirit moved me, and sit for hours before the picture. It gave me inspiration when the fount of my ideas had utterly dried up, and I would return home, able to write a few good pages. What if it was but one more way of indulging the drugging of my soul! Like other fiends I was held fast. Porter has told me that the victims of morphia no longer take pleasure in their vice. The following of it, to them, means but the relief of suffering, and there is no joy in it. In this respect I stood far above the level of the poor beings fallen thus low, for the painted Frances was a perennial delight, as her own living beauty was utter happiness for some hours. The reaction only took place when I was alone in my room, and, even there, I often indulged in dreams and visions as full of charm as they were unreal. Then, one fine day, came a letter from Signor Richetti, stating that he would return upon a certain date and resume his teaching. I took it to Frances, who read it, happily. "I am so glad, Dave," she told me. "This has been the most lovely summer one could imagine, and Baby Paul is wonderfully well. I hope the New York milk will agree with him. I am so splendidly strong and well that I think I shall again make rapid progress. I am afraid I must have lost a great deal during this long idle time. Dave! Dave! I'm going to work so hard! I know I shall be able to sing again, and--and I shall owe it all to you!" So we had, again, thirty-six hours, sadly lessened by the two nights of sleep, and we conscientiously said good-by to the cows and calves, and to such chickens as we had not devoured, and to the lake and the woods and the twittering swallows and the sparrows on the dusty road. Eulalie had grown stout and burned to an Indian hue. She kissed Mrs. Gobbins on both cheeks and shed a tear or two. I stopped the carriage, that conveyed us to the station, in front of the blacksmith's shop. We had become friends, and he wished us a pleasant journey and a happy return next year. Near the station, in the narrow road, we had to turn aside, nearly into the ditch, to allow the passing of a large automobile. In its driver I recognized Mr. O'Flaherty, who owned the garage and occupied half of the second floor. He waved a hand at me and grinned, winking, leaving me to reflect on the thoroughly excusable nature of certain murders. His big car was full of sporty-looking youths and flashily dressed women. I am happy to say that Frances never looked his way. Then we went on board the train and the beautiful country began to slip by us, and a certain element of sadness came at the idea of leaving it, though it was comforting to think that now I should see Frances every day. But I should sit on the meagerly upholstered chairs instead of occupying the veranda's rocker or the moss-strewn boulders on the hills. The freedom of the country would be gone, and its inspiration and delight. "Look!" said Frances to me, suddenly. "There's a woman on the third seat, on the other side of the aisle, who's reading 'Land o' Love.'" "After all these months," I commented. "People ought to read it forever, Dave," she assured me, "and I think they will. I'm so proud of you!" "Well, my publishers tell me the book is flowing out as fast as ever. Jamieson says it will sell a hundred and fifty thousand," I told her. "You see that I am now in Easy Street and can afford all the extravagances I care to indulge in." "Then, David, you ought to buy yourself a new fall suit," said Frances, "and you need more neckties. I shall get some for you." All women want to buy men's neckties for them. I was not afraid, feeling sure that Frances would show unquestionable taste. How she would care for a man she loved! A taxi rattled us up to Mrs. Milliken's door, and the room opposite mine was resplendent in new paper, and the carpet much renovated, and the piano had been rubbed over with something that gave the ancient mahogany a fine polish. Frances left Baby Paul with Eulalie and came into my den. "It's so good to be back, Dave," she asserted. "This room is all saturated with the atmosphere of you and even the typewriter looks like an old friend. And here's your dirty old calabash and just the same disorder on your desk and the week's washing on the bed. I'm glad Eulalie's sister has been attending to it. Oh! It's fine to be home again!" So she went back to her room, and I lit the calabash. I had been afraid that, after the country, this top floor would look very dismal and be depressing to her. But she was looking positively joyful. A minute later Frieda invaded the premises, for I had warned her of our arrival. She shrieked with admiration at the sight of the baby and commented at length on the color of Frances's cheeks. Eulalie joined in the cackling, and happiness reigned. We celebrated the evening at Camus. After this the leaves soon began to drop in the big square, and I ordered the new suit and invested in a few bonds, like a bloated millionaire, and put them in a little safe at the bank, which could only be penetrated after running the gauntlet of a half a dozen uniformed and suspicious guardians, before whom I felt like an equivocal character. Frances returned to Richetti and came back the first time with a glowing account of all that he had said. It appeared that she had hardly lost anything and had gained in depth of breathing and power of expression. The technique--ah! _Per Bacco!_ She was a natural born singer! She had little need to learn! The voice was in her like those things in Pandora's box and only demanded to fly out. Her singing was the _bel canto_. Three months more of practice was all that was needed. After the first of the year she would sing in the great concert of his pupils. It would be an event! People would discover her again. The cornucopia of Abundance would open, wide-lipped, and success would flow from it! "And I shall owe it all to you and Frieda, Dave," she said. "But I can't really believe that it will come true. Still, I don't know. Sit down and listen to this." She opened the piano and sang, and at first my heart sank within me because she was so great compared to my insignificance. Then it became exalted because of the magnificence of her singing, which thrilled me. They were not great locust-cries of _bravura_, nor amazing gymnastics with difficult scales, that made me quiver. Just a sweet old melody heard a thousand times, thrummed by every piano, but now coming with such perfection of tone and such a quality of exquisiteness that I felt a thousand times more uplifted than when I had stood before Gordon's wonderful portrait of her. When she finished, she turned a little on the revolving stool and looked at me, her head a little inclined to one side, her lips smiling at me, for she could not but know how splendidly she had sung. "Well, Dave," she asked, "are you pleased?" "My dear Frances," I answered, "a king of Bavaria had operas performed for himself alone, and, likewise, I have had a treat that might have enraptured thousands. I am a monarch basking in luxury. No, after all I am the same old Dave who has found a treasure by the wayside and is gloating over it. That's what I'm doing. If I knew anything about music, I might, perhaps, tell you what it is that I find to admire in your singing, but I can only say I am impressed by something that leaves me wondering and gives me a keen delight I cannot put in words." "I'm so glad, Dave!" she exclaimed. "I shall always sing to you as much as you like. I am thankful to be able to give you pleasure." Pleasure, forsooth! She can give me everything a man longs for in the world! Sweetness, beauty, melody are all in her power of bestowal! But I should be thankful for her affection and grateful for my privileges as a trusted friend. May I never by any folly forfeit them! And so the winter came again, and the amenities of the holidays and some joyous little dinners with Frieda. I went one day to call on Richetti, and the _maestro_ threw himself upon me and clasped me in his arms. "_Amico carissimo!_ It is a delight to see you! Everywhere I hear of you as an author _pregiatissimo_, but you go not out into the world where thousands are dying to know you! About _la signora_! What shall I say! It was a day to be marked with a white stone when you brought her to me. We are giving back to the world a pearl of great price. She has the voice, _amico mio_, and she has the natural method! But more than all else her voice is _simpatica_, it throbs and thrills, it enlists love and affection and the desire to listen forever. At her feet the world will kneel some day. She will be mentioned in the same breath as our greatest _prime donne_. In three weeks I give my concert. Every one will be there. I have given hints to many, made much mystery. She will come out in all her beauty, dressed in a very fine gown, the last on the programme, so that she will be a revelation. People will go away and clamor at her greatness. I am Richetti! I know what I speak of!" In his enthusiasm he slapped me severely on the back, and I hurried home. "Frances!" I exclaimed, breathlessly. "Richetti is getting crazy about you. He bubbles over with enthusiasm. Moreover, Jamieson says he is a wise old guy. The _maestro_ says you must have a very fine gown to wear at the concert. Where is the gown?" She cast her eyes down at the floor. "I--I suppose I will manage to----" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I told her, severely. "It is a most important matter which we have inexcusably neglected. Come out with me at once and we will buy one." "Oh, no, Dave, I was thinking that I have a very nice white lace gown I brought from Paris when I first came over, which could----" "You have no business to think such things. Who is that coming up the stairs? Hello, always on hand when you are most needed, Frieda. I want you to go at once with Frances to the most expensive shop on Fifth Avenue and buy her a concert gown. Here are a hundred dollars." "That would buy two sleeves and maybe a few flounces," said Frieda, quietly. "Here's a hundred more which you can leave on deposit. I will see to the balance. Not a word, Frances. Remember that it must be a very fine gown. Richetti says so, I didn't suggest it to him. He knows what's needed. You can pay me back when you are making thousands. Don't argue, but go at once!" "You're a nasty tempered old bully," Frieda informed me, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. "Good!" I exclaimed. "You're always saying that I don't assert myself enough. Thank goodness, I'm getting cured of that." So, presently, they went away and I was left alone. Some letters were on my desk. One of them was from Gordon and I seized it eagerly. It read as follows: "_Dear old boy_: "As you suggested in your last letters I've had enquiries made at the war department. Paul Dupont of the 30th dragoons, a violinist by profession and a reservist called from New York, aged 31, was killed at the battle of the Marne. I thought I'd find out about his old people, if I could. Just heard they abandoned their place before it was destroyed and are living with a daughter near Suresnes. I sent them a bit of money, telling them it came from their daughter-in-law. Thought it might please Madame Dupont, but don't tell her. Am still driving one of those gasolene wheelbarrows. We're seeing some hard times. I sometimes feel awfully sorry at what happened. S. was a fine girl, and I a fool. Glad to hear that 'Land o' Love' is making a killing. "Ever your old pal, "GORDON." I was glad enough, in a melancholy way, to receive this piece of news. Frances, while never doubting that her husband was dead, has never had any positive assurance of the fact. I'll not mention it just now, for it wouldn't do to awaken her memories before the concert. Time has reconciled her a little to her loss, I think, and it would be a shame to disturb her. Well, there can be no doubt about it. She is entirely free. It is not possible that such beauty and sweetness as hers shall nevermore know love. This concert surely means the beginning of a separation which must come sooner or later. Madame Francesca, as she will be called, can no longer keep on living in this frittering brownstone relic of better days. Her singing will probably take her away from us. There may be concerts and even operatic engagements, who knows? And I shall be left here with the old calabash and my rickety typewriter. Ye Gods! What an outlook! I wonder whether it would not be wise for me to go to Fiji or Yokohama or the Aleutian Islands? I shall get the horrors here all alone. I'm too clumsy for them ever to take me as an ambulance driver in France, but, perhaps, they would let me serve as an orderly in the hospitals. I'll have to think of it! CHAPTER XXI THE CONCERT And so the short weeks went by and the fateful evening came. Frieda had spent the whole afternoon with Frances. The gown, it appeared, had come in plenty of time. My formal orders had, of course, been disobeyed, for women, while they often bow gracefully to a mere man's edicts, always go off and do as they jolly well please. In a sidestreet, not more than a block and a half from the Avenue, our stout friend had unearthed a purveyor of feminine adornment who, she explained to me, was a positive worker of spells when it came to dressing a woman. Also, she was moderate in her prices. The gown cost one hundred and sixty-five dollars and the amount of change Frieda cascaded in my lap made me feel as if I owned a bank. I expressed disbelief in the miraculous dressmaker and made somber prophecies as to the outcome, all of which she treated with contempt. At six o'clock they went off to her flat, where she had prepared the light refection that would insure prompt digestion and easy breathing. I was instructed to dine where I pleased. At seven thirty-five came a knock at my door. It was Frieda. "Dave," she said, "if you're having trouble with that white tie, we'll fix it for you in a minute. Meanwhile, you're permitted to come in the other room. She's got the dress on, I hooked it myself and did her hair." I followed her, eagerly. Both gaslights were flaming brightly. Eulalie was circling around Frances, totally incapacitated by admiration. The back was turned to me and the arms raised as she gave some mysterious touch to the waves above her temples, but she turned at once and stood before me, happily, with arms now held down and palms turned towards me, in an attitude of graceful abandonment. "Here's your gown, Dave," she said. "From head to foot you are responsible, slippers and all." I refuse to go to Frieda for a description of it. I care nothing about displaying my ignorance and will say at once that I have not the slightest idea of what the materials were. All I know is that she looked like beauty and grace incarnate. The lily might be no better for the gilding, but it displayed her charm to the full. The beautiful arms were bare and the fair neck modestly displayed. "Let me rub my eyes," I said, "it is another dream come to me." "_Elle est belle comme un amour!_" clamored Eulalie. She was indeed beautiful as a love, as the most splendid, honest, faithful love ever born in a human heart. And then she came to me and put up her hands and seized upon my recalcitrant tie and gave it a twist and a turn, smiling at me the while. "You look ever so well, David," she told me. "You need take so little trouble to make yourself look as young in body as you are in heart. You'll be but forty-two next birthday and yet seem to delight in pretending you're such an old fellow. Please stay young, Dave, for the sake of all who love you." Yes, there was a bit of moisture in her eyes as she spoke. She was so near me that I was conscious of her fragrance; I felt that I was within the aura of her sweetness, and my heart was thumping. But she turned away again, after one more reassured glance at my tie. She began to draw on a long pair of white gloves, as I went back to my room for a few sprays of lily of the valley I had procured for her, which she pinned to her waist. Then she sat down in a chair that looked poorly fitted to bear so charming a burden. "I needn't be there before nine, David," she told me, "and so there isn't the slightest hurry. Frieda is going home to put on her best and we'll stop for her in the cab." So the painter of goddesses and nymphs waddled off, hurriedly, and clattered down the stairs. Frances leaned over Baby Paul's crib, for the longest time, after which she gave Eulalie ever so many instructions as to her charge, while I contemplated her, my nerves all aquiver with thoughts of the coming ordeal. "You--you look ever so calm, Frances," I told her. "Does--doesn't the idea of standing up there and singing to all those people make you nervous?" "Not a bit, Dave," she answered, gaily. "But if a little bit of stage fright should come I shall look at you and pretend to myself that I'm just singing for you, and then everything will be all right. It will seem as if we were alone here, and the others won't matter. I feel like singing this very minute and giving you a tiny concert of your own, but it might waken Baby." She was undeniably happy. With the poor, little, husky voice she had felt a cripple, but the restored organ had changed her in everything but beauty and kindness. She was confident now; the world was opening to her again. She would be able to keep Baby Paul from all suffering such as poverty might have brought, and it gave her an outlook upon the future, wider and more secure. "I do hope I shall succeed," she said again. "I never had dreamed that a woman could accept all that I have taken from you, Dave. If this means that I shall have gained my independence, I shall be happy indeed, but I will always remember that the time I leaned upon you was made sweet and hopeful by your consideration and friendship. Come, David, it is time to go, I think. I feel that when I return, this evening, I may be able to express a little of what I owe you, and, then, thank God on my bended knees." "I shall be so proud to watch the dawning of your success and happiness," I told her, with a catch in my throat. "Yes, success would be splendid, Dave, but the happiness has been coming a long time. You brought me some of it in your pockets all last summer and gave it to me every week. Oh! Dave! God bless you!" She put out her hand to me and looked deeply in my eyes. Her heart was very full, I know, but I felt that it was the gratitude a woman could give to a beloved brother. And so we went away, with a last kiss blown at Baby Paul and a thousand good wishes from Eulalie. The taxi I had ordered was at the door and drove first to Dr. Porter's, and then to Frieda's, who was waiting for us, a very shapeless bundle done up in an ample and all-concealing cloak. I was thankful that her head was bare, having dreaded some abomination in the way of a hat. "Oof!" she exclaimed. "My gown's horribly tight. Had to have the janitress come up to hook it in the back and I hope nothing gives way. We're an awfully swell lot this evening. First thing you know they'll be talking about us in the papers, under the heading of Society News." She maintained an endless chatter, in which I discovered much method. It was evidently her purpose to keep Frances from getting nervous. Finally, we reached the concert hall, in which people were still crowding. Richetti's circle of acquaintances is a vast and distinguished one and his concerts, few and far between, are events in the musical world. Frances and Frieda stood on the sidewalk, while I was paying the driver. "We are going in by another entrance, David," she told me. "You go and find your seats and possess your souls in patience. You will hear some excellent music. When I come on, don't make too much noise because it might distract my attention." I gave her my hand, which she pressed in a strong and nervous clasp that lasted for a fraction of a second, and then the two disappeared among the many people surging towards the doors. For some minutes Porter and I stood at the back of the hall, as did many others, in order not to interrupt a duet between basso and soprano, most creditable to two young people, who retired with many bows and much approval from the audience. The young lady was quite collected and smiling, but the heavy-chested youth was blushing and evidently glad to have passed through the ordeal. Women, I think, average greater courage than men. In the interval before the next number we sought our places and I had but slipped my hat in the grooves beneath my seat when my nearest neighbor, a very charming young person, addressed me at once, and I recognized in her the little lady who had called me an old fogy at the Van Rossums. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Lambley," she said, and turned to a short and wide-shouldered youth who appeared to have taken the place of the six-footer. "Freddy dear, I want to introduce Professor Lambley, who has written a great essay on Dionysius the Areopagite." The young man pushed an able hand towards me and grasped mine. "How jolly!" he exclaimed. "Something to do with aviation, isn't it? I'm expecting to take it up soon." "How silly you are, Freddy," the young woman reproved him, "it's an awfully scientific thing." "Oh! Well, then, that lets me out," acknowledged Freddy, conscientiously, "but I think a lot of the fellows who work out those affairs. Knew a chap who was drowned at Montauk last summer, who was keen on bees and bugs. Queer Johnnie!" Our scientific and literary symposium ceased abruptly. The accompanist came in and sat at the piano, being immediately followed by a young lady I remembered seeing in Richetti's rooms. My little neighbor applauded, frantically, as did most of the audience. "Her father's worth two millions," she informed me, "and she thinks her voice is the biggest ever. Her hair doesn't naturally wave that way and she's got too much rouge on. Richetti didn't want her to go on yet, but she made her father insist." My own knowledge of the divine art of singing, as I have confessed a thousand times, amounts to little or nothing, but I found something pleasurable in listening to the plutocratic contralto. She was by no means embarrassed and began the "Angelic Voice" from _Gioconda_ in a most business-like fashion, finishing amid a salvo of applause. "There! I've gone and split my glove," said the young lady beside me, "but I just had to do it. I'm going to their house-party next week and the place is perfectly gorgeous." Next, as an encore, came "He shall feed His flocks" from the _Messiah_, which received similar encomiums and the singer retired, smothered in flowers and followed by uproarious approval. "Funny she should have selected that," came the voice near me, "seeing that her father made all his money in wool." In rapid succession came several other singers, all of whom appeared to impress the audience favorably. My heart was beginning to thump again in my breast, for the moment was approaching and I suffered from a vicarious stage-fright that could have been no greater had I myself been sentenced to appear upon the stage. It may be that the hall was overheated; at any rate I had to pass my handkerchief a number of times over my forehead, and my high collar began to choke me. I was grasping Porter's arm, convulsively, when, all of a sudden, before I could realize that the moment had come, she stood before the footlights, bowing before the moderate clapping of hands, and Richetti himself sat at the piano. "Great Scott!" said the wide-shouldered young man, "ain't she a stunner!" His companion replied something, but I did not listen. Richetti was playing a few preliminary bars of the melody. I saw her eyes moving confidently over the orchestra seats and thought she recognized us with a nearly imperceptible accentuation of her smile. She was holding the sheets of music before her, but in them I could not detect the slightest trace of tremor. Then, her gaze was uplifted a little and the song began, while all sense of fear left me and I breathed easily, leaning forward eagerly while each note entered my soul. It was Mendelssohn's "On Wings of Song." It seemed to me that the silence urbanely granted to the other singers became more profound. The audience was surely holding its breath. Not a stir of programmes sounded. Faces were no longer expressing tolerant civility, for they had become intent and fervent. Something like the awed respect of a great churchly crowd filled the hall and was maintained till the very last note, after which came a very storm of applause, delirious, impulsive, unrestrained for the longest time, while she bowed again and again, and Richetti stood up beside her for his share of the triumph. And after this she gave us "Chantez, Riez" of Gounod, and the gorgeous swing of it was uplifting, and the wonderful tone lent it greatness and the lilt of it a true significance of the joy of living. As a further encore she sang Rossini's "Stabat Mater." Her voice broke into the passion of grief of the mother bereft, in the grandeur of the hope eternal, and the people were hushed, breathless, conquered. At last she was allowed to leave the stage, with Richetti's hand held in her own. The man was beaming, delighted. "Come with me," I cried to Porter. "We are to be allowed back of the stage. She's expecting us. Did you see Richetti's look of pride? You're far more responsible for this result than he, bless your heart! Come along." And so we made our way to a large room at the back of the hall. It was much crowded with women in gorgeous dresses and men among whom I recognized Bartolo Cenci of the Metropolitan and Colonel Duff, the great impresario of con-certs and lecture tours, and the shrewd features of FitzMaurice the musical critic of the _Banner_, small, hawk-eyed and of bustling manner. In a corner, with Frieda at her side, stood Frances, with a little court surrounding her. Richetti, a few paces away, was talking volubly with men, who were probably of the Press. We went to the new diva, who did not await our coming, but stepped towards us, with both hands extended. "I'll tell you later all that I feel, Dave," she half whispered to me. "Oh! Dr. Porter, dear friend, I am so glad that you have been able to see the results of your work. Come with me!" She took him by the arm and led him to Richetti. "Professor, I want to present Dr. Porter. I could not sing a note, and he worked marvels upon me; gave me a new throat, I think, and a better one than ever." Upon this, the _maestro_ nearly fell on Porter's neck and wept, calling him a savior and a performer of miracles, after which he insisted on introducing him to a number of the eager gatherers of information and to Bartolo Cenci, who wrote down his address on his cuff. Our good little Porter was nearly overwhelmed. Finally a number of us were haled off to Richetti's rooms where a great table was set with flasks of _Chianti_ and a huge Milanese _risotto_, and it was nearly two o'clock before we packed ourselves in a taxi, feeling as if such a superfluous thing as sleep could be put off till the Greek Kalends. Frieda refused to be dropped off at her flat. Porter was also compelled to come to the top of the little brownstone house. We did our best to be quiet in going up, and I hope we awoke no honest sleepers. They crowded into my room, Frances leaving us to see that Baby Paul was thriving. She returned on tiptoe. "Eulalie is snoring on the sofa," she announced, "and Baby is sleeping like an angel." So we remained there for an hour, at least, and Frieda told us how Colonel Duff had rushed up to ask about Frances's plans for the rest of the winter, and Cenci had inquired, most pointedly, whether she already had an engagement for next season and what operas she had studied, to which she had replied that her arrangements were in Richetti's hands, whereupon they had assaulted the _maestro_ and nearly torn him limb from limb in their eagerness to engage her. "The proudest man in the world, some day," said Frieda, "will be Baby Paul. He will be going about boasting that Madame Francesca is his mother, and people will love him for her sake." Then Frances clasped as much of Frieda's form as she could possibly hold in her arms, and kissed her, telling her that she was saying a lot of nonsense, and finally our stout friend went away under Porter's guidance, who had promised to see her home, and Frances and I were left alone on the landing. Here, a little yellow gas-jet was flickering, very small and poor, and the balustrade upon which I leaned gave a crackling groan. We heard the closing of the front door and turned to one another. Again her hand was put forth and I took it and raised it to my lips. When I lifted my head I dimly saw a tear shining upon her cheek. "Dear friend," she said, "I owe it all to you." With this she clasped my shoulders in both hands and, for an instant, her lips touched the side of my face. A second later she had closed her door behind her, and I feverishly changed my coat. Then, I put on my heavy ulster and made my way to the old square, where I sat down in the frosty air. That touch upon my cheek had left my temples throbbing, my heart on fire. The whole world seemed confused, the shining stars were dancing overhead, the noises of the sleeping city buzzed in my head, maddeningly. Finally, I began to feel the cold, and the earth grew stiller and more peaceful. An instant later a great milk-dray rattled across the square, going up Fifth Avenue, the usual alarm warning me of bedtime. So I went home, collected again and tranquil. She had given me a tiny fragment of herself, a reward perhaps too great for the little I had been able to do for her. Peace had returned to me and I fell asleep. CHAPTER XXII GORDON RETURNS And then, after a very short time, the parting came. I was the first to advise it. She could no longer remain in the little, decrepit boarding house. People would come to see her; she had to have a decent home, a place in which she could receive some of the members of this new world she had taken by storm. We had looked together over the accounts in the papers; it was nothing less than a triumph. Richetti was making all sorts of arrangements for her. After a long dispute she consented to take my piano with her. "I'm afraid she won't do it," Frieda had told me, when I broached the subject to her. "I--I should be so glad to think it had belonged to--to the only two women I have--have ever----" "Poor darling David," said the sweet old painter, wiping her glasses, "Why--why don't you speak?" "Because--just because," I answered. "I know, she is moving into another world now. I am glad she is taking Eulalie with her. But she can never forget you, Dave. You will always be the best and dearest of friends to her. You must go and see her often." "I'm afraid it will never be quite the same, Frieda. She will have a little parlor now, and it won't be like the room she trusted me to enter, the place where Baby Paul first saw the light, the dingy quarters in which her new voice was born. Oh! Frieda! Have we ever fully realized how patient she was, how resigned? We surely never did because we could not know how great her loss had been. We merely had an idea that she had been deprived of a few golden notes, and all the time she knew that she had lost a treasure beyond compare. And yet how brave she was through it all! With what courage she went to work in that poor little shop to gain the pittance that might keep her and Baby Paul farther from want! We have never once heard her whimper, nor has she ever seemed really discouraged. Sometimes she showed great sadness, of course, but it was born of her misfortune and of her fears for the little one, because of the love for him that surged in her heart. God! Frieda, but you women are brave and strong!" "Yes, David dear, especially when we find a good man to lean upon," she answered. And so, as I have said, Frances went away to a very decent little apartment Frieda found for her, and Eulalie was installed in a kitchen of her own, and the latchstring was always out for us. I enjoyed some pleasant days of tacking a few photos on the walls and hanging portières. Some of the time I had to work alone, for she was much taken up. Three weeks after the concert she went away on a tour, having joined forces with Tsheretshewski, the great cellist, an obese and long haired artist with a wife and seven children, who became a thing of poetry and beauty when he played. I heard them in Carnegie Hall, and then they went off on a tour that took them as far as Chicago and St. Louis, and my agency for newspaper cuttings kept on sending me articles by real or alleged critics. Eulalie traveled with her, and the baby also went from town to town. Frances sent me many postals and, often, letters. The latter always began with "Dearest Dave." Then came the spring again and a meeting that was positively dreadful, during which Frances pulled out little rags of paper full of her scribbling and covered over with numbers which represented her indebtedness to me. We fought like cats and dogs over the items, till, finally, she proudly pulled out a checkbook from a little desk and wrote out the amount, signing the thing boldly and declaring that she would never speak to me again unless I took it. "You see, David dear," she explained, "everything is all right now and I am making lots of money, and you can't refuse, because you know I only accepted in the hope that I would be able to pay it all back some day, and it will leave me a debtor to you for a million things, and Baby Paul too!" During the summer she went to Newport, where Richetti gave another concert and where he made her a flattering offer to help in his teaching of the infinitely rich and sometimes voiceless. Thank goodness that a press of work came to me, for Ceballo, the great manager, actually sought me out and insisted on collaborating with me in a dramatization of "Land o' Love," which had passed its second hundred thousand. He nearly drove me to insanity, while we toiled at it, and I would have cried mercy before the end, but for the furious energy with which he kept me a prisoner of his wiles. Then I spent a few weeks in the Adirondacks, having found a small hotel where people never put on war-paint for dinner and no one was ashamed to wear flannel shirts, and I rowed and pretended to fish and lost myself in the woods to my heart's content, finally returning to my old typewriter with a mass of notes for a further novel. I took up once more my lonely vigils, when I could, because I began to feel the grasp of many cogwheels that were the penalty of success. Some magazines actually requested stories of me. About the first of October I received a cablegram from Gordon, which appalled me with its suddenness. "Home by _Rochambeau_. Get old girl to clean up. Can't drive ambulance any more. "GORDON." It was simply maddening. Why couldn't he drive? Of course he had been hurt. Why didn't he tell me what was the matter? Poor old chap, in spite of some of his ways there is no man on earth I have ever been so fond of, because, at bottom, there is something very manly and genuine in him. When things got too hot for him he didn't go off somewhere and mope; no, he naturally went and gave the best that was in him to a service of noble charity and virile endeavor. I ascertained over the phone the date of the _Rochambeau's_ probable arrival and walked up the Avenue to a meeting with Ceballo, who was worrying me to death over the ending of the fourth act. He's a most obstinate man. At a busy corner I stopped to allow the passage of a flood of autos. The crowd behind me pressed me forward, nearly against a powerful gray roadster. "Jump in quick, Mr. Cole," came a woman's voice. I looked up. It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum who had spoken. The chauffeur was in a little seat behind her and I swiftly obeyed, glad indeed to see her again. "Are you in a hurry to go anywhere, Mr. Cole, because I'll be glad to take you wherever you want to go?" "No," I replied, "I was killing time for about an hour. After that I have an appointment." "Then we can take a little turn in the Park," she said, approvingly. The carriages and motors were so numerous that for some time we said very little. I watched her self-reliant, skilful driving, and took an occasional glance at her profile. It was beautiful as ever, perhaps more so than ever, colored with health and a fair coat of tan. Once in the Park, however, we found more room and she drove with less preoccupation. "I--I've heard from you but twice this summer, Mr. Cole. Thank you for letting me know that Gordon was still well. Have you any further news of him?" "Yes, I have just heard," I replied. "He is on his way back and I wrote you this morning at Southampton." I watched her closely. For a moment she drove on, looking neither to the right or left, but I saw that her lower lip was being pressed on by her teeth. "He--he never let me know," she finally said. "I--I hope he will return well and happy." "Pardon me. I am afraid that something has happened to him," I said, again. "Gordon is the sort of fellow who would see the thing through. He would go on to the end, you know, and--and he didn't write, this time. I have the cable here. You might stop a moment under these trees." She brought the machine to a standstill, gently, with no undue pressure of brake, losing none of her expertness, and put her hand out for the paper I held. "I see," she said, very simply and quietly, though the paper shook a little in her grasp. "He has been very badly hurt, Mr. Cole. Otherwise he would have remained, until he was well again, to take up the work once more. I--I would give anything on earth to meet that steamer!" "The easiest thing in the world, Miss Van Rossum." "No, the hardest, the most impossible," she retorted, quickly. "He--he might not be glad to see me, else he would have cabled me also, I think. You will be there, of course! Be very sure you meet him, Mr. Cole, and then, please--please let me know what has happened, and find out for me whether there is anything I can do. You promise, don't you?" I put out my hand and she crushed it, nervously, with wonderful strength, and let it go at once. "We will go on now, I think," she said, and pressed the selfstarter. Soon we were in the main driveway again, among a flooding and ebbing tide of carriages and motors. Some women bowed to her and she returned the salutations with a graceful move of her head. She drove as easily as usual, and the turn was completed. Finally, she dropped me off at the club and went on, after brief but very genuine thanks. "Good Lord! David," said Ceballo, a moment later. "Just caught sight of you with Diana at the wheel. Splendid young lady, isn't she? I know her father quite well." "Yes," I answered, "she is a very fine young woman." "Doesn't much care for literature, does she?" "I don't know, but she has a heart of gold, and that's what counts." So we retired to a small private table and disputed and argued for a couple of hours, at the end of which my brains were addled and I told him to do as he pleased, whereat he beamed and I parted from him. Then I began counting the days till the _Rochambeau_ should arrive, and Frances came back to town and sent me word at once. She received me joyfully and told me how much good the sea-air on the Newport cliffs had done Baby Paul, who was beginning to talk like a little man and to say "God bless David" in the prayer he babbled after her each evening. "I'm only back for a short time," she said, "because I'm to sing at a concert in Boston next week, and then we are going to Buffalo for a day, after which I shall return. And what do you think, David? I am to sign an engagement for the Metropolitan! Tsheretshewski is going abroad this winter to play in Spain and England, and so I shall be, for the whole winter, here in New York, and--and I hope you won't neglect me." I assured her that I would call every day, and left her, after I had inspected Baby Paul, who deigned to let me kiss him and favored my moustache with a powerful tug. He is a stunning infant. She was standing at the outer door of her apartment, her dear sweet smile speaking of her friendship and regard. The temptation came on me again, the awful longing for a touch of those lips, but I held myself within bounds, as bravely as I could, and touched the elevator signal. She waited until the cage had shot up and waved her hand at me. Her "Good-by, Dave" held all the charm of her song and the tenderness of her heart, I thought, and I answered it with a catch in my throat. "You will never be anything but a big over-grown kid, David," Frieda had told me, a few days before. Ay! I realized it! I would never cease crying for that radiant moon. Sometimes, in silly dreams, I have seen myself standing before her, with her two hands in mine, with her lips near, with her heart ready to come into my keeping. But, when I waken, I remember the words she said last year, when Gordon made her so unhappy. How could love be left in her heart? she had asked. Was there ever a night when she didn't kneel and pray for the poor soul of the man buried somewhere in France, in those dreadful fields, with, perhaps, never a cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love she had given? Let well enough alone, David, my boy! You can have her song whenever you care to beg for it, and her friendship and her smiles. Would you forfeit these things because you must come forth and beg for more, ay, for more than she can give you? Would you force her dear eyes to shed tears of sorrow for you, and hear her soft voice breaking with the pain it would give her to refuse? A few days later she met me at her door, excitedly, and told me that Baby Paul had a slight cold and that Dr. Porter had advised her not to take him away with her. "And, Dave, I just have to go! It would be too hard on some of the others, if I broke faith and didn't appear. I must leave to-night, and it just breaks my heart to be compelled to start when my Baby Paul isn't well. Dr. Porter has promised to call every day and see him during my absence. Dave dear, you are ever so fond of Baby too. Won't you come in every day, and you must telegraph, if you don't find him getting along as well as he should, or use the long distance telephone." She was much agitated, and I saw how hard it was on her to leave the dear little man behind. But Frances is the sort of woman who keeps her promises. She has given her word and will go! So we dined together, that evening, with Frieda, and we saw Frances away to the train and put her on board the sleeper and returned home, and Frieda spoke a great deal and told me about the sale of her latest picture and all that she expected from the one she was going to exhibit at the winter Salon. It was only after I had left her that I realized the dear soul had been trying to divert my thoughts. In the morning came the telegram from the marine department of the cable company. The _Rochambeau_ would dock at eleven. I was at the waterside an hour earlier, devoured with impatience and anxiety, thinking of a thousand alarming possibilities. Finally, the big ship appeared, far down the stream, and slowly came up. I scanned the decks as soon as people could be distinguished, but could see no sign of my friend. At last, the steamer was warped into the dock after three puffing tugs had pushed and shoved her for the longest time, and the passengers began to come off, and still he did not show up and the gang plank was nearly bare of people. I seized upon a steward bearing ashore a load of suitcases and bags and asked him whether there was not a Mr. McGrath on board. "_Certainement, Monsieur_, there he is coming now," replied the man, hurrying away. I might not have recognized him, so pale and thin did he look, but it was Gordon all right, at the head of the trussed gangway, and he waved a hand at me. A man preceded him, carrying some baggage. "Hello, Gordon!" I shouted joyfully, in spite of the shock his sharp, worn features had given me. "Hello, Dave!" he cried back. A moment later he was down on the dock, stepping lightly, and I pushed my hand out towards him, eager for the strong grasp of former days. "You'll have to take the left, old boy. The right one's behind, somewhere in Belgium. Wait a moment and I'll give you my keys, Dave. I have to keep everything in my lefthand pockets, so they're crowded. Yes, I have them. I suppose that my trunk is already ashore. Do try and get a customs' officer for me and hurry the thing through." He was talking as calmly and coolly as if he had been gone but a few days and had suffered only from a cut finger. We were fortunate in being able to get through the formalities very soon, and, shortly after, we drove away in a taxi. "Well, Dave, how've you been and how's everybody?" he asked, after lighting a cigarette from mine. "Every one is all right," I answered impatiently. "Oh! Gordon, old man! How did it ever happen?" "Just a piece of shell while I was picking some fellows up," he answered. "You have no idea of how surprising it is when you suddenly realize that something's missing. But what's a hand more or less after all that I've seen? How's Frieda?" "Stouter than ever," I replied, "and her appetite's improving. Porter recommended a diet, but she won't follow it. Says her fat doesn't interfere with her sitting at the easel." "Good old Frieda! I've heard about your book, Dave, it made a big stir, didn't it? And so--so Madame Dupont has become a great singer again; heard all about it from a fellow on board and, of course, your letters spoke of it; but you're such a crazy old duffer I supposed you were getting carried away with your enthusiasm. Never could take things quietly, could you? Any other news?" "Nothing very special," I told him. "The Van Rossums came to town early, this year. I--I've seen Miss Sophia." "Have you? Give me another cigarette. Yes, light a match for me. I'm clumsy as the devil with that left hand!" He sat back, puffing at the thing and looking out of the window. "Peanuts," he said. "Haven't seen a peanut cart for over a year. Colored women, too. Plenty of fighting niggers in France, but no darky ladies. Look at the big cop! Policemen are the only leisure class in this country, aren't they? Lord! What a big, ghastly brick monstrosity that is! We can lick the world when it comes to fetid commercial architecture, can't we? Are you going all the way up to the studio with me?" "Of course I am," I asserted indignantly. "What did you suppose I'd do?" "Thought you might laugh at the uselessness of a studio in my present condition," he replied negligently. "I've told you I'm clumsy as the deuce with that left hand. Tried to draw a face with it the other day, in pencil. Looked like a small boy's effort on a fence. So, of course, I'm through with painting. I've been rather saving, you know. Invested my money quite safely and haven't spent much on this jaunt. Of course a few thousands went where I thought they'd do most good. A fellow who'd keep his hands in his pockets when help is so badly needed would be a queer animal. But I've enough to live on and smoke decent tobacco. I think I'll take a small bachelor apartment in New York, to come to when I get the horrors. I'll spend the rest of the time in the country, a good way off. I'll read books, yes, even yours, and, perhaps, learn to sit around with a crowd, near a grocery stove, and discuss potatoes and truck. Hang it all! There's always something a fellow can do!" "My dear Gordon," I began, "I don't see----" "Oh, shut up, Dave, I know all the things one can say to a cripple. What's the use? Some fellows on board asked me to dine with them this evening at Delmonico's, and I damned them up and down. Sat for eight mortal days at the dining-table on the ship, with an infernal female on each side of me; they'd quarrel as to which of them would cut my meat for me. It's enough for a fellow to go dotty. Sometimes I wouldn't go and had things served in my cabin so the steward would do the cutting. Understand, I'm not kicking. Hang it all, man, I'm not even sorry I went! The chaps I helped out were probably worth it. Great old experience trying to make fifty miles an hour with a fellow inside bleeding to death, I can tell you. I've seen enough of it to have learned that a man's life doesn't amount to much. Any old thing will do for me now." I was appalled. All this had but one meaning. He was eating his heart out, try as he might to conceal it. To him, his art had been chiefly a means to an end; he had made it the servant of his desires. And now it was getting back at him, it was revenging itself, appearing infinitely desirable for its own sake. He would miss it as a man misses the dead woman, who has held his heart in the hollow of her hand; he was raging at the helplessness that had come upon him. And all this he translated into his usual cynicism. I would have given anything to have seen him break down and weep, so that I might have put my arm around his shoulders and sought to comfort him with love and affection. We got out at the big building, and he nodded to the colored boy who stood at the door of the elevator, as if he had been gone but a day. On the landing he sought again to pull out his keys, but I touched the electric button and the old woman's steps hurried to the door. "How are you?" he said, and brushed past her, paying no heed to her salutations. "Glad everything's open. I was afraid it would be all closed up like a beastly morgue. Hello!" He stopped before the easel. Upon it I had placed a rough study he had made for Miss Van Rossum's picture. It was a thing of a few effective and masterly strokes. "Good Lord, Dave, but I was a painter for fair, once upon a time! How did I ever do it?" He sat there, very still, for a long time, while I watched him. I think he had forgotten all about me, for, after a time, he rose and pulled out of a closet some unframed canvasses, which he scattered against the legs of furniture and contemplated. "Think I'll make a bonfire of them," he suddenly said. "Won't be such an idiot as to keep on staring at those things and looking at my stump, I'll warrant," and he pushed the handless wrist towards me, tied up in a bit of black silk. Then the telephone rang. "Wonder who's the infernal idiot calling up now?" he said. "Go and answer, Dave. No, I'll go myself and tell him to go to the devil!" Then came one of those fragmentary conversations. I could not help hearing it, of course. It surprised me that he spoke quietly, with a civility of tone and accent I had not expected. "Yes, came back a few minutes ago----No, Dave ran up here with me, Dave Cole, you know----Oh! Nothing much----Well, I've lost my hand, the one I painted with----Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so----Right away? Yes, if you want to, I mean if you will be so kind. Thank you ever so much!" He hung up the receiver and turned to me, his eyes looking rather haggard. "It's--it's Sophia Van Rossum. How did she know I was coming?" "I let her know, of course," I answered rather shortly. "You think I've treated her pretty badly, don't you?" "Rottenly, Gordon!" "I daresay I did. It was a sort of madness that came over me, but--but there's no excuse. She'll be here in a few minutes. I don't know what I can say to her. Stay here, Dave, and help me out. I used to tell you that she was just a society doll, and that sort of thing. Well, she's pretty strong on society, but she was brought up in it, belonged to it. But she's a great deal more of a woman than I gave her credit for being; I've realized it a thousand times since I've been gone. I call it mighty decent of her to ring me up and offer to come around and see me, after the way I've behaved to her." "So do I, Gordon," I approved. "She's got a great big heart, the sort it's a sorry thing for a man to play with." He made no answer, looking out from his window into the Park and its yellowing foliage. Then he lifted his maimed arm and stared at it. CHAPTER XXIII THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND We sat there for some long minutes, in silence. Gordon was thinking deeply. His expression, the abandonment shown in the looseness of his limbs and the falling forward of his head, were instinct with something that represented to me a forgetting of pose and calculated conduct. "I've seen so much suffering," he suddenly said. "That sort of thing either hardens a man into stone or softens his heart till he can cry out in hatred of the idea of inflicting pain that can be spared." I made no answer. It was best to chance no interruption of his mood. My thoughts were of the meeting that would take place in a few minutes. Indeed, I felt that I ought not to be there, that my presence might hinder some cry of the heart, words a woman's soul might dictate. But I was compelled to remain, since Gordon wished me to. He was now like a child needing the comfort of a friendly hand before entering a place of darkness. But I would seize the first opportunity of leaving them alone. At any rate, I could cross the long studio and go into the next room, if needed. Then the bell rang. I think it startled Gordon. The old woman went to the door, and we heard the girl asking for Mr. McGrath, in her pleasant and assured voice. I rose to meet her, lifting one of the portières to one side. She looked at me, slightly surprised, but put out her hand, smiling rather vaguely, her eyes belying the calmness of her voice, her movements showing slight nervousness. Gordon was standing. I expected him to come forward, but he remained where he was, rather helplessly, and she stepped forward toward him, swiftly. "Hello, Gordon!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you again. What a bad boy you've been not to write to me! That--that only letter of yours implied that you gave me back my freedom, and so I suppose I am at liberty to consider myself as a little sister--or a pretty big one, and greet you as one." With a swift motion of her hand she pushed up the tiny transparent veil she wore, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, quickly, as if he really had been a brother she was delighted to see again. Then she sat down on the stool he had used to put his palette and tubes on and turned to me. "It isn't very conventional, Mr. Cole," she said, with a little laugh that sounded forced. "Gordon and I have already kissed one another a few times. Once more will make no difference. I have done nothing to prevent him from at least continuing to consider me as a good friend, perhaps as the sister I've been playing at. Of course we'll have to give it up, now, because--because people can't keep on playing all the time and--and others wouldn't understand. I don't mind you, because you wrote that wonderful book and--and you seem to know so many things." Then she turned to him again. "Now tell me about yourself, Gordon," she said pleasantly, folding her hands upon her lap. He had remained standing. An instinct of shyness, something like the humiliation of the man imperfectly clad or conscious of an ugly blemish, made him keep his right arm behind him. "There--there's not much to tell," he began, rather haltingly, though he soon regained control. "I've come back because I could no longer be any good over there and--and because I became hungry for a sight of old things--and of old friends, I suppose. You--you're awfully kind, you--you've always been a splendid woman--a proud one, too, but now you come here and put out your hand in friendship to--to a fellow who has behaved rottenly to you. No, don't say anything! Dave used that word. He sometimes speaks to the point. I'll tell you everything. It will hurt you, I'm afraid, as it hurts me, but I've got to do it and I will beg your pardon afterwards. It was all a plan on my part, at first. You were a wonderful, gorgeous creature, one to whom any man would be attracted, and I thought you would make a grand wife and a great stepping-stone to the ambitions that filled my stupid head. And then, somehow, these all went by the board, and a passion came to me--yes, a passion like the week's or the month's insanity that comes to some, for another woman. She is a good woman and a very beautiful one also, the sort of woman who, like yourself, deserves the best and noblest in the man whose love she may return. And she refused me, quickly, sharply, with just a word or two. I think she also thought I was insane; I remember that she looked frightened. And then I wrote to you, a beastly letter. I tore up a score of them and sent the worst, I'm afraid. Then I took the steamer and went off to drive up and down those roads. It--it has, perhaps, been good for me, for I've seen how little a man himself amounts to, and how great and noble his heart and soul may be. And that passion passed away, so that I no longer thought of her, but always I grew hot and angry at myself, when I remembered you. I've seen you before me a good many times, yes, even in that hospital they took me to, a few weeks ago, during the nights when I couldn't sleep. It was a great vision of a fine woman, big-hearted and strong, too good for such a cad as I. No, don't interrupt! I felt that it was fortunate for you, the best thing that ever happened, that I had shown myself to you under my true colors and saved you--saved you from marrying me. That madness has gone long ago, and there's no trace of it left in me, I swear, but I'm the same impossible Gordon, I daresay, except for that missing hand." He slowly brought the maimed limb forward, but she never looked at it. Her eyes were upon his, very shiny with unshed tears. "Yes, the same old Gordon, with perhaps a little of his silly pose gone, with a realization of his uselessness and worthlessness. And now I humbly beg your pardon, Sophia--I mean Miss Van Rossum, for I have forfeited every title to your forbearance--I no longer deserve it. And--and now I stand before you with my soul naked and ashamed, and--and Dave will see you to the door, for--for he's a good man, fit to touch any woman's hand!" His legs seemed to weaken under him. His left hand sought the window-ledge behind him, and he sank on the seat beneath. She rose from the stool and went to him, sitting down at his side, and put her hand on his right arm. "You have been very unhappy, Gordon," she said gently. "I am not sure that you have the right perspective as yet, and I don't see in all this anything to prevent our remaining good friends. We've had so many of the good things of life, you and I, and, perhaps, it is good for one to pay for them with a little sorrow. It may prevent one from getting too conceited. And you're so much better off than if this--this hurt had come just in wrecking a motor, or in being stepped on by a polo pony, because you will always realize that it happened while you were giving the best of yourself towards helping others, towards doing big things. And perhaps, some day, you might be able to paint again. They--they make such wonderful artificial things, I have heard, with aluminum and--and stuff that's ever so light. It might take you a whole year of practice before you could do anything; but what is a year when one's heart isn't too sad and weary. Even if you can't draw as well as you used to, you could take to landscapes, done broadly and strongly. There is no one who can mass colors and produce such effects as you are able to find. When you get confidence, I know you will be able to draw also, ever so well, and, perhaps, for your first trial, you will let me come and sit here and we'll chat together as we used to, and you'll paint again." "Never!" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, sometime, I'm sure, when you feel better, Gordon, because you will forgive yourself after a time. That's so much harder for a man to do than to obtain the pardon of a woman! If you really think you want mine, it is yours, with all my heart, and----" But she stopped, looking at him wistfully, her long lashes wet, her voice faintly tremulous. I knew that she would have granted him not only the pardon he had sued for, but also her strong and noble self, if he had begged for it. He probably forgot his missing hand, for he swept the silk-wrapped thing across his eyes. "You must think again, Sophia," he said very slowly. "You can't really mean it. Do you indeed feel that you can forgive me? Is it true that in your heart there is such charity?" "It--I don't think it's charity, Gordon. I--I'm afraid it's something more than that. Perhaps you don't know as much as you think about women's hearts. Ask our friend David, here, he has looked into them very wisely, or he couldn't have written 'Land o' Love.' And now I think I must be going away. You mustn't use that word charity again, it is one that hurts just the least little bit. It's so dreadfully inexpressive, you know! And--and you'll write to me when you want me, won't you?" "I want you now!" he cried. "I'd give the last drop of my blood for a shred of hope, for the knowledge that things might again, some day----" "One moment, Gordon dear," she said, smiling through her tears, and looked into a tiny gold-meshed bag from which she pulled out a ring with a glistening stone. "I have always kept it. Do you mean that you would like me to put it on again?" "Do, for the love of God!" he cried. "Yes, and of dear old Gordon," she consented gently. So I rose, quickly, with something very big and uncomfortable in my throat, and looked at my watch. "I must run," I said. "I am ever so late. I'll come in again to-morrow, Gordon! God bless you both!" I only heard, confusedly, the word or two with which they sought to detain me, but I ran away. She had said that I knew women's hearts. God forgive her! What man on earth can penetrate such things, can ever gauge the depths of them, see all the wondrous beauty that may hide in them and blossom forth, full of awe and wonder. Every one must worship something, if it be but an idea, and my reverence goes out to the woman who exalts, to the mother of men, to the consoler, for, when she is at her highest and best, she becomes an object of veneration among such earthly things as we may bend a knee to. The man had remained strong in his abasement, and the woman had seen it. She had been unembarrassed by my presence. Hers was the strength that spurns all pettiness. She knew that I loved Gordon and was assured of my regard for herself. If in her words there had been renunciation and the casting away of wounded pride, if in them there had been the surging of the great love that had long filled her heart, the whole world was welcome to hear them and to behold her while she gave her troth again into the man's keeping. She had risen above the smallness of recrimination, and, with a gesture, had swept away the past since in it there was nothing really shameful, nothing that could soil her ermine coat of fair and clean womanhood. Her faith in the man had returned, and, with it, the confidence born of her instinctive knowledge of a pure woman's mastery over men. She knew that Gordon had beheld those visions of hell that strengthen a man's dire need of heaven, and so, in all simplicity and with the wondrous openhandedness of a Ceres sowing abroad a world's supply of germinating seed, she had cast the treasure of herself before him. I jumped into a taxi and drove over to the little apartment where Baby Paul was to lie motherless for a few days. I rang the bell and heard Eulalie's heavy steps, hurrying to the door. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you have come, but I was hoping it was Monsieur the doctor!" Whereat I rushed in, filled with alarm. CHAPTER XXIV "THE MOTHER AND CHILD" Little Paul, as I immediately saw as soon as I looked at him, was very ill. He had, of late, always shown pleasure at my coming; he had babbled of simple things and of mysteries; his little arms spontaneously came to me and I would take him in my arms and get moist kisses from his tiny lips and dandle him and share in his ecstasies over woolly lambs. Porter came in a few minutes later and declared the trouble to be a beginning of measles. Eulalie acknowledged that, a week or ten days before, Baby Paul had come in contact with a blotchy infant in the Park. She had snatched him up and carried him away, after which she had thought no more about it. We sent at once for a trained nurse, whom Eulalie at first considered as an intruder with evil intentions, but whose gentle ministrations soon won her heart. "Am I to send immediately for Mrs. Dupont?" I asked the doctor. "It doesn't look like a very severe case," he answered, "but it might be better to communicate with her." A few minutes later I had Frances on the long-distance telephone, greatest of marvels. I stood in her little hallway in New York, and over in Buffalo, a half a thousand miles away or so, I heard her dear voice becoming excited and tremulous. "I simply must sing to-night," she was saying, "but from the concert-hall I will rush to the station and take the train. No, don't take the trouble to meet me, David dear, for I'll jump in a taxi and come ever so quick, but you can be at the apartment, if you like. No, I can't tell you the exact time, but it will be the first train after eleven o'clock. You can look in the time table and find out when it reaches New York. Thank you a thousand times, David dear!" When I announced my intention of remaining all night at the flat, Eulalie gave a clamorous sigh of relief. She proposed to make a bed for me on the sofa. She regretted that she had but a much worn pair of her slippers she could offer me, vast pedic recipients she brought me apologetically and which I felt compelled to decline. She insisted I should use a rug to wrap around my legs, because that woman in the cap persisted in leaving the window open. She wanted to know what she could prepare for my supper? At last, she left me in peace and the long night began. Sleep! It was impossible to think of such a thing. The room was kept very dark because Miss Follansbee explained that children's eyes were very sensitive during the measles, and easily inflamed. For many hours, from the sofa on which I sat, I watched this stranger, gradually realizing how capable and attentive she was. Porter came in again at twelve and remained for a long time with me, uttering words of encouragement. Yes, he informed me, children sometimes died of the measles, generally when it became complicated with pneumonia, but, with good care, the great majority recovered. There was nothing alarming, so far. The fever would probably fall a little as soon as the eruption had come out in full force. He drives a little car now and, I am glad to say, is prospering. I think he cast his bread upon the waters when he was so kind to Frances. At her words of advice, a number of singers have consulted him, and he is doing well. Of course she paid the very moderate fees he asked and told him, as she has told me, that she would ever be his debtor. So he went away again, after putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, and the hours went slowly by in the dimly lighted room, my thoughts going constantly to the mother who was now speeding towards us. I remember hoping that she would be able to sleep a little on the train. To me the hours were long, but, at least, I was near and fairly reassured; to her, in deep anxiety, they must be agonizing. It is possible that in the wee small hours I dozed a little, though I never reclined on the sofa. At any rate Miss Follansbee assured me that I had a few catnaps. At last the light began to return; carts and autos began to pass through the busy street; men and women were going by, hurriedly, seeking the day's work. Eulalie gave me some breakfast, with much strong and delicious coffee, and Miss Follansbee awaited the coming of Dr. Porter before retiring for a few hours of rest. He told me that he was quite satisfied, but I looked at him incredulously, for the baby's face was of an appalling hue. He insisted that it was all in the game and would last but for a few days. He promised to return early in the afternoon and, after he left, Miss Follansbee gave me many directions and strict injunctions, after which she went to the room that had been prepared for her, enjoining me to call her if there was the slightest need. The shades were lowered and the room kept dark. I sat by the little crib, thinking and watching, and the baby's harsh little cough distressed me badly, for I dearly loved him. So the morning wore on and I rose often and looked out of the window, as if, by some miracle, the train could have come in ahead of schedule time. Baby Paul began to moan, and I hastened back to him. He stretched his little arms out to me, being, perhaps, weary of the hot bed. At any rate he cried to have me take him up, so that I wrapped him in the little blanket and lifted him out. In my arms he rested quietly again and fell asleep, so that I dared not move. Then I heard the key in the latch, in the hallway outside, and she rushed in, casting her hat upon the bed. A second later she was kneeling at my side, weeping and yet glad, glad that he was living, glad to be again near him. And I dared only whisper a word of welcome to her, lest he might awaken. But soon he opened his eyes, that were very red, and blinked in the faint light, and wanted her. So he was taken from my arms into hers, and she sat with him in a rocking chair. For some minutes I stood up before her, in my clumsy way, looking at her. I could do so to my heart's content, for her eyes were only for Baby Paul. She rocked him, gently, and her wonderful voice came, sweet and low like the murmur of brooks, the distant song of birds, the sighing of aspens in a summer night's scented breeze. And so the baby slept again, secure and comforted in her dear arms. Then she looked at me, and a smile came to her face. It is possible that her quick glance detected some slight rumpling of collar and tie, or some disorder of hair I had last brushed the day before. "David dear, have you been up all night with him?" she asked. "Yes, but Miss Follansbee took care of him. I knew I would be perfectly useless, but then, Baby Paul is Baby Paul, you see, and--and any one has the right to love a baby. You don't object to that, I'm sure, you--you like to have me love him, don't you?" "I just love to see you so fond of him, Dave," she answered. "Yes, I felt that you did. And that's why I stayed, because I knew you wouldn't mind. And now I'll go away and--and come back early this evening to find out how you both are and--and I won't bother you. You'll tell me if I do, won't you?" "Of course, Dave, as soon as you grow troublesome, I'll let you know. I will tell you, when I become tired of you. Oh, Dave dear! You're the kindest and most lovable creature in the world, and--and it's a joy and a blessing to have you near!" "I'm awfully glad," I told her, "because when I can't see you and Baby Paul, life isn't--it isn't much of a pleasure, you know. And so I'll go off now and have a bath and fix up a little and then----" "Then you ought to lie down and have a good nap, because you need a rest, and don't come back too soon or I'll know you have been disobedient, Dave." She was smiling at me, and yet there was a tear hanging on her long lashes. Surely, the emotion of that summoning and of the hurried anxious journey had been hard upon her. So I went out, just as Frieda came bustling in, monstrously alarmed and immediately made happy by the knowledge that there was, as yet, no danger, and I went home where I met Mrs. Milliken on the doorstep. "How d'ye do, Mr. Cole," she said. "You look a bit played out and your bed ain't been slept in. At your time o' life you want to take more care of your health. I wanted to say something as I ain't told any one yet. I'm goin' to give up the house soon. My uncle Ambrose he died and has left me a little money, so I'm going to be a lady of leisure now and live with my daughter." "I wish you joy, Mrs. Milliken. You deserve a rest from your hard toiling." I left her and climbed up to my room. It seems that I shall have to give it up soon. Yet it is the only little corner of the earth I am attached to. Where shall I go? The room opposite is vacant still. I have been paying rent for it since Frances left, being unable to bear the idea of its being occupied by--by any one else. Besides, I can go in there when I want to and sit in the armchair and indulge in memories of the days when I saw her so often. I didn't know I was so happy then, but I realize it now, with no feelings of regret, because I know her life is so much fuller and happier now that she is in a world no longer of sadness and anxious care. And so I saw Frances and Baby Paul every day for another week, and he got along so well that it was a joy to watch his constant improvement. Mrs. Gobbins, over by the little lake, answered a letter of mine, saying that she would be delighted to have Mrs. Dupont there, and the baby, for as long a time as she cared to stay. Porter had recommended a little country air. It was heartbreaking to say good-by. I had meant to go with them, at least for a day, but at the last minute Ceballo insisted I must attend the first rehearsal of the "Land o' Love," a play in four acts. So I went to the theatre, but for the life of me could take little interest in what went on. I returned home with a dreadful headache, and the next morning my throat was sore and my limbs ached. When Mrs. Milliken came up to attend to the room, she found me still in bed and insisted on sending for Dr. Porter at once. "Hello! I'm afraid you'll have to go to the babies' ward," he told me, after a glance. "What the deuce do you mean?" I said. "I'm as sick as a dog." "I know you are and I beg your pardon, old man." "What is it?" I asked him. "Baby Paul has given you the measles," he answered. "Nonsense, grown people don't get that." "They sometimes do," he assured me, after which he prescribed some medicine and spent several hours with me, that day, while I anathematized my luck and felt properly ashamed of my infantile complaint. After this a bad cough came, followed by a pain in my chest, and the medicine put me asleep, I think, for I woke up to find Frieda on one side of me and a nurse on the other. It was Miss Follansbee, who had looked after Baby Paul, and Frieda had gone off and haled her back, bodily. It was only afterwards that I knew my measles were complicated with pneumonia. There was a week that was a sort of nightmare, I think, because for days I didn't know very much, and tossed about, and felt that pain in my side most of the time, and struggled unavailingly for a decent long breath that wouldn't hurt. One day a strange doctor came in with Dr. Porter. Later, arrived a morning when I felt ever so well and Miss Follansbee was dozing a little in her chair, looking very weary, and the breathing was no longer painful and Porter came in and capered about the room and Frieda smeared her cheeks with the rubbing in of tears of joy. I suppose I must have been rather badly off during some of those days. Then came the evening and with it a queer notion that visions and strange dreams were coming back to me, for through the open door there sounded a footfall I had been hearing vaguely and longing for. Suddenly, Frances rushed in and was kneeling by my bed. "Oh, Dave dearest!" she cried, "You wicked, wicked man! They tell me that you forbade them to let me know for fear I would bring Baby back before he was all well! I'll never forgive you!" As a proof of her anger, I suppose, she had taken up my thin bony hand and was kissing it. "Please, please don't," I whispered hoarsely. "You--you'll get it too, first thing you know, and it's bad when it gets on one's lungs. You might lose that beautiful dear voice of yours again." But she rose, shaking her head at me like a mother who feels that her boy is incorrigible, and dragged a chair by the bed and put her finger to her lips when I would have spoken again, and laid her soft hand on mine, whereupon sleep came, dreamless and beautiful. During the night a hand gave me water, once or twice, and milk, I think, and I slept again and, when I awoke in the morning, I turned my head. "Miss Follansbee," I said, "I rather think----" "I told her that she must have a good night's sleep, Dave," came the beloved voice, "and I've been playing nurse, ever so poorly, I'm afraid. But Dr. Porter said that you would be all right now. And--and I've been so happy to be in the dear old room, and to see the old typewriter, and the calabash, and to know you are getting well again." "I--I am thrice blessed," I said, "but it is too bad you took so much trouble. You must be dreadfully tired." "I've been tired so long, Dave," she said, with tears coming to her eyes. "It--it has been such weary waiting." "The nights are awfully long," I told her. "The nights and the days, David dearest. I've been waiting such a long, long time." She threw herself on her knees by the bed, and took up my hand, stroking it, and suddenly an amazing light seemed to flood the room, laden with knowledge, sweeping away fears, bringing a tremulous bliss to my heart. "Dearest love!" I cried. "Is this true, or is it another dream? How could I speak of my love to you? How could old Dave cry out to the beautiful star that was so high up in the wonderful sky? I feared it would vanish and leave me in utter darkness. Do--do you mean that I may tell you of my heart's desire?" "Yes, David dearest! Tell me of it. Tell it forever, for years and years to come. I've been so hungry for those words you dared not tell." "I--I am all unshaven and unshorn," I said, "and----" "But in spite of that, you're my own dearest Dave, with the strength of a man and the heart of a child." So she bent over and her dear lips touched mine, and the days of sorrow were ended. * * * * * Some days later she took my arm. It was my first walk. I was to go as far as the room that had been hers and back again. For this tremendous excursion I was clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown Frieda had bought for me, and my cheeks were shaven clean and, somehow, I felt young again, as if the dear hand in mine had brushed away a score of years. So I went with her, leaning upon her. She opened the door and led me in. Frieda was there, and Gordon and Sophia. Near the window there was an easel, and upon it I saw Gordon's masterpiece, which they had sent with their love. And the painted "Mother and Child" was mine, as the living ones also were. 
44465	----	(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust.) CYNTHIA By LEONARD MERRICK WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY MAURICE HEWLETT NEW YORK E.P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 1919 INTRODUCTION My first acquaintance with Mr. Merrick's engaging and stimulating muse was made in the pages of _Violet Moses_, an early work, which appeared, I remember, in three volumes. Reading it again in the light of my appreciation of what its author has done since, I think of it now as I felt of it then. It has great promise, and though its texture is slight its fibres are of steel. It shows the light hand, which has grown no heavier, though it has grown surer, the little effervescence of cynicism, with never a hiccough in it, the underlying, deeply-funded sympathy with real things, great things and fine things, and the seriousness of aim which, tantalisingly, stops short just where you want it to go on, and provokes the reader to get every book of Mr. Merrick's as it appears, just to see him let himself go--which he never does. He is one of the most discreet dissectors of the human heart we have. In _Violet Moses_ Mr. Merrick avoided the great issue after coming up against it more than once. So did he in The Quaint Companions, a maturer but less ambitious study. I don't know why he avoided it in _Violet's_ case, unless it was because he found it too big a matter for his light battery. In the _Companions'_ case I do know. It was because he came upon another problem which interested him more, a problem with a sentimental attraction far more potent than any he could have got out of miscegenation. The result was the growth, out of a rather ugly root, of a charming and tender idyll of two poets, an idyll, nevertheless, with a psychological _crux_ involved in its delicate tracery. All this seems a long way from _Cynthia_, which is my immediate business, but is not so in truth. In _Cynthia_ (which, I believe, followed _Violet_) you have a problem of psychology laid out before you, and again Mr. Merrick does not, I think, fairly tackle it. But he fails to tackle it, not because it is too big for his guns, as _Violet's_ was, and not because he finds another which he likes better, as he did when he was upon _The Companions_, but because, I am going to suggest, he found it too small. He took up his positions, opened his attack, and the enemy in his trenches dissolved in mist. The problem with which _Cynthia_ opens is the familiar one of the novelist, considered as such, and as lover, husband, father and citizen. Now it's an odd thing, but not so odd as it seems at first blush, that while you may conceive a poet in these relations and succeed in interesting your readers, you will fail with a novelist. I cannot now remember a single interesting novel about a novelist. There is _Pendennis_ of course; but who believes that Pen was a great novelist, or cares what kind of a novelist he was? Who cares about _Walter Lorraine_? Would anybody give twopence to read it? The reason is that in the poet the manifestations of literary genius are direct and explicit--some are susceptible of quotation, some may be cut out with the scissors--while in the novelist they are oblique and implied. Humphrey Kent in _Cynthia_ is in no sense an explicit genius; we are not, in fact, told that he was a genius at all. His technique seems to have been that of Mr. George Moore, then rather fashionable. The book puts it no higher than this, that the hero, with an obvious bent for writing, marries in a hurry and then finds out that he cannot be an honest man and support his wife and child by the same stroke. It is not whether he can be a good novelist and a good lover too, but whether he can be a good novelist and pay his bills. That's not very exciting, though George Gissing in _New Grub Street_ drew out of it a squalid and miserable tale which, once begun, had to be finished. Luckily, in _Cynthia_, Mr. Merrick finds a secondary theme, and handles it so delicately and so tenderly that the book has an abiding charm because of it. That theme is the growth of Cynthia's soul. I myself am one of Cynthia's victims, and I am sure that Mr. Merrick is another. He sketches her with admirable reticence in the beginning, where she is shown to us as very little more than a pretty girl. His strokes are few and sure. But she grows from chapter to chapter, and at the end, after the tragic crisis, she sweeps onward to the sentimental crisis which crowns the tale of her married life with a dignity and grave beauty which justify a belief in Hestia, even now, when modern testimony and practice alike are against such a belief. She justifies Mr. Merrick's conclusion too. It is seldom enough that we are able to believe in the happy solution of such troubles as he has traced out in _Cynthia_. Cynics against inclination, we feel that the dog will return to his vomit after the easy reconciliation and facile tears upon Hestia's generous bosom. Not so here. Cynthia has got her Humphrey for what he is worth, and will hold him. She is one of Mr. Merrick's loveliest women; and he has made many lovely women. MAURICE HEWLETT. CHAPTER I Two friends were sitting together outside the Café des Tribunaux at Dieppe. One of them was falling in love; the other, an untidy and morose little man, was wasting advice. It was the hour of coffee and liqueurs, on an August evening. "You are," said the adviser irritably, "at the very beginning of a career. You have been surprisingly fortunate; there's scarcely a novelist in England who wouldn't be satisfied with such reviews as yours, and it's your first book. Think: twelve months ago you were a clerk in the city, and managed to place about three short stories a year at a guinea each. Then your aunt what-was-her-name left you the thousand pounds, and you chucked your berth and sat down to a novel. 'Nothing happens but the unforeseen'--the result justified you. You sold your novel; you got a hundred quid for it; and _The Saturday_, and _The Spectator_, and every paper whose opinion is worth a rush, hails you as a coming light. For you to consider marrying now would be flying in the face of a special providence." "Why?" said Humphrey Kent. "'Why'! Are you serious? Because your income is an unknown quantity. Because you've had a literary success, not a popular one. Because, if you keep single, you've a comfortable life in front of you. Because you'd be a damned fool." "The climax is comprehensive, if it isn't convincing. But the discussion is a trifle 'previous,' eh? I can't marry you, my pretty maid, et cetera." "You are with her all day," said Turquand--"I conclude she likes you. And the mother countenances it." "There's really nothing to countenance; and, remember, they haven't any idea of my position: they meet me at a fashionable hotel, they had read the book, and they saw _The Times_ review. What do they know of literary earnings? the father is on the Stock Exchange, I believe. I am an impostor!" "You should have gone to the little show I recommended on the quay, then. _I_ find it good enough." Kent laughed and stretched himself. "I am rewarding industry," he said. "For once I wallow. I came into the money, and I put it in a bank, and by my pen, which is mightier than the sword, I've replaced all I drew to live during the year. Ain't I entitled to a brief month's splash? Besides, I've never said I want to marry--I don't know what you're hacking at." "You haven't 'said' it, but the danger is about as plain as pica to the average intelligence, all the same. My son, how old are you--twenty-seven, isn't it? Pack your bag, ask for your bill, and go back with me by the morning boat; and, if you're resolved to make an ass of yourself over a woman, go and live in gilded infamy and buy sealskin jackets and jewellery while your legacy lasts. I'll forgive you that." "The prescription wouldn't be called orthodox?" "You'd find it cheaper than matrimony in the long-run, I promise you. Now and again, when some man plays ducks and drakes with a fortune for a cocotte there are shrieks enough to wake his ancestors; but marriage ruins a precious sight more men every year than the demi-monde and the turf and the tables put together, and nobody shrieks at all--except the irrepressible children. Did it never occur to you that the price paid for the virtuous woman is the most exorbitant price known in an expensive world?" "No," said Kent shortly, "it never did." "And they call you 'an acute observer'! Marriage is Man's greatest extravagance." "The apothegm excepted. It sounds like a dissipated copybook." "It's a fact, upon my soul. I tell you, a sensible girl would shudder at the thought of entrusting her future to a man improvident enough to propose to her; a fellow capable of marrying a woman is the sport of a reckless and undisciplined nature that she should beware of." "The end is curaçoa-and-brandy," said Kent, "and in your best vein. What else? You'll contradict yourself with brilliance in a moment if you go on." The journalist dissembled a grin, and Kent, gazing down the sunny little street, inhaled his cigarette pleasurably. To suppose that Miss Walford would ever be his wife looked to him so chimerical that his companion's warnings did not disturb him, yet he was sufficiently attracted by her to find it exciting that a third person could think it likely. He was the son of a man who had once been very wealthy, and who, having attempted to repair injudicious investments by rasher speculation, had died owning little more than enough to defray the cost of his funeral. At the age of nineteen Humphrey had realised that, with no stock-in-trade beyond an education and a bundle of rejected manuscripts, it was incumbent on him to fight the world unassisted, and, suppressing his literary ambitions as likely to tell against him, he had betaken himself to some connections who throve in commerce and had been socially agreeable. To be annihilated by a sense of your own deficiencies, seek an appointment at the hands of relations. The boy registered the aphorism, and withdrew. When "life" means merely a struggle to sustain existence, it is not calculated to foster optimism, and the optimistic point of view is desirable for the production of popular English fiction. His prospect of achieving many editions would have been greater if his father had been satisfied with five per cent. He shifted as best he could, and garnered various experiences which he would have been sorry to think would be cited by his biographer, if he ever had one. "Poverty is no disgrace," but there are few disgraces that cause such keen humiliations. Eventually he found regular employment in the office of a stranger, and, making Turquand's acquaintance in the lodging-house at which he obtained a bedroom, contemplated him with respect and envy. Turquand was sub-editing _The Outpost_, a hybrid weekly for which he wrote a little of what he thought and much that he disapproved, in consideration of a modest salary. The difference in their years was not too great to preclude confidences. An intimacy grew between the pair over their evening pipes in the arid enclosure to which the landlady's key gave them access; and it was transplanted to joint quarters embellished with their several possessions, chiefly portmanteaus and photographs, equally battered. The elder man, perceiving that there was distinction in the unsuccessful stories displayed to him, imparted a good deal of desultory advice, of which the most effectual part was not the assurance that the literary temperament was an affliction, and authorship a synonym for despair. The younger listened, sighed, and burned. Aching to be famous, and fettered to a clerk's stool, he tugged at his chains. He had begun to doubt his force to burst them, when he was apprised, to his unspeakable amazement, that a maternal aunt, whom he had not seen since he was a school-boy, had bequeathed him a thousand pounds. Dieppe had dined, and the Grande Rue was astir. He watched the passers-by with interest. In the elation of his success he was equal to tackling another novel on the morrow, and he saw material in everything: in the chattering party of American girls running across the road to eat more ices at the pastrycook's; in the coquettish dealer in rosaries and Lives of the Saints, who had put up her shutters for the night and was bound for the Opera; in the little boy-soldiers from the barracks, swaggering everywhere in uniforms several sizes too big for them. Sentences from the reviews that he was still receiving bubbled through his consciousness deliciously, and he wished, swelling with gratitude, that the men who wrote them were beside him, that he might be introduced, and grip their hands, and try to express the inexpressible in words. "I should like to live here, Turk," he remarked: "the atmosphere is right. It's suggestive, stimulating. When I see a peasant leaning out of a window in France, I want to write verses about her; when I see the same thing at home, I only notice she's dirty." "Ah!" said Turquand, "that's another reason why you had better go back with me to-morrow. The tendency to write verses leads to the casual ward. Let us go and watch the Insolent Opulence losing its francs." The Casino was beginning to refill, and the path and lawn were gay with the flutter of toilettes when they reached the gates. Two of the figures approaching the rooms were familiar to the novelist, and he discovered their presence with a distinct shock, though his gaze had been scanning the crowd in search of them. "There are the Walfords," he said. The other grunted--he also had recognised a girl in mauve; and Kent watched her silently as long as she remained in view. He knew that he had nerves when he saw Miss Walford. The sight of her aroused a feeling of restlessness in him latterly which demanded her society for its relief; and he had not denied to himself that when a stranger, sitting behind him yesterday in the salon de lecture, had withdrawn a handkerchief redolent of the corylopsis which Miss Walford affected, it had provided him with a sensation profoundly absurd. If he had nerves, however, there was no occasion to parade the fact, and he repressed impatience laudably. It was half an hour before the ladies were met. Objecting to be foolish, he felt, nevertheless, that Cynthia Walford was an excuse for folly as she turned to him on the terrace with her faint smile of greeting; felt, with unreasoning gratification, that Turquand must acknowledge it. She was a fair, slight girl, with dreamy blue eyes bewitchingly lashed, and lips so delicately modelled that the faint smile always appeared a great tribute upon them. She was no less beautiful for her manifest knowledge that she was a beauty, and though she could not have been more than twenty-two, she had the air of carrying her loveliness as indifferently as her frocks--which tempted a literary man to destruction. She accepted admiration like an entremets at a table d'hôte--something included in the menu and arriving as a matter of course; but her acceptance was so graceful that it was delightful to bend to her and offer it. Kent asked if they were going in to the concert, and Mrs. Walford said they were not. It was far too warm to sit indoors to listen to that kind of music! She found Dieppe insufferably hot, and ridiculously over-rated. Now, Trouville was really lively; didn't he think so? He said he did not know Trouville. "Don't you? Oh, it is ever so much better; very jolly--really most jolly. We were there last year, and enjoyed it immensely. We--we had such a time!" She giggled loudly. "How long are you gentlemen remaining?" "Mr. Turquand is 'deserting' to-morrow," he said. "I? Oh, I shall have to leave in about a week, I'm afraid." "You said that a week ago," murmured Miss Walford. "I like the place," he confessed; "I find it very pleasant, myself." Mrs. Walford threw up her hands with a scream of expostulation. Her face was elderly, despite her attentions to it, but in her manner she was often a great deal more youthful than her daughter; indeed, while the girl had already acquired something of the serenity of a woman, the woman was superficially reverting to the artlessness of a girl. "What is there to like? Dieppe is the Casino, and the Casino is Dieppe!" "But the Casino is very agreeable," he said, his glance wandering from her. "And the charges are perfectly monstrous. Though, of course, you extravagant young men don't mind that!" "A friend might call me young," said Turquand gloomily; "my worst enemy couldn't call me extravagant." "Oh, I mind some of the charges," returned Kent. "I hate being 'done.'" She was pleased to hear him say so. Her chief requirement of a young man was that he should be well provided for, but if he had the good feeling to exercise a nice economy till he became engaged, it was an additional recommendation. Her giggle was as violent as before, though. "Oh, I daresay!" she exclaimed facetiously; "I'm always being taken in; I don't believe those stories any longer. Do you remember Willy Holmes, Cynthia, and the tales he used to tell me? I used to think that young man was so steady, I was always quoting him! And it turned out he was a regular scapegrace and everybody knew it all the time, and had been laughing at me. I've given up believing in any one, Mr. Kent--in anyone, do you hear?" She shook the splendours of her hat at him, and gasped and gurgled archly. "I've no doubt you're every bit as bad as the rest!" He answered with some inanity. Miss Walford asked him a question, and he took a seat beside her in replying. Turquand sat down too. Twilight was falling, and a refreshing breeze began to make itself felt. A fashionable sea purled on the sand below with elegant decorum. In the building the concert commenced, and snatches of orchestration reached them through the chatter of American and English and French from the occupants of the chairs behind. Presently Mrs. Walford wanted to go and play petits chevaux. The sub-editor, involuntarily attached to the party, accompanied her, and Kent and the girl followed. The crowd round the tables was fairly large, but Turquand prevailed on the dame to see that there was space for four persons in a group. She complimented him on his dexterity, but immediately afterwards became "fatigued," and begged him to take her to the "settee in the corner." The party was now divided into couples. CHAPTER II He had appreciated the manoeuvres sufficiently to feel no surprise when she found the room "stifling" ten minutes later and said that she must return to the terrace. She had shown such small desire for his companionship hitherto, however, that he was momentarily uncertain which tête-à-tête was the one that she was anxious to prolong. "Pouf!" she exclaimed, as they emerged into the air. "It was unbearable. Where are the others? Didn't they come out too?" "They have no idea we've gone," said Turquand dryly. She was greatly astonished; she had to turn before she could credit it. "I thought they were behind us," she repeated several times. "I'm sure they saw us move. Oh, well, they'll find it out in a minute, I expect! Never mind!" They strolled up and down. "Sorry you're going, Mr. Turquand? Your friend will miss you very much." "I don't think so," he answered. "He knew I was only running over for a few days." "He tells me it is the first holiday he has taken for years," she said. "His profession seems to engross him. I suppose it is an engrossing one. But he oughtn't to exhaust his strength. I needn't ask you if you've read his novel. What do you think of it?" "I think it extremely clever work," said Turquand. "And it's been a great success, too, eh? 'One of the books of the year,' _The Times_ called it." "It has certainly given him a literary position." "How splendid!" she said. "Yes, that's what _I_ thought it: 'extremely clever,' brilliant--most brilliant! His parents must be very proud of him?" "They're dead," said Turquand. Mrs. Walford was surprised again. She had "somehow taken it for granted that they were living," and as she understood that he had no brothers or sisters, it must be very lonely for him? "He sees a good deal of _me_" said her escort, "and I'm quite a festive sort of person when you know me." Her giggle announced that she found this entertaining, but the approval did not loosen his tongue. She fanned herself strenuously, and decided that, besides being untidy, he was dense. "Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?" "I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say." His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path. "With talent and private means our author is fortunate?" "I often tell him so," he said. "If it doesn't tempt him to rest on his oars," she added delightedly. "Wealth _has_ its dangers. Young men _will_ be young men!" "'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'" "But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness. "He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it." "I am so glad--so glad for him. Now I have no misgivings about his future at all.... Have _you_?" "I'm not sure that I follow you." She played with her fan airily. "He is certain to succeed, I mean; he needn't fear anything, as he has a competence. Oh, I know what these professions are," she went on, laughing. "My son is in the artistic world, we are quite behind the scenes. I know how hard-up some of the biggest professionals are when they have nothing but their profession to depend on. A profession is so precarious--shocking--even when one has aptitude for it." "Kent has more than 'aptitude,'" he said. "He has power. Perhaps he'll always work too much for himself and the reviewers to attract the widest public. Perhaps he's a trifle inclined to over-do the analytical element in his stuff; but that's the worst that can be said. And, then, it's a question of taste. For myself, I'm a believer, in the introspective school, and I think his method's It." "Schools" and "methods" were meaningless to the lady in such a connection. Novels were novels, and they were either "good" or they were "rubbish," if she understood anything about them--and she had read them all her life. She looked perplexed, and reiterated the phrase that she had already used. "Oh, extremely clever, brilliant--most brilliant, really! I quite agree with you." "Your son writes, did you say, Mrs. Walford?" "Oh no, not writes--no! No, my son sings. He sings. He is studying for the operatic stage." Her tone couldn't have been more impressive if she had said he was de Reszke. "His voice is quite magnificent." "Really!" he replied with interest. "That's a great gift--a voice." "He is 'coming out' soon," she said. "He--er--could get an engagement at any moment, but--he is so conscientious. He feels he must do himself justice when he makes his debut. Justice. In professional circles he is thought an immense amount of--immense!" "Has he sung at any concerts?" "In private," she explained--"socially. He visits among musicians a great deal. And of course it makes it very lively for us. He is quite --er--in the swim!" "You're to be congratulated on your family," said Turquand. "With such a son, and a daughter like Miss Walford----" "Yes, she is very much admired," she admitted--"very much! But a strange girl, Mr. Turquand. You wouldn't believe how strange!" He did not press her to put him to the test, but she supplied the particulars as if glad of the opportunity. He remarked that, in narrating matters of which she was proud, she adopted a breathless, staccato delivery, which provoked the suspicion that she was inventing the facts as she went on. "She is _most_ peculiar," she insisted. "The matches she has refused! Appalling!" "No?" he said. "A Viscount!" she gasped. "She refused a Viscount in Monte Carlo last year. A splendid fellow! Enormously wealthy. Perfectly wild about her. She wouldn't look at him." "You astonish me," he murmured. Mrs. Walford shook her head speechlessly, with closed eyes. "And there were others," she said in a reviving spasm--"dazzling positions! Treated them like dirt. She said, if she didn't care for a man, nothing would induce her. What can one do with such a romantic goose? Be grateful that you aren't a mother, Mr. Turquand." "Some day," he opined, without returning thanks, "the young lady will be induced." "Oh, and before long, if it comes to that!" She nodded confidentially. "To tell you the truth, I expect somebody here next week. A young man rolling in riches, and with expectations that--oh, tremendous! He raves about her. She has refused him--er--seven times--seven times. He wanted to commit suicide after her last rejection. But she _respects_ him immensely. A noble fellow he is--oh, a most noble fellow! And when he asks her again, I rather fancy that pity'll make her accept him, after all." "She must have felt it a grave responsibility," observed the journalist politely, "that a young man said he wanted to commit suicide on her account." "That's just it, she feels it a terrible responsibility. Oh, she's not fond of him! Sorry for him, you understand--sorry. And, between ourselves, I'm sure I really don't know what to think would be for the best--I don't indeed! But I wouldn't mind wagering a pair of gloves, that, if she doesn't meet Mr. Right soon, she'll end by giving in and Mr. Somebody-else will have stolen the prize before he comes--hee, hee, hee!" Turquand groaned in his soul. In his mental vision his friend already flopped helplessly in the web, and he derived small encouragement from the reflection that she was mistaken in the succulence of her fly. "You're not smoking," she said. "Do! I don't mind it a bit." He scowled at her darkly, and was prepared to see betrothal in the eyes of the absent pair when they rejoined them. As yet, however, they were still wedged in the crowd around the tables. On their right, a fat Frenchwoman cried "Assez! assez!" imploringly as her horse, leading by a foot, threatened at last to glide past the winning-post and leave victory in the rear; to their left, an English girl, evidently on her honeymoon, was making radiant demands on the bridegroom's gold. Kent had lost sixteen francs, and Miss Walford had lost five before they perceived that the others had retired. "We had better go and look for them," she declared. The well-bred sea shimmered in the moonlight now, and the terrace was so thronged that investigation could be made only in a saunter. "I wonder where they have got to," she murmured. Her companion was too contented to be curious. "We're sure to come upon them in a minute," he said. "Do you abuse Dieppe, too, Miss Walford?" "Not at all--no. It is mamma who is bored." "I should like to show you Arques," he said. "I'm sure your mother would be interested by that. Do you think we might drive over one afternoon?" "I don't know," she replied. "Is it nice?" "Well, 'nice' isn't what you will call it when you are there. It's a ruined castle, you know; and you can almost 'hear' the hush of the place--it's so solemn, and still, and old. If you're very imaginative, you can hear men clanking about in armour. You _would_ hear the men in armour, I think." "Am I imaginative?" she smiled. "Aren't you?" he asked. "Perhaps I am; I don't know. What makes you think so?" He was puzzled to adduce any reason excepting that she was so pretty. He did not pursue the subject. "There are several things worth seeing here," he said. "Of course Dieppe 'is only the Casino,' if one never goes anywhere else. I suppose you haven't even heard of the cave-dwellers?" "The 'cave-dwellers'?" she repeated. "Their homes are the caves in the cliffs. Have you never noticed there are holes? They are caves when you get inside--vast ones--one room leading out of another. The people are beggars, very dirty, and occasionally picturesque. They exist by what they can cadge, and, of course, they pay no rent; it's only when they come out that they see daylight." "How horrid!" she shivered. "And you went to look at them?" "Rather! They are very pleased to 'receive.' One of the inhabitants has lived there for twenty years. I don't think he has been outside it for ten--he sends his family. Many of the colony were born there. Don't you think they were worth a visit?" "I don't know," she said; "one might be robbed and murdered in such a place." "Oh, rather!" he agreed. "Some of the inner rooms are so black that you literally can't see your hand before you. It would be a beautiful place for a murder! The next-of-kin lures the juvenile heiress there, and bribes the beggars to make away with her. Unknown to him, they spare her life because--because----Why do they spare her life? But they keep her prisoner and bring her up as one of themselves. Twenty years later----I believe I could write a sensational novel, after all!" "What nonsense!" laughed Miss Walford daintily. "Do you like that kind of story?" "I like plots about real life best," she said. "Don't you?" He found this an exposition of the keenest literary sympathies, and regarded her adoringly. She preferred analysis to adventure, and realism to romance! What work he might accomplish inspired by the companionship of such a girl! "Wherever have you been, Cynthia? We thought you were lost," he heard Mrs. Walford say discordantly, and the next moment they were all together. "It's where have _you_ been, mamma, isn't it?" "Well, I like that! We didn't stop a minute; I made certain you saw us get up. We've been hunting for you everywhere. Mr. Turquand and I have been out here ever so long, haven't we, Mr. Turquand? Looking at the moon, too, if you want to know, and--hee, hee, hee!--talking sentiment." Turquand, who was staring at Kent, allowed an eyelid to droop for an instant at the conclusion, and the latter stroked his moustache and smiled. "Such a time we've been having, all by ourselves" she persisted uproariously. "Mr. Kent, are you shocked? Oh, I've shocked Mr. Kent! He'll always remember it--I can see it in his face." "I shall always remember _you_, Mrs. Walford," he said, trying to make the fatuity sound graceful. "We were left by ourselves, and we had to get on as we could!" she cried. "Hadn't we, Mr. Turquand? I say we had to amuse ourselves as we could. Now Cynthia's glowering at me! Oh--hee, hee, hee!--you two young people are too respectable for _us_. We don't ask any questions, but--but I daresay Mr. Turquand and I aren't the only _ones_--hee, hee, hee!--who have been 'looking at the moon.'" "Shall we find chairs again?" said Kent quickly, noting the frown that darkened the girl's brow. "It's rather an awkward spot to stand still, isn't it?" She agreed that it was, and a waiter brought them ices, and Mrs. Walford was giddy over a liqueur. They remained at the table until she said that it was time to return to their hotel. Parting from them at its gates, the two men turned away together. Both felt in their pockets, filled their pipes, and, smoking silently, drifted through the rugged little streets to the café where they had had their conversation after dinner. "'Thank you for a very pleasant evening,'" said Turquand, breaking a long pause. It was the only criticism that he permitted himself, and Kent did not care to inquire if it was to be regarded as ironical. CHAPTER III After his friend's departure, the mother and daughter became the pivot round which the author's movements revolved. Primarily his own companionship and the novelty of Dieppe had been enough; but now he found it dreary to roam about the harbour, or to sit sipping mazagrans, alone. Reviewing the weeks before Turquand joined him, he wondered what he had done with himself in various hours of the day. Solitude hung so unfamiliarly on his hands that Miss Walford's society was indispensable. Soon after the chocolate and rolls, he went with the ladies to the Casino, and spent the morning beside them under the awning. Mrs. Walford did not bathe: while people could have comfortable baths in the vicinity of their toilet-tables, she considered that recourse to tents and the sea was making an unnecessary confidence--and she disliked to see Cynthia swim, "with a lot of Frenchmen in the water." Whether it was their sex, or only their nationality, that was the objection was not clear. She usually destroyed a copy of a novel while Mr. Kent and her daughter talked. Considering the speed with which she read it, indeed, it was constantly astonishing to him that she could contrive to do a book so much damage. In the evening they strolled out again, and but for the afternoon he would have had small cause for complaint. Even this gained a spice of excitement, however, from the fact that it was uncertain how long Miss Walford's siesta would last, and there was always the chance, as he lounged about the hotel, smoking to support the tedium, that a door would open and cause heart-leaps. Mrs. Walford thought that the visit to Arques would be "very jolly," and the excursion was made about a week later. Kent found the girl's concurrence in his enthusiasm as pretty as he had promised himself it would be, and when they had escaped from the information of the gardien and wandered where they chose to go, the chaperon was the only blot upon perfection. Perhaps she realised the influence of the scene, though her choice of adjectives was not happy--the explorations "made her tired" before long. Since the others were so indefatigable, they "might explore while she rested!" It was, as Kent had said, intensely still. The practical obtruding itself for a moment, he thought how blessed it would be to work here, where doors could never slam and the yells of children were unknown. They mounted a hillock and looked across the endless landscape silently. In the dungeons under their feet lay dead men's bones, but such facts concerned him little now. Far away some cattle--or were they deer?--browsed sleepily under the ponderous trees. Of what consequence if they were cattle or deer? Still further, where the blue sky dipped and the woodland rose, a line of light glinted like water. Perhaps it was water, and if not, what matter? It was the kingdom of imagination; deer, water, fame, or love--the Earth was what he pleased! Among the crumbling walls the girl's frock fluttered charmingly; his eyes left the landscape and sought her face. "It's divine!" she said. He could not disguise from himself that life without her would be unendurable. "I knew you'd like it," he said unsteadily. She regarded the questionable cattle again; his tone had said much more. Kent stood beside her in a pause in which he believed that he struggled. He felt that she was unattainable; but there was an intoxication in the moment that he was not strong enough to resist. He touched her hand, and, his hear! pounding, met her gaze as she turned. "Cynthia!" he said in his throat. The colour left her cheeks, and her head drooped. "Are you angry with me?" She was eminently graceful in the attitude. "I love you," he said--"I love you. What shall I say besides? I love you!" She looked slowly up, and blinded him with a smile. Its newness jumped and quivered through his nerves. "Cynthia! Can you care for me?" "Perhaps," she whispered. He was alone with her in Elysium; Adam and Eve were not more secure from human observation when they kissed under the apple tree. He drew nearer to her--her eyes permitted. In a miracle he had clasped a goddess, and he would not have been aware of it if all the pins of Birmingham had been concealed about her toilette to protest. Presently she said: "We must go back to mamma!" He had forgotten that she had one, and the recollection was a descent. "What will she say?" he asked. "I'm not a millionaire, dearest; I am afraid she won't be pleased." "I'll tell her when we get home. Oh, mamma likes you!" "And you have a father?" he added, feeling vaguely that the ideal marriage would be one between orphans, whose surviving relatives were abroad and afraid of a voyage. "Do you think they will give you to me?" "After I've spoken to them," she said deliciously. "Yes--oh, they will be nice, I am sure, Mr. Kent!... There, then! But one can't shorten it, and it sounds a disagreeable sort of person." "Not as you said it." "It was very wrong of you to make me say it so soon. Are you a tyrant?... We must really go back to mamma!" "Did you know I was fond of you?" asked Kent. "I--wandered." "Why?" "Why did I wonder?" "Yes." "I don't know." "No; tell me! Was it because--you liked me?" "You're vain enough already." "Haven't I an excuse for vanity?" "_Am_ I an excuse?" Language failed him. "Tell me why you wondered," he begged. "Because----You're wickedly persistent!" "I am everything that is awful. Cynthia?" "Yes?" "Because you liked me?" "Perhaps; the weeniest scrap in the world. Oh, you _are_ horrid! What things you make me say! And we are only just----" "Engaged! It's a glorious word; don't be afraid of it." "I shall be afraid of _you_ in a minute. How do you think of your--your proposals in your books?" "I've only written one book." "Did you make it up? He didn't talk as you talk to _me_? "He wasn't so madly in love with her." "But he said the very sweetest things!" "That's why." "You are horrid!" she declared again. "I don't know what you mean a bit.... Mr. Kent---" "Who is _he_?" "Humphrey---" "Yes--sweetheart?" "Now you've put it out of my head." She laughed softly. "I was going to say something." "Let me look at you till you think what it was." "Perhaps that wouldn't help me." "Oh, you're an angel!" he exclaimed. "Cynthia, we shall always remember Arques?" She breathed assent. "Was this Joan of Arc's Arques?" "No--Noah's." "_Whose?_" she said. He was penitent; he made haste to add: "Not hers; it is spelt differently, besides." "I believe you're being silly," she said, in a puzzled tone. "I don't understand. Oh, we _must_ go back to mamma; she'll think we're lost!" Mrs. Walford didn't evince any signs of perturbation, however, when they rejoined her, nor did she ask for particulars of what they had seen. She seemed to think it likely that they might not feel talkative. She said that she had "enjoyed it all immensely," sitting there in the shade, and that the gardien, who had come back to her, had imparted the most romantic facts about the château. Around some of them she was convinced that Mr. Kent could easily write an historical novel, which she was sure would be deeply interesting, though she never read historical novels herself. Had Mr. Kent and Cynthia any idea of the quantity of pippins grown in the immediate neighbourhood every summer? The gardien had told her that as well. No; it had nothing to do with the château, but it was simply extraordinary, and the bulk of the fruit was converted into cider, and the peasantry got it for nothing. Cider for nothing must be so very nice for them when they couldn't afford the wine, and she had no doubt that it was much more wholesome too, though, personally, she had tasted cider only once, and then it had made her ill. They drove down the dusty hill listening to her. The girl spoke scarcely at all, and the onus of appearing entertained devolved upon Kent. When the fiacre deposited them at the hotel at last, he drew a sigh in which relief and apprehension mingled. Cynthia followed her mother upstairs, and he caught a glance from her, and smiled his gratitude; but he questioned inwardly what would be the upshot of the announcement that she was about to make. He perceived with some amusement that he was on the verge of an experience of whose terrors he had often read. He was a candidate for a young lady's hand. Yes, it made one nervous. He asked himself for the twentieth time in the past few days if he had been mistaken in supposing that Mrs. Walford over-estimated his eligibility; perhaps he was no worse off than she thought? But even then he quaked, for he had seen too little society since he was a boy to be versed in such matters, and he was by no means ready to make an affidavit that she had encouraged him. What _was_ "encouragement"? A signal at the entrance to the dining-room was exciting but obscure, and there was no opportunity for inquiries before the ladies took their seats. He anathematised an epergne which to-night seemed more than usually obstructive. Cynthia was in white. He did not remember having seen her in the gown before, and the glimpse of her queenliness shook him. No mother would accord to him so peerless a treasure--he had been mad! It was interminable, this procession of courses, relieved by glances at a profile down the table. His mouth was dry, and he ordered champagne to raise his pluck. It heated him, without steadying his nerves. The room was like a Turkish bath; yet the curve of cheek that he descried was as pale as the corsage. How could she manage it? He himself was bedewed with perspiration. He could wait no longer. He went on to the veranda and lit a cigar. He saw Mrs. Walford come out, and, throwing the cigar away, rose to meet her. She was alone. Where was Cynthia? Seeking him? or was her absence designed? "I hope our excursion hasn't tired you, Mrs. Walford?" "Oh dear no!" she assured him. She hesitated, but her manner was blithesome. His courage mounted. "Shall we take a turn?" she suggested. "Mrs. Walford, your daughter has told you what I ... of our conversation this afternoon, perhaps? I haven't many pretensions, but I'm devoted to her, and _she_ is good enough to care a little for me. Will you give her to me and let me spend my life in making her happy?" She made a gesture of sudden artlessness. "I was perfectly astonished!" she exclaimed. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I was perfectly astonished when Cynthia spoke to me. I hadn't an idea of it. I--er--I don't know whether I'm particularly obtuse in these affairs--hee, hee, hee!--but I hadn't a suspicion!" "But you don't refuse?" he begged. "You don't disapprove?" She waved her hands afresh, and went on jerkily, with a wide, fixed smile: "I never was more astounded in my life. Of course, I--er--from what we've seen of you ... most desirable--most desirable in many ways. At the same time--er--Cynthia's a delicate girl; she has always been used to every luxury. So few young men are really in a position to justify their marrying." "_My_ position is this," he said. "I've my profession, and a little money--not much; a thousand pounds, left me by a relative last year. With a thousand pounds behind us, I reckon that my profession would certainly enable us to live comfortably till I could support a wife by my pen alone." Her jaw dropped. He felt it before he turned, and shivered. "I'm afraid you don't think it very excellent?" he murmured. She was breathing agitatedly. "It ... I must say--er--I fear her father would never sanction----Oh no; I am sure! It's out of the question." "A man may keep a wife on less without her suffering, Mrs. Walford. My God! if I thought that Cynthia would ever know privation or distress, do you suppose I would----" "A wife!" she said, "a wife! My dear Mr. Kent, a man must be prepared to provide for a family as well. Have you--er--any expectations?" "I expect to succeed," said Kent; "I've the right to expect it. No others." "May I ask how much your profession brings you in?" "I sold my novel for a hundred pounds," he answered. "It was my first," he added, as he heard her gasp, "it was my first!... Mrs. Walford, I love her! At least think it over. Let me speak to her again, let me _ask_ her if she is afraid. Don't refuse to consider!" The pain in his voice was not without an effect on her disgust. She was mercenary, though she did not know it; she was not good-natured, though she had good impulses; she was ludicrously artificial. But she was a woman, and he was a young man. She did not think of her own courtship, for she had been sentimental only when her parents approved--she hadn't "married for money," but her heart had been providentially warmed towards the one young gentleman of her acquaintance who was "comfortably off." She thought, however, of Cynthia, who had displayed considerable feeling in the bedroom an hour ago. "I must write to her father," she said, in a worried voice. "I really can't promise you anything; I am very vexed at this sort of thing going on without my knowledge--_very_ vexed. I shall write to her father to-night. I must ask you to consider the whole matter entirely indefinite until he comes. Immense responsibility ... immense! I can't say any more, Mr. Kent." She left him on the veranda. His sensation was that she had shattered the world about him, and that a weighty portion of the ruin was lying on his chest. CHAPTER IV When Sam Walford ran over to Dieppe, in obedience to his wife's summons, he said: "Well, what's this damn nonsense, Louisa, eh? There's nothing in this, you know--this won't do." "Cynthia is very cut up; you had better tell her so! I'm sure I wish we had waited and gone to Brighton instead.... A lot of bother!" "An author," he said, with amusement; "what do you do with authors? You do 'find 'em,' my dear!" "I don't know what you mean," she returned tartly. "I can't help a young man taking a fancy to her, can I? If you're so clever, it's a pity you didn't stop here with her yourself. If you don't think it's good enough, you must say so and finish the matter, that's all. You're her father!" "I'll talk to her," he declared. "Where is she now? Let's go and see! And where's Mr.-- what d'ye call him? What's he like?" "Mr. Kent. He is a very nice fellow. If he had been in a different position, it would have been most satisfactory. There's no doubt he's very clever--highly talented--the newspapers are most complimentary to him. And--er--of course a novelist is socially--er--he has a certain----" "Damn it! he can't keep a family on compliments, can he? I suppose he's a bull of himself, eh? Thinks he ought to be snapped at?" "Nothing of the sort; you always jump to such extraordinary conclusions," she said. "He is a perfect gentleman and proposed for her beautifully. After all, there aren't many young men who've got so much as a thousand pounds in ready money." "But he isn't making anything, you tell me," objected Mr. Walford; "they'll eat up a thousand pounds before they know where they are.... He wouldn't expect anything with her, I suppose?" She shook her head violently. "No _earthly_ occasion. Oh _dear_ no!" "Let me go and see Cynthia," he said again. "It's a funny thing a girl like that hasn't ever had a good offer--upon my soul it is!" "You ask home such twopenny-halfpenny men," retorted his wife. "She is in her room; I'll let her know you're here." Cynthia _was_ "cut up." She liked Humphrey Kent very much--and everything is relative: she felt herself to be a Juliet. She considered it very unkind of mamma to oppose their marriage, and said as much to her father, with tears on her lashes and pathetic little sobs. Sam Walford was sorry for her; his affection for his children was his best attribute. He said "Damn it!" several times more. And then he patted her on the cheek, and told her not to cry, and went out on the Plage to commune with tobacco. After his cigar, he sought a coiffeur--there is a very excellent one in Dieppe; and he was shaved, an operation that freshened him extremely; and he had his thin hair anointed with various liquids of agreeable fragrance and most attractive hues, and submitted his moustache to the curling-irons. The French barber will play with one for hours, and when Mr. Walford had acquired a carnation for his buttonhole, and sipped a vermouth over the pages of _Gil Blas_ it was time to think of returning to the hotel. A pretty woman, who had looked so demure in approaching that the impropriety was a sensation, lifted her eyes to him and smiled as she passed. He momentarily hesitated, but remembered that it was near the dinner-hour, and that he was a father with a daughter's love-affair upon his hands. But he re-entered the hotel in a good humour. Cynthia went to bed radiantly happy that night, and kissed a bundle of lilies that had cost fifty francs, for the Capulets had relented. The two men had had a long conversation on the terrace over their coffee, and the senior, who was favourably impressed, had ended by being jovial and calling Kent "my boy," and smacking him on the shoulder. Mrs. Walford was not displeased by the decision, since it could never be said that she had advocated it. "My daughter's fiancé, Mr. Kent, the novelist, you know," sounded very well, and she foresaw herself expatiating on his importance, and determined what his income should be in her confidences to intimate friends. Really, if the house were nice, he might be making anything she liked--who could dispute her assertions? The Capulets had relented, and the sun shone--especially in Paris, where Kent went in haste to get the engagement-ring; the thirsty trees were shuddering in the glare, and the asphalt steamed. But to wait had been impossible, though the stay at Dieppe was drawing to a close and they would all be back in London soon. It seemed to him that it would be as the signing of the agreement when Cynthia put her finger through his ring; and he was resolved that it should be a better one than any of those that her mother wore with such complacence. Poor devil of an author though he was, her acquaintances shouldn't see that Cynthia was marrying badly by the very emblem of his devotion! In the rue de la Paix he spent an hour scrutinising windows before he permitted himself to enter a shop. He chose finally a pearl and diamonds--one big white pearl, and a diamond flashing on either side of it. It was in a pale blue velvet case, lined with white satin. He was satisfied with his purchase, and so was the salesman. Cynthia's flush of delight as he disclosed it repaid him superabundantly, and when the girl proudly displayed it to them, he was gratified to observe her parents' surprise. The cries of admiration into which Mrs. Walford broke were fervent, and instantaneously she decided to say that he was making three thousand a year. His days were now delicious to Kent. A magic haze enwrapped their stereotyped incidents, so that the terrace of the Casino, the veranda of the hotel, Nature, and the polyglot lounging crowd itself, were all beatified. They were as familiar things viewed in a charming dream-- "the pleasant fields traversed so oft," which were still more pleasant as they appeared to the sleeping soldier. A tenderness overflowing from his own emotions was imparted to the scenes, and he found it almost impossible to realise sometimes that the goddess beside him, who had been so unapproachable a month ago, was actually to belong to him. It dazzled him; it seemed incredible. He had once sat down in the salon de lecture with the intention of informing Turquand of his joy; but the knowledge that the news entailed a defence, if he didn't wish to write formally, had resulted in his writing nothing. Delicacy demanded that he should excuse his action by word of mouth if excuses were required at all. To do such a thing in permanent pen-strokes looked to him profanation of an angel and an insult to the bounty of God. Mr. Walford was not able to remain at Dieppe till the day fixed for the others' return; nor, he said genially, was there any occasion for him to put himself out now that he had a prospective son-in-law to take his place. Humphrey was well content. He understood that the elder lady was a bad sailor and clung obstinately to the saloon, and he anticipated several golden hours to which the paternal presence would have proved alloy. He was not disappointed. Sustained by Heidsieck and the stewardess, Mrs. Walford stayed below, as usual, and he tasted the responsibility of having the girl in his charge. He let the flavour dissolve on his palate slowly. It was as if they were already on the honeymoon, he thought, as they paced the deck together, or he made her comfortable in a chair and brought her strawberries; he watched her eat them with amused interest, vaguely conscious that he found it wonderful to see her mouth unclose and a delicate forefinger and thumb grow pinky. "You are sure you have the address right?" she asked. "Humphrey, fancy if you lost it and could never find us again after we said good-bye to-day! Wouldn't it be awful?" "Awful!" "Such a thing might happen," she declared. "You try and try your hardest to remember where we told you we lived, but you can't. It is terrible! You go mad----" "Or to a post-office," he said. She laughed gaily. "How could you write to me when you'd forgotten the address? You _foolish_ fellow! There, _I_ was brighter than _you_ that time." He felt it would be prolix to explain that he was thinking of a directory, and not of stamps. "Come, after that, I must really hear if you've learnt your lesson! What is it? Quick!" "You live in a house called The Hawthorns," he said--"one of the houses. You would have called it The Cedars, only that was the name of the house next door. I take the train to Streatham Hill--I must be very particular to say 'Hill,' or catastrophes will happen. To begin with, I shall lose an hour of your society----" "And dinner--dinner will certainly be over!" "Dinner will certainly be over. When I come out, I turn to the right, pass the estate agent's, take the first to the left, and recollect that I'm looking for a bow-window and a white balcony, and a fence that makes it impossible to see them. Do I know it?" "Not 'impossible.' But--yes, I'll trust you." He parted from the women at Victoria, and, getting into a hansom, gave himself up to reflection. The rooms that he shared with Turquand were in the convenient, if unfashionable, neighbourhood of Soho, and an all-pervading odour of jam reminded him presently that he was nearing his destination. He wasn't sure of finding Turquand in at this hour. He opened the door with his latchkey, and, dragging his portmanteaus into the passage, ran upstairs. The journalist, in his shirt-sleeves, was reading an evening paper, with his slippered feet crossed on the window-sill. "Hallo!" he said; "you've got back?" "Yes," said Humphrey. "How the jam smells!" "It's raspberry to-day. I've come to the conclusion that the raspberry's the most penetrating. How are you?" "Dry, and hungry too. Is there anything to drink in the place?" "There's a very fine brand of water on the landing, and there's the remainder of a roll, extra sec, in the cupboard, I believe; I finished the whisky last night. We can go and have some dinner at the Suisse. Madame is désolée; she's asked after you most tenderly." "Good old madame! And her moustache?" "More luxuriant." There was a pause, in which Humphrey considered how best to impart his tidings. The other shifted his feet, and contemplated the smoke-dried wall--the only view attainable from the window. Kent stared at him. It was displayed to him clearly for the first time that his marriage would mean severance from Turquand and the Restaurant Suisse and all that had been his life hitherto, and that Turquand might feel it more sorely than he expressed. He was sorry for Turquand. He lounged over to the mantelpiece and dipped his hand in the familiar tobacco-jar, and filled a pipe before he spoke. "Well," he said, with an elaborate effort to sound careless, "I suppose you'll hardly be astonished, old chap--I'm engaged." CHAPTER V Turquand did not answer immediately. "No," he said at last; "I'm not astonished. Nothing could astonish me, excepting good news. When is the event to take place?" "That's not settled. Soon.... We shall always be pals, Turk?" "I'll come and see you sometimes--oh yes. Father consented?" "Things are quite smooth all round." "H'mph!" He looked hard at the wall and pulled his beard. "You said it would happen, didn't you? I didn't see a glimmer of a possibility myself." "Love's blind, you know." "You said, too, it--er--it wouldn't be altogether a wise step. You'll change your mind about that one day, Turk." "Hope so," said Turquand. "Can't to-night." "You still believe I'm making a mistake?" "What need is there to discuss it now?" "Why shouldn't we?" "Why _should_ we? Why argue with a man whether the ice will bear after he has made a hole in it?" "We shan't be extravagant, and I shall work like blazes. I've a plot simmering already." "Happy ending this time?" "I don't quite see it, to be consistent--no." "You must manage it. They like happy endings, consistent or not." "Damn it, I mean to be true! I won't sell my birthright for a third edition! I shall work like blazes, and we shall live quite quietly somewhere in a little house----" "That's impossible," said Turquand. "You may live in a little house, or you may live quietly, but you can't do both things at the same time." "In the suburbs--in Streatham, probably. Her people live in Streatham, and of course she would like to be near them." "And you will have a general servant, eh, with large and fiery hands--like Cornelia downstairs? Only she'll look worse than Cornelia, because your wife will dress her up in muslins and streamers, and try to disguise the _generality_. If you work in the front of your pretty little house, your nervous system 'll be shattered by the shrieks of your neighbours' children swinging on the gates--forty-pound-a-year houses in the suburbs are infested with children; nothing seems to exterminate them, and the inevitable gates groan like souls in hell--and if you choose the back, you'll be assisted by the arrival of the joint, and the vegetables, and the slap of the milk-cans, and Cornelia the Second's altercations with the errand-boys. A general servant with a tin pail alone is warranted to make herself heard for eleven hundred and sixty yards." "Life hasn't made an optimist of you," observed Kent, less cheerfully, "that you clack about 'happy endings'!" "The optimist is like the poet--he's born, he _isn't_ made. Speaking of life, I suppose you'll assure yours when you marry?" "Yes," said Kent meditatively; "yes, that's a good idea. I shall.... But your suggestions are none of them too exhilarating," he added; "let's go to dinner!" The sub-editor put on his jacket and sought his boots. "I'm ready," he announced. "By the way, I never thought to inquire: Mrs. Walford hasn't a large family, has she?" "A son as well, that's all. Why?" "I congratulate you," said Turquand; it was the first time the word had passed his lips. "It's a truism to say that a man should never marry; anybody; but if he must blunder with someone, let him choose an only child! Marrying into a large family's more expensive still. His wife has for ever got a sister having a wedding, or a christening, or a birthday and wanting a present; or a brother asking for a loan, or dying and plunging her into costly crape. Yes, I congratulate you." Humphrey expressed no thanks, and he determined to avoid the subject of his engagement as much as possible in their conversations hence-forward. He was due at The Hawthorns the following afternoon at five o'clock, and his impatience to see the girl again was intensified by the knowledge that he was about to see her in her home. The day was tedious. In the morning it was showery, and he was chagrined to think that he was doomed to enter the drawing-room in muddy shoes; but after lunch the sky cleared, and when he reached Victoria the pavements were dry. The train started late, and travelled slowly; but he heard a porter bawling "Stretta Mill!" on the welcome platform at last, and, making the station's acquaintance with affectionate eyes, he hastened up the steps, and in the direction of the house. He was prepossessed by its exterior, and his anticipations were confirmed on entering the hall. Mrs. Walford was in the garden, he was told, and the parlourmaid led him there. It was an extremely charming garden. It was well designed, and it had a cedar and a tennis-court, which was pleasant to look at, though tennis was not an accomplishment that his life had furnished opportunities for acquiring; and it contained a tea-table under the cedar's boughs, and Cynthia in a basket-chair and a ravishing frock. He was welcomed with effusion, and he presented his chocolates. Mr. Walford, already returned from town, was quite parental in his greeting. Tea was very nice and English in the cedar's shade and Cynthia's presence. It was very nice, too, to be made so much of in the circumstances. Really they were very delightful people! The son was in Germany, he learnt. "Or we could have given you a treat, my boy, if you are fond of music!" exclaimed the stock-jobber. "You will hear a voice when he comes back. That's luck for a fellow, to be born with an organ like Cæsar's! He'll be making five hundred a week in twelve months. I tell you it's wonderful!" "'Five hundred a week'?" echoed Mrs. Walford. "He'll be making more than five hundred a week, I hope, before long! They get two or three hundred a night--_not_ voices as fine as Cæsar's--and won't go on the stage till they have had their money, either. You talk such nonsense, Sam ... absurd!" "I said 'in twelve months,'" murmured her husband deprecatingly. "I said in 'twelve months,' my dear." He turned to Kent, and added confidentially, "There isn't a bass in existence to compare with him. You'll say so when you hear. Ah, let me introduce you to another member of the family--my wife's sister." Kent saw that they had been joined by a spare little woman with a thin, pursed mouth and a nose slightly pink. She was evidently a maiden lady, and his hostess's senior. Her tones were tart, and when she said that she was pleased to meet him, he permitted himself no illusion that she spoke the truth. Miss Wix, as a matter of fact, was not particularly pleased to meet anybody. She lived with the Walfords because she had no means of her own and it was essential for her to live somewhere; but she accepted her dependence with mental indignation, and fate had soured her. Under a chilly demeanour she often burned secretly with the consciousness that she was not wanted, and the knowledge found expression at long intervals in an emotional outbreak, in which she quarrelled with Louisa violently, and proclaimed an immediate intention of "taking a situation." What kind of situation she thought she was competent to fill nobody inquired; neither did the "threat" ever impose on anyone, nor did she take more than a preliminary step towards fulfilling it. She nursed the "Wanted" columns of the _Telegraph_ ostentatiously for a day or two, and waited for the olive-branch. The household were aware that she must be persuaded to forgive them, and she was duly persuaded--relapsing into the acidulated person, in whom hysteria looked impossible. A year or so later the outbreak would be repeated, and she would then threaten to "take a situation" quite as vehemently as before. "Tea, Aunt Emily?" "Yes, please, if it hasn't got cold." Humphrey took it to her. She stirred the cup briskly, and eyed him with critical disfavour. "I've read your book, Mr. Kent." "Oh," he responded, as she did not say any more. "Have you, Miss Wix?" "Very good, I'm sure," she brought out, after a further silence. He would not have imagined the simple words capable of conveying so clearly that she thought it very small beer indeed. "I suppose you're in the middle of another?" "No," he replied, "not yet." "Really?" She obviously considered that he ought to be. "You should call her 'aunt,'" exclaimed Sam Walford. "You'll have to call her 'Aunt Emily.' We don't go in for formality, my boy. Rough diamonds!" "Perhaps Mr. Kent thinks it would be rather premature," suggested Miss Wix. He talked to Cynthia. Fruit and fowls might be admired if he liked, and she and papa took him on a tour of inspection. There were moments when he was alone with Cynthia, while her father discovered that there weren't any eggs. "He is very good-looking," said Mrs. Walford; "don't you think so?" "I can't say he struck me as being remarkable for beauty," said the spinster. "I didn't say he was 'remarkable for beauty,' but he has--er--distinction--decided distinction. I'm surprised you don't see it. And he has very fine eyes." "His eyes won't give 'em any carriage-and-pair," replied Miss Wix. "_I_ used to have fine eyes, my dear, but I've stared at hard times so long." "I don't know where the 'hard times' come in, I'm sure!" exclaimed Mrs. Walford sharply. "And he wanted to give her a carriage directly they marry, but Sam's forbidden it." The maiden sniffed. "He is most modest for his position! I tell you, he was chased in Dieppe; the women ran after him. A baroness in the hotel positively threw her daughter at his head.... He wouldn't look at anybody but Cynthia.... The Baroness was _miserable_ the day the engagement was known." "Cynthia ought to be very proud," returned her sister dryly. "Oh, of course the girl is making a wonderful match--no doubt about it! He sold his novel for an extraordinary sum--quite extraordinary!--and the publishers have implored him to let them have another at his own terms; I saw the telegrams.... Astonishing position for such a young man!" "She's in luck!" "She's a very taking girl. Her smile is so sweet, and her teeth are quite perfect." "She was in luck to meet such a catch--some I people didn't have the opportunity.... I once had a beautiful set of teeth," added Miss Wix morosely; "but you can't pick rich husbands off gooseberry-bushes." On the white balcony, after dinner, Kent begged Cynthia to fix the wedding-day. After she had named one in May, it was agreed that, subject to her parents' approval, they should be married two months hence. He made his way to the station about eleven o'clock, with a flower in his coat and rapture in his soul. The first weeks of the period were interminable. He went to The Hawthorns daily, and Mrs. Walford was so good as to look about for a house for them in the neighbourhood. He was in love, but not a fool; he was determined not to cripple himself at the outset by a heavy rental. In conference with the fiancée he intimated that it would be preposterous for them to think of paying a higher rent than fifty pounds. Cynthia was a little disappointed, for mamma had just seen a villa at sixty-five that was a "picturesque duck." He strangled an impulse to say, "We'll take it," and repeated that as soon as their circumstances brightened they could remove. She did not argue the point, though the _rara avis_ evidently allured her, and Kent felt her acquiescence to be very gracious, and wondered if he sounded mean. The outlay on furniture did not worry him much. As Mrs. Walford pointed out, the things would "always be there" and "once they were bought, they were bought!" In her company they proceeded to Tottenham Court Road every morning for a week, and this one sped more quickly to him than any yet. It was a foretaste of life with Cynthia to choose armchairs, and etchings, and ornaments, and the rest, for their home together. They had found a house at fifty pounds per annum; it was about ten minutes' walk from The Hawthorns, a semi-detached villa in red brick, with nice wide windows, and electric bells, and rose-trees on either side of the tessellated path. They wanted to be able to drive up to it when they returned from the honeymoon and find it ready for them. Mrs. Walford was to buy the kitchen utensils, and engage a servant while they were away. All they had to do now was to buy the articles of interest, and settle the wall-papers, and have little intermediate luncheons, and go back to the shop, and sip tea while rolls of carpet were displayed. It was great fun. In the shops, though, the things seldom seemed to look so nice as they had done in the catalogues, and it was generally necessary to pay more than had been foreseen. But, again, "once they were bought, they were bought!" The thought was sustaining. If Kent felt blank when he contemplated the total of what they had spent, and remembered that the kitchen clamoured still, he reflected that to kiss Cynthia in such a jolly little menage would certainly be charming, and the girl averred ecstatically that the dessert service "looked better than mamma's!" He estimated that they could live in comfort on two hundred and fifty a year--for the first year, at all events; and by then he would have finished a novel, which, in view of the Press notices that he had had, he believed would bring them in as much as that. Even if it did not, there would be a substantial portion of his capital remaining; and with the third book----No, he had no cause for dismay, he told himself. They had decided upon Mentone for the wedding trip--a fortnight. It was long enough, and they both felt that they would rather go to Mentone for a fortnight than to Bournemouth or Ventnor for a month. It would amount to much the same thing financially, and be much more pleasant. "The morning after we come back, darling," said Kent, "I shall go straight to my desk after breakfast, and you know you'll see scarcely more of me till evening than if I were a business man and had to go to the City." "Y-e-s," concurred Cynthia meekly. "Of course--I understand." CHAPTER VI Mr. and Mrs. Waxford's present was to be a grand piano--or possibly a semi-grand, since the drawing-room was not extensive--and with a son being educated for the musical profession, it was natural that they shouldn't select it till he returned; they wished for the advantage of his judgment. He was travelling. He was on the Continent with Pincocca, the master under whom he studied. On hearing of his sister's engagement, he had at once despatched affectionate letters, and now he was expected home in two or three days to make Mr. Kent's acquaintance, and tender his felicitations in person. The better Kent learnt to know the Walfords, the more clearly he perceived how inordinately proud they were of their son. Cæsar's arrival, and Cæsar's approaching debut were topics discussed with a frequency he found tedious. Even Cynthia was so much excited by the prospect of reunion that a tête-à-tête with her lost a little of its fascination. He occasionally feared that if his prospective brother-in-law did not arrive without delay, he would have been bored into a cordial dislike for him by the time they met. He foresaw himself telling him so, at a distant date, and their joking over the matter together. Miss Wix alone appeared untainted by the prevailing enthusiasm, and the first ray of friendliness for the spinster of which he had been conscious was due to a glance of comprehension from her eyes one afternoon when Cæsar had been discussed energetically for upwards of half an hour. It struck him that there was even a gleam of ironical humour in her gaze. "Enthralling, isn't it?" she seemed to say. "What do you think of 'em?" He said to Cynthia later: "They do talk about your brother and his voice an awful lot, dearest, don't they?" She looked somewhat startled. "Well, I suppose we do," she answered slowly, "now you point it out. But I didn't know. You see, ever since his voice was discovered, Cæsar's been brought up for the profession. When you've heard it, you'll understand." "Is it really so wonderful?" he asked respectfully. "Oh, I'm sure you'll say so. Signor Pincocca told mamma it would be a _crime_ if she didn't let him study seriously for the career. And Cæsar has been under him years since then. Pincocca says when he 'comes out' people 'll rave about him. If he had had just a 'fine voice,' he would have gone on the Stock Exchange, you know, with papa; but--but there could be no question about it with a gift like that." Kent acknowledged that it was natural they should be profoundly interested by the young fellow's promise. Privately he wished that a literary man could also leap into fame and fortune with his debut. The next afternoon when he reached The Hawthorns he heard that Cæsar had already come--indeed, he had divined as much by Mrs. Walford's jubilant air. At the moment the gentleman was not in the room; Cynthia ran to fetch him. Humphrey awaited his entrance with considerable curiosity, and the mother kept looking impatiently towards the door. "I don't know what's keeping him," she said in her most staccato tones. "He went to fetch my book. Oh, he'll be here in a minute--or shall we go and look for him? Perhaps he's in the garden, and Cynthia can't find him. What do you say?" "Just as you please," said Kent. But as he spoke the girl returned, to announce that her brother was following her, and the next moment there was an atmosphere of brillantine and tuberoses, and Humphrey found his finger-tips being gently pressed in a large, moist palm. "I am charmed," said Cæsar Walford with a lingering smile. "Charmed." Kent saw a fat young man of six or seven and twenty, with an enormous chest development, and a waist that suggested that he wore stays and was already wrestling with his figure. His hair, which had been grown long, was arranged on his forehead in a negligent curl, and his shirt-collar, low in the neck, surmounted a flowing bow. "I'm very pleased to meet you," said the author with disgust. "I am charmed!" repeated Cæsar tenderly. "It's quite a delight. And it's you who are going to take Cynthia away from us, eh?" He glanced from one to the other, and shook a playful forefinger. "You bad man!... O wicked puss!" Mrs. Walford viewed these ponderous antics beamingly. "There's grace!" her expression cried. "There's dramatic gesture for you!" Again Humphrey's gaze sought the sour spinster's, and--yes, her own was eloquent. He sipped his tea abstractedly. So this was the gifted being of whom he had heard so much--this dreadful creature who bulged out of his frock coat, and minced, and posed, and was alternately frisky and pompous. What a connection to have! Was it possible that his voice was so magnificent as they all declared, or would that be a disappointment too? In any case, his self-complacence made a stranger ill. It was about two hours after dinner that the young man was begged to oblige the company, and Humphrey, who was now truly eager to hear him, feared for a long while that the persuasions would not succeed, for the coming bass objected in turn to Wagner, and Verdi, and all the songs in his repertoire. He shrugged his shoulders pityingly at this one, had forgotten another, and was "not equal" this evening to a third. At last, however, Cynthia rose, and insisted that he should give them "Infelice." _Ernani_ was "intolerable," but, since they would not let him alone He crossed languidly to her side. A hush of suspense settled upon the long drawing-room. Sam Walford fixed Kent with a stare, as if he meant to watch the admiration begin to bubble in him. Louisa, the hilarious and untruthful, appeared to be experiencing some divine emotion even before the first note, Miss Wix closed her eyes, with her mouth to one side. Then the young man languished at the gasalier, and roared. It was a prodigious roar. No one could dispute that he possessed a voice of phenomenal power, if it were once conceded to be a voice, in the musical sense, at all. It seemed as if he must burst his corsets, and shift the furniture--that the ceiling itself must split with the noise that he hurled up. Perspiration broke out on him, and rolled down his face, as he writhed at the gas-globes. His large body was contorted with exertion. But he never faltered. Bellow upon bellow he produced, to the welcome end--till Cynthia struck the final chord and he bowed. "A performance?" asked Walford, swollen with pride. Kent said indeed it was. The compliments were effusive. It was discussed whether he was, or was not, "in voice" to-night. He explained that to "lose himself" when he sang he needed Pincocca at the piano. He sank into his chair again, and mopped his wet curl. "The amateur accompaniment is very painful," he said winningly. Kent took leave of the family earlier than was his custom, asserting that he had work to do. The momentous date was now close at hand, and Turquand, who had not refused to be best man, had made a present that was lavish, all things considered. In the days that intervened, Humphrey and he found it impracticable to taboo the subject of the wedding; it was arranged that on the eve of the ceremony they should have a "bachelor dinner" by themselves, and subsequently smoke a few cigars together in a music-hall. Neither wanted anybody else, nor, in point of fact, did Humphrey know many men to invite. For time to attend the wedding the journalist had applied to his Editor on the grounds of "a bereavement," and as he watched Kent collect possessions, and pore over a Continental Bradshaw, and fondle the sacred ring, he was more than ever convinced that he had used the right term. It was a wet evening--the eve of the wedding-day. A yellow mist hung over Soho, and a light rain had fallen doggedly since noon, turning the grease of the pavements to slush. On the moist air the smell of the jam clung persistently, and along the narrow streets fewer children played tip-cat than was usual in the district. Kent's impedimenta were packed and labelled, and a brown-paper parcel among the litter contained the best man's new suit. The coat would be creased by the morrow, and he knew it; but he had a repugnance to undoing the parcel sooner than was compulsory, and once, when Kent was not looking, he had kicked it. The two men put up their collars, and made their way across the square. "Are you sure we'll go to the Suisse?" asked Kent. "It isn't festive, Turk." "Yes, let's go to the Suisse," said Turquand grumpily. "It's close." Both knew that its proximity was not the reason that it had been chosen, but the pretence was desirable. "We'll have champagne, of course," said Humphrey, as they passed in, and took their seats at their customary little table, with its half-yard of crusty bread and damp napkins. "We'll have champagne, and--and be lively. For Heaven's sake don't look as if you were at a funeral, Turk! This is to be an enjoyable evening. Where's the wine-list?" "Champagne? What for?" said Turquand. "Auguste will think you're getting at him." Auguste was prevailed upon to believe that the demand was made in sober earnest. That being the case, he could run out for champagne no less easily than for "bittare"! Madame, at the semi-circular counter, waved her fat hand in their direction gaily. Monsieur had inherited a fortune, it was evident! "Well," said Turquand, when the cork had popped, "here's luck! Wish you lots of happiness, old chap, I'm sure." "Same to you," murmured Kent. "God knows I do!... It's awful muck, this stuff, isn't it? What's he brought?" "It's what you ordered. Your mouth's out of taste. Eat some more kidneys." Humphrey shook his head. "I suppose you'll come here to-morrow evening--the same as usual, eh?" "May as well, I suppose. One's got to feed somewhere. _You'll_ be all rice and rapture then. I'll think of you." "Do! I don't know how it is, but--but just now, somehow, between ourselves But perhaps I oughtn't to say that.... I say, don't think I was going to--to----I wouldn't have you think I meant I wasn't fond of her, old boy, for the world! You don't think _that_, do you? She--oh, Heaven!--she's a perfect angel, Turk!... Fill up your glass, for goodness' sake, man, and do look jolly! Turk, next time we dine together it'll be at Streatham, and there'll be a little hostess to make you welcome; and--and: there'll always be a bottle of Irish, old man, and we'll keep a pipe in the rack with the biggest bowl we can find, and call it yours. By God, we will!" "Yes," said Turquand huskily.... "Going to have any more of this stew?" "I've had enough. Help yourself!" "No, I'm not ravenous either--smoked too much, perhaps. I say, madame doesn't know yet; better tell her." She was induced to join them presently, and to drink a glass of champagne, enchanted by the invitation. Monsieur Kent was always _si gentil_. But champagne! Was it that he celebrated already another romance? _Comment?_ he was going to be married--_nevare?_ But yes--to-morrow? Ah, mon Dieu! She rocked herself to and fro, and screamed the intelligence down the dinner-lift to her husband in the kitchen. Alors, they must drink a chartreuse with her--she insisted. Yes, and she would have one of monsieur Kent's cigarettes. To the health of the happy pair! Outside, the rain was still falling as they left the Restaurant Suisse and tramped to a music-hall. Here their entrance was unfortunately timed. Some good turns appeared earlier in the programme, some good turns figured lower down; but during the half-hour that they remained the monotony of the material that the average music-hall "comedian" regards as humorous struck Kent more forcibly than ever. Wives eloped with the lodgers, or husbands beat their wives and got drunk with "the boys." There seemed nothing else--nothing but conjugal infelicity; it was rang-tang-tang on the one vulgar, discordant note. "I've had enough of this," he said; "let's go. What time is it?" "Time for a quiet pipe at home, and then to turn in early. Let's cab it!" They were glad to take off their wet boots and to find themselves back in their own shabby chairs. But Cornelia had let the fire out, and the dismantled room was chilly. Turquand produced the whisky and the glasses, and, blowing a cloud, they drew up to the cold hearth, remarking that the weather had "turned muggy" and that a fire would have been out of place on such a night. "It looks bare without my things, doesn't it?" observed Kent. "One wouldn't have believed they made so much difference." "Yes," assented Turquand. "You'll have to get some books for that shelf over there, you know--it's awful empty." Turquand shivered, and said that he should. "You aren't cold?" "Cold? Not a bit--no. You were saying---?" "I don't know, I wasn't saying anything particular. I'll write you from Mentone, old fellow--not at once, but you shall have a line." "Thanks," answered Turquand; "be glad to hear from you." "Not that there'll be anything to say." "No, of course not. Still, you may just as well twaddle, if you will." There was a pause, while the pair smoked slowly, each busy with his thoughts, and considering if anything of what he felt could be said without its sounding sentimental. Both were remembering that they would never be sitting at home together in the room again, and though it had many faults, it assumed to the one who was leaving it a "tender grace" now. He had written his novel at that table; his first review had come to him here. Associations crept out and trailed across the floor; he felt that this room must always contain an integral portion of his life. And Turquand would miss him. "Be dull for you to-morrow evening, rather, I'm afraid, won't it?" he said in a burst. "Oh, I was alone while you were at Dieppe, you know. I shall jog along all right.... You've bought a desk for yourself, haven't you?" "Yes. Swagger, eh?" "You won't 'know where yer are'.... What's that--do you feel a draught?" "No--I--well, perhaps there is a draught now you mention it. Yes, I shall work in style when we come back. Strange feeling, going to be married, Turk!" "Is it?" said Turquand. "Haven't had the experience. Hope Mrs. Kent will like me--they never do in fiction. You ... you might tell her I'm not a bad sort of a damned fool, will you? And--er--I want to say, don't have the funks about asking me to your house once in a way, old chap, when I shan't be a nuisance; take my oath I'll never shock your wife, Humphrey ... too fond of you.... Be as careful as--as you can, I give you my word." His teeth closed round his pipe tightly. Neither man looked at the other; Humphrey put out his hand without speaking, and Turquand gripped it. There was a silence again. Both stared at the dead ashes. The clock of St. Giles-in-the-Fields tolled twelve, and neither commented on it, though each reflected that it was now the marriage morning. "Strikes me we were nearly making bally asses of ourselves," said Turquand at last, in a shaky voice. "Finish your whisky, and let's to bed!" CHAPTER VII As the wheels began to revolve, he looked at the girl with thanksgiving. Perhaps the top feeling in the tangle of his consciousness was relief that the worry and publicity of the day were over. They were married. For good or for ill--for always--whether things went well or went badly with him, she was his wife now! He realised the fact much more clearly here in the train than he had done at the altar; indeed, at the altar he had realised little but the awkwardness of his attitude, and that Cynthia was very nervous. And he was glad; but, knowing that he was glad, he wondered vaguely why he did not feel more exhilarated. They were alone in the compartment, and he took her hand and spoke to her. She answered by an obvious effort, and both sat gazing from the window over the flying fields. She thought of her home, and that "everything was very strange," and that she would have liked to cry "properly," without having Humphrey's eyes upon her. Kent wondered whether she would like to cry while he affected to be unaware of it behind a paper, or whether she would imagine he wanted to read and consider him unfeeling. He thought that a wedding-day was a very exhausting experience for a girl, and that her evident desire to avoid conversation was fortunate, since, to save his soul, he could not think of anything to say that wasn't stupid. He thought, also, though his palate did not crave tobacco, that a cigar would have helped him tremendously, and that it was really extraordinary to reflect that he and "Cynthia Walford" were man and wife. Next, he questioned inwardly what _she_ was thinking, and attempted, in a mental metamorphosis, to put himself in her place. It made him feel horribly sorry for her. He pitied her hotly, though he could not say so; and by a sudden impulse he squeezed her gloved fingers again, with remorseful sympathy. At the moment that he was moved to the demonstration, however, she was really wishing that the dressmaker had cut the corsage of her blue theatre frock square, instead of in a "V." She was sure it would have looked much better. He was agreeably conscious that his mind had "something feminine in it" and congratulated himself on his insight into hers. Some men would have failed to comprehend! Cynthia was distressfully conscious that the tears with which she was fighting had made her nose red, and she longed for an opportunity to use her powder-puff. The engine screamed. Both spoke perfunctorily. The train sped on. * * * * * As he sat by her side before the sea, he looked, not at the girl but within him. He thought of the book that had formed in his head, and perhaps his paramount feeling was impatience, and the desire to find the first chapter already materialising into words. They were married. The unconscious pretences of the betrothal period were over in both. To him, as well as to her, the magic, the subtile enchantment, was past. She was still Cynthia--more than ever Cynthia, he understood; but there had been a fascination when "Cynthia" was a goddess to him, which an acquaintance with strings and buttons had destroyed. The _corylopsis_ stood in a squat little bottle with a silver lid among brushes and hair-pins on a toilet-table, and his senses swam no more when he detected its faintness on her frock. Companionship, and not worship, was required now, and neither found the other quite so companionable as had been expected. This the girl in her heart excused less readily than the man. Primarily, indeed, the latter refused to acknowledge it. It was preposterous to suppose that if they did not possess much in common, he would riot have perceived the disparity during the engagement! Then he reminded himself that his life might have tendered him a shade intolerant; he must remember that the subject of literary work, all-engrossing to his own mind, made on hers unaccustomed demands. To try to phrase a sensation, the attempt to seize a fleeting impression so delicately that it would survive the process and not expire on the pen's point, were instinctive habits with himself; to her they appeared motiveless and wearisome games. He had endeavoured, in the novels that they read together during the honeymoon, to cultivate her appreciation of what was fine; for she had told him some of her favourite authors and he had shuddered. She had obtained a book for herself one day, and offered it to him. He had thanked her, but said that he was sure by the title that he wouldn't care for it. She answered that it was very silly and unliterary--she had acquired that word--to judge a book by what it was called. She was surprised at him! If _she_ had done such a thing, he would have ridiculed her. And, apart from that, she did not see that "Winsome Winnie" _was_ a bad title. What was the matter with it? Kent said he could not explain. She declared with a little triumphant laugh that that just showed how wrong he was. He made his endeavour very tenderly. To be looked upon as the schoolmaster abroad was a constant dread with him when he discovered that, to effect a similarity of taste between them, either she must advance, or he must regress. Sometimes--very occasionally--he handed her a passage with an air of taking it for granted that the pleasure would be mutual, but her assent was always so constrained that he was forced to realise that the cleverness of expression was lost upon her, that to her the word-painting had painted nothing at all. He wondered if his wife's dulness of vision fairly represented the eyes with which the novel-reading public read, and if it was folly to spend an hour revising a paragraph in which the majority would, after all, see no more artistry than if it had been allowed to remain as it was written first. He knew that it was folly, in a man like himself, with whom literature was a profession, and not a luxury, though he was aware at the same time that he would never be able to help it--that to the end there would be nights when he went up to bed having written no more than a hundred words all day, and yet went up with elation, because, rightly or wrongly, he felt the hundred words to have been admirably said. He knew that there would be evenings in the future, as there had been in the past, when, after reading a page of a master's prose with delight, he would go and tear up five sheets of his own manuscript with disgust. And he knew already--though he shrank from admitting this--that when it happened he would never be able to confess it to Cynthia, as he had done to Turquand, because Cynthia would find it absurd. The fortnight was near its conclusion, and both looked forward with eagerness to the return to England. He would plunge into his work; she would be near The Hawthorns, and have friends to come to see her. Neither of the pair regretted the step that they had taken; each loved the other; but a honeymoon was a trying institution, viewed as a whole. Presently, where they sat, she turned and put some questions to him about his projected book. Her intentions were praiseworthy; she was a good girl, and having married an author, she understood that it was incumbent on her to take an interest in his work, though she had fancied once or twice that perhaps it would have been nicer if, like a stock-jobber, he had preferred not to discuss his business at home. Papa had never cared to do so, she knew. Discussing an author's business was not so simple as she had assumed. There seemed to be such a mass of tedious detail that really didn't matter. "When do you think it will be finished, Humphrey?" she said. "In nine months, I hope, if I stick to it." "So long as nine months?" she exclaimed with surprise. "Why, I've read--let me see--two, three new ones of Mrs. St. Julian's this year! Will it _really_ take so long as nine months?" "Quite, sweetheart; perhaps longer. I don't write quickly, I'm sorry to say. Still, it won't be bad business if Cousins pay the two hundred and fifty that I expect. I think they ought to, after the way the last has been received." "Some people get much more, don't they?" "Just a trifle!" he said. "Yes; but I'm not a popular writer, you see. Wait a bit, though; we'll astonish your mother with our grandeurs yet. You shall have a victoria, _and_ two men on the box, with powdered hair, and drive out on a wet day and splash mud at your enemies." "I don't think I have any enemies," she laughed. "You _will_ have when you have the victoria and pair. Some poor beggar of an author who's hoping to get two hundred and fifty pounds for nine months' toil will look at you from a bus and cuss you." "Suppose you can't get two hundred and fifty?" she inquired. "You can't be sure." "Oh, well, if it were only a couple of hundred, we shouldn't have to go to the workhouse, you know. If it comes to that, a hundred, the same as I got for the other, would see us through, though of course I wouldn't accept such a price. Don't begin to worry your little head about ways and means on your honeymoon, darling; there's time enough for arithmetic. And it's going to be good work. I've been practical, too. I can end it happily, and retain a conscience. It's almost a different plot from what it was when I began to think, and it's better. It ends well, and it's better--the thing's a Koh-i-noor!" "Tell me all about it," she suggested. He complied enthusiastically. She was being very sympathetic, and he felt with perfect momentary content how jolly it was to have a lovely wife and talk over these things with her. Just what he had pictured! "But wouldn't it be more exciting if you kept that a mystery till the third volume?" she said, at the end of five minutes. It was as if she had thrown a bucket of ice-water on his animation. "I don't want it to be a mystery," he said. "That isn't the aim at all. What I mean to do is to analyse the woman's sensations when she learns it. I want to show how she feels and suffers; yes, and the temptation that she wrestles with, and loathes herself for being too weak to put aside. Don't you see--don't you see?" She was chiefly sensible that his pleasure had vanished and that the note of interest in his voice had died. She, however, repeated her suggestion; to be a literary critic, she must be prepared to maintain her views! "I think all that would be much duller than if you had the surprise," she declared. He did not argue--he did not attempt to demonstrate that her suggestion amounted to proposing that he should write quite another story than the one he was talking about; he felt hopelessly that argument would be waste of time. "Perhaps you are right," he said; "but one does what one can." "But you should say, 'What one _will_,' dear; it can be done whichever way you like." "There's only one way possible to _me_, I assure you; for once 'the wrong way' is the more difficult." "That which you _think_ is the wrong way," said Cynthia, with gentle firmness. He looked at her a moment incredulously. "Good Lord!" he said; "let me know something about my own business! I don't want to pose on the strength of a solitary novel--I'm not arrogant--but let me know _something_--at all events, more than you! Heavens above! a novelist devotes his life to trying to learn the technique of an art which it wants three lifetimes to acquire, and Mr. Jones, who is a solicitor, and Mr. Smith the shoe manufacturer, and little Miss Pink of Putney, who don't know the first laws of fiction --who aren't even aware there are any laws to know--are all prepared to tell him how his books should be written." "I am not Miss Pink of Putney," she said. "And if I were, we all know whether we like a book or whether we don't." "'Like'!" he echoed. "To 'like' and to 'criticise'----Men are _paid_ to criticise books when they can do it; it's thought to be worth payment. Editors, who don't exactly bubble over with generosity, sign cheques for reviews. _I_ don't pretend to teach Mr. Smith how to make his shoes; I've sense enough to understand that he knows the way better than I. Nor do these people think that they can teach a painter how to compose his pictures, or that they can give a musician lessons in counterpoint. Why on earth should they imagine they're competent to instruct a novelist? It is absurd!" "Your comparisons are far-fetched," she said. "A painter and a musician, we all know, have to study; they---" "They're entitled to the consideration due to a certain amount of money sunk--eh? That's really it. There are thousands upon thousands of families in the upper middle classes of England to whom fiction will never be an art, because the novelist hasn't been to an academy and paid fees. As a matter of fact, it is only in artistic and professional circles that a novelist in England is regarded with any other feeling than good-humoured contempt, unless he's publicly known to be making a large income. The commercial majority smile at him. They've a shibboleth--I'm sure it's familiar to you: 'You can't improve your mind by reading novels.' They're persuaded it's true. They have heard it ever since they were children, in these families where no artist, no professional man of any kind, has ever let in a little light. 'You can't improve your mind by reading novels' is one of the stock phrases of middle-class English Philistia. Ask them if they improve their minds by looking at pictures in the National Gallery, or even at the Academy, and they know it is essential that they should answer, 'Certainly.' Ask them how they do it, and they are 'done.' Of course, they don't really improve their minds either way, because, before the contemplation of art in any form can be anything more than a vague amusement, a very much higher standard of education than they have reached is necessary; only they have learnt to pretend about pictures. It's an odd thing--or, perhaps, a natural one--that an author of the sort of book that they are impressed by, a scientist, a brain-worker of any description, literary or not, talks and thinks of a novelist with respect, while these people themselves find him beneath them." There was a silence, in which both stared again at the sea. His irritation subsiding, it occurred to him that he might have expressed his opinions less freely, considering that Philistia was his wife's birthplace. He was beginning to excuse himself, when she interrupted him. "Don't let us discuss it any more, Humphrey," she said, in a grieved voice, "please! I am sorry I said so much." "_I_ was wrong," said Kent; "I have vexed you." "No; I am not vexed," she replied, in a tone that intimated she was only hurt. "Cynthia, don't be angry!... Make it up!" She turned instantly, with a touch of her hand, and a quick, pleased smile; and he set himself to efface the effect of his ill-humour, with entirely successful results. As they strolled back to the hotel side by side, he felt her to be a long way from him--there was even a sense of physical remoteness. Mentally, she did not seem so near as in the days of their earliest acquaintance. He caught himself wishing that he could debate a certain point in construction with Turquand, and from that it was the merest step to perceiving that Mentone would be jollier if Turquand were with him instead. He was appalled to think that such a fancy should have crossed his brain, and strove guiltily to believe that it had not; but once again he felt spiritless and blank, and it was a labour to maintain the necessary disguise. He observed forlornly that Cynthia always appeared happiest in their association when the ineptitude of it was weighing most heavily upon himself. CHAPTER VIII Mrs. Kent placed few obstacles in the way of her husband's industry, and installed in Leamington Road, Streatham, he began his novel, and deleted, and destroyed, and re-wrote, until at the expiration of three weeks he had accomplished Chapter I. Primarily he did not experience so many domestic discomforts to impede him as Turquand had predicted. Mrs. Walford had obtained a very respectable and nice-looking servant, whose only drawback was a father in a lunatic asylum and the frequently expressed fear that if she were given too much to do she might go out of her mind on the premises. Ann was so "superior," and a "general" had really proved so difficult to get, that the thought of an hereditary taint had not been allowed to disqualify her. Cynthia confessed to finding it a little awkward when a duty was neglected, but apart from this Ann was an acquisition. The author's working hours were supposed to be from ten o'clock till seven, with an interval for luncheon, but the irregular habits of bachelorhood made it hard for him to accustom himself to them, and it was often agreed that he should take his leisure in the afternoon, and reseat himself at his desk in the alluring hours of lamplight, when the neighbours' children were at rest and scales ceased from troubling. To these neighbours he found that he was an object of considerable curiosity. He had not lived in a suburb hitherto, and he discovered that for a man to remain at home all day offered much food for conjecture there. Subsequently, in some inexplicable manner, his vocation was ascertained, and then, when Cynthia and he went out, people whispered behind their window-curtains and stared. Of his wife's family he saw a good deal, both at The Hawthorns and at No. 64, Leamington Road, and his liking for his brother-in-law did not increase. There was an air of condescension in Mr. Cæsar Walford's self-sufficiency that he found highly exasperating. The bass's debut had been fixed, during their absence, for the coming season, and he repeated the newest compliments paid to him by his master with the languid assurance of an artist whose supremacy was already acknowledged by the world. The latest burst of admiration into which Pincocca had been betrayed had always to be dragged by his parents from reluctant lips, but he never forgot any of it. Humphrey was sure that the artist thought even less of him than the neighbours did. Fiction he rarely read, he said. He said it with an elevation of his eyebrows, as if novels were fathoms beneath his attention. His eyebrows were, in fact, singularly expressive, and he could dismiss an author's claim to consideration, or ridicule a masterpiece, without uttering a word. There had been more truth than is usual in such statements when Humphrey said that he was not conceited on the score of his unprofitable spurs, but when he contemplated the complacent sneer by which this affected young man pronounced a novelist of reputation to be entirely fatuous, he was galled. Cynthia had told her mother how hard he was working, and once, when they were spending an evening at The Hawthorns some weeks after their return, his industry was mentioned. "Well," exclaimed the stock-jobber tolerantly, "and how's the story?--getting along, heh?" "Yes," said Kent, "I'm plodding on with it fairly well, sir." He was aware that his father-in-law did not view fiction seriously, either, and he always felt a certain restraint in speaking of his profession here. "And what's it about?" asked Mrs. Walford, in the indulgent tone in which she might have put such a question to a child. "Have you made Cynthia your lovely heroine, and are you flirting with her at Dieppe again? _I_ know what it'll be--hee, hee, hee! I'm sure you meant yourself by the hero in your last book; you know I told you that long ago!" He knew also that she would tell him that, just as mistakenly, about the hero of every book he wrote. "N-no," he said, "I shouldn't quite care to try to make 'copy' out of my wife. It wouldn't be easy, and it wouldn't be congenial." "You ought to know her faults better than anybody else, I should think, by this time," said Miss Wix. "And her virtues," said Humphrey. "Oh," said Miss Wix, with acidulated humour, "he says two months are quite long enough to find out all Cynthia's virtues, Louisa!" "I didn't hear him say anything of the sort," Said Mrs. Walford crossly. "Well, what is it about? Tell us!" He felt awkward and embarrassed. "I can't explain a plot; I'm very stupid at it," he said. "You shall have a copy the moment it is published, mater, and read the thing." "I do wish he'd call me 'mamma'!" she cried. "He makes me feel a hundred years old." To change the subject, he inquired if she had read Henry James's new book. "I don't know," she said. "Oh yes, they sent it me from the library this week. It isn't bad; I didn't like it much. Did _you_ read it, Cæsar?" Cæsar became conscious that people talked. "Read?" he echoed wearily. "Read what?" "Henry James's last. I forget what it was called----Something. I saw you with it the other day. A red book." "I looked through it. I had nothing to do." "Quite amusing?" she said. "Wasn't it?" "I forget," he murmured; "I never do remember these things." "It took a clever man some time to write," said Kent; "it might have been worth your attention for a whole afternoon." Cæsar was not disturbed. Neither his confidence nor his amiability was shaken. "Do you think so?" he said with gentleness. "I _can't_ read these things any more. There's nothing to be gained. What does one acquire? Whether Angelina marries Edwin, or whether she marries Charles----!" He shook his head and smiled compassionately. Sam Walford guffawed. "When I feel that my mind's been at too great a tension, I sometimes _glance_ at a novel; but I'm afraid--I'm _really_ afraid--I can't concede that I should be justified in giving up an afternoon to one." "Cæsar has his work to think of, you know," put in Cynthia; "he's not like us women." "You'll find it a tough job to get the best of Cæsar in an argument," proclaimed Walford boisterously. "Oh, I don't deny that I _have_ read novels in my time. There was a time when I could read a yellow-back." He made this admission in the evident belief that a book was more frivolous in cardboard covers than in the cloth of its first edition. "But I can't do it to-day." "Well," cried Mrs. Walford, "_I_ must say I agree with Humphrey; I must say I think it's very clever to write a good novel--I do really! _I_ couldn't write one; I'm sure I couldn't--I haven't the patience." "Oh!" exclaimed Cæsar, with charming confusion; "it's Humphrey's own line--of course it is! I always forget." He turned to Kent deprecatingly: "You know, I never associate you with it; it's a surprise every time I remember." Kent said it was really of no consequence at all. "Well, well, well," said Walford, "everybody to his trade! We can't all be born with a fortune in our throats. Wish we could--eh, Humphrey, my boy? Did you hear what Lassalle said about his voice the other day? Cæsar, just tell Humphrey what Lassalle said about your voice the other day." "Oh, Humphrey doesn't want to listen to that long story," said Mrs. Walford, "I'm sure?" He could do no less, after this, than express curiosity. "Well, then, Cæsar, tell us what it was." "Do, Cæsar," begged his sister; "I haven't heard, either." "A trifle," he demurred, "not interesting. I didn't know I'd mentioned it." "Oh yes," said Miss Wix. "Don't you remember you told us the story at tea, and then you told it again to your father at dinner? But do tell Cynthia and Humphrey!" "I--er--dined with Pincocca last night at his rooms," he drawled. "One or two men came in afterwards. He introduced me. I didn't pay much attention to the names--you know what it is--and by-and-by Pincocca pressed me to sing. He said I was 'a pupil,' and I could see that one of the men was prepared to be bored.... This really is so very personal that----" "No, no, no! go on. What nonsense!" said his mother. "I could see he was prepared to be bored; so I made up my mind to--_sing!_ I was nettled--very childish, I admit it--but I was nettled. I didn't watch him while I sang--I couldn't. I did better than I expected. "You forgot _everything_," cried Sam Walford, "_I_ know!" "I did, yes. I didn't think of Pincocca, or of him, or of anybody in the room. When I had finished, he came up to me, and said, 'Mr. Walford, I am green with jealousy. Ah, Heaven! if _I_ could command such a career!' The man was Lassalle." "Flattering?" shouted his father to Kent. "Flattering? 'If _I_ could command such a career!' Eh?" Kent asked himself speechlessly if this thing could be. "If _I_ could command such a career!'" declaimed Mr. Walford. "What do you think of that? He's coming out in the spring, you know." "Yes, so I've heard," said Humphrey. "Where?" "That's not settled; here in town, I expect, at Covent Garden. He sang to the manager last week. The man was--was staggered." "Ha!" said Kent perfunctorily. "There's never been anything heard like it. I tell you, he'll take London by storm." "What _I_ can't understand," said Miss Wix, her mouth pursed to a buttonhole, "is how it was you didn't know Lassalle directly he came in. Is he the only musical celebrity you aren't intimate with?" Her nephew looked momentarily disconcerted. "One doesn't know everybody," he said feebly; "Lassalle happened to be a man I hadn't met." "What do you mean, Emily?" flared Mrs. Walford. "You don't imagine that Cæsar made the story up, I suppose?" "'Mean'?" said Miss Wix with wonder. "'Make it up'? Why should he make it up? I said I 'didn't understand,' that is all. Quite a simple observation." She rose, and seated herself stiffly on a distant couch. Mrs. Walford panted, and turned to Humphrey, who she was afraid had overheard. "How very absurd," she said jerkily--"how _very_ absurd of her to make such a remark! So liable to misconstruction. By the way, do you see anything of that Mr. Turkey--Turquand--what was he called?--now? Has he--er--er--any influence with the Press?" "He knows a good many people of a kind. Why?" "We shall be very pleased to see him," she said; "I liked him very much. He might dine with us one night, when there's nobody particular here.... I was thinking he might be useful to Cæsar. The Press can be so spiteful, can't it--so very spiteful? Of course, Cæsar will really be independent of criticism, but still----" "Still, you'll give Turquand a dinner." "Oh, you satirical villain!" she said playfully. "Hee, hee, hee! You're all alike, you writing men; you'll even lash your mamma-in-law. Aren't you going to have anything to drink? Sam, Humphrey has nothing to drink. Cynthia, a glass of wine?" The servant had entered with a salver and the tantalus, and Sam Walford proposed the toast of his son's debut. They prepared to drink it, and it was noticed then that Miss Wix sat alone in her distant corner. "Emily, aren't you going to join us?" "I beg your pardon, Emily," exclaimed Walford; "I didn't know you were with us, upon my word I didn't!" "'The poor are always with us,'" said Miss Wix, in a low and bitter voice. "If it can be spared, a drop of whisky." "Then, you'll tell Mr. Turquand we shall be happy to see him?" said Mrs. Walford to Kent. "Don't forget it. You might bring him in with you one evening. I dare say he'll be very glad of the invitation--and he can hear Cæsar sing. What's your hurry? I want to talk to Cynthia. You aren't going to write any more when you get back, I suppose?" He acknowledged that he was--that he had taken his wife to a matinée on that understanding--but it was past twelve when they left her mother's house and turned homeward through the silent suburb. The railway had just yielded back a few theatre-goers, weary and incongruous-looking. In the cold clearness of the winter night the women's long-cloaked figures and flimsy head-gear drooped dejectedly, and the men, with their dress-trousers flapping thinly as they walked, appeared already oppressed by the thought of the early breakfast to which they would be summoned in time to hurry to the station again. The prosperous residences lying back behind spruce, trim shrubberies and curves of carriage-drive finished abruptly, and then began borders in which fifty pounds was already a distinguished rental. The monotonous rows of villas, with their little hackneyed gables, and their little hackneyed gates, their painful grandiloquence of nomenclature, seemed to Kent a pathetic expression of lives which had for the most part reached the limit of their potentialities and were now passed without ambition and without hope. Some doubtless looked forward or looked back from the red brick maze, but to the majority the race was run, and this was conquest. He was about to comment on it, but the girl was unusually quiet, and the remark on his lips was not one that would have been productive of more than a monosyllabic assent in any circumstances. Their front-garden slept. He unlocked the door, and, saying that she was very tired, Cynthia held up her face immediately and went upstairs. After he had extinguished the gas, Kent mounted to the little room where he worked, and lit the lamp. Beyond the window, over the bare trees, the moon was shining whitely. He stood for a few moments staring out, and thinking he scarcely knew of what; then he began to re-read the last page of the manuscript that lay on the desk. He had just begun to write, when Cynthia stole in and joined him. "Are you busy?" she asked. "No, dearest," he said,'surprised. "What is it?" She came forward, and hung beside him, fingering the pen that he had laid down. She had put on her dressing-gown, and her hair was loose. She was very lovely, very youthful so; she looked like a child playing at being a woman. The sleeves fell away, giving a glimpse of the delicate forearms, and he thought the softness of the neck she displayed seemed made for a parent's kisses. "How cold it is!" she murmured; "don't you feel cold?" "You shouldn't have come in," he said; "you'll take a chill. You'd be better off in bed, Baby." She shook her head. "I want to stop." "Then, let me get you a rug and wrap you up." He rose, but she stayed him petulantly. "I don't want you to go away; I want to speak to you.... Humphrey----" "Is anything the matter?" "I've something to tell you." She pricked the paper nervously with the nib. "Something ... can't you guess what it is, Humphrey? Think--it's about _me_." A tear splashed on to the paper between them. Kent's heart gave one loud throb of comprehension and then yearned over her with the truest emotion that she had wakened in him yet. He caught her close and caressed her, while she clung to him sobbing spasmodically. "Oh, you do love me? You do love me, don't you?" she gasped. "I'm not a disappointment, _am_ I?" She slipped on to the hassock at his feet, resting her head on his leg. With the tumbled fairness of her hair across his trouser as she crouched there, she looked more like a child than ever, a penitent child begging forgiveness for some fault. He swore that she had fulfilled and exceeded his most ardent dreams, that she was sweeter in reality than his imagination had promised him; and he pitied her vehemently and remorsefully as he spoke, because in such a moment she was answered by a lie. The lamp, which the servant had neglected, flickered and expired, and on a sudden the room, and the two bent figures before the desk were lit only by the pallor of the moon. Cynthia turned, and looked up in his face deprecatingly: "Oh, I'm so sorry; I meant to remind her. I'm punished--I'm left in the dark myself!" He stooped and kissed her. The fondness that he felt for her normally, intensified by compassion, assumed in this ephemeral circumscription of idea the quality of love, and he rejoiced to think that, after all, he was deceived and that their union was indeed, indeed, the mental companionship to which he had looked forward. He did not withdraw his lips; her mouth lay beneath them like a flower; and, his arms enclosing her, she nestled to him voicelessly, pervaded by a deep sense of restfulness and content. In a transient ecstasy of illusive union their spirits met, and life seemed to Kent divine. CHAPTER IX As, chapter by chapter, the novel grew under his hand, Kent saw, from the little back-window, the snow disappear and the bare trees grow green, until at last a fire was no longer necessary in the room, and the waving fields that he overlooked were yellow with buttercups. He rose at six now, and did about three hours' work before Cynthia went down. Then they breakfasted, and, with an effort to throw some interest into her voice, she would inquire how he had been getting on. He probably felt that he had not been "getting on" at all, and his response was not encouraging. After breakfast he would make an attempt to read the newspaper, with his thoughts wandering back to his manuscript, and Cynthia would have an interview with Ann. This interview, ostensibly concluded before he went back to his desk, was generally reopened as soon as he took his seat, and for some unexplained reason the sequel usually occurred on the stairs. "Oh, what from the grocer's, ma'am?" "So and so, and so forth." "Yes, ma'am." "Oh, and--Ann!" "What do you say, ma'am?" More instructions, interrupted by a prolonged banging at the tradesman's door, and the girl's rush to open it. "What is it, Ann?" "The fishmonger, ma'am." "Nothing this morning." "Nothing this morning," echoed by Ann; the boy's departing whistle, "Ann!" "Yes, ma'am?" "Ask him how much a pound the salmon is to-day." "Hi! how much a pound's the salmon?" Meanwhile, Kent beat his fists on the desk, and swore. Once he had pitched his pen at the wall in a frenzy, and dashed on to the landing to remonstrate; but he had felt such a brute when Cynthia cried and declared that he had insulted her before the servant, and it had wasted so much of his morning kissing her into serenity again, that he decided it would hinder him less on the whole to bear the nuisance without complaint. The ink-splashes on the wall-paper testified to his having raged in private on more than the one occasion, however, and the superior Ann's feet appeared to him to grow heavier every week. The domestic machinery was in his ears from morning till nightfall--from the time that she began to bang about the house for cleaning purposes to the hour that he heard her rattle the last of the dinner things in the scullery and go to bed. It seemed to him often that it could not take much longer to wash the plates and dishes of a Lord Mayor's banquet than Ann took to wash those of his and Cynthia's simple meals, and when, like the report of a cannon, the oven-door slammed, he yearned for his late lodging in Soho as for a lost paradise. And this wasn't all. His wife was less companionable to him daily. Fifty times he had registered a mental oath that he would abandon his hope of cultivating her and resign himself to her remaining what she was; but he had too much affection for her to succeed in doing it yet, and with every fresh endeavour and failure that he made his dissatisfaction was intensified. He burned to talk about his work, about other men's work, to speak of his ambitions, to laugh with someone over a witty article; instead, their conversation was of Cæsar, whose debut had been postponed till the autumn; of the engagement of Dolly Brown, whom he did not know, to young Styles, of Norwood, whom he had not met; of the laundress, who had formerly charged four-pence for a blouse, and who now asked fivepence. When he pretended to be entertained, she spoke of such things with animation. When he dropped the mask, her manner was as dull as her topics, for she was as sensitive as she was uninteresting. Her wistful question, whether she had proved a disappointment, recurred to him frequently, and to avoid wounding her he affected good spirits more often than he yawned. But the strain was awful; and when he escaped from it at last and sank into a chair alone, it was with the sense of exhaustion that one feels after having been saddled for an afternoon with a too talkative child. The oases in his desert were Turquand's visits; but Turquand never came without a definite invitation. Streatham was a long distance from Soho, and there was always the risk of finding that they had gone to the Walfords'. Besides, it was necessary to book to Streatham Hill, from the West End, and the service was appalling, with the delays at the stations and the stoppages between them, especially on the return journey, when the train staggered to a standstill at almost every hundred yards. One evening when he dined with them, Humphrey gave him some sheets of his manuscript to read. He did not expect eulogies from Turquand, but he would rather have had to listen to intelligent disapproval than refrain from discussing the book any longer, and when the other praised the work he was delighted. "You really think it good?" he asked. "Better than the last? You don't think they'll say I haven't fulfilled its promise? Honest Injun, you know?" "Seems very strong," said Turquand, sucking his pipe. "No, I don't think you need tremble, if these pages aren't the top strawberries. Rather Meredithian, that line about her eyes in the pause, isn't it? You remember the one I mean, of course?" Kent laughed gaily. "It came like that," he said. "Fact! Does it look like a deliberate imitation? Would you alter it? Oh, I say, talking of lines, I'm ill with envy. 'Occasionally a girl, kissed from behind as she stretched to reach a honeysuckle, rent with a scream the sickly-coloured, airless evening.' The 'sickly-coloured, airless evening.' Isn't it great? What do you think of that for atmosphere? And he's got it with the two adjectives. But the 'honeysuckle'--the 'honeysuckle' with that 'sickly-coloured, airless'--you can smell it!" "Whose?" "Moore's. I opened the book the other day, and it was the first thing I saw. I had been hammering at a lane and summer evening paragraph myself, and when I read that, I knew there wasn't an impression in all my two hundred words." "You shouldn't let him read, Mrs. Kent, while he has work on the stocks," said the journalist. "I know this phase in him of old." "Yes, and you used to be very rude," put in Kent perfunctorily. "My wife isn't! I can be depressed now without being abused." Cynthia laughed. She was very pretty where she lay back in the rocker by the window. Her face was a trifle drawn now, but she looked girlish and graceful still. She looked a wife of whom any man might be proud. "You didn't mention it," she said; "I didn't know. But I don't see anything wonderful in what you quoted, I must say! Do you, Mr. Turquand? I'm sure 'sickly-coloured, airless, doesn't mean anything at all." "It means a good deal to me," said Kent. "I'd give a fiver to have found that line." "Cousins wouldn't give you any more for your book if you had," said Turquand. "Put money in thy purse! I suppose you'll stick to Cousins?" "Why not? Life's too short to find a publisher who'll pay you what you think you're worth; and Cousins are affable. Affability covers a multitude of sins, and there's a lot of compensation in a compliment. Cousins senior told me I had a 'great gift.'" "Perhaps he was referring to his hundred pounds." "He was referring to my talent, though I says it as shouldn't. That was your turn, Cynthia!" "Yes," said Turquand; "a wife's very valuable at those moments, isn't she, Mrs. Kent?" "How do you mean?" said Cynthia, who found the conversational pace inconveniently rapid. "I shall send it to Cousins," went on Humphrey hastily; "and I want two hundred and fifty this time." "They won't give it you." "Why not?" "Partly because you'll accept less. And you haven't gone into a second edition, remember." "Look at the reviews!" "Cousins's will look at the sale. The thing will have to be precious good for you to get as much as that!" "It _will_ be precious good," said Kent seriously. "I'm doing all I know! You shall wade right through it when it's finished, if you will, and tell me your honest opinion. I won't say it's going to 'live' or any rot like that; but it's the best work it is in me to do, and it will be an advance on the other, that I'll swear." "Mrs. St. Julian's last goes into a fourth edition next week," observed Turquand grimly, "if that's any encouragement to you." "Good Lord," said Kent, "it only came out in January! Is that a fact?" "One of 'Life's Little Ironies'! Hers is the kind of stuff to sell, my boy! The largest public don't want nature and style; they want an improbable story and virtue rewarded. The poor 'companion' rambles in the moonlight and a becoming dress, and has love passages in the grounds at midnight--which wouldn't be respectable, only she's so innocent. The heiress sighs for a title and an establishment in Park Lane; I and the poor 'companion' says, 'Give me a cottage, with the man I love,' making eyes at the biggest catch in the room, no doubt, though the writer doesn't tell you that--and hooks him. Blessed is the 'companion' whose situation is in a story by Mrs. St. Julian, for she shall be called the wife of the lord. Sonny, the first mission of a novel is to be a pecuniary success--you are an ass! Excuse me, Mrs. Kent." "You may give him all the good advice you can. I've said before that I like Mrs. St. Julian's stories, but Humphrey has made up his mind not to. That's firmness, I suppose, as he is a man!" She laughed. "Turk didn't imply that he liked them either. Isn't it painful, though, to think of the following a woman like that can command? What a world to write for--it breaks one's heart!" "It's an over-rated place," said Turquand; "it's a fat-headed, misguided, beast of a world!" "It isn't the world," said Cynthia brightly; "it's the people in it!" A ghastly silence followed her comment, a pause in which the journalist stared at the stove ornament, affecting not to have heard her, and Kent felt the sickness of death in his soul. Shame that his wife should say such a stupid thing in Turquand's presence paralysed his tongue; and Turquand, pitying his embarrassment, turned to the girl with an inquiry about her relatives. Humphrey had taken him to The Hawthorns, as requested, and Turquand, with characteristic perversity, had professed to discover a congenial spirit in Miss Wix. It was about Miss Wix that he asked now. Cynthia laughed again. "Yes, your favourite is quite well," she answered--"as cheerful as ever." "Fate hasn't been kind to Miss Wix," said Turquand; "she's been chastened and chidden too much. In other circumstances----" "Skittles!" said Humphrey. "In other circumstances, she might have been sweeter, and less amusing. Personally, I am grateful that there were not other circumstances. I like Miss Wix as she is; she refreshes me." "I wish she had that effect on _me_," said Kent, as the guest rose to go and he reflected gloomily that he would hear nothing refreshing until the next time they met. He begged him to remain a little longer. And, when Turquand withstood his persuasions, he insisted on accompanying him to the station, and parted from him on the platform with almost sentimental regret. Only his interest in his book sustained him. He was deep enough in it for it to have a fascination for him now, and, though there were still days when he did not produce more than a single page, there were others on which composition was spontaneous and delightful, and happy sentences seemed to fall off his pen of their own accord. He wrote under difficulties when the summer came, for Cynthia required more and more attention; but while he often devoted a whole morning or afternoon to her, he made up for it by working on the novel half the night. More than once he worked on it all night, and after a bath and a shave he joined her at breakfast on very good terms with himself. To support the sprightliness, however, he needed to breakfast with someone to whom he could report his progress, and cry, "I've come to such a point," or, "That difficulty that we foresaw, you know, is overcome--a grand idea!" His exhilaration speedily evaporated at breakfast, and, if he returned to his room an hour later, he did so feeling far less fresh than when he had left it. Yes, Cynthia demanded many attentions through the summer months; she was petulant, capricious, and dissolved into tears at the smallest provocation. There was much for Kent to consider besides the novel. Also there were anticipations in which they momentarily united and he felt her to be as close to him as she was dear. But these moments could not make a life; and despite the fact that the time when they expected their baby to be born was rapidly approaching, he was living more and more within himself. Cynthia had no complaint to make against him; if marriage was not altogether the elysium that she had imagined it would prove, she did not hold that to be Humphrey's fault. She found him, if eccentric, tender and considerate. But he was bored and weary. His feeling for her was the affection of a man for a child, tinged more or less consciously by compassion, since he knew that she would sob her heart out if she suspected how tedious she appeared to him. Though she would have been a happier woman with a different man, the cost of the mistake that they had made was far more heavy to him than to her. He realised what a mistake it had been, while she was ignorant of it. And of this, at least, he was glad. CHAPTER X She was very ill after her confinement, and for several weeks it was doubtful if she would recover. The boy throve, but the mother seemed to be sinking. The local doctor came three times a day, and a physician was called in, and then other consultations were held between the physician and a specialist, and it appeared to Kent that he was never remembered by Mrs. Walford, or the nurse, during this period, excepting when he was required to write a cheque. "You shall see her for a moment by-and-by," one or the other of them would say; "she is to be kept very quiet this afternoon. Yes, yes, now you're not to worry; go and work, and you shall be sent for later on!" Then he would wander round the neglected little sitting-room, and note drearily, and without its striking him that he might attend to them, that the ferns in the dusty majolica pots were dying for want of water--or he would sit down and write, by a dogged effort, at the rate of a word a minute, asking himself anxiously what sum it was safe to expect from Messrs. Cousins. His banking account was diminishing rapidly under the demands made upon it now, and he found it almost as hard to write a chapter of a novel as if he had never attempted to do such a thing before. He returned thanks to Heaven that he was not a journalist, to whom the necessity for covering a certain number of pages by a stated hour daily was unavoidable; but he wished himself a mechanic or a petty tradesman, whose vocations, he presumed, were independent of their moods. It was not till the crisis was past and Cynthia was downstairs again, in a wrapper on the sofa, that he began to feel that he was within measurable distance of the conclusion. The nine months that he had allotted to the task had long gone by, but that it would have taken him a year did not trouble him, for he knew the work to be good. He told her so one afternoon when they were alone together again, she with her couch drawn to the fire, and he sitting at the edge, holding her hand. "I'm satisfied," he declared. "When I say 'satisfied,' you know what I mean, of course? It's as well done as I expected to do it. Another week 'll see it finished, darling." She patted his arm. "Poor old boy! it hasn't been a happy time for him either, has it?" "I've known jollier. But you're all right again now, thank God! and I'm going to pack you off to Bournemouth or somewhere soon, to bring your colour back. I was speaking to Dr. Roberts about it this morning. He says it's just what you need." "I've been very expensive, Humphrey," she said wistfully. "How much? We didn't think it would cost so much as it has, did we? You should have married a big, strong woman, Humphrey, or----" "Or what?" "Or nobody," she murmured. The eyes that she bent upon the fire glittered. He squeezed her hand, and laughed constrainedly. "I'm quite content, thank you," he said, in as light a tone as he could manage. "What are you crying for? Nurse will look daggers at me and think I've been bullying you. Tell me--was she kind to you? I've been haunted by the idea that she was treating you badly and you were too frightened of her to let anyone know. You're such a kid, little woman, in some things--such an awful kid." "Not such a kid as you imagine," she said. "I've been thinking; I've thought of many things since Baby was born. Often when they believed I was asleep, I used to lie and think and think, till I was wretched." "What did you think of?" asked Kent indulgently. "You mustn't be vexed with me if I tell you. I've thought that, perhaps, although you don't feel it yet--though you don't suppose you ever _will_ feel it--it might have been best for you, really and seriously best, if you had married nobody, Humphrey--if you had had nothing to interfere with your work, and had lived on with Mr. Turquand just as you were. There, now you _are_ vexed! Bend down, and let me smooth it away." "What can have put such a stupid idea into your head?" said Kent, wishing pityingly that he had not felt it quite so often. "Don't be a goose, sweetheart! What nonsense! I should be lost without you." "I think I suit you better than any other woman would," she said, with pathetic confidence. "But if you had kept single? That's what I've wondered--if you wouldn't be better off without a wife at all. Oh, you should hear some of the stories Nurse has told me of places she has been in! I didn't think there could be such awfulness in the world. And in the first confinement, too! It makes one afraid that no woman can ever expect to understand any man." "Hang your nurse!" said Humphrey. "Cackling old fool! I suppose in every situation she is in she talks scandal about the last, and where there wasn't any, she makes it up. When does she go?" "She can't leave Baby until we get another, you know. At least, I hope she won't have to." "Another?" "Another nurse. Mamma is going to advertise in _The Morning Post_ for us at once. We want a thoroughly experienced woman, don't we, dear? We don't know anything about babies ourselves, and----" "Oh, rather! Poor little soul! we owe him as much as that. Life is the cost of the parents' pleasure defrayed by the child. We'll make the world as desirable to him as we can." He paused for her to comment on his impromptu definition of life, by which he was agreeably conscious he had said something brilliant; but it passed by her unheeded. He reflected that Turquand would either have approved it, or picked it to pieces, and that for it to go unnoticed was hard. She looked at him tenderly. "I knew you'd say so. It doesn't really make much difference to our expenses whether we pay twenty pounds a year or twenty-five--and to the kind of nurse we shall get it makes all the difference on earth. What shall we call him?" "Him! You're not going to get a man?" "Baby, you silly! Have you thought of a name? _I_ have!" He was still wishing that she had a sense of humour and occasionally made a witty remark. "What?" he asked. "Yours. I want to call him 'Humphrey.' What do you say to it?" "What for? It's ugly. You said so the first time you heard it. I think we might choose something better than that." "But it's yours," she persisted. "I want him called by your name--I do, I do!" She held his hand tightly, and her lips trembled. "If ... if I were ever to lose you, Humphrey, I should like our child to have your name. Don't laugh at me, I can't help feeling that. That night when he was born--oh, that night! shall I ever forget it?--and Dr. Roberts looked across at me and said, 'Well, you have a little son come to see you, Mrs. Kent,' the first thing I thought was, 'We can call him "Humphrey."' I wanted to say it to you when they let you in, but I couldn't, I was so tired; I thought it instead. When nurse brought him over to me, or when he cried, or when I saw him moving under the blanket in the bassinet, I thought, 'There's my other Humphrey!'" He kissed her, and sat staring at the fire, his conscience clamorous. He had not realised that he had grown so dear to her, and the discovery made his own dissatisfaction crueller. He felt a thankless brute, a beast. It seemed to him momentarily that the situation would be much less painful if the disappointment were mutual--if she, too, were discontented with the bargain she had made. To listen to her speaking in such a way, to accept her devotion, knowing how little devotion she inspired in return, stabbed him. He asked himself what he had done that she should love him so fondly. He had not openly neglected her, but secretly he had done it often, and with relief. Had she missed him when he had shut himself in his room, not to write, but to wish that he had never met her? His mind smote him. The question obtruded itself during the following days, but now at least his plea of being busy was always genuine enough; he was writing fiercely. The pile of manuscript to which he added sheet after sheet was heavy and thick. Then there came a morning when he went to bed at three, and rose again at eight, to begin his final chapter, having told the servant to bring him a sandwich and a glass of claret for luncheon. When one o'clock struck, and she entered, tobacco had left him with no appetite and a furred tongue. He threw a "thank you" at her, and remained in the same bent attitude, his pen traversing the paper steadily. He was working with an exaltation which rarely seized him, the exaltation with which the novelist is depicted in fiction as working all the time. His aspect was untidy enough for him to have served as an admirable model for that personage. He had not shaved for three days, and a growth of stubbly beard intensified the haggardness that came of insufficient sleep. The wind was causing the fire to be more a nuisance than a comfort, and every now and then a gust of smoke shot out of the narrow stove, obscuring the page before him, and making him cough and swear. The atmosphere was villainous, but, excepting in these moments, he was unconscious of it. He was near the closing lines. His empty pipe was gripped between his teeth, and he wanted to refill it, but he couldn't bring himself to take his eyes from the paper while he stretched for his pouch and the matches. He meant to refill it the instant he had written the last words, but now an access of uncertainty assailed him and he could not decide upon them. He stared at the paper without daring to set a sentence down, and drew at the empty bowl mechanically, his palate craving for the taste of tobacco, while his sight was magnetised by the pen's point hovering under his hand. He sat so for a quarter of an hour. Then he wrote with supreme satisfaction what he had thought of first and rejected. His pen was dropped. He drew a breath of relief and thanksgiving, and lit his pipe. His novel was done. Unlike the novelist in fiction again, he did not mourn beautifully that the characters who had peopled his solitude for twelve months, and whom he loved, were about to leave him for the harsher criticism of the world. He was profoundly glad of it. He felt exhilaration leap in his jaded veins as he picked up his pen and added "The End." He felt that he was free of an enormous load, a tremendous responsibility, of which he had acquitted himself well. Almost every morning, with rare exceptions, for a year he had, so to speak, awakened with this unfinished novel staring him in the face; almost every night for a year he had gone up the stairs to the bedroom remembering what a lump of writing had still to be accomplished. And now it was done; and he couldn't do it better. Blessed thought! If he recast it chapter by chapter and phrase by phrase, he could not handle the idea more carefully or strongly than he had handled it in the bulky package that lay in front of him--the story told! He was eager to forward it to the publishers without delay, but Turquand had so recently referred to his expectation of reading it in the manuscript that he sent it to Soho first. "Let me have it back quickly," he begged; and the journalist's answer in returning the parcel reached him on the next evening but one. He showed it to Cynthia with delight; Turquand wrote very warmly. The manuscript was submitted to Messrs. Cousins with a note, requesting them to give it their early consideration; and now Kent was asked constantly by the Walfords if they had written yet, and what terms he had obtained. Cynthia had not regained strength enough to care to travel at present, and her parents and brother generally spent the evening at No. 64, where, truth to tell, Kent found their interest rather a nuisance. His father-in-law evidently held that it was derogatory for him to be kept waiting a fortnight for his publishers' offer, and Mrs. Walford made so many foolish inquiries and ridiculous suggestions that he was sometimes in danger of being rude. Cæsar alone displayed no curiosity in a matter so frivolous, but listened with his superior air, which tried Kent's patience even more. The fat young man's debut had been postponed again. Now he was to appear for certain in the spring, and he explained, in a tone implying that he could, if he might, impart esoteric facts, that the delay had been discreet. "No outsider can have any idea," he said languidly, "what wheels within wheels there are in our world." He meant the operatic world, into which he had still to squeeze a foot. "This last season it would have been madness for a new bass to sing in London; he was doomed before he opened his mouth--doomed!" He looked at the ceiling with a meditative smile, as if dwelling upon curiously amusing circumstances. "_Very_ funny!" he added. Excepting his master, he did not know a professional singer in England, and, whenever a benefit concert was to be given, he would chase the organiser all over the town in hansoms, and telegraph to him for an appointment "on urgent business" in the hope of being allowed to sing. But his assurance was so consummate that--although one was aware he had not yet done anything at all--he almost persuaded one while he talked that he was the pivot round which the musical world revolved. Cæsar excepted, Kent had really no grounds for complaint against the Walfords. The others' queries might worry him, but their cordiality was extreme; and they made Cynthia relate Turquand's opinion of the book--for which no title had been found--again and again. Even the stock-jobber's view that a fort-night's silence was surprising was due to an exaggerated estimate of the author's importance, and Mrs. Walford, when she refrained from giving him advice, appeared to think him a good deal cleverer now that the manuscript was in Messrs. Cousins' hands than she had done while it was lying on his desk. Indeed, there were moments at this stage when his mother-in-law gushed at him with an ardour that reminded him of the early days of his acquaintance with her in Dieppe. CHAPTER XI "Well, have those publishers of yours made you an offer yet?" "No, sir; I haven't heard from them." "You should drop them a line," said Walford irritably. "Damn nonsense! How long have they had the thing now?" "About three weeks." "Drop 'em a line! They may keep you waiting a month if you don't wake them up. Don't you think so, Cynthia? He ought to write." "Oh, I expect we shall have a letter in a day or two, papa. We were afraid you weren't coming round this evening; you're late. How d'ye do, mamma? How d'ye do, Aunt Emily?" "And how are you?" asked Mrs. Walford. "Have you made up your mind about Bournemouth yet? She is quite fit to go now, Humphrey. You ought to pack her off at once; there's nothing to wait for now you've got your nurse. How does she suit you?" "She seems all right," said Cynthia, rather doubtfully. "A little consequential, perhaps--that's all." "Oh, you mustn't stand any airs and graces; put her in her place at the start. What has she done?" "She hasn't done anything, only----" "She's our first," explained Kent, "and we're rather in awe of her. She was surprised to find that there weren't two nurseries--she is frequently 'surprised,' and then we apologise to her." "Don't be so absurd!" murmured his wife; "he does exaggerate so, mamma! No; but, of course, she has always been in better situations, with people richer than us.... 'Us'?" she repeated questioningly, looking at Kent with a smile. He laughed and shook his head. "Than _we_, then! And she's the least bit in the world too self-important." "Than 'we'?" echoed Mrs. Walford. "Than 'we'? Nonsense! 'Than _us_'!" Kent pulled his moustache silently, and there was a moment's pause. "Than _us!_" said the lady again defiantly. "Unquestionably it is 'than _us!_" "Very well," he replied; "I'm not arguing about it, mater." "_I_ always say 'than us,'" said Sam Walford good-humouredly. "Ain't it right?" "No," said Miss Wix; "of course it isn't, Sam!" "Ridiculous!" declared Mrs. Walford, with asperity. "'Than we' is quite wrong--quite ungrammatical. I don't care who says it isn't--I say it _is_." "A literary man might have been supposed to know," said Miss Wix ironically. "But Humphrey is mistaken too, then?" "What's the difference--what does it matter?" put in Cynthia. "There's nothing to get excited about, mamma." "I'm not in the least excited," said her mother, with a white face; "but I don't accept anybody's contradiction on such a point. I'm not to be convinced to the contrary when I'm sure I'm correct." "Well, let's return to our muttons," said Kent. "Once upon a time there was a nurse, and----" "Oh, you are very funny!" Mrs. Walford exclaimed. "Let me tell you, you don't know anything about it. And as to Emily, I don't take any notice of her at all. She may say what she likes." "What I like is decent English," said Miss Wix, "since you don't mind. This lively conversation must be very good for Cynthia. Humphrey, you're quite a member of the family; you see we're rude to one another in front of you. Isn't it nice?" "I shouldn't come to you to learn politeness, either," retorted Mrs. Walford hotly. "I shouldn't come to you to learn grammar, or politeness either. You're most rude yourself--most ill-bred!" "That'll do--that'll do," said the stock-jobber; "we don't want a row. Damn it! let everybody say what they choose; it ain't a hanging matter, I suppose, if they're wrong!" "I'm _not_ wrong, Sam. Humphrey, just tell me this: Do you say 'than who' or 'than whom'? Now, then!" "You say 'than whom,' but that's the one instance where the comparative does govern the objective in English. And Angus, or Morell, or somebody august, denies that it ought to govern it there." Momentarily she looked disconcerted. Then she said: "All I maintain is that 'than we' is very pedantic in ordinary conversation--very pedantic indeed; and I shall stick to my opinion if you argue for ever. 'Than us' is much more usual, and much more euphonious. I consider it's much more euphonious than the other. I prefer it altogether." Miss Wix gave a sharp little laugh. "You may consider it more euphonious to say 'heggs' and 'happles,' too, but that doesn't make it right." Her sister turned to her wrathfully, and the ensuing passage at arms was terminated by the spinster putting her handkerchief to her eyes and beginning to cry. "I won't be spoken to so," she faltered--"I won't! Oh, I quite understand--I know what it means; but this is the last time I'll be trampled on and insulted--the last time, Sam!" "Don't be a fool, Emily; nobody wants to 'trample' on you. You can give as good as you get, too. What an infernal rumpus about nothing! 'Pon my soul! I think you have both gone crazy." "I'm in the way--yes! And I'm shown every hour that I'm in the way!" she sobbed, in crescendo. "Humphrey is a witness how I am treated. I won't stop where I'm not wanted. This is the end of it. I'll go--I'll take a situation!" Everybody excepting the offender endeavoured to pacify her. Cynthia put an arm round her waist and spoke consolingly, while Walford patted her on the back. Humphrey brought her whisky-and-water, but she waved it violently aside. "I'll take a situation; I've made up my mind. Thank Heaven! I'm not quite dependent on a sister and a brother-in-law yet. Thank Heaven! I've the health to work for my living. I'd rather live in one room on a pound a week than remain with you. I shall leave your house the moment I can get something to do. I'll be a paid companion--I'll go into a shop!" And she went into hysterics. When she recovered, she drank the whisky-and-water tearfully, and begged Kent to take her back to The Hawthorns. He complied amiably, and tried on the way to dissuade her from her determination. It was his first experience of this phase of Miss Wix, and he was a good deal surprised by the valour that she displayed. Her weakness had passed, and the light of resolution shone in the little woman's eyes. Her nostrils were dilated, her carriage was firm and erect. He felt that it was no empty boast when she asserted stoutly that she would go to a registry-office on the morrow--nor was it; as much as that she would probably do. But the prospect of employment was as the martyr's stake or an arena of lions, to her mind; and, after the office had been visited, the decision of her manner would decrease, and the heroism in her eyes subside, until at last she trembled in a cold perspiration lest her relatives should take her at her word. "It'll be a small household if you go," he said; "I suppose Cæsar won't live at home after he comes out, and they will be left by themselves." Miss Wix sniffed. "_When_ he comes out!" "Yes; he seems to have been rather a long while doing it. But there can't be any doubt about it this time; the agreement for the spring is signed, I hear." They were passing a lamp-post. Miss Wix's mouth was the size of a sixpence, and her eyebrows had entirely disappeared under her bonnet. "It always is," she said. "The agreements are always signed--and written in invisible ink. I don't seem to remember the time when that young man _wasn't_ coming out 'next spring,' and I knew him in his cradle. He was an affected horror then." Kent laughed to himself in walking home; he had suspected the accuracy of the proud parents' statements already, just as he had suspected, when he had been invited to meet an operatic celebrity at The Hawthorns, who it was that sent the telegram of regrets and apologies that bore the star's name. He wondered how much the Walfords' foolishness and his pupil's vanity had been worth to the Italian singing-master, who gesticulated about the drawing-room and foretold such triumphs. When he re-entered No. 64, he was relieved to find the company cheerful again; they seemed even to be in high spirits, and the cause was promptly evident. Cynthia pointed radiantly to a letter lying on the table. "For you," she cried, "from Cousins! Be quick; we're all dying of impatience. How did you leave Aunt Emily?" "She's going to bed," he said, tearing the envelope open. His heart had leapt, and he trusted only that he wasn't destined to be damped by the suggested price. The others sat regarding him eagerly, waiting for him to speak. Cynthia tried to guess the amount by his expression. "Well?" said Mrs. Walford at last--"Well? What do they say?" Kent put the note down; all the colour had gone from his face. His lips twitched, and his voice was not under control as he answered. "They haven't accepted it," he said; "they're returning it to me. They don't think it good." "What?" she ejaculated. "Oh, Humphrey!" he heard Cynthia gasp; and then there were seconds in which he was conscious that everyone was staring at him, seconds in which he would have paid heavily to be in the room alone. That the book might be refused, after such reviews as had been written of his last, was a calamity that he had never contemplated, and he was overwhelmed. When he had been despondent he had imagined the publishers proposing to pay a couple of hundred pounds for it; when he had been gloomier still, he had fancied that the sum would be a hundred and fifty; in moments of profound depression he had even groaned, "I shan't get a shilling more for it than I did for the other one!" But to be rejected, "declined with thanks," was a shock for which he was wholly unprepared. It almost dazed him. "What do you mean?" demanded Sam Walford, breaking the silence angrily. "Not accepting it? But--but--this is a fine sort of thing! It takes you a year to write, and then they don't accept it. A damn good business _you_'re in, upon my word!" "Hush, Sam!" said Mrs. Walford. "What do they say? what reason do they give? Let me look!" Kent handed the letter to her mutely, his wife watching him with startled, pitying eyes, and she read it aloud: "'DEAR SIR, "'We are obliged by the kind offer of your MS., to which our most careful consideration has been given.'" "Been better if they'd considered it a little less!" grunted Walford. "'We regret to say, however, that, in view of our reader's report, we are reluctantly forced to decide that the construction of the story precludes any hope of its succeeding. The faults seem inherent to the story, and irremediable, and we are therefore returning the MS. to you to-day, with our compliments and thanks.'" "Ha, ha!" said Kent wildly; "they return it with their compliments!" "I don't see anything to laugh at!" said his mother-in-law with temper; "I call it dreadful. Anything but funny, I'm sure!" "Do you think so?" he said. "I call it very funny. There's a touch of humour about their 'compliments' that'd be hard to beat." "Ah," said Walford, "your mother-in-law's sense of humour isn't so keen and 'literary' as yours. She only sees that your year's work's not worth a tinker's curse!" "Papa!" murmured Cynthia, wincing. Kent's mouth closed viciously. "Against _your_ judgment on such a matter, sir," he said, "of course there can be no appeal." "It ain't my judgment," answered Walford; "it's your own publishers'. It's no good putting on the sarcastic, my boy. Here"--he caught up the letter and slapped it--"here you've got the opinion of a practical man, and he tells you the thing's valueless. There's no getting away from facts." "And _I_ say the thing's strong, sound work," exclaimed Kent, "and the reader's an ass! Oh, what's the use of arguing with you? You see it rejected, and so to you it's rubbish; and when you see it paid for, to you it will be very good! I want some whisky--has 'Aunt Emily' drunk it all?" He helped himself liberally, and invited his father-in-law to follow his example. Walford shook his head with a grunt. "You won't have a drink? I will! I want to return thanks for Messrs. Cousins' compliments. It's very flattering to receive compliments from one's publishers. I'm afraid you none of you appreciate it so much as you ought. We're having a ripping evening, aren't we, with hysterics and rejections? And whisky's good for both. Well, sir, what have you got to say next?" "I think we'll say 'good-night,'" said Mrs. Walford coldly; "I'll be round in the morning, Cynthia. Come, Sam, it's past ten!" She rose, and put on her things, Kent assisting her. The stock-jobber took leave of him with a scowl; and when the last "good-night" had been exchanged, Cynthia and the unfortunate author stood on the hearth vis-à-vis. The girl was relieved that her parents were gone. The atmosphere had been electric and made her nervous of what might happen next. She had been looking forward, besides, to consoling him when the door closed--to his lying in her arms under her kisses, while she smoothed away his mortification. She could enter into his mood to-night better than she had entered into any of his moods yet, and she ached with sorrow for him. To turn to his wife on any matters connected with his work, however, never entered his head any more; so when she murmured deprecatingly, "Papa didn't mean anything by what he said, darling; you mustn't be vexed with him," all he replied was, "Oh, he hasn't made an enemy for life, my dear! If you're going up to your room now, I think I'll take a stroll." She said, "Do, and--and cheer up!" But her heart sank miserably. He dropped a kiss on her cheek with a response as feeble as her own, and went out. A woman may have little comprehension of her husband's work, and yet feel the tenderest sympathies for the disappointments that it brings him, but of this platitude the novelist had shown himself ignorant. Cynthia did not go up to her room at once. She sat down by the dying fire and wondered. She wondered--in the hour in which she had come mentally nearest to him--if, after all, Humphrey and she were united so closely as she had supposed. CHAPTER XII She loved him. When they married, perhaps neither had literally loved the other, but the girl had roused much stronger feelings in the man than the man had wakened in the girl. To-day the position was reversed; and her perception that he did not find her so companionable as she had dreamed was the beginning of a struggle to render herself a companion to him. If she had been a woman of keener intuitions, she must have perceived it long ago, but her intuitions were not keen. She was not so dull as he thought her, nor was she so dull as when she married, but a woman of the most rapid intelligence she would never be. Her heart was greater than her mind--much greater; her heart entitled her to a devotion that she was far from receiving. To her mind marriage had made a trifling difference; her sensibilities it had developed enormously. Her husband overlooked her sensibilities, and chafed at her mind. Fortunately for her peace, her tardy perception of their relations did not embrace quite so much as that. She stayed at Bournemouth for a fortnight, and when she came home her efforts to acquire the quickness that she lacked, to talk in the same strain as Kent, to utter the kind of extravagance which seemed to be his idea of wit, were laboured and pathetic. Especially as he did not notice them. She read the books that he admired, and was bored by them more frequently than she was moved. She attempted, in fact, to mould herself upon him, and she attempted it with such scanty encouragement, and with so little apparent result, that, if her imitation had not become instinctive by degrees, she would have been destined to renounce it in despair. He was not at this time the most agreeable of models; he was too much humiliated and too anxious. Though Mr. and Mrs. Walford were superficially affable again, he felt a difference that he could not define in their manner, and was always uncomfortable in their presence. He had called the book _The Eye of the Beholder_, and he submitted it to Messrs. Percival and King. But February waned without any communication coming from the firm, and once more the Walfords asked him almost every day if he had "any news." His only prop now was Turquand, whom he often went to town to see. Turquand had been genuinely dismayed, by Messrs. Cousins' refusal, and it was by his advice that the author had chosen Percival and King. Kent awaited their verdict feverishly. Not only was his humiliation bad to bear, but his financial position was beginning to be serious, and the Walfords' knowledge of the fact aggravated the unpleasantness of it. Messrs. Percival sent the manuscript back at the end of April. They did not offer any criticism upon the work; they regretted merely that in the present state of the book market they could not undertake the publication of _The Eye of the Beholder_. Then the novelist packed it up again, and posted it to Fendall and Green. Messrs. Fendall and Green were longer in replying, and the fact of the second rejection could not be withheld from the Walfords. After they had heard of it, the change in their manner towards him was more marked. They obviously regarded him as a poor pretender in literature, and her mother admitted as much to Cynthia once. "Well, mamma," said Cynthia valiantly, "I don't see how you can speak like that! It's terribly unfortunate, and he's very worried, but you know what Humphrey's reviews have been--nothing can take away the success he has had." "Oh, 'reviews'!" said Mrs. Walford, with impatience. "He mustn't talk to us about 'reviews'!" "Of course all those were 'worked' for him by Cousins. We are behind the scenes, we know what such things are worth." This conviction of hers, that his publishers had paid a few pounds to the leading London papers to praise him in their columns, was not to be shaken. Cynthia did not repeat it to him, and Kent did not divine it, but Miss Wix--who had consented to remain at The Hawthorns--appeared quite a lovable person to him now in comparison with his wife's mother. Of intention Louisa did not snub him, the stock-jobber was not rude to him deliberately, but both felt that their girl had done badly indeed for herself, and their very tones in addressing him were new and resentful. In secret they were passionately mortified on another score. Their prodigy, the coming bass, had once more failed to secure a debut, and at last there was nothing for it but to admit that the thought of a musical career must be abandoned. The circumstances surrounding this final failure were veiled in mystery, even from Cynthia, but the fact was sufficiently damning in itself. The wily Pincocca was paid fees no longer, and Cæsar took a trip to Berlin with a company-promoter whom his father knew, and who did not speak German, while his mother invented an explanation. It was trying for the Walfords, both their swans turning out to be ganders at the same time, and that one of them had been acquired, not hatched, was more than they could forgive themselves, or him. There were occasions soon when Kent was more than slighted, when no disguise was made at all. One day in July, Walford said to him: "I tell you what it is, Humphrey, this can't go on! You'll have to give your profession up and look for a berth, my boy. How's your account now?" "Pretty low," confessed his son-in-law, feeling like a lad rebuked for a misdemeanour. Walford looked at him indignantly. "Ha!" he said. "It's a nice position, 'pon my word! And no news, I suppose--nothing fresh?". "Nothing, sir." "You'll have to chuck it all. You'll have to chuck this folly of yours, and put your shoulder to the wheel and work." "I thought I did work," said Kent doggedly. "Do you think literature is a game?" "I think it's an infernal rotten game--yes!" "Ah, well, there," said Kent, "many literary men have agreed with you." "You'll have to put your mind to something serious. If you only earn thirty bob a week, it's more than your novels bring you in. What your wife and child will do, God knows--have to come to us, I suppose. A fine thing for a girl married eighteen months!" "She hasn't arrived at it yet," answered Kent, very pale, "and I don't fancy she will. Many thanks for the invitation." Walford stopped short--they had met in the High Road--and cocked his head, his legs apart. "Will you take a berth in the City for a couple of quid, if I can get you one?" he demanded sharply. "No," said Kent, "I'll be damned if I will! I'll stick to my pen, whatever happens, and I'll stick to my wife and child, too!" The other did not pursue the conversation, but the next time that Humphrey saw Mrs. Walford she told him that his father-in-law was very much incensed against him for his ingratitude. "It is sometimes advisable for a man to change his business," she said. "A man goes into one business, and if it doesn't pay he tries another. Your father-in-law is much older than you, and--er--naturally more experienced. I think you ought to listen to his opinion with more respect. Especially under the circumstances." "Oh?" he murmured. "Have you said that to Cynthia?" "No; it is not necessary to say it to anybody but you. And it might make her unhappy. She is troubled enough without!" She had, as a matter of fact, said it to her with much eloquence the previous afternoon. "And another thing," she continued: "I am bound to say I don't see any grounds for your believing--er--er--that your profession has any prizes in store for you, even if you could afford to remain in it. You mustn't mind my speaking plainly, Humphrey. You are a young man, and--er--you have no one to advise you, and you may thank me for it one day." "Let me thank you now," he said, fighting to conceal his rage. "If you can," she said; "if you feel it, I am very glad. You see what you have done: you wrote a book, which you got very little for--some nice reviews"--she smiled meaningly--"which we needn't talk about. And then you spend a year on another, which nobody wants. To succeed as a novelist, one must have a very strong gift; there is no doubt about it. A novelist must be very brilliant to do any good to-day--very brilliant. He wants--er--to know the world--to know the world, and--er--oh, he must be very polished--very smart!" "I see," he said shakily, as she paused. "You don't think I've the necessary qualifications?" "You have aptitude," she said; "you have a certain aptitude, of course, but to make it your profession----So many young men, who have been educated, could write a novel. _You_ happen to have done it; others haven't had the time. They open a business, or go on the Stock Exchange, or perhaps they haven't the patience. I'm afraid your publishers did you a mistaken kindness by those unfortunate reviews." "How do you mean?" he asked. "Yes, the reviewers didn't agree with you, did they?" She smiled again, and waved her hands expressively. "Oh, they were very pretty, very nice to have; but--er--newspaper notices do not take us in. Naturally, they were paid for. Cousins arranged with the papers for all that." "With----" He looked at her open-mouthed, as the names of some of the papers recurred to him. "With them all," she said. "Oh yes! You must remember we are quite behind the scenes." "Pincocca," he said musingly. "Yes, you knew Pincocca. But he was a singing-master, and he doesn't come here now." "Oh, Pincocca was one of many--one of very many." She giggled nervously. "How very absurd that you should suppose I meant Pincocca! You mustn't forget that Cæsar knows everybody. I'm almost glad he isn't going on the stage, for that reason. He brought such crowds to the house at one time that really we lived in a whirl. I believe--between ourselves--that this man he has gone to Berlin with is at the bottom of his throwing up his career. A financier. A Mr. McCullough. One of the greatest powers in the City. And--er--Cæsar was always wonderfully shrewd in these things. Don't say anything, but I believe McCullough wants to keep him!" "I won't say anything," he said. "McCullough controls millions!" she gasped. "And your father-in-law thinks, from rumours that are going about, that he's persuaded Cæsar to join him in some negotiations that he has with the German Government. Of course we mustn't breathe a word about it. Sh! What were we saying? Oh yes, I'm afraid those unfortunate reviews did you more harm than good. Nothing great in the City can be got for you, because you haven't the commercial experience, but a clerkship would be better than doing nothing. You must really think about it, Humphrey, if you can't do anything for yourself. As your father-in-law says, you are sitting down with your hands in your pockets, eating up your last few pounds." It occurred to her that a clerkship might look small beside the ease with which her son was securing a partnership in millions. "Of course," she added, "Cæsar always did have a head for finance. And--er--he's a way with him. He has _aplomb--aplomb_ that makes him immensely valuable for negotiations with a Government. It's different for Cæsar." Kent left her, and cursed aloud. He went the same evening to Turquand's, partly as a relief to his feelings, and partly to ask his friend's opinion of the feasibility of his obtaining journalistic work. "For Heaven's sake, talk!" he exclaimed, as he flung himself into the rickety chair that used to be his own. "Say anything you like, but talk. I've just had an hour and a half of my mother-in-law neat! Take the taste out of my mouth. Turk, I wish I were dead! What the devil is to be the end of it? The Walfords say 'a clerk-ship'! Oh, my God, you should hear the Walfords! I've 'a little aptitude,' but I mustn't be conceited. I mustn't seriously call myself a novelist. I've frivolled away a year on _The Eye of the Beholder_, and Cousins squared the reviewers for me on _The Spectator_ and _The Saturday_ and the rest! Look here, I must get something to do. Don't you know of anything, can't you I introduce me to an editor, isn't there anything stirring at all? _I_'m buried; I live in a red-brick tomb in Streatham; I hear nothing, and see nobody, except my blasted parents-in-law. But you're in the thick of it; you sniff the mud of Fleet Street every day; you're the salaried sub of a paper that's going to put a cover on itself and 'throw it in' at the penny; you----" "Yes," said Turquand, "I 'Ave flung my thousands gily ter the benefit of tride, And gin'rally (they tells me) done the grand.' It looks like it, doesn't it?" "I know all about that! But surely you can tell me of a chance? I don't say an opening, but a chance of an opening. Man, the outlook's awful. I shall be stony directly. You must!" "Fendall and Green haven't written, eh?" "No; their regrets haven't come yet. How about short stories?" "You didn't find 'em particularly lucrative, did you?" "A guinea each; one in six months. No; but I want to be invited to contribute: 'Can you let us have anything this month, Mr. Kent?'" "My dear chap! should I have stuck to _The Outpost_ all these years if I had such advice to give away? I did"--he coughed, and spat out an invisible shred of tobacco--"I did stick to it." "You weren't going to say that! You were going to say, 'I did advise you once, but you _would marry_!' Well, I don't complain that I married. The only fault I have to find with my wife is that she's the Walford's daughter. She's not literary, but she's a very good girl. Don't blink facts, Turk; my money would have lasted longer if I hadn't married, but I shouldn't have got my novel taken on that account. The point of this situation is that, after being lauded to the skies by every paper of importance in England, I can't place the book I write next at any price at all, nor find a way to earn bread and cheese by my pen! If a musician had got such criticisms on a composition, he'd be a made man. If an artist had had them on a picture, the ball would be at his feet. If an actor had got them on a performance, he'd be offered engagements at a hundred a week. It's only in literature that such an anomalous and damnable condition of affairs as mine is possible. You can't deny it." "I don't," said Turquand. CHAPTER XIII Nor did the conference, which was protracted until a late hour, provide an outlet to the dilemma; it was agreeable, but it did not lead anywhere. If he should hear of anything, he would certainly let the other know; that was the most the sub-editor could say. Authors are not offered salaries to write their novels, and Kent was not a journalist by temperament, nor possessed of any journalistic experience. As to tales or articles for _The Outpost_, that paper did not publish fiction, and their rate for other matter was seven and sixpence a column. However, some attempt had to be made, and Kent went to town every day, and Cynthia saw less of him than when he had been writing _The Eye of the Beholder_. He hunted up his few acquaintances, and haunted the literary club that he had joined in the flush of his success. He applied for various posts that were advertised vacant, and he inserted a skilfully-framed advertisement. No answer arrived; and the tradesmen's bills, and the poor rates, and the gas notices, and the very; competent nurse's wages, continued to fall due in the meanwhile. When the competent nurse's were not due, the incompetent "general's" were. Dr. Roberts' account came in, and the sight of his pass-book now terrified the young man. They had not been married quite two years yet, and he asked himself if they had been extravagant, in view of this evidence of the rapidity with which money had melted; but, excepting the style in which they had furnished, he could not perceive any cause for such self-reproach. They had lived comfortably, of course, but if the novel had been placed when it was finished, they could have continued to live just as comfortably while he wrote the next. He feared they would have to take a bill of sale on the too expensive furniture, and that way lay destitution. Cynthia's composure in the circumstances surprised him. He told her so. "It'll all come right," she said. "You are sure to get something soon, and perhaps Fendall and Green will accept _The Eye of the Beholder_--fulsomely!" This was an improvement, for a few months since she would have been unable to recollect their name and have referred to them vaguely as "the publishers." He felt the sense of intimacy deepen as "Fendall and Green" dropped glibly from her lips, and the "fulsomely" made him feel quite warm towards her.' "Have you told your people what a tight corner we're in?" he asked. She shook her head. "Why should I? That's our affair." "So it is," he assented. "Poor little girl! it's 'orrible rough on you, though; I wonder you aren't playing with straws. You didn't know what economy meant when we married." Praise from him was nectar and ambrosia to her. She wanted to embrace him, but felt that if she embraced the opportunity to give a happy definition of "economy" it would be appreciated better. She perched herself on the arm of his chair, and struggled to evolve an epigram. As she could not think of one, she said: "What nonsense!" "I wish you had read the book, and liked it," said Kent, speaking spontaneously. "Say you wish I'd read it?" replied his wife. "Oh, you'd like it, because it was mine. But I mean I wish----" "What?" "I don't know." She twisted a piece of his hair round her finger. "My taste is much maturer than it was," she averred, with satisfaction. "Somehow, I can't stand the sort of things that used to please me; I don't know how I was able to read them. They bore me now." He smiled. As she had often done to him before, she seemed a child masquerading in a woman's robes. "You're getting quite a critic!" "Well," she said happily, "you'll laugh, but I got _A Peacock's Tail_ from the library, and when the review in _The Chronicle_ came out, the reviewer said just what I'd felt about it. He did! I'm not such a silly as you think, you see." "My love!" he cried, "I never thought you were a 'silly.'" "Not very wise, though! Oh, I know what I lack, Humphrey; but I _am_ better than I was--I am really! Remember, I never heard literature talked about until I met you; it was all new to me when we married, and--if you've noticed it--you aren't very, _very_ interested in anything else. The longer we live together, the more--the nicer I shall be." He answered lightly: "You're nice enough now." But he was touched. After a long pause, as if uttering the conclusion of a train of thought aloud, she murmured: "Baby's got _your_ shaped head." "I hope to God it'll be worth more to him than mine to me!" he exclaimed. She was silent again. "What are you so serious for, all of a sudden?" he said, looking round. Cynthia bent over him quickly with a caress, and sprang up. "It was you who wanted the _t's_ crossed for once!" she said tremulously. "There, now I must go and knock at the nursery door and ask if I'm allowed to go in!" The man of acute perceptions wondered what she meant, and in what way he had shown himself dull at comprehending so transparent a girl. It was in October, when less than twenty pounds remained to them, that something at last turned up. Turquand had learnt that an assistant-editor was required on _The World and his Wife_, a weekly journal recently started for the benefit of the English and Americans in Paris. The Editor was familiarly known as "Billy" Beaufort, and the proprietor was a sporting baronet who had reduced his income from fourteen thousand per annum to eight by financing, and providing with the diamonds, which were the brightest feature of her performance, a lady who fancied that she was an actress. Beaufort had been the one dramatic critic who did not imply that she was painful, and it was Beaufort who had latterly assured the Baronet that _The World and his Wife_ would realise a fortune. He had gone about London for thirteen years assuring people that various enterprises would realise a fortune--that was his business--but the Baronet was one of the few persons who had believed him. Then Billy Beaufort took his watch, and his scarf-pin, and his sleeve-links away from Attenborough's--when in funds he could always pawn himself for a considerable amount--and turned up again resplendent at the club, whose secretary had been writing him sharp letters on the subject of his subscription. The only alloy to his complacence, though it did not dimmish it to any appreciable degree, was that he was scarcely more qualified to edit a paper than was a landsman to navigate a ship. He described himself as a journalist, and the description was probably as accurate as any other he could have furnished of a definite order; but he was a journalist whose attainments were limited to puffing a prospectus and serving up a réchauffé from _Truth_. Never attached to a paper for longer than two or three months, he was, during that period, usually attached to a woman too. He drove in hansoms every day of the year; always appeared to have bought his hat half an hour ago; affected a big picotee as a buttonhole, and lived--nobody knew how. While he was ridiculed in Fleet Street as a Pressman, he was treated with deference there on account of his reputed smartness in the City, and--while the City laughed at his business pretensions--there he was respected for his supposed abilities in Fleet Street. So he beamed out of the hansoms perkily, and drove from one atmosphere of esteem to another, waving a gloved hand, on the way, to clever men who envied him. In days gone by he had tasted a spell of actual prosperity. By what coup he had made the money, and how he had lost it, are details, but he had now developed the fatal symptom of dwelling lovingly on that epoch when he had been so lucky, and so courted, and so rich. There is hope for the man who boasts of what he means to do; there is hope for the boaster who lies about what he is doing; but the man whose weakness is to boast of what he once did is doomed--he is a man who will succeed no more. If the sporting Baronet had grasped this fact, _The World and his Wife_ would never have been started, and Billy Beaufort would not have been looking for an assistant-editor to do all the work. Kent obtained the post. The man with whom Beaufort had parted was a thoroughly experienced journalist, who had put his chief in the way of things, but had subsequently called him an ass, and what Billy sought now was a zealous young fellow who would have no excuse for giving himself airs. Beaufort believed in Turquand's opinion, and had always thought him a fool for being so shabby, knowing him to have ten times the brain-power that he himself possessed, and Turquand had blown Humphrey's trumpet sturdily. He did more than merely recommend him; he declared--with a recollection of the nurse and baby--that Kent was _the_ man to get, but that he was afraid it would not be worth his while to accept less than seven pounds a week. When the matter was settled, Humphrey sought his friend again, and, wringing his hand, exclaimed: "You're a pal; but--but, I say! What are an assistant-editor's duties?" Exhilaration and misgiving were mixed in equal parts in his breast. Turquand laughed, as nearly as he could be said ever to approach a laugh. "The assistant-editor of _The World and his Wife_ will have to cut pars nimbly out of the English society journals and the Paris dailies, and 'put 'em all in different language--the more indifferent, the better!' He must handle the scissors without fatigue, and arrange with someone on this side to supply a column of London theatrical news every week--out of _The Daily Telegraph_. Say with _me_! It's worth a guinea, and I may as well have it as anybody else." "You're appointed our London dramatic critic," said Kent. "Won't you have thirty bob?" "A guinea's the market price; and I can have some cards printed and go to the theatres for nothing, you see, when I feel like it; they don't take any stock in _The Outpost_. He must attend the _répétitions générales_ himself--if he can get in--and make all the acquaintances he can, against the time when the rag dies." "'Dies'?" echoed Kent. "Is it going to die?" "Oh, it won't live, my boy! If it had been a permanent job, I shouldn't have handed it over to you--I'm not a philanthropist. But it will give you a chance to turn round, and an enlightened publisher may discern the merits of _The Eye of the Beholder_ in the meanwhile. You'd better go on looking for something while you are on the thing; perhaps you'll be able to get the Paris Correspondence for a paper, if you try." "What more? What besides the scissors--nothing?" "There's the paste; I don't imagine you'll need much else." "You're a trump!" repeated Kent gratefully. "I feel an awful fraud taking such a berth, Turk; but in this world one has to do what one----" "Can't!" "Exactly. By George! it seems to be a paying line." "There is always room at the top, you know," said Turquand. "When you rise in what you can't do, the emolument is dazzling." Beaufort was returning to Paris the same day, and he was anxious for Kent to join him there with all possible speed. Kent's first intention was to go alone and let Cynthia follow him at her leisure; but when he reached home and cried, "'Mary, you shall drive in your carriage, and Charles shall go to Eton!'" she refused to be left behind. "I can be ready by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest," she exclaimed delightedly, when explanations were forthcoming. "What did you mean by 'Charles' and 'Mary'? Oh, Humphrey, didn't I tell you it would all come all right? How lovely! and how astonished mamma and papa will be!" "Yes, I fancy it will surprise 'em a trifle," he said. "We'll go round there this evening, shall we? And we'll put the salary in francs--it sounds more." He hesitated. "I say, do you think Nurse will mind living in Paris?" Cynthia paled. "I must ask her; I hadn't thought of that. Oh ... oh, I dare say I shall be able to persuade her! It's rather a hurry for her, though, isn't it? She does so dislike being hurried." "Tell her at once," he suggested; "she'll have all the more time to prepare in. Run up to her now." "Let--let us think," murmured Cynthia; "we'll consider.... Ann must be sent away, and we shall have to give her a month's wages instead of notice." "She's no loss," he observed. "I don't know I what your mother ever saw in her. She can't even cook a steak, the wench!" "She fries them, dear." "I know she does," said Kent. "A woman who'd fry a steak would do a murder. Well, we shall have to give her a month's wages instead of notice--it's an iniquitous law! But what about Nurse?" "Perhaps," said Cynthia nervously, "if _you_ were to mention it to her, darling, if you don't I mind----" "Of course I don't mind," he answered, but without alacrity. "What an idea! Tell Ann to send her down." She entered presently, an important young person in a stiff white frock; and he played with the newspaper, trying to feel that he had grown quite accustomed to seeing an important young person in his service. "You wished to speak to me, madam, but baby will be waking directly----" "I shan't keep you a moment," said Kent. "Er--your mistress and I are going to Paris; we shall be there some time. I suppose it's all the same to you where you live? We want you to be ready by Thursday, Nurse." "To Paris?" said Nurse, with cold amazement, and a pause that said even more. Cynthia became engrossed by a bowl of flowers, and Kent felt that, after all, Paris was a long way off. "I suppose it's all the same to you where you live?" he said again, though he no longer supposed anything of the sort. "And there are three days for you to pack in, you know--three nice full days." "Three days, sir?" she echoed reproachfully. "To go abroad! May I ask you if you would be staying in a place like that all the winter, sir?" "Yes, certainly through the winter--or probably so. It mightn't be so long; it depends." "I could not undertake to leave 'ome for good, Sir," said the nurse. "I am engaged. My friend lives in 'Olloway, and----" "Oh, it wouldn't be for good," declared Cynthia ingratiatingly; "we couldn't stay there for good ourselves--oh no! And, of course, if you found we stopped too long to suit you, Nurse, why, you could leave us when you liked, couldn't you? Though Mr. Kent and I would both be very sorry to lose you, I'm sure!" They looked at her pleadingly while she meditated. "What Baby will do, _Hi_ don't know, madam," she said; "changing his cow, poor little dear!" "Will it hurt him?" demanded the mother and father, in a breath. "If you have the doctor's consent, madam, you may _chance_ it. It isn't a thing that _Hi_ would ever advise." "Well, well, look here," said Kent; "we'll see Dr. Roberts about it to-day, and if he says there's no risk, that'll settle it. You will get ready to start Thursday morning, Nurse." "I will _endeavour_ to do so, sir," she said with dignity. They felt that on the whole she had been gracious. And Kent, having obtained Dr. Roberts' sanction to change the cow, commissioned a house-agent to try to let No. 64 furnished at four guineas a week. CHAPTER XIV Lest he should feel unduly elated, _The Eye of the Beholder_ came back on Wednesday afternoon, but this time he did not post it to another firm instanter. He could not very well ask for it to be returned to Paris, and he left it with Turquand when he bade him good-bye. "Send it where you like," he begged; "perhaps you might try Farqueharsen next. Yes, I've rather a fancy for Farqueharsen! But let it make the round, old chap, and drop me a line when there aren't any more publishers for it to go to." The nurse's "endeavour" was crowned by success. The Walfords had congratulated him so warmly that he almost began to think they were nice people again. And the departure was made on Thursday morning as arranged. They travelled, of course, by the Newhaven route, and reached the gare St. Lazare after dark on a rainy evening. The amount of luggage that they possessed among them made Kent stare, as he watched half a dozen porters hoisting trunks, and a perambulator, and a bassinet on to the bus, and it seemed as if they would never get out of the station. At last they rattled away, through the wet streets, the baby whimpering, and the nurse flustered, and he and Cynthia very tired. They drove to a little hotel near the Madeleine, where they intended to stay until they found a suitable pension de famille, and where dinner and the warmth of beaune was very grateful. Nurse also "picked up" after the waiter's appearance with her tray and a half-bottle of vin ordinaire, and, as their fatigue passed, exhilaration was in the ascendant once more. Cynthia's recovery was so marked that, finding the rain had ceased and the moon was shining, she wanted to go out and look at the Grand Boulevard. So Humphrey and she took a stroll for an hour, and said how strange it was to think that they had come to live in Paris, and how funnily things happened. And they had a curaçoa each at a café, and went back to their fusty red room on the third-floor, with the inevitable gilt clock and a festooned bedstead, quite gaily. The chambermaid brought in their chocolate at eight o'clock next morning, and her brisk "Bonjour, m'sieur et madame!" sounded much more cheerful to them both than Ann's knock at the door, with "The 'ot water, mum!" to which they were accustomed. The sun streamed in brilliantly as she parted the window-curtains. After the chocolate and rolls were finished, Kent proceeded to dress, and leaving Cynthia in bed, betook himself to the office of the paper in the rue du Quatre Septembre. Beaufort had not come yet, and, pending his chief's arrival, he occupied himself by examining a copy. The tone of the notes struck him as decidedly poor, and a lengthy interview with one of the prominent French actresses abounded in all the well-worn cliches of the amateur. The "dainty and artistic" room into which the interviewer was ushered, the lady's "mock" despair, which gave place to "graceful" resignation and "fragrant" cigarettes, made him sick. Beaufort was very cordial when he entered, though, and it was vastly reassuring to discover how lightly he took things. The work, Mr. Kent would find, was as easy as A, B, C. "Turf Topics" was contributed by a fellow called Jordan, and, really, Mr. Kent would find a few hours daily more than enough to prepare an issue! They went into the private room, where a bottle of vermouth and a pile of French and English journals, marked and mutilated, were the most conspicuous features of the writing-table; and Kent came to the conclusion that his Editor was an extremely pleasant man, as the vermouth was sipped and they chatted over two excellent cigars. At first the duties did not prove quite so simple as had been promised to one who had never had anything to do with producing a paper before, and the printer worried him a good deal. But Beaufort was highly satisfied. The novice was swift to grasp details, and took such an infinity of pains in seasoning and amplifying the réchauffés, that really his stuff read almost like original matter. As he began to feel his feet, too, he put forth ideas, and, finding that the other was quite ready to listen to them, gained confidence, and was not without a mistaken belief that in so quickly mastering the mysteries of a weekly and painfully exiguous little print, of which four-fifths were eclectic, he had displayed ability of a brilliant order. Primarily the labour that he devoted to the task was ludicrously disproportionate to the result, but by degrees he got through it with more rapidity. When a month had passed since the morning that he first sat down in the assistant-editorial chair of _The World and his Wife_, he discovered that he was doing in an afternoon what it had formerly taken two days to accomplish, and he marvelled how he could have been so stupid. The work had devolved upon him almost entirely now, for Beaufort, having shown him the way in which he should go, dropped in late, and withdrew early, and did little but drink vermouth and say, "Yes, certainly, capital!" while he was there. It was Kent who proposed the subject for the week's interview, wrote--or re-wrote--the causerie, and who even secured the majority of the few advertisements that they obtained. Also, when the semi-celebrity to be interviewed was not a good-looking woman, it was he who was the interviewer. When the lady was attractive, Billy Beaufort attended to that department himself. Cynthia had found a pension de famille in the Madeleine quarter, highly recommended for a permanency, and here they had removed. They had two fairly large bedrooms, communicating, on the fourth floor, and paid a hundred and fifty francs a week. It did not leave much over from the salary for their incidental expenses, after reckoning the nurse's wages; but it was supposed to be very cheap, and madame Garin and her vivacious daughter, who skipped a good deal for thirty years of age, and was voluble in bad English, begged them on no account to let any of the other boarders hear that they were received at such terms, for that would certainly be the commencement of madame Garin and her daughter's ruin. Some of the boarders were French people, but the meals, with which twenty-five persons down the long table appeared to be fairly content, were very bad. They would have been thought bad even in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. The twenty-five persons were waited on by a leisurely and abstracted Italian, and the intervals between the meagre courses were of such duration that Kent swore that he had generally forgotten what the soup had been called by the time that the cold entree reached him. Yet they were not uncomfortable. Their room was cosy in the lamplight when the winter had set in and Etienne had made a fire, and the curtains of the windows were drawn to hide the view of snowy roofs; and though the dinner often left them hungry, they could go out and have chocolate and cakes. And even as a foreign Pressman, Kent got some tickets for theatres and concerts. It was livelier than Leamington Road, to say the least of it--more lively for him than for Cynthia, perhaps; but an improvement for her as well, since one or two of the women were companionable. She took walks with them while he was at the office, and practised her French on them in the chilly salon. One afternoon when he was sitting at the office table and Beaufort had gone, the clerk came in to him with a card that bore the name of "Mrs. Deane-Pitt." She was staying in Paris, and the Editor had accepted his suggestion that it might be a good idea to interview a novelist for a change. Kent had sent the proofs to her the day before, but he had never seen her. He told the clerk with some satisfaction to show her in, and he wished he had put on his other jacket, for the author of _Two and a Passion_ was a woman to meet. He felt shabbier still when she entered; she looked to him like an animated fashion-plate reduced to human height. From the hues of her hat to the swirl of her skirt, it was evident that Mrs. Deane-Pitt made money and knew where to spend it. An osprey in the hat was the only touch of vulgarity. Everybody would not have termed her "pretty"; but her eyes and teeth were good, and both flashed when she talked. Her age might have been anything from thirty to thirty-five. "I wanted to see Mr. Beaufort," she said, in a clear, crisp voice; "but I hear he's out." "Yes; he is out," said Kent. "Is it anything _I_ can do?" "Well, I don't like that interview. I dare say it was my own fault, but I object to suffering for my own faults--one has to suffer for so many other people's in this world. It's all about _Two and a Passion_. I wrote _Two and a Passion_ seven years ago--and I didn't get a royalty on it, either! Why not talk about the books I've done since, and say more about the one that's just out? You say, 'Mrs. Deane-Pitt confessed to having recently published another novel,' and then you drop it as if it were a failure. And 'confessed'--why 'confessed'? That's the tone I don't like in the thing. You write about me as if I were an amateur." He felt that Beaufort would not be sorry to have missed her. "May I see the proofs again?" he asked. She gave them to him, and settled herself in her chair. He looked at them pen in hand, and she looked at him. "It can easily be put right, can't it, Mr.----" "'Kent.' Easily--oh yes! Will you tell me something about your new book? I'm ashamed to say I haven't read it yet." "Don't apologise. It's called _Thy Neighbour's Husband_." "Does she bolt with him, or do you end it virtuously?" "Virtuously, monsieur," she said, smiling. "You travel fast!" "And--please go on! Are there cakes and ale, or does she tend the sick and visit the poor?" "You appal me!" said Mrs. Deane-Pitt. "Whatever my faults, I am modern; I end with a question-point." "Not questioning the lady's----" "Oh, her happiness, of course!" "'This brilliant and absorbing study, which is already giving rise to considerable discussion,' would be the kind of thing?" "Quite," she said. "I'm awfully sorry to give you so much trouble." "The 'trouble' 's a pleasure. You don't want your 'favourite dog' mentioned, do you? Favourite dogs are rather at a discount. Er----" "Three," she said. "Yes; a boy and two girls." "Does the boy--'in a picturesque suit'--come into the room, and lead up to 'evident maternal pride'?" "He's a dear little fellow!" she answered. "But do you think 'evident maternal pride' would be quite in the key? No; I'd stick to me and the work! Besides, domesticity is tedious to read about; the dullest topic in the world is other people's children." Kent laughed. "I'll explain to Mr. Beaufort," he declared; "you shall have a revise sent on to-morrow. I'm sure you'll find it all right when he understands the style of thing you want." "Thank you," she said dryly. "I assure you I have no misgivings, Mr. Kent. 'Kent'! I've never had any correspondence with you, have I? The name's familiar to me, somehow." "An alias is 'The garden of England,'" he said. "No; you haven't written anything, have you?" "Two novels. One is published, and the post is wearing out the other." "I remember," she cried, uttering the title triumphantly; "I read it. What grand reviews you had! Of course, I know now. I liked your book extremely, Mr. Kent. 'Humphrey Kent,' isn't it?" "Thank you," he said. "Yes, 'Humphrey Kent.'" "And you go in for journalism, too, eh?" "Oh, this is a departure. I was never on a paper till lately." "Really!" she exclaimed. "You aren't giving fiction up?" "I'm pot-boiling, Mrs. Deane-Pitt. Do you think it very inartistic of me?" "Don't!" she said. "Inartistic! I hate that cant. There are papers that are always calling _me_ inartistic. One's got to live. Oh, I admire the people who can put up with West Kensington and take three years to write a novel, but their altitude is beyond me. I write to sell, _moi_ --though you needn't put that in the interview. But I shouldn't have thought you'd have any trouble in placing your books--you oughtn't to to-day! I expect you've been too 'literary'--you'll grow out of it." "You don't believe in----" "I'm a practical woman. The public read to be amused, and the publishers want what the public will read, good, bad, or rotten; that's my view. You mustn't make me say these things, though," she broke off, laughing, and getting up; "it's most indiscreet--to a Pressman.... I shall send you a copy of _Thy Neighbour's Husband_--to a colleague. Good-afternoon, Mr. Kent. I'll leave you to go on with your work now. Pray don't look so relieved." "I should value the copy ever so much," he said. "It was anything but relief--I was struggling to conceal despair." She put out her hand, and a faint perfume clung to his own after the door had closed. Though her standpoint was not his own, her personality had impressed him, and, as he watched her from the window re-entering her cab, Kent was sorry that she hadn't remained longer. He hoped she would not forget her promise to send her novel to him, and when it reached him, a few days later, he opened it with considerable eagerness. The style disappointed him somewhat, and the story seemed to him unworthy of the pen that had written _Two and a Passion_. But he replied, as he was bound to do, with a letter of grateful appreciation, and endeavoured, moreover, to persuade himself that he liked it better than he did. The lady, on her side, wrote a cordial little note, thanking him for the amended proof-sheets--"I had no idea that I was so clever or so charming." She said she should be pleased to see him if he could ever spare the time to look in--she could give him a cup of "real English tea"; and she was "Very truly his--Eva Deane-Pitt." CHAPTER XV She was living in the avenue Wagram--she had taken a small furnished flat there for a few months--and when he saw her on the Boulevard, about a week afterwards, Kent was puzzled to discover the reason that he had not availed himself of her invitation. He called a day or two later, and found her cynical but stimulating. In recalling the visit, it appeared to him that she was more entertaining in conversation than in print, which suggested that her good things were not so good as they sounded, but while she talked he was amused. He left the flat with the consciousness of having spent a very agreeable half-hour, and was sorry that her "day," which she had mentioned to him, was a fortnight ahead. She seemed to know many persons in Paris whom he would be glad to meet, and apart from the hostess, with whom he had drunk "English tea" and smoked Egyptian cigarettes, the entree to the little yellow drawing-room promised to be enjoyable. That she was a widow he had taken for granted from the first, and his assumption had proved to be correct. She was a woman who struck one as born to be a widow; it was difficult to conceive her either with a husband or living in her parents' home. As to her children, she spoke of them frequently, and saw them seldom. Kent decided that she was too fashionable and a trifle hard, but this did not detract from the pleasure that the visits afforded him; perhaps his perception of her character was indeed responsible for much of the pleasure, for it rendered it more complimentary still that she was nice to him. She was surprised to learn that he was married, and declared that she looked forward to knowing his wife. She did not, however, take any steps to gratify the desire, and Kent was not regretful. He felt that few things more productive of boredom for two could be devised than a tête-à-tête between Mrs. Deane-Pitt and Cynthia; and, though he was reluctant to acknowledge it to himself, he had a feeling also that, if it occurred, the lady would be a little contemptuous of him afterwards. He knew her opinion of young men's marriages in the majority of cases, and was uncomfortably conscious that she would not pronounce his own to be one of the exceptions. Mrs. Walford's letters to her daughter had hitherto been in her most enthusiastic vein. Mr. McCullough had given the disappointed bass a berth in Berlin, and in her letters this was alluded to as a "position," upon which she showered her favourite adjectives of "jolly" and "extraordinary" and "immense." Cæsar was "McCullough's right hand," the "best houses in Berlin" were open to him, and his prospects, social and financial, were dazzling. Of late, however, he had been dwelt on less, and one morning there came a letter that contained a confession of personal anxiety. The recent heavy drop in American stocks, and the failure of two or three brokers, had seriously affected the jobber. They thought of trying to let The Hawthorns, which was much too large for them now, and moving out of the neighbourhood. Cæsar remained McCullough's "right hand," but briefly; and it was evident that the writer was in great distress. Cynthia was terribly grieved and startled. She dashed off eight pages of love and inquiries by the evening mail, and when the news was confirmed, with more particulars, she felt that she could do no less than run over to utter her sympathy in person. Kent agreed that it was perhaps advisable, and raised the money that was necessary cheerfully enough by pawning his watch and chain. Only when she sent him a rather lengthy telegram from Streatham, detailing her mother's frame of mind, did he feel that she was exaggerating his share in her solicitude. The chilly salon, where the ladies played forfeits after dinner, or where the vivacious daughter thumped the piano, was not attractive during Cynthia's absence. Neither was it lively to smoke alone in his room, or to go to a theatre or a music-hall by himself; and when, in calling on Mrs. Deane-Pitt, he mentioned his loneliness and she proposed that he should take her to the Variétés, he accepted the suggestion with alacrity. As he obtained the tickets for nothing, his only expense was cabs, and the liqueurs between the facts; and it was so enjoyable, laughing with her on the lounge of the café, that the recollection of their being paid for out of the balance of his loan from the mont-de-piété was banished. Mrs. Deane-Pitt made some more of her happy remarks while they sipped the chartreuse, and her teeth and eyes flashed superbly. The piece was a great success, but Kent thought the entr'actes were even gayer. And when the curtain had fallen and they reached the avenue Wagram, she would not hear of his leaving her before going in and having some supper. His liqueurs looked very paltry to him contrasted with the table that exhibited mayonnaise and champagne, and his exhilaration was momentarily damped by envy. Fiction meant a good deal when one was lucky; how jolly to be able to live as this woman did! Her maid took away her cloak and hat, and he opened the bottle. She drew off her long gloves, and patted her hair before the mirror with fingers on which some rings shone. "Let's sit down! Am I all right?" He thought he had never seen her look so charming or so young. "You have a colour," he said. "A proof it's natural; when we went out I was as pale as a ghost! I work too hard, I do--what are you smiling at?--I work horribly hard. Life's so dear--yes, 'expensive'--don't say it, it would be unworthy of you. And I can't do a fifth part of what's offered me, with all my fag." "Am I supposed to sympathise with you for that?" "Certainly you should sympathise; what de you suppose I tell you for--to be felicitated? Do you think it's agreeable to have to refuse work when one needs the money it would bring in? The trials of Tantalus were a joke to it. I had to let a twenty-thousand-word story for _The Metropolis_ slide only the other day, and I could place half a dozen shorter stories every week if I'd the time to write them." "You do write a great many," said Kent, "and you seem fairly comfortable." "'Wise judges are we of each other!' You ought to see my bills; that music-stand over there is full of them! That's the place I always keep them in--I'm naturally tidy, it's one of my virtues. I had to turn out Chopin's Mazurkas yesterday to make room for some more. I only came to Paris because people don't write you so many abusive letters when they have to pay two-pence-halfpenny postage. Oh, I'm comfortable enough in a fashion, but I've my worries like my neighbours. I suppose I'm extravagant, but I can't help it. Besides, I'm not! Do you think I'm extravagant?" He looked at her, and nodded, smiling. "No," she said, "not really? Why?" "Heavens! you haven't the illusion that you're economical? I believe you spend a small fortune on cabs alone." "I don't spend a solitary franc on one when I'm _not_ alone." "You never walk, so far as I can ascertain----" "No; not so far as that, but I toddle a bit." "Your champagne is above criticism, and you dress like--like an angel. The simile is bad----" "And improper. Go on; what other faults have I? I like to know my friends' opinion of me." "'If to her share some human errors fall----'" he murmured. "Don't look, then! Shall I hide it behind my table-napkin? That's sheer cowardice. Fill your glass, and mine, please. Go on; tell me how I strike you frankly! I know; you think I don't approach literature reverently enough and ought to devote twelve months to a book, and let my poor little children go barefoot in the meanwhile? Well, I did give twelve months to a book once; but I had a husband when I wrote _Two and a Passion_, and he provided the shoes. Now, if I didn't work as I do, I should have to live at Battersea, and buy my clothes at Brixton, and take my holidays at Southend. You wouldn't calmly condemn me to Southend? My income, apart from what I make, barely pays my rent." "Your rent is somewhat heavy," suggested Kent, "with two flats going at once." "Wretch! do you lecture me because I couldn't find a tenant for the Victoria Street place? He blames me for my misfortunes!" She caught the long gloves up, and swirled them round on his cheek. Like the others, they were perfumed; but now their scent was in his face. They looked in each other's eyes an instant, smiling across the corner of the table. Then, as the smile died away, they remained looking in each other's eyes attentively. He drew the gloves from her hold, and played with them. Her hand lay upturned to take them back, and in restoring them his own rested on it. She averted her gaze, but her palm did not slip away so quickly as it might have done. "You know you may smoke," she said, rising and going over to the fire. "I'll have one, too." "Isn't it too late?" he asked, joining her. His voice was not quite steady, and now he didn't look at her as he spoke. "You can have one cigarette," she said, sinking into an armchair, and crossing her feet on the fender. "How's the paper going? Eclipsing _Le Petit Journal_?" "Of course," he said. "Did you ever know anybody's paper that wasn't?" "You count Paris your home, I suppose? You mean to stop here permanently? _I_ go back in March; the people are returning here then. I loathe London after Paris, but I shall have escaped most of the winter there, that's one thing. Where did you live in town?" "_My_ neighbourhood _was_ Battersea, that is to say, it was suburban wilds. We had a villa at Streatham--have it now, in fact," he added, remembering with dismay that there was a quarter's rent due. "No, I'm afraid I can't condole with you, Mrs. Deane-Pitt." "'Pride sleeps in a gilded crown, contentment in a cotton night-cap,'" she said. "An address is only skin-deep, after all; besides, Streatham is pretty." "Pretty _well_. And it looks prettier out of a big house." "Get money, my friend," she said languidly; "you are young enough, and I think you're clever enough. When all things were made, nothing was made better. And it's really very easy; as soon as you are popular, the editors will take anything." "'First catch your hare,'" he observed. "I'm not popular." The clock on the mantelshelf struck one, and he threw away his cigarette-end and got up. "Good-night, Mrs. Deane-Pitt." "Good-night," she said. Her touch lingered again, and her personality dominated him as he walked back to the pension de famille through the silent streets. He was angry with himself to perceive that it was so. What the devil had he been about in that business with the gloves over the table? She had let him do it, too! Did she like him. He wouldn't go to see her any more! Well, that was absurd, but he would not go so frequently as he had. And he must keep a rein on himself. Nothing could come of it, he was convinced, even if he wished; and he did not wish. It would be too beastly to deceive a girl like Cynthia ... and their baby only a year old! He decided, as he mounted the stairs, to tell Cynthia when she came back that he had been to the Variétés with Mrs. Deane-Pitt. It would not disturb her to hear that, and, though it was juggling with his conscience, he would feel cleaner afterwards. There was a letter from her waiting for him on the bedroom table, and he washed his hands before he opened it. Cynthia wrote to say that she should be home the next evening but one, and that her parents had been rejoiced to see her. On the whole, things did not seem to be so desperate as she had feared; but it was quite determined that The Hawthorns should be let, for, fortunately, there was a Peruvian family who were prepared to take it just as it stood, and mamma had already been to view a house at Strawberry Hill which was quite nice, and far cheaper. Whether Miss Wix would remove with them was doubtful. "Mamma's temper is naturally not of the best just now, and I gather that the dissensions have been rather bad. Papa talks of allowing Aunt Emily a pound a week to live by herself, and really she seems to prefer it." She added, underlined, that Cæsar was still "the right hand of McCullough." She had learnt to smile a little at Cæsar, and Kent winced as he came to that allusion to a mutual joke. And then there followed a dozen affectionate injunctions: he was not to be dull, "poor boy who had no watch and chain!" but to go somewhere every night; he was to hug baby for her, and to give and keep a score of kisses. She was "Always his loving wife." He read it under the paraffin lamp with his overcoat on, and wished that it hadn't arrived till the morning. Mrs. Deane-Pitt's inquiry how _The World and his Wife_ was going had had more significance than Kent's careless reply. The band of Paris Correspondents in the vicinity of the boulevard Magenta and elsewhere were already beginning to talk about Billy Beaufort, for, not only was he neglecting the first chance of a competence that had fallen his way for years--he was squandering the whole of a very handsome salary, and getting into difficulties, besides. The amount of energy which this man, when in his deepest waters, expended upon a search for opportunities was equalled only by the abysmal folly by which he ruined all that he obtained. He was one of the fools who devote their lives to disproving the adage that experience teaches them. The circulation of the paper was purely nominal, and the Baronet had constantly to be applied to for further funds; indeed, the only work in connection with the journal which Billy did now was to write euphemistic reports to the proprietor. The money did not supply the journal's deficiencies alone. Card debts had to be settled somehow; and an ephemeral attachment to a girl who tied herself in knots at the Nouveau Cirque was responsible for some embarrassment. Hitherto, however, Beaufort had always spared the hundred and seventy-five francs at the end of the week to his assistant-editor. But on the Saturday after Cynthia's return he asked him casually if he would mind waiting for it a few days. "Sorry if it puts you out at all," he said. "I can't help myself. You shall have it for certain Wednesday or Thursday. I suppose you can finance matters in the meanwhile, eh?" Kent could do no less than answer that he would try. On Monday morning, though, madame Garin's bill would come up with the first breakfast, and he saw that he would be compelled either to make an excuse to her, or to pretend to forget it till he could pay. CHAPTER XVI Their bills had been paid with such exceeding regularity up to the present that he decided to take the bolder course, distasteful as it was. He had been obliged to ask landladies to wait longer in his time, but it was one thing to be "disappointed" as a bachelor, and quite another when one had a wife, and baby, and nurse in the house. Madame Garin's countenance, moreover, was of a rather forbidding type, and did not suggest a yielding disposition in money matters. He was agreeably surprised to hear her say, after a scarcely perceptible pause, that it was of no consequence when he spoke to her in passing her little office in the hall on Monday morning. Cynthia's relief was immense; it had been a serious crisis to her, her earliest experience of having to ask for credit; and, to be on the safe side, he had not promised to pay before Thursday. Both trusted that the salary would be forthcoming on Wednesday, though, for if the nurse wanted anything bought in the meanwhile they would be obliged to temporise with her, and that would have its awkwardness. Beaufort did not refer to the subject on Wednesday, and Kent went home with sixty-five centimes in his pocket. He got in late, and Cynthia was already at dinner. She glanced at him inquiringly as he took his seat, and he shook his head. "Not yet," he murmured. She disguised her feelings and continued to talk chiffons with the woman opposite; but when they mounted to their room and the proprietress looked out of the bureau at them with a greeting, she felt a shade uncomfortable, and hastened her steps. "I hate that bureau," she said as soon as they had reached the haven of the first landing. "The Garins seem to live in it, and you can't get by without their seeing you! Well, he didn't give it to you, eh?" "No; it'll be all right to-morrow, though. It's lucky I said 'Thursday' instead of to-day. Has Nurse been to you for anything?" "Thank goodness, she hasn't! But Baby is bound to be out of something directly. You do think we are sure of it to-morrow, Humphrey, _don't_ you?" He said there was no doubt about it, and they drew their chairs to the hearth. The night was cold, and presently he went out to a grocer's and spent sixty centimes on a bottle of the kind of red wine that the restaurants threw in with the cheapest meal, smuggling it upstairs under his overcoat. In madame Garin's wine-list it figured as "médoc" at two francs, and she would not have been pleased with him for getting it at a shop. They made it hot over their fire in one of the infant's saucepans; and, sweetened with sugar from the nursery cupboard, they found it comforting. Though their capital was now a son, they were not unhappy, in the prospect of a hundred and seventy-five francs in the course of twenty-four hours, and once Cynthia laughed so I gaily that the nurse came in and intimated that "the rooms opening into one another made the noise very disturbing to Baby." Kent went to the office next day without a cigarette, for he had smoked his last, and he I awaited his chief's arrival with considerable impatience. The Editor had not been in when he returned to luncheon, but in reply to Cynthia's eager question he assured her that he was certain to have the money in his pocket when he saw her again in the evening. He wanted a cigarette by this time very badly indeed, and when the office clock struck three, he left his desk, and stood pulling his moustache at the window moodily. He began to fear that it was going to be one of the days when Billy Beaufort did not appear in the rue du Quatre Septembre at all. His misgiving proved to be well founded, and dinner that night was agreeable neither to him nor the girl. She had been reluctant to go down to it, on hearing that madame Garin could not be paid, and, though he persuaded her to go down, she sped past the bureau with averted eyes. It was useless to go in search of Beaufort; the only thing of which one could be positive with regard to his movements at this hour was that he would not be at his hotel; but Kent promised; her to see him before commencing work in the morning, and said that the amount necessary should be sent round to her at once. Beaufort was staying at the Grand, and he was; still in his room when Kent called there. He was found in bed, reading his letters. A suit of dress-clothes trailed disconsolately across a chair, and by the window a fur-coat and a hat-box had rolled on to the floor. He had not drunk his chocolate, but a tumbler of soda-water and something, and a syphon, stood on the table beside, him, surrounded by his watch and chain, some scattered cigarettes, and the bulk of his correspondence. He looked but half awake and cross. "What's the matter?" he murmured. "Sit down. There's a seat there, if you move those things. Will you have anything to drink?" "I won't have a drink, but I'll take one of those cigarettes, if I may," said Kent, sticking it in his mouth and inhaling gratefully. "I'm sorry to dun you, but you told me I could have the money 'Wednesday or Thursday,' and I'm pressed for it. I wish you would let me have it now; I want to send it up to my pension before going on to the shop." Beaufort put out his tongue and drank some more of the contents of the tumbler thirstily. "That'll be all right," he said, yawning; "don't you bother about that!" "But the point is, that I want it now," said Kent. "I dare say it would be 'all right,' but I'm in need of it this morning. My bill came up on Monday, and I put the woman off till yesterday--I can't put her off any more." "What? Is this the first week you owe her? My boy, a week! I haven't paid my bill here for eleven weeks. Let her wait." "You haven't a wife," said Kent. "_I_ have. It's damned unpleasant for a girl, I can tell you!" "How much does the old harpy want?" inquired the Editor, with resentment. "A hundred and sixty, more or less, with extras. I have the interesting document with me, if you'd like to see it." Billy gaped again. "Oh, well," he said, "we'll engineer it. You--you tell your wife not to worry herself; and don't trouble any more. I'll see you through." He settled his head on the pillow, and appeared to be under the impression that the difficulty was disposed of. "It's very good of you," answered Kent, as his tone seemed to call for gratitude. "I'm glad to hear you say so. But how soon can I have it?" "Eh? Oh, I shall be able to draw to-morrow. You shall have a hundred and sixty to-morrow. I give you my word of honour on it. _I_'ll work it for you somehow. I won't see you in a hole." Kent stared at him. On the morrow a second week's salary would be due--and on the next day but one, a second account from madame Garin. He pointed the fact out to Beaufort quietly, but with emphasis. He said that, if matters were financially complicated, it would be well for him to understand the position, in order that he might realise his outlook, and, if essential, make a temporary removal to a quarter where he could live more cheaply. He did not want to badger him, he explained, but Beaufort's programme was not capable of imitation in his own case, and, as a family man, he must cut his coat according to his cloth. "If you want me to let part of my salary stand over for the next few weeks, and it's unavoidable, I suppose it is unavoidable," he said finally; "only, I can't be left in the dark about it. Am I to understand that you propose to pay me a hundred and sixty francs to-morrow, instead of three hundred and fifty? Or shall I have the lot?" What he received was a peaceful snore, and he perceived that Billy Beaufort had fallen asleep. He contemplated him for a minute desperately, and lit another cigarette. The thought of Cynthia sitting at home in the bedroom, waiting in suspense for a messenger's knock at the door, nerved him to upset a chair, and Beaufort opened his eyes with a grunt. "What can you do?" demanded Kent, briefly this time, lest slumber should overtake him again. "Can you give me any money before I go?" "I've told you I'll do my utmost. You shall have a hundred and sixty francs to-morrow; I can't give it you now--I haven't got it. If I had, you may be sure you wouldn't have to ask twice for it. I'm not a chap of that sort, Kent. By George! I never desert a pal. I've my faults, but I never desert a pal.... If a louis on account is any good, I can let you have that." "Well?" said Humphrey, seeing that there was no more to be done, "I rely on you. And--thanks--I'll take the louis to go on with." He went down and out on to the Boulevard, and sent Cynthia a petit bleu, saying, "Got something. Balance to-morrow," and wondered gloomily whether madame Garin would continue complacent when she discovered that, after all, he suggested paying one week's bill instead of two. Perhaps it would be easier to arrange with the vivacious daughter? He resolved to try, and the young lady was all smiles and "Mais parfaitement, monsieur," when he spoke to her. He congratulated himself on having had the idea; but, though Beaufort provided him with the sum agreed upon next day, and repeated that he "never deserted a pal" with an air of having achieved a triumph, he did not make up the deficit, and, instead of being able to square accounts with the Garins, the assistant-editor gradually found himself getting deeper into their debt. From its being a doubtful point whether he would receive his salary in full, it became a question whether he would get any of it at all; and when he obtained half, he learnt by degrees to esteem it a fortunate week. Beaufort overflowed with promises and protestations. Everything was always "on the eve of being righted," but the day of righteousness never dawned. Mademoiselle Garin began to stop "monsieur Kent" in the hall and convey to him with firmness that her mother had very heavy obligations to meet, and Cynthia sat at the dinner-table in constant terror of the old woman coming in and publicly insulting them. One morning, when the laundress brought back their linen, Humphrey had to feign to be asleep, while Cynthia explained that "monsieur had all the money and was so unwell that she did not like to wake him." The poor creature was sympathetic, and went away telling madame not to disquiet herself--it was doubtless only a passing indisposition. But after she had gone, the girl begged Humphrey to take a loan on her engagement-ring, and after some discussion he complied. Everything is more valuable in Paris than in London until one has occasion to pawn it, and then it is worth much less, especially jewellery. From the mont-de-piété Kent procured about forty per cent, of what a London pawn-broker would have lent him. However, the loan was useful. Though it did not clear them, it afforded temporary relief; and it paid the nurse's wages, which were due the same day. Cynthia said that she had become so "demoralised"--she used a happy term now with a frequency he would have found astonishing if he had recalled how she talked when they first met--that a substantial payment on account "made her feel quite meritorious"; and there was a week in which they went to the theatres again, and walked past the bureau with heads erect. March had opened mildly, and people were once more beginning to sit outside the cafés; and Mrs. Deane-Pitt was returning to England. Kent had kept his resolution not to enter the yellow drawing-room in the avenue Wagram when it could be avoided--partly, no doubt, because of the anxieties he had had to occupy his mind, but partly also by force of will. When he heard that she was leaving, though, he could do no less--nor did he feel it necessary to do less--than call to bid her "au revoir," and he was conscious, as the servant replied that she was at home, that he would have been disappointed otherwise. He gown betokened that visitors were expected; teacups demonstrated that visitors had been. She welcomed him languidly, and motioned him to a seat. "I thought you must have gone to London, or to Paradise," she said. "What have you beer doing with yourself?" "I've been so fearfully busy," he answered lamely. "On the paper?" "Of course." "I don't hear good reports of the paper," she said. "I hope they aren't true?" "The paper is as good as it always was," responded Kent--"neither better nor worse. May I ask what you hear?" "I heard that Sir Charles Eames is getting tired of it. Says he is running a journal that nobody reads but himself, and _he_ 'don't read it much.' He informed a man in his club, who told it privately to another man, who told it in confidence to a woman who told me--I wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone myself--that 'if the price didn't improve soon he should scratch it.' What will the robin do then, Mr. Kent?" Humphrey looked grave. This was the first plain intimation he had had that _The World and his Wife_ was likely to collapse, and badly as the post was paying him now, it was more lucrative than any that awaited him. He thought that Mrs. Deane-Pitt might have communicated her news more considerately. "The robin will manage to find crumbs, I suppose," he said; "I wasn't born on _The World and his Wife_." "May I offer you some tea and cake in the meantime?" "No, thanks." Her tone annoyed him this afternoon; it was hard and careless. He fancied at the moment that his only feeling for her was dislike, and sneered at the mental absurdities into which he had strayed. There was a lengthy pause--a thing that had seldom occurred between them--followed by platitudes. "Well," he murmured, getting up, "I'm afraid I must go." She did not press him to remain. "Must you?" she said. "I dare say we shall meet again. It's a small world in every sense." "I hope we shall. Au revoir, and bon voyage, Mrs. Deane-Pitt." "If you should go back yourself, you'll come to see me? You know where I live." "Thank you; I shall be very glad." But as he went down the stairs Kent was surprised to perceive that he felt suddenly mournful. The noise of the door closing behind him was charged with ridiculous melancholy, and there appeared to him something sad in this conventional ending that had the semblance of estrangement. The sentiment and impression of the hour that he had spent in the room after the Variétés recurred to him, and contrasted with it their adieu became full of pathos. He questioned reproachfully if, in his determination not to be more than a friend, he might not have repaid her own friendship by ingratitude, and so have wounded her. He first decided that he would send her a letter, and then that he would not send her a letter. He made his way through the Champ Elysées reflectively, and once half obeyed a violent temptation to turn back. He would have obeyed it wholly but that he felt its indulgence would be laughable, or that Mrs. Deane-Pitt would be likely to look upon it in that light. So he restrained the impulse. But he could not laugh himself. CHAPTER XVII The respite afforded by the mont-de-piété was brief, and all that Kent received from Beaufort in the next three weeks was twenty francs. The Garins' faces in the hall were very glum, now, and the sum against "_Notes remises_" at the top of the bills that came up to the bedroom on Monday mornings had swelled to such disheartening dimensions that the debtor no longer gave himself the trouble to decipher the various items. In addition to this, the affairs of _The World and his Wife_ had reached a crisis, and he learnt from the Editor that it was doomed. An interval of restored hope ensued. The life of the paper hung in the balance--then they went to press no more. Beaufort declared that Kent's claim would be discharged without delay, and, knowing the ex-proprietor's position, Humphrey could not believe that he would be allowed to suffer. That the Baronet was ignorant of his claim's existence and that it was Billy Beaufort who had to find, the money for him, he had no idea; no more had he suspected, when he took Cynthia to the Nouveau Cirque and applauded the contortions of "Mlle. Veronique," that the artiste who stood on her head, and kissed her toes to them, was in part responsible for their plight. Billy, realising that the matter must be squared somehow, if things weren't to become more unpleasant, spoke reassuringly of Sir Charles being momentarily in tight quarters; and Humphrey, in daily expectation of a cheque, made daily promises of a settlement to the Garins, while he discussed with Cynthia what should be their next move. To remain in Paris would be useless, and they decided that they would go back to England as soon as the cheque was cashed. Perhaps it was fortunate, after all, that No. 64 had not been let! In London he must advertise again, and a post might be easier to find now that he could call himself an "assistant-editor" in the advertisement. The days went by, however, and Beaufort, whom he awoke, like an avenging angel, at early morning and tracked in desperation from bar to bar until he ran him to earth at night, still remained "in hourly expectation of the money." Both Cynthia and Kent feared that their inability to pay was known to everybody in the house; and they imagined disdain on the face of the Italian who waited on them at meals, and indifference in the bearing of Etienne when he laid the fire. The chambermaid's "Bonjour, m'sieur et madame," had a ring of irony to their ears, and on Mondays, in particular, they were convinced that she sneered when she put down their tray. The thought made the girl so miserable that Kent took an opportunity of asking mademoiselle Garin if it was so, and she informed him that he was mistaken. "Nobody 'as been told, monsieur," she said; "oh, not at all! But, monsieur, it is impossible that you remain, you know, if your affairs do not permit of a settlement. Your intentions are quite honourable--well understood; but my mother cannot wait. Her expense is terrible 'eavy 'ere; vraiment, c'est épouvantable, je vous assure, et--and--and my mother 'as an offer for your rooms, and she asks that you and madame locate yourselves elsewhere, monsieur, on Saturday." After an instant of dismay, Humphrey was, on the whole, relieved at the idea of being allowed to depart in peace and to await his cheque where the situation wouldn't be strained. It was rather a nuisance, having to make a removal for so short a time, but when it was effected, he felt that they would be a great deal more comfortable. He replied that they would go, of course, and that madame Garin could depend upon his sending her the amount that he owed the moment that his arrears of salary were forthcoming. He said he thoroughly appreciated the consideration that she had shown them, and could not express how deeply he regretted to have inconvenienced her. "Yes, monsieur," murmured mademoiselle Garin. She hesitated; she added, in a slightly embarrassed tone: "You know, monsieur, my mother must keep your luggage 'ere? Her lawyer 'as advised that." "What?" said Kent. "Oh, my dear mademoiselle Garin! I will give your mother an acknowledgment--a promissory note--whatever she likes! She will only have to trust me for a few more days; I'm perfectly certain to have the money in the course of a week. She won't keep the luggage, surely? My--my dear young lady, think what it means with a wife and child!" Mademoiselle Garin spread her arms with a shrug. "It is always 'a few more days,' monsieur," she said. "My mother will permit you to take your necessaries for the few days, and the things belonging to the little one. No more." "Can I see her?" inquired Kent, rather pale. "Oh yes; she is in the bureau." "The servants can hear everything that goes on in the bureau," he demurred. "Can't I talk to her in her room?" Mademoiselle Garin preceded him there, and he tried his best to wring consent from the old woman, but she was as hard as nails, and would not listen for long. An "acknowledgment of the debt," certainly--the lawyer had advised that, too, and he would prepare it--but their luggage, jamais de la vie! The baby's box, and the bassinet; and for madame Kent and himself such articles as were indispensable for one week. She would agree to nothing else. Cynthia was upstairs, playing with the baby, and Kent went in and shut the door that communicated with the nursery. "What is it?" she asked, after a glance at his face. He wondered if he could soften the news, but it did not lend itself to euphemisms. He told it to her in as light a tone as he could acquire. "It won't be for any length of time, and we can easily make shift for a bit," he said. "It isn't as if the child's things had to be left behind, you see. A handbag will hold all we really need for ourselves. What do we want, after all, for a week? It isn't a serious matter, if one comes to look at it. It sounds worse than it is, I think." She sat startled and still. Then she cuddled the baby close, and forced a smile. "My brown frock will do," she assented; "I shall go in that! Oh, it isn't so dreadful, no. Of course, just for a moment it does give one a shock, doesn't it? But--but, as you say, it sounds worse than it is. Were they nasty to you?" "The old lady wasn't very affectionate; the girl wasn't so bad. It's cussed awkward, darling, I know. Poor little woman! I was funking telling you like anything. It took me ten minutes coming up those stairs, and I nearly went out for a walk first." She laughed; she was already quite brave again. "We shall get through it all right," she said. "Where shall we go? We might go back to the hotel where we stayed first, mightn't we? We paid there." "I thought of that," he replied; "but it was rather dear, wasn't it? We had better spend as little a possible; there are our passages, and we mustn't arrive in London with nothing. I'm afraid we shan't be able to get your ring out in any case." "That can't be helped. I'm sorrier about your watch and chain. A man is so lost without a watch. Saturday? Saturday will be mi-carême, won't it? We shall celebrate it nicely.... Oh!" She sat upright, and stared at him with frightened eyes. "Humphrey--Nurse!" His jaw dropped, and he looked back at her blankly. "I'd forgotten her," he said. "To see our luggage detained--it could only mean the one thing! Humphrey, what would she think? What can we do? She mustn't, mustn't know; I should die of shame." "No," he said; "she mustn't know, that's certain. Good Lord! what an infernal complication at the last minute! _I_ don't know what's to be done, I'm sure. Take the child in to her, and let's think!" He filled a pipe, and puffed furiously, until Cynthia came back. "Couldn't we," he suggested---"couldn't we say that as we're at the point of going home, we don't think it's worth while carting the heavy trunks to another place? Madame Garin has 'kindly allowed us to leave them here in the meantime.' Eh?" Cynthia mused. "Then, what are we going to another place ourselves for?" she said. "Yes," said Kent; "that won't do. Hang the woman! she's a perfect bugbear to us; we're all the time struggling to live up to the teapot. I wish to heaven we could get rid of her altogether!" "That," answered the girl, after a pause--"that is the only thing we can do. We must send her away, and _I'll_ take baby." "You? A nice job for you! You could never go down to a meal; and travelling too--imagine it!" "I can do it; I'd like it! Anything, anything rather than she should see us turned out and our luggage seized. That would be too awful! Yes, we must get her away, Humphrey. We must get her away before we leave here. Whatever happens afterwards is our own affair. She'll be gone and know nothing about it." "That's very good," he said thoughtfully. "But there'll be her wages, and her passage back. Great Scott! and another month's wages because we don't give her proper notice! How much would it come to? I've got two francs fifty, and I've pawned my match-box. I'm afraid we must think of something else." "We could send her second-class on the boat as well. Yes, certainly second-class. What does that cost? Have you got the paper you had? Look for it, do! it used to be in your bag." Kent searched, and found it. He also felt that their lot would be comparatively a bed of roses if they were spared the astonished inquiries of the nurse. "Second-class tickets are twenty-five and sevenpence," he announced, "and two months' wages are four pounds. Say five pounds ten. Well, dear, I might as well try to raise a million!" He blew clouds, and waited for an inspiration, while she walked about the room with her hands behind her. "Even if we could get it," she remarked, breaking a heavy silence, "I don't know what reason we could give for packing her off so suddenly. It would look rather a curious proceeding, wouldn't it?" "We could say," said Kent, "that we have decided to live in Paris permanently. She'd want to go then--the charms of 'Olloway!" "Yes," answered Cynthia, "we could say that. But why in such a gasping hurry?" "Yes, it would be rather a rush, it's a fact. Well, I'll tell you! We are going on a visit to some friends in the country, and they haven't room for another nurse. Mrs. Harris's nurse will do all that's needed while we're there.... But five pounds ten! I can see Beaufort and make the attempt; but the man hasn't got it till the draft comes. You can't get blood out of a stone." "Let _him_ go and pawn his match-box, then, and his watch and chain, and his engagement-ring. He must find it for you. Humphrey, tell him you must have it. Say it's--it's a matter of life or death. Think of what we've gone through already, trembling in case she suspected what a state we were in. The blessed relief it will be to be alone and have no pretences to make! I shall feel new-born." "I'll see him to-day," said Kent, catching her enthusiasm. "He's often in a place in the rue Saint-Honoré about four o'clock. What time is it now? Go in and ask her--she's the only one among us with a watch. Tell her mine has stopped--unless it has stopped too often." "Yours is 'being cleaned.'" She disappeared for a second, and returned to say that it was half-past three. "Hurry, and you may catch him now!" she continued. "And--and, Humphrey, be very firm about it, won't you? If he hasn't got it, make him give you a definite promise when you shall have it. To-day's Tuesday--say you _must_ have it by Thursday, at the latest. And come back and tell me the result as quickly as you can. Wait, here's a kiss for luck." Kent kissed her warmly--she had never before seemed to him so companionable, such "a good fellow," as she did in this dilemma--and, picking up his hat and cane, he ran down the stairs, and made his way to the buffet in the rue Saint-Honoré at his best pace. Beaufort was not to be seen in the bar, nor was he in the inner room; but on inquiring at the counter, Kent learnt that a gentleman there was now waiting for Billy, having an appointment with him for a quarter to four. This was very lucky. Kent took a seat on the divan and ordered a bock. Rolling a cigarette, he debated how he could put the matter strongly enough. He had expended so much eloquence of late without deriving any benefit from the interviews that he did not feel very hopeful of the upshot. However, he was resolved that he wouldn't fail for any lack of endeavour. After Beaufort came in, a little before five, he sat watching him warily until the other man took his leave. Beaufort expressed pleasure at seeing him, and asked him to have a drink. Kent did not refuse the invitation, for it would be easier to talk there, in the corner, than dodging among the crowd in the streets, and he opened fire at once. He felt that his best card was absolute frankness, and explained the situation without reserve. Billy was entirely sympathetic. He romanced about Sir Charles, but was subsequently truthful. A draft from the Baronet might be delivered any morning or evening, but in the event of its not coming in time, he would straighten matters out himself! "He was damnably short, but he had arranged with a pal to jump for him. If he touched a bit to-morrow --of which there was, humanly speaking, no doubt--Kent should have a hundred and forty francs at night, and the balance of what was owing to him early in the week." Damon would repay himself when the draft arrived! Such devotion demanded another drink, and though this left him with less than a franc in I his pocket, Kent went back to the pension de I famille in much better spirits, and feeling that he had good news to impart. Cynthia looked upon the tidings in the same light. As the nurse might learn from the servants that their rooms were to be vacated on Saturday, they decided to speak to her without delay. Kent informed her that they were going to friends in the country, preparatory to settling in Paris for two years, and that she must make her preparations to return to England on Saturday morning. This gave a margin for delay on Beaufort's part. The young woman was greatly taken aback, and though she did not wish to stay, there was real feeling in her voice as she said how sorry she would be to leave the baby. She hung over the bassinet, and tears came into her eyes. Then Cynthia choked, and began to cry too, and Humphrey found her five minutes later with her face buried in her pillow, sobbing that she felt "ashamed to have told lies to such a conscientious, nice-minded girl." CHAPTER XVIII Kent's appointment with Beaufort next evening was for half-past eight, outside the Café de la Paix. The sous remaining after the conversation in the rue Saint-Honoré had gone for a nursery requirement, so he was unable to sit down while he waited. His man was very late, and he walked to and fro before the stretch of chairs and tables on the boulevard for nearly an hour, tacitly confessing himself penniless to every idler there. When Billy arrived at last, he began by saying that his news was "not altogether unsatisfactory," whereat Humphrey's heart sank, and when details were forthcoming, it appeared to him about as unsatisfactory as it could possibly have been. Stripped of the circumlocution by which the speaker sought to palliate its asperities, the news was, that the completion of his business had been deferred till Saturday, and that while he was confident of "touching" then, he feared that he could do nothing in the meantime. Kent took no pains to conceal his despondence. Seeing that he and Cynthia must leave the boarding-house by noon, and get the nurse out of the way and into the train by ten o'clock in the morning, "Saturday" sounded as hopeless as Doomsday. He explained the urgency of the situation afresh, over a _fine_, and, after reflection, Billy thought that, assisted by the signature of somebody else, he could raise a hundred and fifty francs in another quarter. When he had had a second _fine_ he was sure of it, and bade Humphrey meet him there again on the morrow at a quarter to two. The following day was Thursday, and when Kent descended about eleven, madame Garin requested him to sign the document her lawyer had drawn up. After that had been done, and J duly witnessed--one may do anything one likes in France excepting not pay--Kent told her that his wife wished her to view the contents of the baby's trunk before it was closed. As a matter of fact, it was a rather large one, and they were anxious to avoid the possibility of its giving rise to remark in front of servants at the moment of departure. She replied that such an examination was not necessary; it would be sufficient if they instructed their nurse to pack nothing that didn't belong to the little one. This led to his informing her that the girl was quitting their service, and, to his horror, madame Garin said frigidly: "You know what I have consented to, monsieur? The things of the child; and for madame Kent and yourself what is enough for one week. Nothing else." "My God!" exclaimed Kent with a gasp; "you don't mean to say you won't let the girl take her box?" "But certainly I mean it," she returned. "It was perfectly understood. I have already been too liberal." "But--but--heavens above!" he stammered, "the girl doesn't owe you anything! My wife is dismissing her, so as to keep our humiliation from her knowledge, madame. If you refuse to let her box go, the exposure is complete!" The proprietress shrugged her shoulders: "That does not concern me!" This time Kent literally lacked the courage to tell Cynthia what had occurred. He went out, and dropped on to the first bench that he came to, sick in his soul. What was the use now if Beaufort did bring him the money when they met? The girl could not be sent home without her luggage, and they would have to make a clean breast of the whole affair to her, and beg her to be tolerant with them. Cynthia had been very plucky; she had taken the disappointment of last night like a brick, and was at the moment full of hope for the result of the appointment at a quarter to two; but he felt that this unexpected blow would surely crush her. It was the death-stroke to their scheme and entailed even more mortification than they had feared originally. He was at the foot of the Champs Elysées, and he sat staring with wide eyes at the passers-by--at the bonnes, big of bosom, with the broad, bright ribbons depending from their caps; at the children with their hoops, and the women in knicker-bockers, flashing through the sunshine on their bicycles. Paris looked so light-hearted that woe seemed incongruous in it. Now, it happened, about half an hour subsequent to his leaving the house, that Cynthia decided to go with her baby and the nurse for a walk. Halfway down the stairs it was perceived that something had been forgotten, and she continued the descent alone. To her dismay, she saw the gaunt figure of madame Garin standing at the office door, and as she came timorously down the last flight, the proprietress stood with folded arms, watching her. Perhaps her nervousness was very evident; perhaps the other had been sorrier for her than she had shown; but as the girl reached the hall the grim old woman moved towards her, and, with a gesture that said as plainly as words, "Oh, you poor little soul!" took her face between her hands, and kissed her on the forehead. "Listen," she said; "that's all right about the box of your servant--be easy!" Cynthia murmured a response to her kindness without realising what was meant. Presently Kent became aware that, among the stream of nurses and infants flowing up from the place de la Concorde, were his own nurse and infant, and that Cynthia accompanied them. She recognised him before they reached the bench, and coming over to him with surprise, sat down. And then each spoke of what the other did not know. "What a half-hour you have had!" she cried when she understood. And he exclaimed: "But the relief! Heaven be praised you came this way!" Their fate now hung once more on what Billy Beaufort would have to say, and Kent sped to the rendez-vous with restored energy. By the clock in the middle of the road it was twenty minutes to two when he reached the Café de la Paix, and, as before, it was impossible for him to take a chair. He rolled a thin cigarette with a morsel of tobacco that remained in his pouch, and paced his beat, smoking. At two o'clock Billy had not come. He had not come at half-past two. Kent doubted if this augured well for the tidings that were to be communicated, but he fortified himself by remembering that he awaited a man who was rarely punctual in any circumstances. Nevertheless, the later it became, the worse the chance looked, and when the clock pointed to three, he began to lose both hope and patience. At a quarter to four there was still no sign of Beaufort. The watcher's feet ached, and the pavement seemed to grow harder, and his boots to get tighter, with every turn. A little tobacco-dust lurked in the corners of his pouch--he thanked God to see it; and carefully, as if it had been dust of gold, he shook it on to a paper, and assuaged his weariness and rage with another cigarette. Beaufort meant the success or the failure of their plan, and while he had but scant expectation of his turning up now, he dared; not go away. He promised himself to go at four, but at four dreaded lest he might miss him just by five minutes and determined to stop until a quarter past. Despair had mastered him wholly when a cab rattled to a standstill and, forgetting! the pain of his feet, he saw Billy spring out. A glance, however, assured him that the waiting had been to no purpose; and after Billy had made many apologies, and recounted a series of misadventures, his statement was that he was unable to obtain any money until Saturday afternoon. Kent dragged himself home, and Cynthia and he sat with bowed heads. "We're done," said Humphrey, "and that's all about it! I must tell the girl we can't pay our bills and are turned out. But _she's_ always been paid up to the present; what's it to do with her, after all?" "We _won't_ be done!" declared Cynthia; "we won't! Humphrey, if--if I wrote----" "No, by Jove!" he said; "I do bar that. We've kept our affairs from your people all along, and we won't give ourselves away now.... Do you mind very much?" She did, but lied nobly. "You're perfectly right," she answered; "I was a coward to think of it." Kent squeezed her hand. "You're a trump," he said. "Little woman, I've another idea--Turquand!" She was breathless. "Beautiful!" "If Turquand has got it, Turquand will lend it; but--but _has_ he? Well, it's worth trying. Let's see: I can catch the post; he'll get the letter in the morning. If he answered on the instant, we could have the money to-morrow night. Good Lord! how tired I am! Where's the stationery?" He dashed off a note begging his friend to send five pounds ten--or six pounds, if he could manage to spare so much--immediately, and then he remembered that he could not buy a stamp. There was a sick pause; defeat confronted them again. "There's nothing for it," he said; "I must go and ask the Garins! I'd post it without one if we were in England, but here----" He left her walking about the room in excitement and went down. The bureau was shut; he learnt that the women were out. "Do you think Nurse herself has got one?" he suggested, coming back, "or--or twenty-five centimes?" "She is out, too. She took baby ten minutes ago.... Humphrey!" "Another inspiration?" "The bottles!" she cried triumphantly, pointing to the wardrobe. "There are three!" On an empty bottle of the wine that they sometimes boiled in the evening, two sous were refunded if a customer chose to give himself the trouble to take it back. They had had occasion to acquire the knowledge. Kent pulled the bottles out, and, after an abortive effort to make a parcel of them, caught up his letter and ran to the shop. He got thirty centimes--bolted to the post-office, and saved the mail. Nothing could be done now but pray that Turquand might be in a position to oblige him. In the meantime the young woman--all unconscious of the jeopardy in which it had been--packed her box calmly in the room behind their door, and prepared for her departure on Saturday morning with the composure of one whose ticket and wages were as good as in her purse. By Friday evening the box was corded and labelled. When Kent and Cynthia entered and beheld it so, suspense tightened its grip about their hearts. The mail would not be delivered until about nine o'clock, and when they judged that the hour was near, they sat with tense nerves, straining to hear Etienne's heavy footsteps on the landing. As yet they had not arranged where to remove to on the morrow, and they spoke disjointedly of the necessity for deciding something. Kent said that it would be desirable to have two rooms in the new place also; then they would be able to talk when the baby was asleep; in one room it would be awful. This assumption that the nurse would not be with them was followed by intensified misgivings, and in her imagination both saw her sitting on her tin box, with her hat on, while they faltered to her that after all, she couldn't go. "If it comes in the morning, you know," he said, at the end of a long silence, "it will be in time. Her train doesn't start till ten." "Y-e-s," said Cynthia; "she _expects_ it to-night.... Is that some one coming upstairs?" "Nobody," answered Kent, listening intently.... "No, her train doesn't start till ten. I don't think, in point of fact, that we can look for it to-night. You see----" "We needn't _give up_ if it hasn't come when we go to bed." "No; that's what I mean. One must allow for--hark!... no; it's nothing--one must allow for him having to----" Cynthia uttered a cry. "It _is_! Come in--entrez--yes!" Etienne appeared. "A letter for monsieur!" Kent snatched it from his hand; it was from Turquand. He tore it open. Postal orders for six pounds dazzled their eyes. In pencil was scribbled: "Here you are, sonny!--Yours ever, TURK." Cynthia gave a hysterical laugh. They were say. Ten minutes later, after she had blessed Turquand and her eyes were dried, she opened the door or the adjoining room with great dignity, and said: "By the way, Nurse, I had better give you your money now. You can change enough postal orders for your ticket, you know, opposite the station." Then she came back radiant. And Kent said salvation must be celebrated and, as their cab next day wouldn't cost ten shillings, they would go out on the Boulevard and drink Turquand's health--and buy some tobacco on the way. Compared with what their state of mind had been, they were supremely contented now that the danger of their servant witnessing their disgrace was over; and in the morning, when they had bidden her good-bye, and watched her drive away, and their misfortunes were nobody's business but their own, they drew a breath of veritable thanksgiving. Cynthia's trunks, and Humphrey's, and his hat-box, and the dressing-case that somebody had given to the girl as a wedding-present, were drawn together in a corner of the room to be left behind; and, with intermittent attentions to the baby, they stored their toilet articles, and all the linen that it would hold, in the hand-bag that was to be taken with them. The bassinet was already shut up and sewn in its canvas wrapper; and the blankets, and such of the child's clothing as would not go in its box, had been packed downstairs in the perambulator. There was nothing further to do but to put the oatmeal, and the saucepan, and a few other infantile necessaries, in a basket. Leaving Cynthia to collect these, Kent hurried out to obtain accommodation at an hotel. He went first to the one where they had stayed on their arrival--it was close at hand. But all the communicating rooms were occupied, and he was forced to try somewhere else. Jordan, who had done "Turf Topics" for _The World and his Wife_, had once mentioned to him a place in the rue de Constantinople as being cheap and comfortable, and he bent his steps there impatiently, regretting that they had not made their arrangements earlier. The mother had intended to see to the matter, in order to be sure that everything, was suitable, and that there wasn't a draught from the window, and the rest of it, but, being so much worried, she had put it off. When he reached the address in the rue de Constantinople, he was not favourably impressed. The terms were low, but the proprietress seemed so, too; and, though her manner was jovial enough, and the place looked clean, he hesitated to settle with her. After he had tried at an hotel in the rue des Soeurs Filandières, at which he was obliged to own that the rate was higher than he was prepared to pay, he decided that he had been hypercritical and went back; but, as ill-luck would have it, the woman had let the apartments that she had shown him five minutes after he left. It was mi-carême, and the streets were beginning to be blocked by sight-seers. He remembered that Cynthia would be sitting anxiously in the chaotic bedroom, wandering why he was gone so long; and, hurrying through the crowd, he returned to the rue des Soeurs Filandières and said he had changed his mind. He was glad when he had done so. It was for only a week, perhaps for less; and there was a chambermaid who would be willing to assist madame with the little one when she could, since madame found herself temporarily without a bonne. She had a cock eye, but she seemed to have a good heart, and Kent assured her that any extra services that she might render should be rewarded. He made for the boarding-house at his best pace and told the waiter to send for a cab constructed to carry luggage on the roof. Cynthia was in a chair, with the baby on her lap, and she looked up eagerly. On the table was a tray with luncheon, for which she would have been unable to go down, even if she had had the audacity; and she explained that madame Garin, finding that she did not appear, had sent it up to her, unasked. Cynthia had not been hungry, but that was very nice of madame Garin! They were not entitled to déjeuner to-day. The little basket was ready now, and Kent cast a gloomy glance at the impedimenta that were to be detained, questioning if he could manage to distribute more than three francs among the servants. Almost at the same moment there was a knock, and Etienne entered. "I have called a cab," he announced surlily. "The patronne says there is no need for a voiture en galérie, because monsieur must not take his trunks." The colour fell from their faces, and for a second they stood dumb and stock-still. "Oh yes," stammered Kent at last, "we are leaving our heaviest trunks--we are going to send for them. But we need a voiture en galérie, all the same. I will speak to madame Garin." He found her erect in the hall in her favourite attitude, her arms folded across her flat breast. Her face was as pale as his own, and her eyes were angry. He looked at her amazed. "I don't understand your message, madame," he murmured. "I cannot have a voiture en galérie? But it is for the things you have allowed!" "Not at all!" she exclaimed. "What do you suppose you will remove from my house? You will take 'what I have allowed'? But you need no voiture en galérie for that!" "Pray speak quietly," he implored. "Look, there's the perambulator over there; and there are the box and bassinet! Of course they must go on the roof of a cab, we can't put them inside." "Zut!" she answered; "I do not permit you to take such things. I will watch what you take. Fetch your things down!" "Do you mean to say," muttered Kent with dry lips, "that at the last moment you refuse to let us take the child's bassinet?" "I never consented to it. You lie!" "Good God!" he said. "Isn't mademoiselle Garin at home? I want to see mademoiselle--where is she?" "My daughter is out. No; you will not take the bassinet, and you will not take the perambulator. You will take what you can carry in the hand, and that is all." "The perambulator we _must_ have," he insisted. "If you keep the bassinet, you must let us have the perambulator--the child's bedding and half its clothes are in it." "Never!" she repeated, and hugged herself determinedly. "You have had my acknowledgment of the debt, and then you repudiate the agreement," said Kent, trembling with passion. "It is very honest, such behaviour!" "'Honest'?" she echoed. "Ha! ha! it was perhaps 'honest' that you came here with your wife, and your little one, and your nurse, to live in my house, and eat at my table, and did not pay me for it? You are a thief--you are a rogue and a thief!" His fingers twitched to smash some man in the face. "And the box?" he gasped, fighting for the ground inch by inch. "Do you allow _that_?" "Never, never, never! Go and fetch your things down!" He went up slowly with weak knees. Cynthia was standing in the middle of the room, pale and frightened. She had her hat on; the baby, dressed for the streets, was clasped in her arms. "She won't let the luggage go," said Kent hoarsely. "God knows what's come to her--_I_ don't! Perhaps she thinks we were trying to get out more than was arranged; she swears now that she promised nothing. Come on; it's no good waiting. There's a cab at the door, let's go!" "But--but what shall we do?" faltered the girl. "Humphrey, Baby _must_ have his things; it's impossible to do without them! Oh, this is awful!" "Awful or not, we must put up with it. For Heaven's sake, let's get out of the damned place as fast as we can! Where were the most important things put?" "I don't know--they are everywhere," she declared tremulously. "I want the basket when we get in; but afterwards I want the box, and the bedding--I want everything of Baby's. She must be a perfect wretch!" He seized the basket and the hand-bag, and they descended the stairs, the baby crying loudly, and the tears dripping down the girl's cheeks. Fortunately, the boarders had all gone to see the procession; but madame Garin was still where Kent had left her, and Etienne, and the chambermaid, and the Italian waiter, suppressing a smile, stood watching about the hall. In an agony of shame that seemed as if it would suffocate her, Cynthia slunk past them to the cab, her head bent low over the child, and as the driver opened the door, she fell, rather than sank, on to the seat. Kent made to follow her immediately, but this was not to be. Madame Garin stopped him. She commanded him to display the contents of the bag; and then ensued a scene in which she became a mouthing, shrieking harridan. Remonstrance was futile. Collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, slippers, were wrested from him piece by piece, and flung on the office floor, while she loaded him with abuse, and the servants nudged one another, grinning. Kent clung to the basket like grim death, but the hand-bag, when she threw it back at his feet at last, had been emptied of so much that he dreaded to guess what was left in it. He picked it up without a word, and scurried through the hail, and plunged into the fiacre. Even then the ordeal was not over. As the man mounted to the box, a woman approached with whom they had grown rather friendly in the house, and, seeing Humphrey with the bag, she came to the cab-window and put amiable and maddening questions as to where they were going and when they were coming back. Kent was voiceless, but Cynthia leant forward and replied. In the midst of his misery and abasement, he admired his wife for the composure she contrived to simulate in such a moment. On reaching the hotel it was necessary to invent some story to account for the absence of luggage, and he remarked as carelessly as possible that it would be delivered on the morrow. He had ordered luncheon to be ready for them; and in the room intended for Cynthia and the boy a fire had been lighted. She flew to the basket, and boiled some oatmeal while Kent endeavoured to soothe the mite, whose meal had been delayed by the disturbance, and who cried as if he would never be pacified any more. When the food was cooked, and something like order was restored, the luncheon was allowed to be brought up, the fillet overdone, and the potatoes hard and stiff. However, after what they had been through, it tasted to them delicious; and emboldened by the thought that there would be no bill for a week, Kent told the waiter to take away the wine that was included and to bring them a bottle of burgundy instead. The wine put heart into them both, and as their fatigue passed, they drew their chairs to one of the windows, and found courage to discuss the situation, while they gazed at the little ornamental garden at the corner of the street. The baby slept, tucked in the quilt of the high; big bed, and Cynthia said that by-and-by he must be put inside the bed for the night, in the frock that he had on. Every minute revealed some further deficiency. They opened the bag, and they had neither brushes, nor sponges, and but a single comb. Yet she laughed again, for instinctively she realised that she was at the apex of her opportunity--that at such a crisis a wife must be either a solace or an affliction; she realised, that, whatever happened to them during the rest of their lives, there would be moments when he looked back on their experiences in Paris and remembered how she had behaved. As they sat there beside the open window, with the remainder of the bottle of burgundy between them, and a smile forced to her lips, the philistine might have been a bohemian born and bred. Again Kent marvelled silently at her pluck. By the time the dinner was laid their nerves were almost as equable as their speech. But this renewed calmness received a sudden shock. It was the rule of the proprietress, they were told politely, to ask for a deposit from strangers, and she would be obliged if monsieur Kent would let her have twenty or thirty francs, purely as a matter of form. Cynthia started painfully, and Kent refastened the paper of his cigarette before he answered. "Certainly," he said. "Is thirty francs enough? I've only a cheque in my pocket, but tell madame I'll give her the money to-night." When the waiter had withdrawn, he and Cynthia looked at each other aghast. Their breathing-space had been brief. They knew that their having no luggage had made the woman suspicious of them, and that, unless they were to be promptly turned out here as well, the thirty francs must be found. Dinner had to be eaten, lest they should appear discomfited by the message; but the coffee was no sooner swallowed than Kent prepared to go out. Swearing to obtain two or three louis before they slept, and reminding the girl that if Beaufort's expectations had been fulfilled he would now be in a position to let them have much more, he went to search for Billy among his various haunts. The streets were massed, and the slow pace permitted by the mob infuriated him. All Paris seemed to have surged on to the Boulevard, thronging the pavements and the roads, and playing the fool. He pushed forward as best he could, and tried the Grand, in the faint hope that the other might be dining there, or that something could be learnt of his movements, but he was able to learn nothing. After all, he thought, it would have been wiser to inquire at the bar in the rue Saint-Honoré; and retracing his steps, he now pressed through the crowd in the direction of the Madeleine, impeded and pelted with confetti at every yard. At the corner of the rue Caumartin a clown in scarlet satin thrust a pasteboard nose into his face. Kent; cursed him and shoved him aside, and the buffoon spun into the arms of a couple of shop-girls, who received him with shrill screams. The concourse appeared to grow noisier and more impenetrable every moment. It was the first mi-carême celebration that the young man had witnessed, and with fever in his veins, and wretchedness in every fibre of him, this carnival confusion, with its horseplay and hindrance, was maddening. The lamplight sparkled with the rain of coloured discs--they were pitched into his eyes and his ears as he struggled on--the asphalt was soft and heavy with them. When he reached the Madeleine things were better. But at the buffet Beaufort had not been seen since five o'clock. Somebody there believed that he had an appointment at nine at the Café de la Paix. Kent edged into the throng again, and forged his way until the café was gained. The figure that he sought was in none of the rooms. He squeezed along to all the likeliest cafés on the Boulevard in turn, and in one of them he descried Jordan, whom he buttonholed eagerly. Yes, Jordan had met Beaufort this evening. Beaufort had said that later on he might go to the Moulin Rouge. This was a clue, at least, and Kent tramped wearily until the glittering sails of the windmill revolved in view. The price of admission had been raised to-night, but he could not hesitate. The dancing had already begun, and two-thirds of the assembly ran about in fancy dress. A quadrille was going on, and in different parts of the ballroom three sets were enclosed by vociferous, English spectators, while the band brayed a tuneless measure. His gaze roved among the company vainly, and he thought that he would be able to make his examination better when the sets broke up. The listless dancers, with stuff skirts and elaborate, be-ribboned petticoats lifted to their shoulders, looked like factory hands as they lumped perfunctorily over the floor. Momentarily a mechanical smile alleviated the gloom of their excessive plainness; at long intervals, spurred to energy by the cries of the audience, one of them gave a kick higher than usual, or threw a bit of slang to her vis-à-vis; but for the most part the performers were as spiritless as marionettes; the air of gaiety and interest was confined entirely to those who looked on. It was midnight when Beaufort was found, and he was partially drunk. Kent caught him by the arm, and heard that his business had not been completed to-day, but was--once more--"certain for next week." Completed or not, however, Kent had to have money, and he made the circumstances clear, a task which, in his companion's condition, was somewhat difficult. He said that they were in new quarters, penniless, and that the woman demanded a deposit; their luggage was detained at the Garins', and could not be recovered unless he paid the bill, or, at all events, a substantial portion of it. In the meanwhile, they possessed literally nothing; a good round sum on account of his claim was absolutely essential. Billy was "tremendously grieved." He answered that he could "manage--twenty francs." And he repeated with emotion that "he never deserted a pal." In the end Kent extracted fifty, and, secretly relieved even by this, but dog-tired, dragged himself down the rue Blanche towards the hotel. Cynthia was waiting up for him, reading a sheet of an old newspaper that had lined one of the drawers, to keep herself awake. She heard the result of his expedition with gratitude. They could now give the proprietress what she wanted, and would be able to buy a hairbrush and one or two other immediate necessaries. She kissed him, and retired to the next bedroom, where she prayed that the child would allow her a good night. Kent, whose fatigue was so great that it was a labour to undress, bade her call him if he could help her in any way. It seemed but a few minutes afterwards that he was startled back to consciousness by the baby's crying, and, listening in the darkness, he heard Cynthia moving about. Blundering to the door with half-opened eyes, he found her trying to quiet the boy, and to heat some food at the same time, and the weariness of her aspect made his heart bleed. The fire, which had been built up to last until the chambermaid's entrance, had gone out, and rocking the child on her lap with one hand, the girl, semi-nude, held a saucepan with the other over the flame of a candle. She rebuked him for coming in, for, "poor fellow! he must be so tired." He took the saucepan from her and, fetching the candle from his own room, held the food to warm over both flames, while Maternity paced the floor. A clock in the distance told them that the hour was three. At last a tremor stirred the placid surface of the milk. The baby was fed, and coaxed to repose again. And, oblivious now of everything but the need for sleep, they dropped upon their beds and slept. CHAPTER XIX "Good-morning, monsieur. Here is the chocolate." "Good-morning. And madame, has hers been taken in?" "Ah, three hours ago!... Look, it is a beautiful day, monsieur!" Then, when the waiter had let in the sunshine and gone, Kent would rise, and find Cynthia either busily stirring more food over the fire, or preparing the boy's bath. Afterwards she would carry him into the little enclosure opposite, and, what with her unfamiliarity with a nurse's duties and the makeshifts that she was put to, it often seemed to her that this was the only time during the day that she was free to sit down. Their meals were all served in Kent's bedroom; but just as the luncheon appeared, the baby, who was feverish and fretful, would surely cry, and she would be obliged to call out that Kent was not to wait for her. "Begin!" For dinner, she made desperate efforts. By this time the child, bathed once more, was supposed to be already asleep; and more oatmeal had to be stirred and carefully watched for five-and-twenty minutes, an operation that entailed burning cheeks and occasionally despair, since the saucepan had a habit of boiling over without warning and requiring to be filled and stirred for twenty-five minutes again. When the task was achieved, there followed a hurried attempt to make herself look cool and nice before the soup arrived--Kent was apt to be irritable if she was not ready--and providing the baby did not wake at the last moment and prevent her going in after all, the dinner-hour was very agreeable. Thanks to the chambermaid, they had been able to dispense with the tallow candles at sixpence each, and had obtained a lamp, which was much more cheerful. The _vin compris_ had turned out to be rather good, too, and after the appalling meals at the Garins' the cuisine struck them as quite first-rate. Not infrequently, when the coffee was brought in, they sent down for liqueurs, and their evenings, despite the worry of the day, and their ignorance where the money was coming from to pay the bill, were very jolly. Beaufort's expectations were still unrealised. On Tuesday he was certain "Things would be right on Thursday," and on Thursday, with undiminished confidence, he repeated, "Early in the week." The proprietress of the hotel was a huge red woman, who had been a low-class domestic servant. The "gracious service unexpressed" by which she had attained her present prosperity, the squinting chambermaid did not know, and she added, with a grin and a grimace, that it was really very difficult to conjecture it. The flaming countenance and belligerent eye of the proprietress would, in the circumstances, have scared Kent from the door, had she been visible when he came there to arrange, and on Friday night he slept uneasily. She presented the bill next morning at nine o'clock, and at twelve sent him a message that she wished it to be settled at once. His interview with her was eminently unpleasant, and on Monday, when the fire for the child was not laid and Cynthia inquired the reason, she learnt that the woman had forbidden the servant to take up any fuel. But for Nanette, their position would now have been untenable. She smuggled wood to the room; pacified her mistress by the recital of imaginary telegrams picked up on monsieur Kent's floor; and finally, squeezing Cynthia's hand one afternoon, offered to bring down some money that she had saved out of her wages. This was the last straw. Cynthia put her arms round her neck and kissed her; and when Humphrey came home and she told him what had happened, they both felt that to have to decline such a loan and wish that it could be accepted, was about the deepest humiliation to which it was possible for people to sink. They were mistaken, but it was the lowest point that they themselves were called upon to touch. The day following, Beaufort telegraphed, asking Humphrey to meet him at the Cabaret Lyonnais, where, at a moderate price, he ordered a little dinner of supreme excellence. Billy had not had his loan made yet--that, he said buoyantly, was "certain for next week"--but he had had a lucky night at baccarat. And after the benedictine he pulled out a bundle of notes on to the table of the shabby restaurant and, beaming with rectitude, paid his debt in full. With a cigar in his mouth and delight bubbling in his veins, Kent jumped into a cab, and, having rattled to the rue des Soeurs Filandières, threw their receipt and the remainder of the money into Cynthia's lap. She nearly dropped the baby with astonishment, and though they were unable to go out anywhere, it was perhaps the liveliest night that they had spent in Paris. After adding the Garins' account, and the cost of their return, and a present to Nanette, it was momentarily disconcerting to perceive how few of the notes would be left; but the relief was so enormous that their spirits speedily arose again, and, extravagant as it was, they ordered champagne, and invited Nanette to share it. Kent recovered their luggage the next morning, and the morning after that they departed for London. They had heard in the meanwhile that the Walfords could easily put them up until No. 64 was ready for them. The journey without a nurse was awkward, and though it had been essential to go to the Walfords', Kent was chagrined to reflect that her absence would have to be explained. Compared with the crossing from Newhaven, this passage was, to Cynthia, who had to remain below all the time, a long voyage; when they reached Victoria at last, she felt that she would have given a good deal to be going to the Grosvenor Hotel. Strawberry Hill was gained about nine o'clock, and Kent found the house a pathetic descent from The Hawthorns. Mr. and Mrs. Walford, however, were not unamiable, and as they did not refer to the absence of the nurse otherwise than by inquiring how soon he expected to replace her; he concluded that his wife had anticipated their surprise and discounted it more or less dexterously in her letters. "So the paper was a failure?" said Walford, when the excitement of the entrance had subsided. "Oh, well, you will be able to get something to do here, I dare say, before long. What do you think of the house? Not so bad, eh?" "Not bad at all," said Kent--"very pretty! That was awful news, sir! I was infernally sorry to hear about it. Might have been worse, though --a good deal." "Ups and downs," said the jobber; "we'll get square at the finish. Grin and bear it, Louisa, old girl! You'll always have enough to eat." Mrs. Walford laughed constrainedly. She did not relish allusion to their reverses; it appeared to her insult added to injury. "I don't think we've either of us much cause to grieve," she answered. "We're very comfortable here, don't you think so, Humphrey? There are such nice people in the neighbourhood, Cynthia--people who move in the best society, and--hee, hee, hee!--we are making quite a fashionable circle; we are out almost every night. Well, I don't hear much about Paris? Did you have a jolly time?" "We went everywhere and saw everything," said Cynthia. "Humphrey got no end of tickets, and--well, yes, Paris is lovely!" "Why 'well, yes'?" "Well, of course, the paper's stopping was an anxiety to us, mamma. Naturally. How's Aunt Emily?" "Emily writes us once a week, acknowledging the receipt of her allowance. How she is I really can't tell you; she says very little more than that she has 'received the money.' She's living in apartments in Brunswick Square, and I believe she is very glad she is alone. _I_ am, I can tell you! She has become very sour, Emily has." "Apartments in Brunswick Square aren't so remarkably cheap," said Kent. "Aunt Emily must be expensive, mater?" "Well, she has--er--one room. It's a nice large room, I understand, and quite enough for one person, I'm sure! There was no occasion for her to take a suite, she isn't going to give any parties." "No occasion whatever. A bedroom can be very cosy when the lamp's lighted and there's a bottle of wine on the table, can't it, Cynthia?" "She won't have any bottles of wine. What are you thinking of?" said Mrs. Walford. "Not but what she could afford wine," she added hastily; "but it doesn't agree with her; it never did! I suppose you know that Cæsar is still in Germany? He has settled there. If there are moments when I feel out of it in spite of the company we see at Strawberry Hill, it's when I read of the life that boy leads in Berlin. He is in a brilliant circle--most brilliant!" "Cynthia told me he had a first-rate thing." "Capital thing!" affirmed Sam briskly. "I tell you, he's going to the top of the tree. When he's my age Cæsar will be a big figure in Europe." Kent thought he was a fair size already, but replied briefly that he had been "very fortunate." "Ability, my lad! He's got the brains! Do you know, Louisa, it was damn foolishness of us ever to persuade that boy to go on the stage? He was meant for what he is--we'd no right to divert his natural bent. He's in the proper groove because his tendency was too strong for us. But we were wrong--I say we did very wrong! By George! he might never have made more than a couple of hundred a week among greasy opera-singers all his life. What a thing!" By dint of many midnight conferences with Louisa, he had almost succeeded in believing that he meant part of what he said. "Are his prospects so very wonderful, then?" asked Cynthia, surprised. "What is it he _is_ doing? It is only a sort of clerkship, isn't it?" "A clerkship?" shrieked her mother. "How can you talk such ridic'lous nonsense? A clerkship? Absurd! He's McCullough's right hand--quite his right hand! McCullough says he would be worth twice as much as he is to-day if he had met Cæsar five years ago. He told your papa so last week--didn't he, Sam?" "He did," said the jobber. But there was less conviction in his tone. This was new, and he hadn't taught himself to try to credit it yet. "He told your papa that Cæsar's power of--er--of gripping a subject was immense; he had never met anything like it. He consults him in everything; he doesn't take a step without asking Cæsar's opinion first; I don't suppose a young man ever had such an extraordinary position before. Clerkship? Ho, you don't know what you're talking about!" Kent gave the conversation a twist by inquiring Miss Wix's number, as he and Cynthia would have to pay her a visit; and, on searching for her address, Mrs. Walford discovered, with much surprise, that she was not in Brunswick Square, after all, but that her one room was in a street leading out of it. The mistake was unimportant. Moreover, his mind was too much occupied for him really to think of making social calls on any one but Turquand. To the office of _The Outpost_ he betook himself next morning, and learnt that his friend was at Brighton until Monday. This did not look as if he had been pressed for his six pounds, but in other respects it was disappointing. Kent proceeded from _The Outpost_ to the offices of two other papers, where he left advertisements, and after that he had only to stroll back through the streets, which looked very ugly and depressing after Paris, to Ludgate Hill. Luncheon was over when he re-entered the villa, but it had not been cleared away, and he found Cynthia in the dining-room alone, reading a novel. He noted, with as agreeable surprise as she could have afforded him, that it was the copy of his own book that he had given to Mrs. Walford on their return from Dieppe. He looked at his wife kindly. "Turk's not in town," he said, helping himself to cold sirloin and salad; "gone to Brighton for a day or two. I've paid for my advertisements. Have you sent off yours yet, to try to induce a general servant to accept a situation?" Cynthia shook her head meaningly, and came across and took a chair beside him. "Kemp is awfully nice with Baby," she said; "she is upstairs with him now, and on the whole I've been thinking that we had better not hurry to get home again; we had better be a long time arranging matters, Humphrey! While we are here we haven't any expenses." Kent stared, and then smiled. "This is abominable morality," he said. "Paris has certainly corrupted you, young woman. And, besides, your people would worry my life out with questions. Nothing puts me in a worse temper than being asked what my news is when I haven't any." "That's all very well, my dear boy, but we have no money. There's a quarter's rent overdue now, isn't there? and we should only have a month's peace before the tradespeople began to bother. I really think we ought to take two or three weeks, at all events, finding a girl; I do indeed. Mamma and papa would beg us to stop if they knew what a state we were in; it seems to me we ought to do it without giving them the--ahem--needless pain of listening to our confession." "You're very specious," laughed Kent. The semi-serious conclusion might have been uttered by himself, and he approved the tone without recognising the model. "Has your mother noticed that you haven't got your ring on?" "No. I couldn't tell her a story about it, and I'm praying that she won't. I've been envying you your trouser-pockets ever since we arrived. Don't take ale, Humphrey--have some claret, it will do you more good. If we sold our furniture----" "What would it fetch at a sale? And apartments would cost us more than the house! No ... we'll make ourselves welcome here for a week or so. And--well, let's hope the advertisements will turn up trumps! Then we shall be independent." One of the advertisements was to appear on Monday. CHAPTER XX It was slightly disheartening to perceive how many other assistant-editors were open to offers, and he had the uncomfortable consciousness that his competitors' experience was probably a great deal wider than his own. He knew that a daily was out of the question for him, and his chance of securing a post on a periodical seemed scarcely better on Monday morning, when he saw the "Wanted" columns. Cynthia declared that his own advertisement "read nicer than any in the list" and that if she were an editor it would certainly be the one to attract her attention; but Cynthia was his wife and not an editor, and her view encouraged him no more than Sam Walford's supposition at the breakfast table, that he might "obtain the management of a sound magazine." He went in the evening to Soho, and Cornelia's successor, in opening the door, told him that Turquand had returned. The journalist was at the table, writing furiously, and Kent declined to interrupt him more than he had already done by entering. Turquand indicated the cupboard where the whisky was kept; and, picking up a special edition, Kent sat silent until the other laid down his pen. "_That's_ off my chest!" said Turquand, looking up after twenty minutes. "Well, my Parisian, how do you carry yourself? Do you still speak English?" "I can still say 'thanks' in English," answered Kent. "I was devilish obliged to you, old chap. Here's your oof." "Rot!" said Turquand. "Have you been popping anything to get it?" "The popping took place before I wrote you. Don't be an ass; I couldn't take the things out, even if I kept it. Go on; don't play the fool! Well, I've had some bad quarters of an hour in the pleasant land of France, I can tell you." "That's what I want you to do," said Turquand. "Let's hear all about it. What do you think of that whisky? Half a crown, my boy; my latest discovery! I think it's damned good myself." He listened to the recital with an occasional smile, and somehow, now the trouble was past, many of the circumstances displayed a comic side to the narrator. What was quite destitute of humour was the present, and when they fell to discussing this, both men were glum. "I suppose you haven't been able to do anything with the novel?" Kent asked. "Has it made the round yet, or does a publisher remain who hasn't seen it?" "It came back last week from Shedlock and Archer. Oh yes, publishers remain. It's at Thurgate and Tatham's now; I packed it off to them on Friday. Farqueharsen was no use; I tried him, as you asked; he rejected it in a few days. I wrote you that, didn't I?" "You did communicate the gratifying intelligence. Where has it been?" Turquand produced a pocket-book. "Farqueharsen, Rowland Ellis, Shedlock and Archer," he announced. "I must enter 'Thurgate and Tatham.' I dare say you'll place it somewhere in the long-run; we haven't exhausted the good firms yet. By-the-bye, the front page has got a bit dilapidated; you'd better copy that out and restore the air of virgin freshness when Thurgate sends it home." "You expect he will, then?" "I don't know what to expect, you seem so infernally unlucky with it. For the life of me, I don't know why it wasn't taken by Cousins, in the first instance. I looked it through again the other night, and I consider it's--I don't want to butter you, but I consider it's great work; by Jove, I do!" Kent glowed; he felt, as he had done all along, that it was the best of which he was capable, and praise of it was very dear to him, even though the praise was a friend's. "I say, you know about your wife's aunt, I suppose?" said Turquand. "What do you think of her?" "She has left the Walfords, you mean? Who told _you_?" "Miss Wix told me. But I didn't mean that departure; I meant her other one." "Not heard of any other departure of the lady's. What? Where's she gone?" "She has gone to journalism," said Turquand, with a grin; "the fair Miss Wix is a full-blown journalist! Don't your wife's people know? She's keeping it dark then. She came to see me, and said her income was slightly inadequate, and she 'thought she could do some writing.' Wanted to know if I could put her in the way of anything." "Get out!" scoffed Kent. "Did she really come to see you, though? Very improper of her!" "Oh, Miss Wix and I always took to each other. I think she dislikes me less than anybody she knows. I'm not kidding you; it's true, honour bright." "What, that she's writing?" Turquand nodded. His face was preternaturally solemn, but his eyes twinkled. "I got her the work," he said; "it just happened I knew of a vacancy." "Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed Humphrey. "I wish you'd get some for me. Doesn't it just happen that you know of another?" "Ah! you aren't so easy to accommodate. Miss Wix is a maiden, and her exes aren't large. She gets a guinea a week, and is affluent with it. It's a beautiful publication, sonny--a journal for young gals--and it sells like hot cakes. I tell you, _The Outpost_ would give its ears for such a circulation." Kent stared at him incredulously. "A journal for young girls?" he echoed. "The acrimonious Wix? Is this a fact, or delirium tremens?" "Fact, I swear. She does the Correspondence page; she's been on it a fortnight now. She's 'Aunt' something--I forget what, at the moment --they're always 'Aunt' something on that kind of paper. The young gals write and ask her questions on their personal affairs. One of 'em says she is desperately in love with a gentleman of her own age--seventeen--and isn't it time he told her his intentions, as his 'manner is rather like that of a lover'; and another inquires if 'marriage between first cousins once removed is punishable by law.' She calls them her nieces, and says, 'No, my dear _Plaintive Girlie_; I do not think you need despair because the gentleman of your own age has not avowed his feelings yet. A true lover is shy in the presence of his queen; but, with gentle encouragement on your part, all will be well. I was so glad to have your sweet letter.'" "Miss Wix?" "Miss Wix, yes. Her comforting reply to _Changed Pansy_ the first week was a master-piece. Must have bucked _Changed Pansy_ up a lot. And occasionally she has to invent a letter from a mercenary mother and admonish her. The admonishments of mercenary mothers are; estimated to sell fifteen thousand alone. You should buy a copy; it's on all the bookstalls." "Buy it!" said Humphrey; "I'd buy it if it cost a shilling. What's it called? Well, I'm not easily astonished, but Miss Wix comforting _Changed Pansy_ would stagger the Colossus of Rhodes. Does she like the work?" "'Like' it? My boy, she execrates it--sniffs violently, and gets stiff in the back, whenever the stuff is mentioned. That's the cream of the whole affair. The disgust of that envenomed spinster as she sits ladling out gush to romantic schoolgirls makes me shake in the night. I've got her name now! She's 'Auntie Bluebell.' 'Auntie Bluebell's Advice to Our Readers'; _Winsome Words_, One penny weekly." Kent himself began to shake, and but that the bookstalls were shut when he took his leave, he would have borne a copy home. He told the news to Cynthia, and she laughed so much that Sam Walford, underneath, turned on his pillow, and remarked gruffly to Louisa that he didn't know what Cynthia and Humphrey had got to be so lively about, he was sure, considering their circumstances, and that he was afraid Humphrey was "a damn improvident bohemian." Their mirth was short-lived, unfortunately. The first advertisement was productive of no result; and the solitary communication received after the appearance of the second was a circular from a typewriting office. The outlook now was as desperate as before the post on _The World and his Wife_ turned up, and their pecuniary position was even worse than then. When they had been at Strawberry Hill a week, too, the warmth of the Walfords' manner towards their son-in-law had perceptibly decreased; and though Kent did not comment on the difference in his conferences with Cynthia, he knew that she was conscious of it by her acquiescing when he asserted that they had been here long enough. At this stage he would have taken a clerkship gladly if it carried a salary sufficing for their needs; and after they had returned to Leamington Road, and had temporised with the landlord, and sold a wedding present for some taxes, and were living on credit from the tradespeople, he began to debate whether the wisest thing he could do wouldn't be to drown himself and relieve Cynthia's necessities with the money from his life policy. The idea, which primarily presented itself as an extravagance, came, by reason of the frequency with which it recurred to him, to be revolved quite soberly; he wondered if Cynthia would grieve much, and if, when his boy could understand, she would talk to him of his "papa," or provide him with a stepfather. He did not, in these conjectures as to the post-mortem proceedings, lose sight of _The Eye of the Beholder_ and devoutly he trusted that it would see the light after he was dead, and make so prodigious a stir that the names of the publishers who had refused it were held up to obloquy and scorn. He was walking through Victoria Street towards the station one afternoon, and mentally lying in his grave while the world wept for him, when he was brought to an abrupt standstill by a greeting. He roused himself to realities with a start, and found that the white-gloved hand that waited to be taken by him belonged to Mrs. Deane-Pitt. "How d'ye do, Mr. Kent? Are you trying to cut me?" "I beg your pardon, I didn't see! It's awfully stupid of me; I'm always passing people like that." "You've returned, then! For good?" "Oh yes; we live in town, you know--in the suburbs, at least." "You told me," she smiled. "'Battersea.'" "So I did. 'Battersea' is Streatham, but that's a detail." The mechanicalness of his utterance passed, and animation leapt back in him as he recovered from his surprise. The sun was shining and her sequins were iridescent. She was wearing violets. His impression embraced the trifles with a confused sense that they made a delightful whole--the smart, smiling woman in the sunshine, the purple of the flowers, and the warmth of her familiar tones. "So you come to Victoria every day, and you haven't been to see me!" she said. "When did you leave Paris?" "I--I've done nothing. Of course you know _The World and his Wife_ is dead, Mrs. Deane-Pitt? When did I leave? Oh, soon after the funeral." "I trust you've recovered from the bereavement," she laughed. "Are you on anything here?" "Not yet. Editors are so blind to their own interests." "Well----!" She put out her hand again, and repeated her number. "When will you come in? I'm nearly always at home about five. Good-bye; I'm going to the Army and Navy, and I shall be late." Kent continued his way cheerfully. The brief interchange of conventionalities had diverted his thoughts, and his glimpse of this woman who took her debts with a shrug, and had candidly adapted her ideals to her requirements till the former had all gone, acted as a fillip to him. She typified success, of a kind, and in a minute he had seemed to acquire something of her own vigour. It made him happy, also, to observe that the manner of their parting had had no sequel; and, in recalling the mood in which he had walked through the Champs Elysées, he decided that he had been extremely stupid to attach so much importance to it. She was an agreeable woman towards whom his feeling was a friendship that he had once been in danger of exaggerating; he would certainly call upon her at the first opportunity! It was quite possible that she might be able to tell him something useful too. Before he fulfilled his intention, however, an unlooked-for development occurred. The office of the agent who had endeavoured to find a tenant for him was on the road to the station, and a day or two later the man ran out after him and asked if he was still willing to let No. 64. Kent replied shortly that the opportunity had presented itself too late; but after he passed on he reflected. The house was wanted at once by some Americans who had considered it previously. They now made an offer of three and a half guineas a week for a period of six or twelve months. It appeared to Kent that he had been very idiotic in dismissing the suggestion off-hand. With three and a half guineas a week, less the rent and taxes, he could send Cynthia to the country for a few months, which was exactly what she stood in need of; and though he could not leave London himself, he could shift alone somewhere till he found a berth and she rejoined him. Cynthia and he discussed the idea lengthily. She was opposed to the separation, but she agreed that it would be very unwise of them to refuse to let the house. She said that they might all live together in apartments on the money; fresh air and peace would be delicious if Kent were with her, but she thought that she would rather stay with him in London than go away by herself. This point was debated a good deal. There was much against it. It was absurd to deny that their anxieties, and the restraint imposed by her charge of the baby, had told upon her health; in a little village where living was cheap she would not only recover her roses--as soon as he earned a trifle she could have a nursemaid. If they took lodgings together, on the other hand, they must be reconciled to going to a suburb--and a suburb would be twice as expensive as the country. By himself, Humphrey could get a top bedroom in Bloomsbury for the same sum that he now spent on third-class railway tickets. The logic was inexorable, and the only further question to decide was where she should go. She recollected that a few years back Miss Wix had been sent to a cottage at Monmouth to re-coup after an attack of influenza. The spinster had spoken very highly of it all--the picturesque surroundings, the attention she had received, and the cosy accommodation. If Miss Wix praised it, there could be little to complain of, surely? As to the terms, Cynthia knew that they had been ridiculously low. She determined to write to her aunt and ask if she remembered the address. On second thoughts, though, she said she must ask her in person. She had not paid her a visit yet, nor had Kent, and an inquiry by post wouldn't do at all. They went the following morning, having looked in on the agent, and informed him that they were prepared to accept the offer, and to give up possession at the end of the week. The payments, of course, were to be made monthly in advance. Miss Wix lodged in Hunter Street, and they found that in her improved circumstances she boasted two rooms. The parlour that she had acquired was furnished chiefly with a large round table, a number of Berlin-wool antimacassars, and a waxwork bouquet under a flyblown shade; and at the table, which was strewn with letters, the spinster had been sourly engaged upon her "Advice" for _Winsome Words_. She welcomed them politely, and offered to have some tea made if they would like it, but, as it was one o'clock, they said that they weren't thirsty. The request for a five-years-old address evidently perturbed her very much; but after a rummage behind the folding doors, she emerged with it, and, to mollify her, Cynthia referred again to her journalism and reiterated congratulations. "Mr. Turquand told Humphrey, or we should never have known, Aunt Emily. Why have you kept it so quiet? We were delighted by the news; I think it is very clever of you indeed." "There is nothing to be delighted about. I kept it quiet because I did not wish it known--a very sufficient reason. Mr. Turquand is much too talkative." "I think you ought to be very proud," said Kent--"a lady journalist! May I--am I allowed to look at some of the copy?" "As I can't prevent you seeing it whenever you like to spend a penny," said Miss Wix bitterly, "it would be mere mockery to prevent you now." "You underrate your public," he murmured. "_Winsome Words_ has an enormous circulation, I hear?" "Among chits," exclaimed the spinster, with sudden wrath--"among chits and fools. Smack 'em and put 'em in an asylum! If you want to, then, read it aloud. Cynthia shall hear what I have to do in order to live. If Louisa weren't your mother, my dear, I'd say that it's a greater shame to her than to me. I would! If she weren't your mother, that's what I'd say." "Well, let's have a look," said Humphrey quickly. "Where is it? Now, then--what's this? Oh, _Miserable Maidie_! 'Yours is indeed a sad story, _Miserable Maidie_, because you seem to have no one to turn to for help and counsel. I am so glad you resolved to come to your Auntie Bluebell and tell her all about it. So you and your lover have parted in anger, and now you are heartbroken, and would give worlds to have him back? Ah, my dear, I can feel for you! It's the old, old story----'" "That'll do," snapped Miss Wix. "'The old, old story'? My word, I'd 'old story' the sickly little imbecile if I had her here!" She sat bolt upright, her eyes darting daggers, and her pink-tipped nose disdainful. "Haven't you had enough of it yet? What do you think of me?" "I think with respect of anyone who can earn a salary," said Kent. "I see there's one to _Anxious Parent_. May I glance at your advice to _Anxious Parent_? 'My dear friend, were you I never young yourself? And didn't you love your little Ermyntrude's papa? If so, you can certainly feel for two young things who rightly believe that love is more valuable than a good settlement. Let them wed as they wish, and be thankful that Ermyntrude is going to have a husband against whom you can urge no other objection than that he is unable to support her.'" "I'm a sensible woman, Cynthia," said Miss Wix, quivering; "and for me to have to write that incomes don't matter, and sign myself 'Auntie Bluebell,' is heavy at your mother's door." Her mortification was so evidently genuine that Kent gave her back her copy, with replies to A Lover of "_Winsome Words_" and _Constant Daffodil_ unread, and as soon as was practicable he and Cynthia rose and made their adieux. The apartments in the cottage proved to be vacant, and as the references of the American family were satisfactory, and the inventory was taken without delay, there was nothing in the way of the migration being effected by the suggested date. Cynthia had proposed that her husband should try to obtain his old bedroom at Turquand's, where he could have the run of a sitting-room for nothing, and this idea was adopted with the approval of all concerned. Humphrey saw her off at Paddington, and, kissing her affectionately, told her to "Make haste and get strong." And the close of a week, which had opened without a hint of such developments, saw Cynthia living with her baby in Monmouth, and Kent reinstalled in his bachelor quarters in Soho. CHAPTER XXI It was very jolly to be back with Turquand. The first evening, while they smoked with the enjoyable consciousness of there being no last train to catch, was quick with the sentiment of their old association. And after a letter arrived from Cynthia, in which she clapped her hands with pleasure, the respite was complete. Kent had been impatient to hear how the place struck her, and she wrote that she had been agreeably astonished. The cottage was roomier than she had expected, and beautifully located. It was furnished very simply, of course; but there was a charm in its simplicity and freshness. The landlady was a rosy-cheeked young woman who had already "fallen in love with Baby," and overwhelmed her with attentions. "If you do not see what you want, please step inside and ask for it." Kent smiled at that; it was a quotation from one of the Streatham shop-windows. Also there was a quite respectable garden, which her bedroom overlooked. "There are fruit-trees in it--not my bedroom, the garden--and a little, not too spidery, bench, where I know I shall sit and read your answer when it comes." She wrote a very happy, spontaneous sort of letter, and Kent's spirits rose as he read it. There was the rustle of dimity and the odour of lavender in the pages, and momentarily he pictured her sitting on the bench under the fruit-trees, and thought that it would be delightful if he could run down one day and surprise her there. It was very jolly to be back with Turquand, though the satisfaction was perhaps a shade calmer than, during the first year of his married life, he had fancied that it would be. It was convenient, moreover, to be in town, and a relief to feel that the unsettled accounts with the tradespeople round Leamington Road were, at any rate, not waxing mightier. Nevertheless, he missed Cynthia a good deal; not only in the daytime when he was alone, but even in minutes during the evening when he was in Turquand's company. It was curious how much he did miss her--and the baby: the baby, whose newest accomplishment was to stroke his father's cheek, and murmur "poor" until the attention was reciprocated, when he bounded violently and grew red in the face with ridiculous laughter. Soho, too, though it saved him train-fares, soon began to appear as distant from a salary as Streatham. Turquand remained powerless to put any work in his way, and, despite his economies and the cheapness of Monmouth, Kent found his expenses dismaying. He was encroaching on the money laid aside for the landlord and the rates, and, if nothing turned up, there would speedily be trouble again. The butcher who had supplied No. 64 had been to the agent for Mr. Kent's address, and he presented himself and his bill with no redundance of euphemism. When another advertisement had been inserted ineffectually, the respite was over and anxiety returned. As yet Kent had not called on Mrs. Deane-Pitt, and on the afternoon following his interview with the butcher he paid his visit to the lady. He was very frank in his replies to her questions. He did not disguise that it was imperative for him to secure an appointment at once, and when she agreed with him that it was immensely difficult, instead of answering that it was likely some opening might be mentioned to her, his face fell. He felt that it behoved him to deprecate his confidences. "You must forgive my boring you about my affairs," he said. "And what are you doing? Are you at work on another book now?" "I've a serial running in _Fashion_," she said; "and they print such ghastly long instalments that it takes me all my time to keep pace with them. You haven't bored me at all. A post on a paper is a thing you may have to wait a long time for, I'm afraid. You see, you aren't a journalist really, are you? You're a novelist." "I'm nothing," said Kent, with a dreary laugh. "For that matter, I wouldn't care if it weren't on a paper. I'd jump at anything--a secretary-ship for preference." "Secretaryships want personal introductions; they aren't got through advertisements." She hesitated. "_I_ can tell you how you might make some money, if you'd like to do it," she added tentatively. "It's between ourselves--if it doesn't suit you, you'll be discreet?" "Oh, of course," said Kent, with surprise. "But I can promise you in advance that _any_ means of making some money will suit me just now. What are you going to say?" She looked at him steadily with a slow smile. "How would you like to write a novel for me?" she asked. Instantaneously he did not grasp her meaning. "How?" he exclaimed. "Do you mean you are offering to collaborate with me?" "I can't do that," she said quickly. "I'm sure you know I should be delighted, but I shouldn't get the same terms if I did, and I haven't the time, either. That's just it! I'm obliged to refuse work because I haven't time to undertake it. No, but it might be a partnership as far as the payment goes. If you care to write a novel, I can place it under my own name, and you can have--well, a couple of hundred pounds almost as soon as you give it to me! I can guarantee that. You can have a couple of hundred a week or two after it's finished, whether I sell serial rights or not." She took a cigarette out of a box on a table near her and lit it, a shade nervously. Kent sat pale and disturbed. That such things were done, at all events in France, he knew, but her proposal startled him more than he could say, or than he wished to say. His primary emotion was astonishment that Mrs. Deane-Pitt had had the courage to place her literary reputation in his hands; and then, as he reflected, an awful horror seized him at the thought of a year of his toil, of effort and accomplishment, going out for review with another person's name on it. The pause lasted some time. "I don't much fancy the idea," he said at last slowly, "thanks. And it wouldn't assist me. I want money now, not a year hence." "A year hence!" she murmured. "A year hence would be no use to _me_. But you could do it in a month! Pray don't mistake me. I'm not anxious to get any kudos at your expense, I don't want you to do the kind of thing that I suppose you have done in this novel of yours that's making the round now; I don't want introspection and construction, and all that. All I want is to buy shoes for my poor little children, and what I suggested was that you should knock off a story at your top speed. I don't care a pin what it's like; only turn me out a hundred thousand words!" "A hundred thousand words," cried Kent, "in a month? You might as well suggest my carrying off one of the lions out of Trafalgar Square! _The Eye of the Beholder_ isn't a hundred thousand words, and I worked at it day and night, and then it took me a year! Besides, that's another thing; it is going the round--the story mightn't be any use to you if I did it." "I can place it," said Mrs. Deane-Pitt, with emphasis. "Don't concern yourself about its fate, my friend; your responsibility will be limited to writing it. Your book took a year? I've no doubt you considered, and corrected, and spent an afternoon polishing a paragraph. Supposing you take six or seven weeks, then? Do you mean to say you couldn't write two thousand words a day?" "No, I don't believe I could--not if you offered me the Mint!" said Kent. "But you can put down the first words that come into your head! _Anything_ will do. Naturally, it would be no use to me if you wrote 'Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard' over all the pages, but any trivial thing in the shape of a story, I assure you, I can arrange for at once. Indeed, it _is_ practically arranged for; all that remains is for you to give it to me." She puffed her cigarette silently, and the young man mused. The plan was repugnant to him, but if, as she said, anything would do--well, perhaps he _could_ manage it in the time; he did not know. Two hundred pounds would certainly be salvation, and, for seven weeks' work, a magnificent reward. "I'll tell you," she continued, after a few moments: "if you liked to do me a short story or two now and again, we should have money from those in the meanwhile. I don't want to persuade you against your convictions, if you have any, but our business together would pay you better than an appointment, even if you found one; and--though that's nothing to do with it--it would be a tremendous benefit to me as well. See, with our two pens we can produce double the work, and we share the advantage of the popularity I've gained." "Oh, I quite appreciate the pecuniary pull," he answered. "I could hardly write short stories while I was fagging at a novel, though." "I think myself one goes back to the novel all the fresher for the break," she said; "but, of course, everybody has his own system of working. Would you care to write me a couple of three-thousand-word stories first? We can discuss the book later. If you let me have two stories to-morrow night, I could give you five guineas each for them on Saturday." "To-morrow is out of the question. You don't realise how slowly I write, and I haven't the motives." "Say the next day--say by Thursday. But it must be by then. The man goes out of town on Saturday, and I want him to read them before he goes. If _I_ can have the manuscripts on Thursday, _you_ can have ten guineas Saturday night." "It's a very good offer," said Kent. "You must get a royal rate." "Well, I couldn't always offer you so much, but, then, I don't often want them quite so long. Two, of three thousand words, and to end happily, for choice. Not too strong. If they will illustrate well, all the better, but you needn't give yourself any trouble on that score--it's the artist's affair." "I'll do them," said Humphrey. "I suppose I must make an attempt to imitate your style?" "It isn't necessary. I generally begin with a very short sentence, like 'It was noon,' or 'It rained'; you might do that; but I really don't know that it matters.... Mr. Kent----" "Yes?" he said. "This is a confidential matter; I rely on your honour not to mention it to a living soul, of course! I don't know how much married you are, but I depend on you not to tell your wife. It would ruin me if it came out." He assured her that she might trust him, and having pledged himself to the lighter task, he resolved on his way home that he would undertake the heavier, too. She did not want a year of his best work--he doubted if he could contemplate that, even if refusal meant Strawberry Hill for Cynthia and the baby, and the workhouse for himself--she asked only a few weeks of his worst. Money was indispensable; he must make it in whatever way he could. A ghost, eh? He was rising finely in the career of literature. His first novel had received what was almost the highest possible cachet; his second was "declined with thanks"; and now no mode of livelihood was left him but to be a ghost. His throat was tight with shame; there were tears in it. That passed. He reflected that with two hundred pounds in his pocket he would be able to sit down to another novel on his own account; he might be luckier with that than with _The Eye of the Beholder_. What were a few weeks compared with two hundred pounds? Mrs. Deane-Pitt must have thought him a fool to hesitate. Practical herself, indeed! But--well, for all that, it was rather fascinating to feel that so intimate a confidence was going to subsist between them! She had been a trifle nervous, too, as she took that cigarette; he hoped he hadn't been a prig. She was very nice; it distressed him to think that she had been afraid of him even for a second. Two hundred pounds? He wondered what share it was--half, or more than half, or less. With a woman, however, he could not go into that. His admission that five guineas seemed a lot to him for a three-thousand-word story had probably been injudicious--and it must have made him sound very ignorant besides. Well, that couldn't be helped. And he would be glad if the partnership paid her well; whatever terms she obtained, she must be perfectly aware that her offer was a liberal one to a man in his position, and he was grateful to her. He felt it again--she had been "nice." He began to revolve a plot for the first of the stories, and by the time he reached home he had vaguely thought of one. When Turquand came in, it had shaped. Saying that he had work to do, Kent left him, and went upstairs. He drew a chair to the table, and sat down and wrote--slowly, painfully. The man was an artist, and he could not help the care he took. He sneered at himself for it. Mrs. Deane-Pitt had impressed on him that anything would do, and here he was meditating and revising as if it were a story to submit to the most exclusive of the magazines in his own name. He dashed his pen in the ink, and threw a paragraph on the paper. But he could not go on. His consciousness of that slip-shod paragraph higher up clogged his invention, so that he had to go back to it and put it right. Presently a touch of cheerfulness crept into his mood. That was well said. Yes, she would praise that! The pride of authorship possessed him; he wrote with pleasure; and at two o'clock, when a third of the tale was achieved, he went to bed feeling exhilarated. It was no easy duty to him to complete both stories by Thursday morning, and, confronted by the necessity for making Turquand a further excuse for retirement, he almost wished now that he were living alone. He was vastly relieved that the other accepted his allusions to "something that would keep him busy for a month or so" with no apparent perception of a mystery. After the first inevitable question was shirked, the journalist put no more, and behaved as if the explanation had been explicit. Neither Kent's friendship, nor his admiration for him, had ever been so warm, as while he decided that Turquand's experience must lead him to suspect something like the truth and enabled him to conceal the suspicion under his normal demeanour. With Cynthia the ghost was less fortunate, though he barely divined it by her answer. He told her as much as he was free to tell: he wrote that he had work on hand at last, and that they would have ten guineas on Saturday, and a large sum in a couple of months. Where the stuff would appear, he could not say without a falsehood, and he trustee! she would not be curious on the point. The reservation that he regretted gave to his tone an aloofness that he did not design; Cynthia refrained from inquiring, but she was hurt. She felt that he might have imparted such intelligence a little more enthusiastically, at a little greater length. Did he suppose that her interest was limited to the payment? Was she only held sympathetic enough, to mind the baby when they were obliged to discharge the nurse? Now that he returned to work, her husband was going to treat her as a child again, just as he had done when he was engaged on his book! She did not perceive that, while he had been writing the book, she had occupied the position most natural to her; she did not detect that the attitude in which she recalled it was a new one. It was, however, the attitude of a woman. The hidden chagrin and urbanity of her reply was a woman's. These things were part of a development of which, while they had remained together, neither she nor the man who missed her had been acutely aware. CHAPTER XXII Mrs. Deane-Pitt paid Kent the ten guineas a few days after the Saturday on which she had expected to receive the Editor's cheque, and she made no secret of being delighted with the two tales. They were based upon rather original ideas, and after she had had them typewritten, and read them, she talked to him about them with the frankest appreciation possible. Kent almost lost sight of his regret that they weren't to appear under his own name, as the lady expressed her approval, and declared enthusiastically that to call them "excellent" was to say too little. He found it very stimulating to hear his work praised by Mrs. Deane-Pitt, especially as it was work done for her. Although she had professed to be careless of the quality, it was not to be supposed that she would not rather sign good stuff than bad, and the warmth and gaiety of her comments took the sting from the association and lent it a charm. When he began her novel, it was with the discomfiting consciousness that the breakneck speed imposed on him would prevent the labourer being worthy of his hire. He was too hurried to be able to frame a scenario, and neither he nor the lady who was to figure as the author had more than a hazy idea of what the book was going to be about. He had mentally sworn to keep his critical faculty in check and to produce a chapter of two thousand words every day--if he did not bind himself to the accomplishment of a fixed instalment daily, the book would not be finished in double the time at his disposal! And he rose at seven, and worked till about midnight, on the day on which Chapter I. was done. He had corrected in a fashion as he composed, and he did not read it through when he put down his pen--that would be too disheartening. He remembered the opening chapter of _The Eye of the Beholder_, and, contrasted with the remembrance, these pages that he had perpetrated appeared to him puerile and painful. He folded them up, and posted them to Mrs. Deane-Pitt with a note before he slept. "Whether you will want the novel after you have seen this, I don't know," he wrote; "I am sending it to you to ascertain. It is a specimen of the rubbish the thing will be if I have to turn it out at such a rate. I will call, on the chance of your being in, to-morrow afternoon." He found her at home, and she welcomed him with a humorous smile. "You have read it?" asked Kent, with misgiving. "Yes; I've read it," she said. "Violet! Pray don't look so frightened of me!" "Why 'violet'? Well?" "The type of modesty. Well, what's the matter with it? It'll do all right." Kent drew a breath. "I'm glad to hear you say so. I'm bound to confess I thought it very slovenly myself." "Oh, nonsense!" she said. "Have you gone on with it?" "No; I waited for your verdict. I thought you might call me names and cry off. I'll go on with it now, though, like steam." "Do! I suppose you couldn't manage a five-thousand-word story for me this week, could you? It would be good business." He stared ruefully. "No, indeed! Not if I'm to write a chapter a day." "Oh, the chapter a day, please! Get the novel done at the earliest moment possible; that's the chief thing. You will, won't you? I should be so grateful to you if you finished it in six weeks." "I promise to finish it as quickly as I can," he said. "Even if I didn't care to serve you, I should do that, for my own sake. When I get two hundred pounds, I shall be at the end of my troubles." "Happy man!" said Mrs. Deane-Pitt. "Would that two hundred pounds would see the end of mine! And as you do want to serve me, you'll do it even more quickly than you can?" "Or try." "That's very nice of you. I wonder how true it is. One of the answers one has to make, isn't it? Then when you're behind with the work, and your wife wants to be taken out somewhere, you'll nobly remember there's a miserable woman in Victoria Street depending on you and persuade Mrs. Kent to go with a sister, or a cousin, or an aunt? You'll say to yourself 'Excelsior!' and other improving mottoes, meaning 'Loyalty forbids'?" "I'll say 'Loyalty forbids' when I want to go out by myself; my wife's in the country." "Tant mieux! if it isn't shocking," she laughed. "I'm afraid a woman on the spot would prove too strong for me. Am I grossly selfish? Poor boy who has got no wife!" She looked at him as she had looked across the supper-table in the avenue Wagram. He could not think of anything to say, of a nature that commended itself to him; and he exclaimed abruptly: "Oh, you may rely on me, Mrs. Deane-Pitt; I'll never go anywhere; I'll be a hermit! By the way, you don't know I'm in Soho now. Perhaps I'd better give you the address?" "Certainly," she said; "I may want to write to you. The Hermit of Soho! Well, when you've been good and done penance thoroughly, hermit, you may come and see me sometimes; I'll allow you that distraction. Come in whenever you like, and you can tell me how the thing is going. Any afternoon you please at this time. And don't come in trembling at me any more; I don't expect you to write me a masterpiece in six weeks, poor boy." Kent kept his word to her doggedly, and, although he continued to rise early, he was seldom free to join Turquand until about nine o'clock in the evening. When the chapter was done, he would go downstairs, and light another pipe, and Turquand would put away his book or his paper without any indication of curiosity. With a woman such a state of things would have been impossible; but Turquand's manner was so unforced that by degrees Kent came to own that he was tired, or to make some other allusion to his labour quite freely. And not once did the other say to him, "Well, but what is it you're doing?" On the days that he called on Mrs. Deane-Pitt, it was later still before he could loll in the parlour; the temptation to go to her, however, was more than he could resist. He realised very soon that she had an attraction for him which was not in the least like friendship, and which he could never term "friendship" any more. In moments, as he sat writing in his shabby bedroom under the tiles, the thought of her would suddenly creep into him, and beat in his pulses till he was assailed by a furious longing to be in her presence; and though he often denied the longing, he frequently obeyed it. He would throw down his pen, and change his coat, and leave the house impetuously, seeing her, in fancy, all the way to the flat. During a fortnight or so, he sought some reason for the visit. Would she like the heroine to go on the stage when her husband lost his money? Did she think it would be a good idea to kill the husband, and introduce a new character to reinstate the girl in luxury? But presently such excuses were abandoned. For one thing, Mrs. Deane-Pitt was too much occupied with her serial to accord any serious consideration to his work; and for another, she welcomed him as a matter of course. It was agreeable to her to see this man who was in love with her, and whom she liked, looking at her with eyes that betrayed what he would not allow his tongue to acknowledge. "Oh, I'm glad," she would say, "I was hoping it was you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable--no, bring me that cushion first--and talk to me, and be amusing." Sometimes she received him radiantly, sometimes wearily. On one afternoon she declared she was in the best of spirits, and had just been wishing for someone to bear her company; on the next she sighed that she was worried to death, and that he had only arrived in time to save her from extinction. "Bills," she would yawn, when he questioned her, "bills! A dressmaker, a schoolmistress--I forget which. Some wretch threatens something, I know. Don't look so concerned; I shall survive. Cheer me up." Then the servant would enter with the tea-things, and afterwards, in the cool shadows of the drawing-room, through which the perfume of the heliotrope that grew in a huge bowl under the crimson lamp floated deliciously, there would be cigarettes, and a half-hour that he found exquisite in its air of intimate familiarity. Though no verbal admission was ever made, there were seconds in which Kent's voice, as plainly as his face, told her what he felt for her, and seconds in which the tones of the woman said, "I'm quite conscious of the effect I have on you; we both understand, of course." Occasionally he had a glimpse of her children, and once when he was there, Mrs. Deane-Pitt took the boy on her lap, among the folds of her elaborate tea-gown, and fondled him. "Do you think I make a nice mother, Mr. Kent?" she said, flashing a glance. "This monkey doesn't appreciate his privileges." She kissed the child three times, and in the gaze that she lifted over his curly head there was, for an instant, provocation that shook the man. But such incidents as this were exceptional, and, as a rule, Kent could not have cited a single instance of coquetry when he took his leave and returned to the attic. Nor did the passion she had aroused in him militate against the success of his enterprise, taking "success" to mean its completion by the given date. Perhaps he was more industrious, even, in the perception that she was always warmest when he had done the most. "I finished the thirtieth chapter last night!" Then she would be delightful, and if she had appeared harassed at all, her languor would speedily give place to gaiety. The tremulous afternoons were never so quick with the sense of alliance, so entirely fascinating to him, as when he was able to surprise her by some such report. The desire to please the woman became fully as strong a stimulus to the ghost as his eagerness to receive the money that would permit him to begin a third novel for himself. The two short stories had been published now, in a periodical in which Kent would have been very proud to see his own name, and though he did not grudge them to her, he could not help feeling, as he read them, that they were better than he had known and that it would be eminently satisfactory to resume legitimate work. After the fortieth chapter was scrawled, conclusion was in sight, and though he could not quite sustain his earlier pace, he never turned out less than one thousand words a day. Had anybody told him, a couple of months before, that he could do even this, he would have ridiculed the statement, but the consciousness that acceptance was certain had been very fortifying. He scarcely allowed himself leisure to eat after passing the fortieth chapter. The stuff was undeniably poor, though it was not so jejune as it seemed to Kent. The worst part was the construction, for, ignorant what the next development was to be, he was often forced to write sheets of intermediate and motiveless dialogue until an idea presented itself; but for the style, hasty as it was, there was still something to be said. Instinctively Kent gave to a commonplace redundancy a literary twist, and the writing had almost invariably a veneer, though the matter written might be of no account. During the final week he did not go to Victoria Street at all. He could not suppress the artist in him wholly, and for the climax he meant to do his utmost. It was a sop to his conscience--he could remember the last chapter and forget the rest. He had sent or taken the manuscript to Mrs. Deane-Pitt piece by piece, and he took her the last of it on the evening that he wrote "The End." A telegram had told her to expect him. He had written the book in seven weeks; but he felt as exhausted as if he had built a house in the time, brick by brick, with his own hands. She read the pages that he had brought, while he watched her from an arm-chair; and, with the candour which was so striking a feature in such an association, she cried that the scene was admirable--that she could not have done it half so well. Kent's weariness faded from him as they talked, and momentarily he regretted that he had not been able to write a book for her equal to _The Eye of the Beholder_. With regard to her negotiations, however, she was not so outspoken--it was only by chance that Kent had seen the two short stories; she had not even told him for what paper they were intended. There was some delay in paying the two hundred pounds, and her explanations were vague and various. The partner with whom she always dealt was on the Continent; she would not sign an agreement before American copyright was arranged; she generally ran her stories as serials before they were issued in book-form and it was not decided what she was going to do--half a dozen reasons for postponement were forthcoming. She gave him his share at last, though, and very cordially, and he felt some embarrassment in taking her cheque when the moment arrived, its being his earliest experience of business with a woman. If he had had others, he would have appreciated her action in paying him in full, and only a little late, more keenly than he did, though he was far from ungrateful to her as it was. He put the cheque in his pocket as carelessly as he could manage, and said: "Well, you've done me a tremendous service, Mrs. Deane-Pitt, and, by Jove! I thank you for it--heartily." "Oh, rubbish!" she replied; "the work's been as useful to me as to you; you've nothing to thank me for." "It makes more difference to me," said Kent; "it means--you hardly know what it means! I needn't look out for a berth now; I can sit down to another novel. I owe you that." "If you like to think so----" She smiled, but her tone was constrained. "I should be glad if somebody owed me something; I'm more used to its being the other way round." "I feel a Croesus. We ought to celebrate this accession to wealth; it demands a festivity! If I get seats for a theatre, will you go to dinner with me somewhere to-morrow night? What shall we go to see? Have you been to Daly's yet?" "I'm engaged to-morrow night, and the next." "To-night, then?" "This evening I am dining out; there's the card on my desk." "What a fashionable person you are!" exclaimed Kent, rather enviously. "Would Friday evening suit you?" "Yes, I'm free on Friday; but a theatre is awfully stifling this weather, isn't it?" "Well, we needn't go to a theatre," he said; "we might dine at Richmond. Will you drive down to Richmond, and have dinner at the Star and Garter on Friday?" Mrs. Deane-Pitt promised that she would, but the animation with which she had given him the cheque had deserted her; and after a minute, she said: "I suppose your starting another novel for yourself needn't stand in the way of our business together? There are several things I can offer you, if you care to do them." "Oh, thanks," said Kent; "but I'm afraid I'd better stick to the novel. I want to do all I can with it, you see." "L'un n'empêche pas l'autre--a short story now and then won't interfere with it, surely? I can place a ten-thousand-word story at once if you like to write it for me." The refusal was difficult, and he hesitated how to express himself. He had never contemplated the association as a permanent one, and now that an alternative was open to him, its indignity looked doubly repellant. He was surprised that Mrs. Deane-Pitt expected it to continue. Couldn't she understand that he felt it a humiliation--that he had adopted the course merely as a desperate measure in a desperate case? He had taken her comprehension for granted. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind," he said awkwardly. "It would take me off my own work more than you can imagine. My motive for doing this was to make it possible for me to devote myself heart and soul to a novel; and that is what I want to do." She looked downcast. "When do you mean to begin it? You could knock off ten thousand words first, couldn't you? And I believe an occasional short story would come as a relief to you, too! I wouldn't persuade you against your will--pray don't think that--but, as a matter of fact, there is no reason why you shouldn't make a few pounds a week all the time you're writing your book, you know? if you like. I don't want another novel yet, but I can take almost any number of short stories; or, if you preferred it, you might write me a short thing that could be published in paper covers at a shilling. Will you think it over? I don't want to hurry your decision." She hummed a snatch of tune, and picked up a new song that was lying on the piano. "Have you seen this?" she said carelessly. "It's pretty." Kent took it from her, and played with the leaves in a pause. He was conscious that he must decline now, and definitely, and the insistence of her request made the duty harder every second. Mrs. Deane-Pitt sauntered about the room; she felt blank and annoyed with herself. Was this her reward for liking the man enough to give him two hundred pounds in a lump, instead of paying him by instalments, which would have been infinitely more convenient to her? "If you won't think me boorish," he said at last abruptly, "I'd rather keep to my intention. I'm not a boy--I need all the time at my disposal to succeed in." She gave a forced laugh. "How much younger do you want to be? If the money doesn't attract you, it won't be in your way, I suppose; and--you can do it to oblige me! Come, I'm quite frank! I own that you're very useful to me. You don't mean that you're going to strike and leave me in the lurch?" The face upturned to him was more earnest than her words. Her brown eyes widened, and fastened on him, and for an instant his resolution broke down. But it was his work, and his ambition, his fidelity to his art, that she was asking him to waive--he would not! "Nobody so sorry as the 'striker,'" he said, in a tone to match her own. "Let me be your banker when I'm going into a dozen editions, Mrs. Deane-Pitt, and I'll serve you all you want. The service you ask me to-day is just the one I can't do." "Bien," she murmured; "I suppose you know your own business best." But she was plainly disappointed, and, though she speedily spoke of another subject, her voice lacked spontaneity. Kent's courage knew no approving glow, and if, during the minutes he remained, she had begged him to assist her by returning the cheque, he would most certainly have done it. He thought that she must hate him--though in truth he had never appealed to her so strongly--and it was the only occasion on which he had ever taken leave of her without regret. To Cynthia he wrote immediately, telling her he had been paid two hundred pounds, and enclosing twenty-five, that she might have a surplus to draw upon without applying to him. He also remitted to Paris the amount necessary to redeem her ring, and his watch and chain, and the rest. He had now an opportunity of going down to see her, and he told her that she might expect him on Monday or Tuesday in the following week. The picture he had once seen of surprising her in the garden had long since ceased to present itself to him, and he was not impatient to find himself in his wife's company in the circumstances. He questioned if Mrs. Deane-Pitt would be disposed to go with him to Richmond after what had passed. To refuse a woman's petition to augment her income, but to invite her to dinner at Richmond, was rather suggestive of the bread and the stone. Yet, now that propinquity was not her ally, he was fervently glad that he had had strength to refuse. It was a partnership that every month would have made more difficult to sever, and she had, apparently, looked for it to extend over years. As to Richmond, he hoped the engagement would be fulfilled; it would pain him intensely otherwise. He owed her too much to be reconciled to their separating with coldness, and he determined to send a note, reminding her of her promise. Her reply allayed his misgivings. It was confirmed by her demeanour when they met. Indeed, her display of even more good fellowship than usual made him feel rather guilty. She seemed to divine his reflections, and to assure him that such self-reproach was needless. She had never been brighter or more informal with him than in the hansom as they drove down. Her air implied that their previous interview had been a trivial folly which, as sensible people, they must banish from their minds, and she talked of everything and nothing with the gaiety of a schoolgirl on an unforeseen excursion, and the piquancy of a woman who had observed and lived. Her vivacity was infectious, and Kent's constraint gradually melted in a rush of the warmest gratitude for her forbearance. He was so entirely at her mercy here, and he thought that few women similarly placed would have refrained from planting at least one little sting among their verbal honey. His admiration began to comprise details. He remarked the hat she wore, and the delicacy of a little ear against her hair's duskiness. He noted with pleasure the quick, petulant twitch of a corner of her mouth as her veil got in the way, and the appreciative gaze of young men in the cabs that rolled towards them--a gaze which invariably terminated in a swift scrutiny of the charming woman's companion. When the hotel was reached, he had never been livelier; and, often as he had read an opposite opinion, he found it very delightful to see the woman he was in love with eat, and drink her champagne. It was intimate, it lessened the _noli me tangere_ mien of feminine fashion and brought her closer. The attire of an attractive woman who has never belonged to him has always a mystery for a man, though he may have had three wives and kept a dressmaker's shop. But liveliness was succeeded by a vaguer emotion, as they lounged on the terrace over their coffee and liqueurs. Under the moon the river shone divine, limitless in its glint and shadow. Her features took tenderness from the tremulous light, and sometimes a silence fell which, as he yielded himself to the subtile endearment of the moment, soft as the breath of love on his face, Kent felt to be the supplement of speech. A woman who could have uttered epigrams in the mood that possessed him now would have disgusted him, and insensibly their tones sank. She spoke gently, seriously. Presently some allusion that she made begot a confidence about her earlier life--her marriage. It disturbed him to hear that she had been fond of Deane-Pitt when she married him, yet he was grieved when she owned how quickly her illusions had died. Her belief that she might have been "a better woman" if she had married a different man was pathetic in its revelation of unsuspected heart-aches, and sympathy made him execrate the feebleness of words. Her voice acquired an earnestness that he had never heard in it before, and while he was stirred with the sincerest pity for her, a throb of rapture was in his veins that she could be talking so to him. The minutes were ineffable, in which she seemed to discard the social mask and surrender more and more of her identity to his view. Spiritually she appeared to be lying in his arms; and when she checked herself, and rallied with a laugh which was over-taken by a sigh, he felt that he could have listened to her for ever. "How solemn we've become!" she exclaimed; "and we came out to be 'festive' to-night." "I shall always remember the 'you' of to-night," he said. They were silent again. She passed her hand across her eyes impatiently, as if to wave away the pictures of the past. By transitions their tones regained their former cheerfulness. She mentioned the hour, and drew her wrap about her. It was time to return. "It has been delicious," she murmured, looking up at the stars. "Only you let me bore you." "By talking of yourself?" "So stupid of me!" "You know," said Kent--"you know!" "I _wanted_ to tell you; you won't think so badly of me, perhaps." "I?" "I'm sure you have. Now, sometimes?" "If I confessed my thoughts, you'd never say so any more." "Really?" Her eyes flashed mockery. "You mustn't tell me, then--I might be vain." The cab bowled over the white roads rapidly. The flutter of her scarf on his shoulder stole through his blood, and the clip-clop sound of the horse's hoofs seemed to him to waken echoes in his inside. "Do you know, it was very indiscreet of me to come down here with you?" she laughed. "Supposing somebody had met us!" "And then?" "What would be thought?" "_What_ could be thought?" he asked unsteadily. "Scandal, perhaps. I'm very angry with you; you've made me do wrong. Why did you make me do wrong when I had such faith in you?" "You've given me the happiest evening of my life," said Kent; "is that the wrong?" "Do you think happiness must always be right? It's a convenient creed. Happiness at any price--and let the woman pay it, eh? That's a man's philosophy. You're quite right, though; but, then, you're at the happiest time of life. No, nobody is ever that! The happiest time of life's the past. Believe me, or believe me not, the past is always beautiful; to-morrow I shall regret to-day." "So shall I," said Kent. "But very much indeed I appreciate it now.... What are you cynical for? You only put it on. It's not 'you' really." "'Wise judges are we of each other.' How do you know?" "You said that to me once before--in Paris." "Said what? Oh, the quotation! When?" "At your place, after the Variétés." "What a memory! Yes, you're certainly resolved to try to make me vain. But I'm adamant. Did you know that? I'm made of stone. Do you treasure up what every woman says to you? The answer is a wounded gaze; it's dark to see expressions, but I'll take it for granted." "I remember what _you_ said to me half an hour ago, and I know your bitterness is a sham. You were meant to be----" "Oh, 'meant'!" she cried recklessly; "a woman's what she's made. I'm afraid _I've_ been made untidy. Do you mind driving in a hansom with such a figure?" She plucked at her veil in the strip of looking-glass, and bent her face to him for criticism. The brilliance of the eyes that she widened glowed into him as she leant so, and his arms trembled to enfold her. His mouth was dry as he muttered a response. The sweetness of June was in the air that caressed them as they sped through the moonlight. With every sentence she let fall, with every glance she shot at him, she dizzied him more, and he sat strained with the struggle to retain his self-command. Through his febrile emotions, the horror of proving false to Cynthia loomed like an angel betokening the revulsion of his remorse. He could imagine the afterwards--he knew how he would feel--and there were instants in which he prayed for the drive to finish and permit escape. But there were instants also in which he ceased to fight, and steeped in the present, yearned only to forget his wife, though tardy remembrance should be a double scourge. Her fingers were busy at a knot of violets in her dress; and she held the flowers up to him, looking round, smiling. "Shall I give you a buttonhole?" she inquired gaily. "It would be an appropriate conclusion--my ideals, my withered hopes, and my dead violets! Oh, I shiver to think of what I said to you! Did I gush towards the last? I've a fearful, a ghastly misgiving that I gushed. If you acknowledge that I did, I'll never forgive you; but you shouldn't have encouraged me. Stoop for the souvenir! It cost a penny--symbolic of the sentiment.... Though lost to sight, to memory dear! It will be a very dear memory, won't it? Use me one day! I shall come in as material--the hard woman of the world, who bares her soul on impulse, and the Star and Garter terrace, to the man she likes and stands revealed as--as what? I wonder what you'd make of me. Child, I shall never get this buttonhole in if you don't turn! I've admitted I'm a spectacle, but you might suffer for a second." Her hair swept his cheek as she wrestled with refractory stalks, and the dark eyes grew and; fastened on him again. The hansom sped on. The quietude was left behind, and the lights of the West End twinkled around them. There was the rattle of traffic. Kent was laughing at something she had said, and he heard himself with surprise--or was it; himself? The cab rolled to a standstill, and they got out. The lift bore them to her landing. The servant opened the door. "Good-night," he said; "I won't come in." "Oh, come in; it's not ten o'clock. You'll have a brandy-and-soda before you go?" She entered without waiting for his reply, and he followed her reluctantly. Only the lamp had been lighted, and the room was full of crimson shadow. He stood watching her unpin her hat before the mirror, and pull at her gloves. "I don't think I'll stop," he said again, "really! I've something to do." "If I can't persuade you----" she answered listlessly. Her gaiety had deserted her, and there was weariness in her attitude as she drooped by the mantelshelf; her air, her movements, had a languor now. She put out her bare hand slowly, and Kent's clung to it. He stood holding her hand in a pause.... "I can't leave you," said Kent. CHAPTER XXIII It was a little less than a fortnight after the dinner at Richmond that Kent brought Mrs. Deane-Pitt the ten-thousand-word story that she had wanted, and, like the two earliest stories that he had written for her, it was work to which he would have been glad to see his own name attached. He had promised to let her have half a dozen short stories as soon after its completion as possible, and it was his delight to surprise her by the versatility, as well as the originality, of the invention that he displayed in these. In one he wrote an idyll; in another a gruesome little sketch, bound to attract attention by its weirdness; in a third he seemed to be running through the stalest of devices towards the most commonplace of conclusions, until, lo! in the last half-column there came a literary thunder-clap, and this story was even more startling than its predecessors. But all the links fitted, if a reader liked to take the trouble to look back, and the tragedy had been foreshadowed from the beginning. The tales tickled the fancy of the Editor for whom they were intended. They tickled it so much that he asked Mrs. Deane-Pitt to contribute regularly for a few months; and the lady accepting the compliment and the invitation, Kent continued to supply _The Society Mirror_ with an idyll, or a tragedy, or a comedy every week, astonished at his own fecundity. It was amazing how his hand was emboldened, I his imagination stimulated, by the knowledge that his work was accepted before it was penned. There were weeks during which he turned out a story for Mrs. Deane-Pitt nearly every day. All the stories were built upon more or less brilliant ideas, each of them was noteworthy and distinctive when it appeared in _The Society Mirror_ or elsewhere; and if his share of the swindle had been punctiliously paid to him now, he would have been making a good deal of money. Even as it was, he was making it in a sense, for his partner always credited him with the sums that were not forthcoming--entering them in an oxidised silver memorandum-book that she kept in one of the drawers of her desk. When he said that it did not matter about that, she laughingly told him not to be a fool. His conscience was not dull, however, and there were hours when Kent suffered scarcely less acutely than one realises that a wife may sometimes suffer in similar circumstances. His remorse then was just what he had known it would be. From making his projected visit to Monmouth he had excused himself--it was repugnant enough to play the hypocrite in his letters--and by degrees Cynthia ceased to refer to his coming; but while her silence on the point relieved him from the necessity for telling her further falsehoods, it intensified his shame. His abasement was completed by the seventh rejection of _The Eye of the Beholder_. He sent it off again at once, to Messrs. Kynaston, to get it out of his sight; but the return of the ill-starred package had revived all the passion of his disappointment concerning it, and he could not get rid of the burning at his heart so easily as he did of the parcel. The weight of the slighted manuscript lay on his spirit for days after Thurgate and Tatham's refusal. The irony of it, that Mrs. Deane-Pitt could place his hasty work in the best papers, was enabled to pay him two hundred pounds for writing a novel of which he was ashamed, while his own book, to which he had devoted a year, was scorned on all sides! True, he had had, in his own name, very much better, reviews than those that had been accorded so far to the novel written for her. But ... what a profession? Once he owned to her something of what he was feeling. He couldn't help himself--he wanted her to comfort him. "_The Eye of the Beholder_ has come back again," he groaned. "Really?" she said. "How many is that?" "God knows! It's awfully hard that _you_ can place whatever I do, Eva, and _I_ get my best stuff kicked back to me from every publisher's office in London. I'm miserable!" She smiled. She did not mean to be unsympathetic, but Kent hated her for it furiously as she turned her face. "There's much in a name," she said with a shrug. "What's the difference, though? Your terms aren't bad, 'miserable one,' whether the name is mine or yours. By the way, I can work another tale for _The Metropolis_, if you'll knock it off for me; I was going to write to you." Kent never appealed to her for pity again. But a little later there came a letter from Cynthia, replying to his brief announcement of Thurgate and Tatham's rejection. Her consolation and prophesies of "success yet" overflowed four sheets, and the man's throat was tight as he read them. Well, he must do the tale for _The Metropolis_! But he would write some short stories for himself as well, he determined. It had not been a lucrative occupation when he essayed it before, but those early stories had been the wrong kind of thing--he perceived it now: he would write some short stories of the pattern that was so successful when it was signed "Eva Deane-Pitt." He soon began to see his work over her signature in almost every paper that he looked at. If he turned the leaves of a magazine on a book-stall, a tale of his own met his eyes, signed "Eva Deane-Pitt"; if he picked up a periodical in a restaurant, a familiar sentence might flash out of the pages at him, and there would be another of his stories "By Eva Deane-Pitt." Yes, he would submit to the editors on his own account! He would not receive such terms as she, that he knew; he doubted strongly whether he would even receive so much as she spared to him after retaining the larger share. But he could, and he would, get what was dear to him--the recognition and the kudos to which he was entitled! He found that he did not write so quickly for himself as in his capacity of ghost, but he was not discouraged, for he felt that he was writing better. For a week he did nothing for the woman at all; he wrote all day and half the night as "Humphrey Kent," and when a manuscript was declined by _The Society Mirror_ he sent it to _The Metropolis_, and forwarded the story rejected by _The Metropolis_ to _The Society Mirror_. He could not abandon his work for her entirely, but under the pressure that she put upon him, and his new interests, he wrote for her more and more hastily--wrote frank and unmitigated rubbish at last, and on one occasion candidly told her so. She had telegraphed to him at six o'clock, begging him to call, and he had risen from his table feeling that his head was vacant. She clamoured for a two-thousand-word story by the first post the following morning, and insisted, as usual, that "anything would do." He assured her that he was too exhausted even to invent a motive; how could he produce two thousand words before he slept? She overruled his objections, hanging about him with caresses. She made him promise that the sketch should reach her in time. "Write twaddle, dearest boy," was her parting injunction, "but write it! A motive? A mercenary girl jilts her lover because he is poor, and then her new fiancé loses his fortune, and the jilted lover succeeds to a dukedom! What does it matter? Write a story that Noah told to his family in the Ark--only cover enough pages. Write any rot; simply fill it out. I depend on you, Humphrey, mind!" He went home and did it--on the lines she had laid down. She wanted drivel--she should have it! He did not stop to think at all. He wrote, without a pause or a correction, as rapidly as his pen would glide, and posted the tale to her before half-past ten. A note went with it. "I have done as you ordered," he scribbled. "Don't blame me because no editor will take such muck now you are obeyed." She had no complaint to make when he saw her next. And it was after this that Kent's work for her was uniformly fatuous, while he lavished on his own a wealth of fastidious care for which she would have mocked him had she known. He visited her at much longer intervals now, for a disgust of her caresses was growing in him, a horror of the amorous afternoons, which ended always with a plea for additional tales. But that cowardice prevented him, he would have stayed away altogether. There grew something like horror of the woman herself, insatiable, no matter with how much work he might supply her--coaxing him for "two little stories more; anything will do--I must have a new costume, darling, really!" while a batch of manuscript that he had brought to her lay in her lap. He could remember now, with her arms about him, the many original ideas that she had had from him at the beginning, and he felt with a shudder that her clutch was deadly. First she had had his brains, and now she stole his conscience. He foresaw that, if the strain that she put upon him continued, a day must come when the imagination that she was squeezing like an orange would be sterile, or fruitful of nothing better than the literary abortions with which his mistress was content. His dismay at his position did not wane. It became so evident that, by degrees, a coldness crept into the woman's manner towards him. He was at no pains to dispel it. That their relations drifted on to a purely business footing inspired him with no other fear than that presently she might make him a scene and entail upon him the disagreeable necessity for declaring, as delicately as he could, that his infidelity to his wife had been a madness that he violently regretted, and would never repeat. The obvious retort would be so superficially true that fervently he trusted that the necessity would not arise. Meanwhile the short stories submitted in his own name, with silent prayers, had all been refused; but, undeterred by the failure, he wrote more and more. The present tenants of No. 64 were anxious to renew their agreement for another six months, and he was pleased to hear it. The prospect of meeting Cynthia again frightened him; and, closing readily with the off er that afforded him a respite, he remained at his literary forge in Soho, writing for Mrs. Deane-Pitt and for himself--seeing sometimes three of his tales for her published, by different papers, in the same week, and finding the tales submitted in the lowlier name of "Humphrey Kent" returned without exception. He would once have said that such a state of things couldn't be, but now he discovered that it could be, and was. There was not at this stage: a periodical or magazine in London that Humphrey Kent did not essay in vain, and there were; not more than three or four (of the kind that one sees in a club or an educated woman's room) in which his stuff did not appear, at a substantial rate of payment, when it was supposed to be by Mrs. Deane-Pitt. There were not in London five papers making a feature of fiction, which did not repeatedly reject the man's best work, signed by himself, and accept his worst, signed by somebody else. Not five of the penny or sixpenny; publications--not five among the first or second-class--not five editors appraising fiction in editorial chairs who did not either find or assume a story bearing the unfamiliar name of "Humphrey Kent" to be below their standard, while they paid ten or twelve guineas for a tale scribbled by the same author in a couple of hours when it was falsely represented to be by Mrs. Deane-Pitt. During nine months he was never offered a single guinea by an editor for a tale. Every story that he submitted during nine months was declined, and every story that he gave to Mrs. Deane-Pitt was sold. Raging, he swore that some day he would set the facts forth in a novel; and even as he swore it, he knew that they would be challenged and that, in at least one literary organ of eminence, a critic would write, "We do not find the situation probable." Once an editor did know his name. He was the Editor of a fashionable magazine, and Kent had called at the office to inquire about a manuscript that had been lying there for a long while. The gentleman was very courteous: he did not remember the title, and, unfortunately, he could not put his hand on the tale at the moment, but he promised to have a search made for it, and to read it as soon as it was found. A letter from him (and the manuscript) reached Kent the same week. It was as considerate a letter of rejection as any one could dictate. The Editor began by saying that the story "was clever, as all Mr. Kent touched was clever, but----" And then he proceeded to analyse the plot, to demonstrate that the motive was too slight for the purpose. The tone was so kindly that, though Kent could not perceive the justice of the criticism--he was sensible enough to try--he felt a glow of gratitude towards the writer; and his appreciation was deepened when the following post brought him a copy of the current issue of the magazine, "With compliments." He opened it at once, and the first thing that he saw in it was a story done for Mrs. Deane-Pitt--the story that he had written, tired and insolently careless, about the mercenary girl and the jilted lover and the succession to the dukedom. And this, too, he swore, should be some day recorded in a novel, though a critic, knowing less about it than the author, would "not find the situation probable." Now, when he was least expecting it, there came to him the first gleam of encouragement that he had had since he received his last review. Messrs. Kynaston wrote, offering to undertake the publication of _The Eye of the Beholder_, if he were willing to accept forty pounds for the copyright. He did not hesitate even for an instant; he said "Thank God!" as devoutly as if he had never expected more for it. Turquand had just come in. "It's a wicked price," grunted Turquand; "but I suppose you'll take it if you can't get them to spring?" "Take it! I could take them to my heart for it! Oh, thank God! I mean it. Yes, it's beggarly, it's awful; but, at any rate, the book 'll see the light. Price? It isn't a price at all, but the thing 'll be published. There's quite enough money for us to live while I'm writing my next, and this will send me to it with double energy. I shall go to Kynaston's to-morrow morning." He did go, and, though he was less enthusiastic there, his attempt to induce the publisher to increase the terms was but weak. Seven rejections had made a high hand unattainable. "I got a hundred for my first," he said, "and you offer me forty for my second. It isn't scaling the ladder with rapidity." "The other was longer, perhaps," suggested Mr. Kynaston, tapping his fingers together pensively--"three volumes?" "Don't you reckon that this will make three volumes, then?" said Kent. "Two. It's unfortunately short; that's the only fault I have to find with it. I like it--it's out of the common; but there isn't enough of it." He sighed. "I am sorry that 'forty' is the most I can say. I considered the subject very deeply before I wrote you--very deeply indeed." His expression implied that he had lain awake all night considering, and that regret at being unable to offer more might even keep him awake again to-night. He did not disguise his opinion of the novel, however, especially after the matter was settled. "Send us something else, Mr. Kent," he said warmly, as he saw the author downstairs and pressed his hand--"something a trifle longer--and we shall be able to do better for you. Yours is a very rare style; you have remarkable power, if I may say so. If fine work always meant a fine sale, _The Eye of the Beholder_ should see six editions. I shall get it out at once. Good-day to you: and don't forget--make your next book a little longer!" Turquand would not be back for some hours, and Kent did not hurry home. He sauntered through the streets reflecting. He resolved that now he would do ghost-work no more, and he wondered how Eva would receive the announcement. Disappointing as she would doubtless find it, she would not have had much to complain of, he thought; he congratulated himself anew on their liaison having ended, since it left him but one association to sever, instead of two. Again an access of remorse in its most poignant form assailed him, and he wished he could bear his good news to Cynthia in lieu of writing it--wished he could confess to Cynthia--wondered if the desire to do so was mad. This desire had fastened on Kent more than once. He thought he would feel less guilty towards her--would _be_ less guilty towards her--if she knew. There had been moments when, if they had not been separated, he would have told her the truth in a burst, and, whether she pardoned him or not, have lifted his head, feeling happier for the fact that the avowal had been made. He did not imagine that his craving to confess to her was any shining virtue. He was conscious, just as he had been conscious in Paris, when he had informed her casually of the supper in the avenue Wagram, that it was as much the weakness of his character as its nobility which urged him to voice the load that lay on his mind; but, weak or noble, the longing was always there, and at times it mastered him completely. Sleet began to fall, and he went into a tea-room and ordered some coffee. A copy of _Fashion_ lay on the table, and, mechanically turning the pages, he noticed that the feature of the issue was an instalment of a story in three parts by Lady Cornwallis. The name arrested his attention, for she was the widow of a man who had been a connection of the late Deane-Pitt's, and Kent was aware that Eva and she were on friendly terms. He glanced at the heading with an ironical smile; the lady was not known to him as an author, though she had figured prominently of late in the witness-box, where a shrewd solicitor, and a dressmaker of distinction, had posed her in a quite romantic light; he surmised bitterly that her maiden effort in fiction had been remunerated more handsomely than his second novel. What was his astonishment, on glancing at the opening paragraph, to discover that the story "By Lady Cornwallis" was another of the stories that had been written by himself for Mrs. Deane-Pitt! As a matter of fact, the Editor, thinking that her name would be a draw just now, had offered Lady Cornwallis a hundred pounds for a tale to run through three numbers. Lady Cornwallis, who had never tried to write anything more elaborate than a love-letter in her life, and who was being dunned to desperation for an account at a livery-stable, had gone to Mrs. Deane-Pitt to do it for her. Mrs. Deane-Pitt, who wrote much less quickly than she pretended, had relegated the duty to Kent. It was a literary house-that-Jack-built. Lady Cornwallis, fearing that her friend might ascertain how much the Editor paid, had ingenuously halved the sum with her; Mrs. Deane-Pitt, confident that the young man would be unable to ascertain, had given to him ten pounds. At the details of the transaction Kent could only guess, as he sat staring at his work while his coffee got cold; but the evolution of the story, perpetrated in a Soho attic for ten pounds, and published as Lady Cornwallis's at the cost of a hundred, was interesting. He was fiercely and inconsistently resentful. In one way it mattered nothing to him. Since his stuff wasn't printed over his own name, it was unimportant over whose name it appeared. But the perception did not lessen his angry sense of having been duped. He remembered the circumstances in which he had written this tale and the lies that Eva had told him about it. Was he to become the ghost of every impostor in London? Though he did not refer to the discovery that he had made, it lent a firmness to his tone when he informed her that his book was accepted and that he was going down to the country to devote a year to another. She heard him without remonstrance. Whatever her faults, she had the virtue of being a woman of the world, and she did not endow the parting, for which she was partially prepared, with any tactless tragedy. For an instant only, recalling the benefit of histrionics at Richmond, she considered the feasibility of sentiment begetting a reconciliation; then she dismissed the idea. The man was remorseful --not of having become estranged from her, but of having succumbed--and sentiment would be wasted to-day. Besides, it would make the interview painful for him, and she didn't care for him half enough to be eager to give him a bad time. She shrugged her shoulders. "Everything has an end," she said languidly--"even _Daniel Deronda_. I owe you a lot of money, by-the-by. I'm afraid I can't square accounts with you at the moment, but I suppose you don't mind trusting me?" "You owe me nothing," said Kent. "If my boorishness has left any liking for me possible, let me have the pleasure of feeling that I did you one or two trifling services." But he did not go down to the country. More than ever he felt that to rejoin his wife with his guilt unacknowledged would be a greater trial than he could endure. She was so innocent. If she had been a different kind of woman, his reluctance would have been duller and easier to overcome; but to have been false to Cynthia made him feel as if he had robbed a blind girl. That he could not delay rejoining her much longer he was distressfully aware. It was ten months since she had gone away, and even if the people in Streatham wished to retain the house for a third half-year, as he understood was likely--their return to New York, or wherever they had come from, being indefinitely postponed--that would be no reason why he and Cynthia should not live together at Monmouth or somewhere else. He had written her that Messrs. Kynaston had taken _The Eye of the Beholder_, and during the next day or two he was in hourly expectation of her reply. On the third afternoon after he had posted his letter, the door opened and she came into the room. He had not heard the bell ring, and at the sound of her footstep he turned quickly--and then, almost before he realised it, his wife was in his arms, laughing and half crying, saying how glad she was to see him, how delighted she was at the book's acceptance. "I had to come," she exclaimed--"I had to! Oh, darling! you don't mind because the money isn't much? Think what Kynaston said of it! And for your next you'll get proper terms.... Well, are you surprised to see me? Let me look at you. You're different. What have you been doing to yourself? And Baby--you wouldn't know Baby. He talks!... I've been praying you'd be at home. I wouldn't let them show me in; I've been picturing walking in on you all the way in the train.... Sweetheart!" She squeezed him to her again, and then held him at arm's length, regarding him gaily. "You've changed," she repeated; "you look more serious. And I? Am I all right--am I a disappointment?" "You're beautiful," said Kent slowly. "You have changed, too." He gazed at her with a curious sense of unfamiliarity, striving to define to himself the alteration that puzzled him. Her face had gained something besides the hues of health. It seemed to him that her eyes were deeper, that her smile was more complex. Vaguely he felt that he had thought of her as a girl and was beholding a woman--that he had insulted a woman who was lovelier than any he had known. "Aren't you going to invite me to take off my things? May I?" "Do," he said, with the same sense of strangeness. "Can I help you?" He took them from her, awkwardly, and put her into a comfortable chair, and made up the fire. "It's a new hat, it suits you! I always liked you in a little hat. Did you I get it down there?" "I trimmed it myself," she said. "Mind the pin!" "You shall have some tea--or would you rather have dinner? You must be hungry!" "Tea, please, and cake. Can you produce cake?" "There's a confectioner's just round the corner." He rang the bell. "Then, madeira. I didn't tell the servant who I was; better say 'my wife' casually when she comes in. I suppose you don't have ladies to tea and madeira cake, as a rule?" "Not as a rule," he said--"no." She laughed again, and stretched her shoes to the blaze luxuriously. "So this is the room. This is where you lived before we knew each other. How funny that it should be the first time I've been in it! I've often imagined you here, and it isn't the least bit like what I fancied, of course; I always saw the window over there! Well, talk to me--tell me all! what you are thinking about? I believe you find me plain now the hat's off!" Tea was brought to them in about a quarter of an hour, and they sat before the fire sipping it, and stealing glances at each other--the woman's, amused, delicious; Kent's, guilty and tortured. He was tempted to kiss her, but could not bring himself to do it deliberately; and with every phrase that fell from her lips his heart grew; heavier. "You've scarcely been to Strawberry Hill all the time, I hear," she said. "This is very good tea, Humphrey!" "Not very often; I've been so busy. Yes, it isn't bad, is it? the landlady gets it for me. Are they offended with me?" "H'mph! they'll look over it. You'll have to be very nice and repentant." "I will. I'll go this week if I can." "This week? You must take me to-night!" she cried. "What do you suppose is going to become of me? I can't stop here.... Shall I give you another cup?" Kent felt the blood sinking from his face. His hands shook as he bent over the fire, and for a moment he had no voice to reply. "You don't go back to Monmouth to-night?" he asked harshly, without looking at her. "N--no," she said; "I can't go back till to-morrow." "I was thinking of the child," he muttered. "He's as safe with the nurse as with me," she answered; "I wouldn't have left him even for a day if he hadn't been." "I see," said Kent. His pause appeared to him to become significant and terrible. "I can't go there with you this evening," he said abruptly; "it can't be done. I have to be here--there is some one I must meet. I mean, I can take you there, but I can't possibly stay. You--you must forgive me, Cynthia." Still he was not looking at her. When she spoke, her tone was different. "You will do as you like," she said quietly. He lifted himself, and faced her. "Cynthia!" "Well?" "Cynthia, don't think I don't care for you." She did not answer, but she was very pale, and her lips were proudly set. "You're angry with me?" he stammered. "What prevents you--your business? If you're too late for a train, there are hansoms. It would be expensive, I know----" "'Expensive!'" "Perhaps it might cost half a sovereign." "Cynthia! It's impossible." "Oh, please don't let's talk about it!" she said. "I made a mistake, that's all. I've made a good many since I married you; this was one more." "I _can't_ go," gasped Kent, fighting for his words. "I----If I cared for you less, I should! I can't go, because there's something I must tell you first. If ... but you won't. I want you to know ... I've a confession to make to you. It's over, but ... I've acted badly to you; I haven't the right to go to you. For God's sake, don't hate me more than you can help--I've been unfaithful." Her first sensation was as if, without warning, he had dealt her a brutal blow in the face. There was the same staggered sense of fright, succeeded by the same sick wave of horror. Another woman had known him? Her brain did not leap for details instantaneously, as a man's would have leapt in the inverse situation; the name the woman bore, her position--what had such things to do with it? Curiosity to compare her with herself in looks would follow; now, while she stared at him with bloodless features, she was conscious of nothing but the pollution: another woman had known him. Kent stared back at her, appalled at her aspect; but he divined what she felt no more than he could have understood her emotions had she analysed them for him. "Another woman had known him" was the tumult in her soul; he believed her pride outraged that he had known another woman. The difference was enormous. The curiosity and thirst for vengeance apart, the wife's sensation was what the husband's would have been, had he heard of her own defilement. But that he himself appeared to her defiled he could not grasp; unworthy, contemptible, corrupt, he realised, but "defiled," no. "Cynthia, forgive me!" She swayed a little as his voice struck her agony. "I'll try." "You see why I couldn't go?" "Yes," she said hoarsely. "I should have told you anyhow soon.... You aren't sorry I've told you?" "I don't know. I think ... I think I'm sorry just now. I shall be able to thank you for that later." "I did it for the best," said Kent. "You were right." He leant against the mantelpiece, his chin sunk. The only sound in the room came from the kettle, on which the woman's eyes were fixed intently. The clock of St. Giles-in-the-Fields tolled four. "What am I to do?" he said. "Oh," she moaned, "don't ask me; I can't think yet.... You've killed me, Humphrey--you've killed me!" He dropped before her chair and stroked her hand. Her pain writhed like a live thing at his touch, but, in pity for him, she let the hand lie still and suffered. "Did you ... love her so much?" she asked. "God knows I didn't!" "And yet----Humphrey, she wasn't----?" "I was mad. She was a lady. It wasn't love; I didn't love her at all.... If you were a man, you'd understand. I sinned with my body, but my mind--she never had that ...it was with you--with you. It was the animal in me--how can I explain to an angel?" Presently she said: "Does a woman ever learn to understand a man? She gives him her life; yet to the end----They begin differently.... He has known everything before he comes to her, and she has known nothing. She's told that it doesn't matter, that it's right. She doesn't believe it in her heart --the more she loves him, the less she believes it--but she tries to persuade herself she believes it. It's wrong--wrong! To him she's a new girl, and to her _he_ is a new world. How can marriage be the same thing to both. You didn't love her, but you gave yourself to her. Could a husband think less of his wife's sin for a reason like that?" Kent rose, and stood beside her dumbly. Some glimmer of her point of view reached him and confused him by its strangeness. "I'll do whatever you want. What can I say?" "Help me to forget," she said in a low voice. "Will you help me to forget?" "You'll let me come to you?" "Give me a few days--wait a few days. Only I can't be your wife again, Humphrey, all at once--I can't.... Ah, don't think me unforgiving; it isn't that. Come to me, if you will, and work, and we'll be good friends together. Don't be afraid, I won't make it bad for you, I promise--I'll never remind you even by a look.... Are the terms too hard?" "You're merciful." The seconds crept away. "I must go," she said; "I'll write to you." "Shall you go to your mother's?" "I must; there's no train to Monmouth after three. Will you send for a cab to take me to Waterloo? I'll tell them you were coming with me, but something prevented you.... Can I bathe my eyes in your room before I go?" Kent showed her where it was, and waited for her in the parlour. Then they went downstairs together to the cab. She leant forward and gave him her hand. "Don't be afraid of me," she whispered again. "God bless you!" he said, closing the door. CHAPTER XXIV Cynthia wrote to him to go to her. The day was bright, and a promise of spring was in the air as he journeyed down. Some of its brightness seemed to tinge his mood, and he was conscious of a vague wonder at the pleasurable emotions that stirred him as fields and hedgerows shot past. She was on the platform awaiting him, though he had not telegraphed the time of his arrival. He saw her at once, and was momentarily a prey to misgivings. Her welcoming smile as they advanced towards each other dissipated his dread. But it revived his embarrassment, and his embarrassment appeared to her pitiable. "I knew," she said frankly, "that you would come by this train." She gave orders to a porter about the luggage, and Kent passed into Monmouth by her side. He heard that her brother had come down to see her, and was at the cottage now. Cæsar was having a holiday, and had been spending a fortnight with his parents. "He was going back this evening, but I made him stay till to-morrow. Mrs. Evans found him a room a few doors off." He understood that it was to lessen the awkwardness of the first evening for him that she had detained her brother, and he was grateful to her. "You must know the place well by now?" he said, looking about him. "Every inch, I think. It's so pretty. I'm sorry it isn't summer; you'd see. We have a lot of artists then. I got rather chummy with two girls painting here in the autumn; we used to go to tea at each other's lodgings. I learnt a lot.... That's our house--the one at the corner. There's Mrs. Evans at the gate. She calls you 'the master.' She hopes the master will find her cooking good enough for him. For tea she's made some hot cakes specially in your honour." As they drew nearer, a nurse approached wheeling a child. He heard that it was "Humphrey," and bent over the little fellow timidly. Cynthia hung about them, praying that the boy would not cry. She asked him who the gentleman was, and, having been repeatedly told that "papa was coming," he answered "Papa!" Whereat she triumphed and the man was pleased. In the parlour, which struck Kent agreeably with its quiet, old-fashioned air, the Right Hand of McCullough was perusing a financial paper. He put it aside to greet Kent cordially. His presence dominated the evening, and, in the knowledge that he was departing early next day, Kent even found him amusing, though to be amusing was not his aim. Ostensibly he had come to England on a financial mission, and his vague allusions to it were weighted by several names of European importance. Occasionally his attention wandered and he lapsed into a brown study, obviously preoccupied by millions. For this he apologised, in case it had been unnoticed, and rallied Cynthia on the "yellow-backs" that were visible on the bookshelf. "I'm afraid I see a lot of yellow-backs!" he said, lifting a playful finger. A novel, by a woman, of which _The Speaker_ had written that "it's dialogue would move every literary artist to enthusiasm," lay on the window-sill--Kent had already observed it with gratification--and Cæsar acknowledged that he had read it. He conceded that it possessed a "superficial smartness." "Superficial" was his latest word, and when his discourse took a literary turn, his authoritative opinions were peppered with it. Kent's bedroom was furnished very plainly, but it was exquisitely neat. His gaze rested with thankfulness on a large table, of a solidity that seemed to promise that it would not wobble. Beside the blotting-pad was an inkstand, of whose construction the primary object had been that it should hold ink; a handful of early flowers was arranged in a china bowl. There was a knot in his throat as he contemplated these preparations--the more touching for their simplicity--and when he sat down, the table confirmed its promise, and he found that the position afforded him a view of a corner of the garden. It was here that he worked. By degrees the frankness of her manner became more spontaneous in Cynthia, and his embarrassment in her society was sometimes forgotten. They were, as she had promised, the best of friends. Their rambles together had a charm which one associates with a honeymoon, but in which their own honeymoon had been lacking. In these rambles Kent was never bored; it appeared to him delightful to place himself in her hands and be taken where she listed in the April twilight. To seek shelter from showers in strange quarters was adventurous; and milk had a piquancy drunk with Cynthia in farmyards. He signed the extension of the Streatham agreement with gladness. The alteration in her impressed him still more strongly now that he had opportunities for studying it; and the gradual result of three years, presenting itself to him as the fruit of ten months, was startling. His wife had become a woman--in her tone, in her bearing, in her comments, which often had a pungency, though they might not be brilliant. She was a woman in the composure with which she ignored their anomalous relations--a very fascinating woman withal, whose composure, while it won his admiration, disturbed him too, as the weeks went by. It was in moments difficult to identify her new personality with the girl's whose love for him had been so constantly evident. Among her other changes, had she grown to care less for him? He could not be surprised if she had. Shortly after his arrival, Messrs. Kynaston had begun to send his proof-sheets, and in May _The Eye of the Beholder_ was published. In the walk that they took after Cynthia had read it, she and Kent spoke of little else. It had amazed him to perceive how eager he was to hear her verdict, and at her first words, "I'm proud of you," the colour rushed to his face. He would never have supposed that her approval could excite him so much, or that her views would have such interest for him. When the criticisms began to come in, it was delicious, as they sat at breakfast, to open the yellow envelopes and devour the long slips with their heads bent together; and then, after he had paid a visit to the child, he would go up to his room and wish that the corner of the garden that he overlooked contained the bench. * * * * * Despite the seven rejections, and the opinion of Messrs. Cousins' reader that the construction rendered the novel hopeless, the criticisms were magnificent. The more important the paper, the less qualified was the praise. The lighter periodicals were sometimes a little "superior," but the authoritative organs were earnest and cordial, and in no less powerful a pronouncement than _The Spectator_'s the construction was called "masterly." _The Saturday Review_ repeated that Mr. Kent's style was admirable; and _The Athenæum_, and _The Daily Chronicle_, and _The Times_, and every paper to which a novelist looks, described him as a realist of a high order. * * * * * Delusions die hard, and the bitter reviewer, rending the talented young author's book, is a companion myth to the sleepless editor poring indefatigably over illegible manuscripts in quest of new talent. As a matter of fact, it is only to his reviewers that the struggling novelist ever owes a "thank you"; and Kent wrote with exultation and confidence under the stimulus of the encouragement that he received. _The Eye of the Beholder_ did not sell in thousands--you may lead a donkey to good fiction, but you cannot make him read--but in a moderate degree it was a success even with the public; and work had an irresistible attraction in consequence. Nevertheless, the question whether Cynthia's attitude was not perhaps the one that had become most natural to her haunted Kent with growing persistency. Had it been possible, he would have asked her. He found himself wishful of a little tenderness from the woman who had once wearied him--or from the woman who had sprung from her. She was merciful, she was charming, she drew him towards her strongly; but she talked to him as a sister might have done. The suggestion of a honeymoon in their rambles now tantalised him by its illusiveness, and he was piqued by the feeling that their intercourse was devoid even of the incipient warmth of courtship. It occurred to him that the book that he was writing might be dedicated to her, and the idea pleased him vastly. It begot several other ideas which he indulged. Roses were transferred from a shop-window to Cynthia's bosom, and he sent to town for a story that she had said she would like to read. Her surprise enchanted him, and he wished, as her gaze rested on him, that he could surprise her oftener. The thought of the evening to be passed beside her would come to him during the day, and fill him with impatience to realise the picture again. Tea was no sooner finished than they put on their hats, to wander where their humour led them. Generally they returned at sunset; and sometimes they returned under the stars. Supper would be awaiting them, and afterwards they sat and talked--or dreamed, by the open window--until, all too early, she gave him her hand and said "Good-night." His heart followed her. Surely Kent comprehended that the feeling that she awoke in him was more than admiration, more than pique, was something infinitely different from the calm affection into which his first fancy had subsided. He knew that the conditions that she had imposed had aroused no ephemeral ardour, but had illumined in himself as vividly as in her a development that possession had left obscure. He knew he loved her--he loved her, and he was unworthy of her love. He could not speak--that was for her--but his eyes besought, and the woman read them. She made no sign. So speedily?--her pride forbade it. Her manner towards him remained unchanged. But tenderness tugged at her pride, and joy at what she read flooded her soul. She would be contemptible to condone so soon, she told herself. He would never know how he had made her suffer--never suspect how in minutes the unutterable recollection that she had hidden for his sake had wrenched and tortured her while she talked to him so easily; she prayed that he never _might_ know! But to yield at his first sigh, because he looked unhappy--how could she contemplate it? Yet was his unhappiness her sole temptation? She trembled. Was she despicable to long for his arm about her again? Was it degraded to feel that even to-day---- In July Kent was lonelier than he had been hitherto. His wife could seldom contrive to accompany him when he went out, and the excursions were in any case curtailed. She seemed to care less for walking, and there were little tiresome things that demanded her attention, or to which, at least, she chose to give it. The child missed her, when he woke at eight o'clock, if she was not at home to run in to him; she wanted to practise on the wheezy piano; there was needle-work she was compelled to do--always something! The first time, Kent was merely disappointed, and came back early in low spirits; but after the third of his solitary walks, misgivings oppressed him with double weight. She was indifferent--no other explanation was possible; she was indifferent, and no longer chose to mask it! "You're always busy," he told her at last. "I miss you dreadfully, Cynthia. Is it so important that what you are doing should be gone on with to-night?" "I should like to finish it to-night," she said constrainedly--"yes. I'm sorry you miss me, but the girl is clumsy with her needle; one can't expect perfection." "Yesterday something else prevented you. You have only been out with me once this week." "Surely more than that?" she said calmly; "twice, I think?" "Once. You went with me on Tuesday. There's all day for the boy, Cynthia; you might spare me the evening." She bent lower over the pinafore, engrossed by it. "It isn't only the boy, poor little chap! What a tyrant you'd make him out! Yesterday I didn't feel like going; I was up to my eyes in a book." Kent regarded her hungrily. "I've very little claim on you, I know; but when I first came----" "'Sh!" she said.... "What a mountain out of a molehill! If I haven't been with you since Tuesday, we must have our walk together toil morrow." Kent found this very unsatisfactory. It was a concession, and he did not seek her society as a concession. The walk, as usual latterly, was short, and neither had the air of enjoying it very much. They roamed along the dusty roads for the most part in silence, and for the rest with platitudes. He could not avoid seeing that her companionship was reluctantly accorded, and after their return, when she put out her hand in the stereotyped "Good-night," he resolved not to beg her to go with him any more. He wasn't without a hope that, by refraining from the request, he might move her to gratitude; but her avoidance of him did not diminish, and when August came, he questioned whether he ought to leave her for a while. The part that she had allotted to herself was plainly more than she could sustain; to relieve her temporarily of his presence might be the most considerate plan he could adopt? But the notion repelled him violently. Though she was colder and ill at ease, she enchained him. He had very little, and that little he was loath to lose. To look at her across the room, unobserved, in their long pauses was not charged with regret only--the bitterness had an indefinable joy as well; he liked to note the effect of lamplight on her profile as she read, took pleasure in her grace when she moved. To spare her what distress he could, however, was his duty--yes, if she wished it, he would go! He debated, where he sat smoking by the window one evening, whether she would wish it if she knew how dear she had grown to him; whether if he stammered to her something of his remorse----His pain had become almost intolerable. The hour was very still. In the west, on the faint azure, some smears of flame colour lingered; then, while he stared out, faded, and hung in the sky like curls of violet smoke. Over the myriad tints of green came the low whinny of a horse. His wife sat sewing by the table, and, turning, he watched the rhythmical movement of her hand. A passionate longing assailed him to free his tongue from the weight that hampered it and cry to her he loved her, though she might not care to hear. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and sauntered nearer. "Aren't you going to smoke any more?" she said. "Not now; I've been smoking all day." "You should try to write without." "I ought to--but I never could." He touched the muslin on her lap diffidently--it _was_ on her lap. "What are you making--another pinafore?" "Yes. Do you think it's pretty?" His hand lay close to her own; but she held the garment up to him, and perforce he drew back. It was not so easy to voice emotion as to feel it. Half an hour crept away; shadows filled the room, and a grey peace brooded over the grass outside. The tones deepened, and beyond a ridge of blackened boughs the moon swam up. He decided that he would speak after supper. But after supper, when she resumed her sewing, he felt that it would be useless. He sat by the hearth, holding a paper that he did not read. Presently the landlady was heard slipping the bolt in the passage, and Cynthia pushed her basket from her, preparing to retire. With her change of position, a reel escaped and rolled to the fender. Kent had not noticed where it fell, but he became conscious, with a tremor, that she was stooping by his side. In rising, it seemed to him that her figure brushed his arm as if with a caress. She had drawn apart from him before he could do more than wonder if it had been accidental, but now he watched her with a curious intentness. She wandered about the room a little aimlessly, righting a photograph, settling a flower in a glass on the shelf. Having gathered up her work, she hesitated, and sought some books; when she had chosen them, her arms were full and she could not give him her hand. But she did not say "Good-night," either. A she passed him on the threshold, her face was lifted, and for a moment her gaze engulfed him. When he dared to interpret it, Kent stole shakenly up the stairs. The way was dark; but ahead--in a room of which the door had been left ajar--his eager eyes saw Light. THE END