JO
I INVA<
}, ffov. 7
iding yo
■boy, fed
I, on yo%
>.ry satisi
,oto in at
o do so. |
hfully,
1HAUDI
FC
HERS j
ind's Re]
nay be ta
wine or ^
thletes itj
ining diet
has no eq
'Hon to j
JAM, I
>94
B
ING
c* <□> ccp <o> j
BOILING WATER OR MILK.
LADIES ■"'"'ffiSij
"BEETHAI
The wonderful success which I
"Glycerine and Cucumber" 1
has induced many unprincipled
put up, and offer for sale, prepar;
they call " Glycerine and Cue]
which in reality contain no Cucj
and are often poisonous compot
and other minerals.
BEETHAM'S " Glycerine and
is sold in Bottles, Is. and 2s
Chemists and Perfumers tin:
world. Sole Makers, ;
M.BEETBAM&SON, Chemists,
[3941
is and Nervous Disorders,
SUCH AS
K HEADACHE, CONSTIPATION,
TH A GUINEA A BOX.
BCHAilTo
i STOMACH, IMPAIRED DIGESTION,
DERED LIVER & FEMALE AILMENTS.
idle is now Sioc Million Boxes per annum.
ioxes, 9Jd., Is. :.Jd. and 2s. 9d. each, with full directions.
Is. l£d. Box contains Fifty-six Pills.)
Prepared, only by the Proprietor,
?HOMAS BEECHAM, St. Helens, Lancashire.
AUNG'S POWDER
KILLS
( BUGS.
FLEAS.
MOTHS.
BEETLES.
Tins, 6d. and Is. each.
AIR'S
DUT
AND
UMATIC
LLS
GOUT.
RHEUMATISM.
SCIATICA.
LUMBAGO.
NEURALGIA.
The EXCRUCIATING PAIN is quickly re¬
lieved and cured in a- few days by these cele¬
brated Pills, well-known as the GREAT
REMEDY for the above Complaints. Sure,
Safe and Eflectual.
Sold by all Chemists, at Is. l*d. and 2s. 9d.
_per box.
rttriftfctttfsabbmato
ROWLANDS' ARTICLES
For the Hair, Complexion, and Teeth, are the PUREST AND -BEST.
A pure, non-gritty tooth
powder ; it whitens the
teeth, prevents decay
— — — _ & sweetens the brea "
is more efficacious than pastes or washes, 2/9.
0D0NT0
is more efficacious than pas
MACASSAR OIL
preserves and beautifies the hair and prevents it
falling off or turning grey, is the best Brilliaatine
for ladies' and children's hair, being less greasy ana
drying than ordinary Brilliantine, and can;bet bads
in a golden colour for fair hair. Sizes, 3/6, 7/-, 10/6,
equal to four small.
KALYDOR
Is a most'soothing,
healing and-i'efresh-
ESSENCE OF TYRE
prevents and removes Freckles, Tan, Sunburn. Redness and Roughness Gf the
Skin, soothes and heals all irritation, Chaps, Chilblains, Cutaneous Etuptpof^,,
&c., and produces a beautiful and delicate complexion. Bottles, 2/3 an$ #/%£ » 3
effectually dyes red or grey hair a permanent
brown or black. 4/. \ , 7v- '
rill/nui A A Pure toilet powder in three tints, White, Rose and Gream for
CUIwNlA. ladies of a Brunette corrmlexion and those who do not like
white powder. Boxes, ih; large boxes, 2/6. Ask Chemists for ROWLANDS'
ARTICLES, of 20, Hatton Garden, London, and avoid spurious imitations.
HOT WATER INSTANTLY BY NIGHT OR DAY.
E WART'S
LIGHTNING
CHICAGO AWARD.
GEYSER.
346 to 350, Euston Road, London, N.W.
EDWARDS'' HARLENE' fob the HAIR
WORLD-RENOWNED
Hair Producer & Restorer.
Prevents the Hair Falling off and
Turning Grey. The World-Renowned
Remedy for Baldness. Also for Restor¬
ing Grey Hair to its Original Colour.
Specially prepared for T oilet Use.
Is., 2s. 6d. and 5s. 6d. per Bottle.
From Chemists and Perfumers.
EDWARDS & CO., 95, High Holborn, London, W.C.
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
ETC.
VERBENA CAMELLIA
STEPHANOTIS
ETC.
BY
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OF
'ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,' ' DOROTHY FORSTER,' ETC.
A NEW EDITION
Hontton
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1894
PREFACE
Concerning the stories contained in this volume, I desire to
place on record one or two incidents which may serve as a
preface.
The second narrative relates the ' Doubts of Dives.' This
first appeared in Arrowsmith's well-known series of tales.
One evening, soon after its publication, on returning home
about five o'clock, I learned that a gentleman, who had
refused to give his name, was waiting to see me.
On my entrance, he rose and looked at me wuth a very
odd expression, which I mistook for curiosity. I asked
him his name. In reply, he laughed aloud—he laughed in
derision, and remarked that this was really too absurd—
much too absurd. As a short-sighted man may, and often
does, forget faces only half-seen, I supposed that I had met
this person somewhere, and had somehow forgotten him. I
therefore repeated the question with emphasis; but obtained
a similar exasperating reply. He would not believe, I found,
that I failed to recognise him. Then I requested him to tell
me at once where I had met him and what was his purpose
in calling upon me, or else to wTalk out of the house. He
thereupon ceased from scoffing, and proceeded to business.
As for the former question, it appeared, according to his
statement, which wanted nothing of directness and clear-
jaess, that I •syas in the frequent habit of meeting him,
IV
PREFACE
although for purposes of my own I now affected to deny
the fact. As for his purpose in calling upon me, it was for
nothing less than to reproach me with my infamous con¬
duct. Pressed further as to the exact nature of the infamy,
he set forth with some detail—say, rather, he reminded me
—recalled to my recollection—the very remarkable method
by which I had gained possession of the narrative contained
in this volume, which I had recently with intolerable im¬
pudence passed off—or palmed—upon a credulous public as
actually my own.
The gentleman's story is as follows. It is necessary to
explain that he is quite sincere and believes every word of
it. He says that he was hypnotized. By Me. Through
a double door in the Temple. By Me. Reduced to the
hypnotic condition—by Me—he was compelled—still by
Me—to surrender this story !—his own story, every word
of it—called the Doubts of Dives, word for word as it has
been published—always by Me.
The verses in it, he says, further, are verses which ho
himself wrote and has long been accustomed to sing to music
of his own composition.
That is his story. What have I got to say in reply ?
Really, nothing at all. It is a most serious charge, and I
have got nothing to say. It also appears—for this is by
no means all — that in another story called ' The Bell of
St. Paul's,' everything that is good — he says that there
is nothing else good in it—was deliberately taken from
this gentleman—by Me—whilst in a hypnotic condition,
and transferred—by Me—to my poor pages, with the view
of lighting them up. Lastly—for there is still more—the
very day before he called upon me he says he was hypno¬
tized, on the Metropolitan Railway—always by Me, the
great unsuspected and hitherto unknown Pirate-Hypnotizer
—and what was taken from him on that occasion the Lord
only knows ! He himself does not know, and I am sure I
PREFACE v
do not. Having thus let me understand that he was fully
acquainted with the nefarious and predatory nature of my
conduct, and finding me impenitent and stubborn—even to
the extent of denying that I possessed any hypnotizing
power or experience at all, and of maintaining that I never
had tried to hypnotize or to mesmerize anybody—he retired.
I still await those legal proceedings with the threat of which
he departed.
There is only one point of difference between us. I pro¬
nounce the word Dives as a dissyllable; he, as a mono¬
syllable, as if it was the third person singular, indicative
mood, present tense of the verb 'to dive.' 'I write it dives,'
he said, ' and I pronounce it dives, and I mean to go on so
pronouncing it.' For this single point of difference — it
is, I know, a small thing—I am grateful.
Nor was this all. I received shortly after this event a letter
from South Africa signed for surname ' Dives.' Attracted,
the writer said, by the appearance of his own name, he had
bought the little book. This was natural curiosity. Imagine,
however, the further doubts of Mr. Dives when he dis¬
covered, on reading the work, that his own chum, Mr.
Pindar, was also brought into the narrative, and this, though
the author has never seen that part of South Africa, and
knew nothing about Mr. Dives or Mr. Pindar !
Concerning the ' Demoniac,' its purpose is obvious. It is
not at all a temperance story—it is the story of a disease so
strange as to seem like the possession of an evil spirit: it is
incurable : it seizes a man and it holds him until he dies.
The only possible escape for him- is in total abstinence from
the beginning. Later on, that escape becomes impossible.
It is a strong subject, and to those who turn away with a
shudder from anything stronger than a simper or a kiss, it has
proved a repellant story. Its appearance produced a shower
of letters, some witnessing from their own most sorrowful
vi
PREFACE
experience to the truth of the picture, some abusing the
author for drawing so gloomy a picture, some remonstrating,
some conveying approbation and thanks. One lady wrote
to lament that I had destroyed her only hope; her husband,
she said, had destroyed his own fortune and his health; had
ruined her life as well as his own ; had saddened and dis¬
graced his children : but she had nourished one hope—that
he would yet reform. Alas, poor lady ! the only reply was
that her husband was only a common drunkard; not, like
George Atheling, possessed of an evil spirit. The common
drunkard may reform. There is still hope for that lady—for
the Demoniac, none. I have only to add that I took counsel,
during the progress of the history, with a young scholar
learned in medicine, and that he kept the scientific part of
it right for me, for which I thank him most gratefully.
I have to acknowledge, also, my obligations to my friend
Mr. Charles Brookfield, who suggested the motif of the
story 'Verbena Camellia Stephanotis.'
W. B.
United University Club,
April 3, 1892.
CONTENTS
PAGE
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS 3
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES:
I. THE LAMENT OF DIVES • - - "23
II. THE DINNER BELL - - ■ - "35
III. THE CONFESSIONS OF A FIANCEE - - "49
IV. THE NEW LEAF - - • - "57
V. KIT'S ARRIVAL - - - - 66
VI. THE UNEXPECTED - - - - * 73
VII. WHAT HAS COME TO HIM ? - - - "79
VIII. LET ME EXPLAIN - - - • 86
IX. WITH FRIENDS SO OLD - - - 92
X. AFTER LUNCHEON - • - • - IO4
XI. THE PICNIC - - - - - - III
XII. THE JUDGMENT OF THE SECOND DAY - - Il6
XIII. 'UNDERSTAND ME CLEARLY' - - - 123
XIV. 'TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELVES' - - - 129
XV. THE LAST DAY - - - - • 134
XVI. THE I 4.ST EVENING - I4I
XVII. TAKE YOUR FREEDOM • - - 149
X CONTENTS
THE DEMONIAC:
I. HOW THE THING CAME
II. HOW THE THING WAS RECEIVED
III. OE THE FALLING OUT
IV. OF THE PHYSICIAN -
V. OF THE VOYAGE
VI. HOW THE PATIENT RETURNED
VII. OF PENELOPE AND HER WOOERS
VIII. IN ARCADIA -
IX. AT THE SIGN OF THE BON MARI
X. MY OWN HOME
XI. THE RECLUSE
XII. HE IS ALIVE-
XIII. BUSINESS AT BOSTON
XIV. HE IS FOUND
XV. THE MOUTH OF HELL
XVI. THE REWARD
XVII. THE LAST -
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTEE
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
I.
Then the Priest, as the Rubric directs, took the child in
his own hands, holding it dexterously, and not like a
prentice, or mere curate, unaccustomed to the right handling
of a baby, but with a circular sweep of the left, so that the
head of the infant lay nestled in the bend ®f the arm, and
the body was supported by the hand, and the right hand
was free to administer the healing waters of the font, and
he said to the child's sponsors, who were her earthly father
and her earthly mother, with Aunt Eliza :
' Name this child.'
To which the godfather, also the father, replied in a clear
and intelligible voice: 'Verbena Camellia Stephanotis.' He
was a short man, with stooping shoulders, a broad forehead,
and meditative eyes. When he had done this part of his
duty, knowing that the clerk, as is usual in such cases,
would do all the rest, his eyes departed from the situation,
and went right through the church walls into some far
distant place. In reality, they were looking into his
fernery, which was under glass about a mile and a half
away.
Now, the Priest was a masterful man, who scrupled not
to restrain the unbridled sponsor by authority of the Church.
Once, for instance, he refused to christen a child Judas
Iscariot, even though his father was a professed total un¬
believer, and therefore expected every allowance. On this
occasion, also, lie perceived that the proposed names were
professional. He, therefore, changed the name by his own
4
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPLIANOTIS
authority, and without asking the godfather's consent, to
Vera Camilla. He entered these names in the book, and
showed them to the parents.
' It doesn't matter,' said the father; ' I shall call her
what I please.' In the end he never called her anything
at all.
' Vera Camilla,' said her mother. ' It's sweetly genteel.'
' Vera,' said Aunt Eliza. ' Why, it's a name fit for any
lady! Verbenar, indeed ! You might as well have called
the dear child Qllyock.'
II.
Vera lived in the loveliest cottage ever seen—a cottage such
as is sometimes provided for young lovers by a fairy—it
seemed to be of one story, but there were really two small
bedrooms in the two gables; they had sloping sides, and
just room enough for a bed and a chair and a looking-glass.
The cottage was covered all over with climbing plants up
to the very chimney; Virginia creeper, wisteria, clematis,
jessamine occupied each its own side or corner; a passion
flower held possession of the porch; the lawn before the
cottage was trim and neat—mown and rolled till it was as
soft as velvet, and as smooth as silk. There were beds in
which every kind of flower grew and flourished; and in the
background there were flowering shrubs, which blossomed,
one or other, all the long year round.
The household consisted of the girl and her father; her
mother now lying not far off. The father, always a medita¬
tive man, was entirely absorbed in his profession, and talked
of nothing but his plants. He spoke of them as a school¬
master speaks of his pupils. He recognised promise, but
experience taught him to look for disappointment. He
knew the temptations and the dangers which beset the
vegetable kingdom ; their manners and customs, the failings
and weaknesses of his plants. Of these things he spoke, and
he was unable to speak or to think of anything beside. Did
his daughter want anything? What should she want, living
in a most beautiful and spacious garden, planted with every
tree, shrub, and flower that will flourish under the sky in
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTTS
Northern London? All day long he was engaged with his
flowers; in the evening he went to his club at the tavern.
His daughter, therefore, saw him only at meals, where he
mostly took his food in silence.
The cottage looked out upon the lawn, and therefore
commanded a view of the great iron gates on the left, and
iu front the broad gravel road which led to the Ground, and
on the right the Ground itself—not a park, or a play-ground,
or a place of recreation—but the Ground. During the hours
when the Ground was used, the girl always sat with her
back to the window, as though the view displeased her.
She had very early contracted this habit, and now continued
it, though she no longer felt the least dislike to the view
from the window, or to the panorama of those who marched
past in order to use the Ground.
The iron gates opened upon the high-road, now deserted,
though in the old days it had been day and night covered
with carts, waggons, stage coaches, carriages, and droves of
cattle. Now the tramp limped painfully along, or the young
London clerk, on Saturday afternoon and Sunday, rolled
swiftly along upon his bicycle. Otherwise the road was
deserted save for those who drove (for nobody walked) to
the Ground.
About ten o'clock in the morning the business and activity
of the day began, and continued without pause until the
afternoon, when it stopped. At five o'clock the gates were
closed. Then Vera had the Ground all to herself.
The business of the day began, and continued, with a
procession. Sometimes it was a procession of many vehicles,
but generally of no more than three. First, there came an
Ark with a treasure chest in it, and that so precious that
it was covered all over with flowers. Next two carriages
followed, drawn by black horses, and filled with people, who
sat bolt upright when anybody was looking, and stuck out
their chins with pride at their own respectability. The
procession testified to the Family greatness. It is not often
that the Family, which is for the most part an invisible
unit, can illustrate its own greatness—in fact, this is nearly
the only function which can serve that purpose. The pro¬
cession entered the gates, and drove slowly past the cottage,
where the occupants of the carriages were often disappointed
at seeing not the face, but the back and the shoulders of a
6 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
girl. That anyone should have so little curiosity as not
to turn round and estimate the respectability of a Family !
The carriages rolled on; they stopped before a small
building, where ceremonies were conducted. When these
were finished the people came away, but without their
treasure. They came away, got into the carriages, and
drove away briskly. Not far from the iron gates is the
tavern known as the ' Fox and Grapes': here there is a
large room, with a comfortable fire, for the reception of
visitors. The tavern is famous, to those who use the Ground,
for the most sympathetic of all drinks. It is unsweetened,
except with lump sugar, according to taste, and is taken
with hot water.
All the morning long one procession followed another.
They were all exactly alike, except that sometimes there was
a longer following of carriages. Vera heard them pass, but
she never looked round.
The Ground, in fact, was a cemetery in the West Finchley
Eoad, the cemetery of a great London parish ; a large park,
covering many acres, laid out in flower-beds, lawns, gravelled
walks, trees and shrubs, so that in spring, summer, and
autumn it is a very lovely garden; and even in winter it is
not without its beauty. Among the flower-beds and the
shrubs lie in rows—row after row, miles of rows—the graves
of the dead. Most of them have headstones; many have
broken pillars, crosses, square tombs, polished granite slabs,
little columns planted with flowers. There were legends
and epitaphs on these monuments. There is a certain
monotony about the epitaphs of London cemeteries. Mostly,
to those who read between the lines, they run as follows:
' Sacred to the memory of A. B., who lived seventy years and did
nothing worthy of remembrance. He was a sincere and consistent
Christian, always horribly afraid of going to Heaven, and quite
certain that no one would send him anywhere else. He thought
of nothing but money, and he made a little, but not what he had a
right to expect. He carried on his affairs to the end without being
publicly disgraced. Every Sunday morning he went to church, and
during the rest of the day he feasted. His family, who quarrelled
over the division, speak of him no longer, and when his children
die he will be as much forgotten as any Early Briton. This stone
is erected to the perpetuation of his imperishable memory.'
The population of the place, although the Ground hag
only been opened for thirty years, is a quarter of a million.
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS 7
The Ground does not belong to a parish where men of
letters, art, or science live; and there is not one of all this
immense multitude whose works survive to continue his
name for another generation.
When the processions of the day were over, the great gates
closed, the chapel locked, and the Croqueviorts gone, Vera
had the place to herself, and could wander about the paths.
She knew every part of the cemetery; in one corner the
little bit of coppice left uncleared, in another the two or
three apple-trees still remaining—remnant of an orchard;
the part of the Ground not yet laid out, covered with long
bents and darnel and coarse grass, and the hedge beyond
this field where she gathered blackberries in autumn, and
roses and honeysuckle in June.
She wandered alone about the great silent place in the
summer evenings. Long after the sun went down her
white figure among the white tombs shone ghostly in the
twilight.
She never went anywhere; her life was wholly spent
within these walls. Half a mile up the road there was a
school where she had learned certain accomplishments
which were of little use to her because she seldom read
anything and never wrote. She made no friends : there is
a certain prejudice attached to one resident in a cemetery;
it is awkward to give a cemetery as your permanent address
—some little odium attaches to any office connected with
such an institution. Vera, therefore, had no friends. Other
girls go about and see things, they have amusements; Vera
went nowhere. Other girls, again, get a little excitement
and change when they put on their best clothes and go to
church. Vera did not go to church. The reason was, not
that superiority of intellect which shuts the church door to
so many young ladies of the day, but simply because her
father considered that, when you have church and chapel
services going on every day, the necessities of the human
case are more than met. Between the time when Vera left
school, and-the beginning of this history, a period of two
years passed away. That is to say, for two years the girl
lived at the gates of the cemetery, and went nowhere else
except to the row of suburban shops near the school, where
she bought the things wanted for her housekeeping.
To a girl, almost a child, living thus alone among the
8 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
tombs, with burials going on all day long, with no friends,
no outside world except a long deserted road, life may come
to seem like an endless Danse Macabre—a dance of death,
a pageant of death. To this place, hither, must all be
brought; it is the universal end. What was the outside
world engaged upon all the time ? Clearly, she concluded,
undertakery. Some made coffins; some coffin - plates,
handles, ornaments, linings, shrouds; some made black
carriages; some black coats, and black frocks; some were
told off to read the service appointed; the head undertaker
was the Chief Minister of State; nothing was regarded but
the future occupation of the Ground ; the chief object in
saving money, was to provide for a respectable procession.
Life was all death; clothes, nothing but a sign of mourning;
clergymen, chaplains to cemeteries; religion, an assurance
to the bereft; everything beautiful was intended for nothing
but the adornment of the permanent home.
I do not say that Vera put all these thoughts into words
—young girls do not formulate their thoughts; language
cannot clothe them — but they assumed this colour and
complexion. The cemetery was all she really knew-. Per¬
haps, because everybody who came to the ground was
clothed in black, Vera, with a kind of instinct rather than
by protest, dressed always in white. No one would have
interfered with her if she had chosen yellow, but she chose
white. Black belonged to the processions. Black belonged
to the ladies who came afterwards, sometimes for as much
as six months later, with flowers. The black spots moving
about among the green graves and the flower-beds in this
beautiful garden offended the girl's eyes. Therefore, she
wore white; in winter white flannel, and in summer white
stuff. She carried a basket, and a pair of garden scissors,
and she went about attending to the flowers of the forgotten
graves, those for which there were no longer any mourners
to pay the gardener. She was a tall, thin slip of a girl,
about sixteen years of age, as yet with little of the womanly
figure; her fair hair abundant hung unconfined except by
a ribbon; her blue eyes were large and serious; her face
was grave ; her very step was serious ; she neither laughed
nor sang, nor danced as she went along, although she was
so young—you see, it checks laughter and singing to remem¬
ber that, though a quarter of a million may be listening,
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOLIS
9
they cannot reply even with an echo. I read once of a child
brought up in a nunnery—one of the austere houses where
the sisters dig their own graves, and where the days are for
ever cheered by the sound of the knell of the passing-hell.
Then I remembered Yera. As that cloister child, so was
Vera.
III.
The ties of kinship are less respected on certain social levels
than on others. The English family very easily breaks up
into separate pieces : brothers and sisters go their own way,
they scatter; if they remain in the same place they quarrel;
children who should be cousins know each other no longer ;
those who get up in the world are too proud to inquire after
those who remain down below; those who are below are
too proud to intrude upon those who are up. Family pride,
therefore, has its uses. Yera's father, for instance, remained
head gardener of the new cemetery. His brother, though
this he did not know, because he never read any newspapers,
was Prime Minister.of New South Wales; another brother,
also unknown to him, was a Silver King, and controlled I
know not what. He remained. Had he gone abroad, as
his brothers did, he would have become Botanist to a Colony;
Professor of Botany in some Colonial University; Fellow of
the Boyal Society. As it was, he remained at home, and
was a gardener whose thoughts never travelled beyond his
plants.
But even at home one may rise. Yera had an aunt—her
mother's sister—her Aunt Eliza. She, by reason of her
husband's great success, had climbed to a dizzy height, even
to a house in Bedford Square, and a carriage. Aunt Eliza's
husband, indeed, was none other than a certain well-known,
far-famous purveyor in the City. It would be hard, indeed,
if so eminent a citizen should not have his carriage, and his
house in Bedford Square beautifully furnished, and on
Sundays his dinner-parties at three in the afternoon. But
Aunt Eliza had well-nigh forgotten the existence of her
niece. Her sister was dead; her sister's husband was
gardener to a cemetery; there was a child. Prosperity
makes one acquainted with other prosperous persons;
people who have a good concern in the City cannot remain
io VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
on intimate terms with cemetery gardeners. Do not blame
Aunt Eliza; 'tis the way of the world. She had not called
at the lodge for fourteen years.
One day, in leafy May, the laburnum and the lilacs being
in full flower, there entered the gates a procession of great
length and magnificence, with such waving plumes and such
a pile of flowers as denoted respect to success. Evidently
a prince in Israel. Vera, sitting in her room with her back
to the window, was conscious only of prolonged blackness
grating over the gravel.
When everything was over, and the mourners were re¬
turning to their carriages, one of them, a portly dame of
benevolent aspect, walking beside her husband—'twas he
of the great provision shop—whispered : ' John, I must stay
behind and see him, if it's only for poor Amelia's sake. Tell
them I am staying to see the grave of a friend. You go on,
and I will get home by myself, somehow.'
When the last carriage had passed through the gates,
Aunt Eliza opened the door of the lodge.
' Goodness gracious !' she cried, ' I suppose you're Vera?
Lord! how you're grown! A young woman, I declare;
and a pretty one, too ! Give me a kiss, my dear. I'm
your aunt Eliza, come for a funeral! Well, to be sure!
Why, it's a pretty room and all, though, of course, one
wouldn't expect to find you sitting on a coffin-lid. And
where's your father, my dear ?'
When at last she went away, she held out both hands,
and kissed her niece kindly.
' My dear,' she said, ' it's perfectly dreadful to think of a
child like you—a big girl, too—sitting among the tombs all
the while, like as if you were possessed, seeing nobody, and
talking to nobody, and going nowhere. It's enough to make
one melancholy mad! You shall come to see us. John
and me will make you welcome. Look here, now, Vera,
my dear—I remember when your father wanted to call you
Sweet William, or some such name — you come next
Saturday afternoon. Come early, and I'll get you some
pretty things to wear, though white is always becoming, I
will say that. In the evening we'll go to the theatre, and
see my favourite, Nina Cazalet; Sunday morning, if it's
fi-ne, we always drive out. There's open house for dinner,
and the rest of the day spent with such laughing and talk-
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS 11
ing as you never heard. Ugh !' she shuddered ; ' you can't
laugh in a cemetery. That's right, you'll come. Don't let
on about the Grc and, you know. In a year or two, perhaps,
when the young man comes along, you can break it gently.
That's settled, then, and I'm glad I came — truly glad
I am.'
IY.
A place filled with people; the women in lovely dresses,
smiling and talking, the men as animated and as happy as
custom permits. Bright light everywhere ; a band playing
sweet music; a curtain painted with girls and young men ;
flowers, dances, and sunshine ; the air charged with the
perfume of joy and youth. Vera sat beside her aunt in the
front row of the dress-circle, her eyes wide open, her lips
trembling, her hands trembling, her whole frame tingling
with the wonder and the novelty of it.
Then the curtain drew up, and for three hours Vera was
ravished away. The theatre existed no longer; she was not
sitting before a stage ; she was looking on, unseen, at fairy¬
land. She saw, for the first time, youth and the happiness
of youth ; the joy of being beautiful, the joy of being loved,
the joy of living and wooing, the joy of sunshine, the joy of
life; for the first time she felt that yearning for joys un¬
attainable which glorifies youth, though it too often makes
that time unhappy. She heard the gospel of joy. When
the house laughed she felt as if something jarred. It was as
if she was recalled rudely to the actual world. The bell
would be tolling next. She looked on gravely, wondering.
When the curtain fell between the acts she sighed and
gasped, and the tears came into her eyes. When her aunt
spoke to her, she replied faintly, because her mind was with
the play.
Among the company was an actress who took the leading
part. To this girl she seemed like a being of whose exist¬
ence she had never even dreamed. She was young, she was
beautiful: she had a sweet face and a sweet voice, her lips
were always smiling, her eyes beamed with happiness and
with mirth; in the play all the men loved her and courted
her, in the house the young men clapped their hands for joy
whenever she appeared. She was the Queen, the Goddess,
12 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPllANOTIS
the Patron Saint of love and happiness and beauty. Vera
followed her as she moved upon the stage ; her carriage, her
gestures, her voice, her eyes, fascinated the girl.
When all was over they came home through the lamplit
streets in a hansom. Vera went to bed too much excited to
sleep ; happy just to lie and recall the evening, and to see
again in imagination the actress who had charmed her with
her simple spell and pretence of happiness.
On Monday she went home, arriving with the second pro¬
cession of the day. All the day, all the week, she walked
about restlessly; in the evening she wandered in the
Ground : but she avoided the inhabited portion. She had
to pass through the graves in order to get to the unused
field; she shuddered as she passed, because her head was
filled with a yearning after what she had seen upon the
stage. These poor dead people had been taken, perhaps,
from such a world of joy—a world where the undertaker is
not seen. Only in the far corner of the field did she feel
able to give herself up to the thought and recollection of the
theatre.
When Saturday came she did a strange thing. First, she
made up a bouquet of white flowers, then she wrote a little
note and pinned it among the flowers : ' From Vera. I love
you. If you will let me love you, carry my bouquet.' She
tied up her bouquet in silver paper, and, after tea, at six
o'clock, she took her jacket and her hat, and went out of the
gates and turned down the road in the direction of London.
Her father was gone to his club. Ho would not get home
until ten, and she always went to bed at nine. He would
not know.
It was nearly eight o'clock when she arrived at the
theatre. She boldly walked in through the crush of the
people who were crowding in, and asked the ticket-taker
how she was to convey her flowers to Miss Nina Cazalet.
He directed her to the stage-door, where she found no diffi¬
culty in sending in her gift. Then she returned to the front
of the house. Here she made the discovery that dress-circle
seats were seven shillings a-piece, and she had but two
shillings in her purse. With this modest sum, however, she
found a place in the pit, and sat there, with beating heart,
until the curtain rose.
Alas ! Nina Cazalet came in without her louiuet, and
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
13
her heart felt as heavy as lead. Then she reflected that in
such a piece the actress could not carry a bouquet. This
thought relieved her. Perhaps the actress would make
some sign to her ; but no sign came. Then she remembered
that the actress could not possibly know her by sight; and
again she took courage. Finally she surrendered herself to
the magic of the piece, and once more lost all consciousness
while the comedy was played. The theatre over, she came
away. The street was full of people, pushing and shouting.
Vera stood hesitating. Somebody spoke to her. She turned
and walked away. She walked through crowded slums and
through deserted streets. No one molested her; she had
no fear. She came out at length beyond the houses into the
long dark road, stretching north, between hedges. All the
way she noticed nothing. Her brain was filled with the
voice of the actress, and with her face, and with the magic
of her grace, and with the joy, unlike anything ever known
on earth, which this sweet white witch poured into the
hearts of those who sat at her feet.
It was a fine night; the stars were out. The lilac filled
the air as Vera turned into the lodge garden. She crept
noiselessly upstairs. She opened her window and looked
out; she could see the white lines of headstones and of
tombs.
' Oh,' she thought, ' did they ever know—those poor
things, the dead—that there are places where people do
nothing but laugh and sing, and are always happy ?'
V.
Miss Nina Cazalet sat in her room under the hands of a
dresser. As one who entirely realized how much the attrac¬
tions of a woman are assisted and heightened by art, she
generally took the keenest interest in every detail of her
stage toilette. This evening she was passive and silent.
This queen of joy, at whose presence the clouds of care
rolled back, was herself gloomy. A sense of impending mis¬
fortune hung over her. She held in her hand a letter, which
she had read twenty times, and each time with a heavy
sigh. It was from her lover. ' Choose,' it said, almost in
so many plain words, ' choose between your lover and your
14 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
profession. Give up the stage or give up the lover.' _ A
dreadful alternative. She would have been happy with
both, but with one only of the two she would be wretched.
How could she give up her lover ? how could she give up
her art ? ' Choose,' said her lover; 11 will await your
choice.'
' Something dreadful is going to happen,' she said to her
dresser. ' Last night I had terrible dreams. I've had this
letter for three days, and every time I try to answer it I am
held back. I cannot answer it. A cruel letter ! What
has made him write it ?'
' Don't think about it till the piece is over.'
' No—not till the piece is over.' Nina sat upright and
nerved herself. ' I've had such a frightful headache all day
long—I can hardly drag my limbs. But I shall manage,
somehow. Oh !' she started nervously, ' who is that knock¬
ing at the door ?'
It was something tied up in silver paper. Nina tore it off
impatiently.
' Always the same,' she said. ' Every Saturday for the
last two months. Who is Vera, I wonder?' She opened
the note. ' Always the same words : "I love you. If you
will let me love you, wear these flowers." They are beauti¬
ful flowers. Who is Vera?' She sat up and looked at the
writing. The characters were square, and almost childish.
1 Mysterious Vera ! I am haunted by her. Well, I will
find out who she is. Out of curiosity I will wear her flowers
to-night. Let her love me? Well, there are not many
women who want to love me. As for the men Put the
flowers here—they are very pretty.'
The toilette was finished. The orchestra played the last
bars, the bell rang, the curtain rose up; the actress, with
glowing cheeks, smiling lips, and bright eyes, ran upon the
stage, while the house rang with cheers. Oh ! who could
hope to be as happy and as careless as this godlike creature ?
She carried away all who sat in that great house—all, even
the poor dressmakers' drudges in the gallery were rapt and
ravished out of themselves, and for three short hours lived
in a paradise of song and happiness and merry carelessness.
A witch! a sorceress ! But a white witch, a benevolent,
kindly witch, who used her power for the happiness of the
world.
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
When she appeared upon the stage the young men gasped
and drew their breath, and many changed colour, being
victims of Love the mocker, who fills young men's hearts with
yearning for the unattainable. And the girls all murmured
' Oh!' with a long sigh of admiration and of envy. In the
front row of the pit there sat a young girl. She, at the sight
of Nina, turned first red and then pale. She was quite alone,
which is unusual in the pit—or any other part of the house
—even for older girls. She rose, and asked those behind
her kindly to make room. She passed out, and did not
return.
It was half-past eleven when Nina drove home. She
lived alone, save for her maid and her servants, and had a
first-floor flat in Victoria Street. Her evening's work had
been too much for her ; she climbed the stair with difficulty,
dragging her limbs, and leaning on the balustrade; her head
reeled ; her eyes ached.
She opened her door and went into her dining-room. The
supper was laid; the lamp burned low ; the windows were
wide open for the warm air of July; the lamps of the street
lighted the room. At the open window sat a figure dressed
in white. When Nina entered, the figure rose. It was a
girl. Nina saw that she was very young, and that her eyes
were beautiful.
' My dear,' she said, surprised, ' who are you ? And
what are you doing in my room? Unless '—her eyes wan¬
dered—' unless you are a ghost.'
' I am Vera,' said the girl.
' You are Vera ! Who is Vera ? Oh ! I remember.'
' You wore my flowers—you will let me love you. Oh!'
—the girl caught her hand and kissed it—' you are so
lovely 1 you are so happy ! I have never seen anyone so
happy.'
Nina reeled and caught the back of a chair.
' This is some dream,' she said. ' I am in a delirium. I,
happy ? And with this letter in my pocket ? You are come
to mock me.'
She caught her burning forehead with her hands, and
sank senseless on the floor. The fever which had been
hovering about her all day long seized her in its strong
clutch and held her fast, so that for three long weeks she
knew nothing.
16 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPIIANOTIS
The papers next day announced, with great concern, that
Miss Cazalet was taken ill with some kind of fever. Every¬
body began to talk about the bad ventilation and the smells
of the theatre. Next day, and for many days afterwards,
the street was blocked with the carriages of those who came
to inquire after the actress. They drove and they walked ;
they left cards, or they humbly took an answer and walked
away. Most of them brought flowers ; Covent Garden was
cleared out every morning; the Parcel Post brought boxes
of flowers from all parts of the country ; there were flowers
enough to furnish the weapons for a carnival. But the
recipient of all this sympathy lay unconscious on her bed,
revealing to her nurse all the secrets of her heart.
What the papers did not know was that, by the happiest
accident in the world, Miss Nina Cazalet had obtained the
services of a nurse more devoted, more watchful, more
jealous, than even the most scientific sister in the most
difficult case of the most dangerous ward. For Vera
stayed.
VI.
' I don't believe you care a straw what becomes of Vera,'
said Aunt Eliza. ' What? She stays away for three weeks,
and you never so much as ask where she is.'
' I thought she was with you,' replied the head gardener.
' Nothing of the kind.'
' Where is she, then ?'
' Staying with an actress. How she got to know her—
however she came to think of it—how in the world—but
there's no sounding the artfulness of a girl.'
' An actress ?'
'Oh, the girl's in good hands; I will say that. An
actress, I said. 'Tis none other than Miss Nina Cazalet
herself. I've been to the house ; she lives in a most beauti¬
ful flat. The furniture is finicking; but, then, you can't
expect actresses to furnish like plain folk. Pinicking, but
pretty. The girl came out to see me. Nina Cazalet'was
ill, and Vera is nursing her. She was very short with me
when I wanted to know how she got there ; but never mind
some day she'll tell me. Well, now, I asked her what
salary she was to have. Nothing at all. Then I asked her
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
■where she took her meals. If she'd lived with the servants
I would have carried her off there and then, I would. But
she doesn't. Boards, I understand, with the family;
treated like them, has what the others have, diet unlimited,
and so far as I could learn, pudding every day. When
Nina Cazalet gets better I shall go and have it out with her.
Meantime, I think Yera's a lucky girl, and you ought to be
thankful, little as you care.'
' The girl,' said the gardener, ' is living with the family;
and there's pudding every day. Of course, a growing girl
requires pudding; stimulates the growth, like a little made
earth. She's safe, and in good hands. In that case
His eyes went out into space again.
VII.
The only man in all London, not counting those who never
go to West End theatres, who did not know that Nina
Cazalet was ill, was the very same young man who had
written that letter. Why had he written it ? Why do
young men ever write cruel letters to young ladies ? It is
the inexorable pater. When the pater is poor, the young
man does what he likes without the formality of asking
permission; nor does the pater who has nothing to leave
expect to be asked. Both are happy, therefore, and should
bless their poverty. This young man, unfortunately, had a
pater who was rich, and, moreover, had absolute power
over his money, which had been ' made.' Oh, the ingenuity
of man which makes money, securities, shares, banknotes,
gold, silver and bronze out of nothing—just nothing at all!
See him in youth—naked, his hands empty. See him again
fifty years later, laden with the money he has made. What
feat of jugglery, what marvel of science; can compare with
this transformation of nothing into everything ?
' My son,' said pater the maker, ' I hear nothing but good
of this girl. I shall not oppose your marriage, because there
is no nonsense in your case about marrying beneath you.
Yet, with your prospects, you might have made a beginning
of family connection. I make only one condition : that she
gives up the stage. I can't have a daughter-in-law acting
every night. I am sure you will acknowledge that I a,rn
i8 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
reasonable. If you marry her without, you will be placed
in the ignoble condition of one who lives upon his wife s
earnings.'
Therefore the young man wrote that letter. ^ He put it as
kindly as he could, but he put it plainly, thinking, in his
folly, that he had asked a small thing. And he had as yet
received no answer. Had he looked at the papers he would
have read that his mistress was ill; had he gone to the club
he would have heard the news. But he did neither. He
sat in his private room in a Bond Street Hotel waiting for a
letter which came not; he roamed the street, melancholy,
asking himself why he had been such a fool as to expect
that such a girl could possibly prefer such a man as himself,
and such a humdrum life as he had to offer her, to the
excitement of the stage and the practice of her art. Young
men often ask themselves such questions; but the reply is
never satisfactory. Why was I such a fool ? Echo replies,
'Such a fool.' How could I have been such an ass?
Another echo, ' Such an ass.' No; it is never a satisfactory
reply.
' A young lady, sir, wishes to see you.' The waiter made
this announcement. ' Won't send up her name, sir.'
' A young lady ? No name ?'
' Quite young, sir. Child, almost. Says you must see
her.'
' Well, let her come up then.'
A girl dressed all in white stood in the doorway looking
curiously at him. Quite a young girl, tall and angular, long
fair hair falling down her back ; big blue eyes. And she
gazed upon him, standing there, while you might have
counted ten.
' I am afraid,' said the youth, «that I do not recol¬
lect '
' No, you have never seen me before.'
' Why do you look at me so curiously then ?'
' I was wondering as I came along what kind of man you
were. Because either you must be the best man that ever
lived for her to love you, or it is a great condescension on
her part—and perhaps a great pity and shame and her
friends ought to interfere,' she added, without so much as a
comma.
' But who are you ?'
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
* I can see from your face that it isn't for your cleverness
that she loves you.'
' Who loves me ?'
' And the letter in my pocket proves that it isn't for your
goodness, for only a foolish or a bad young man could write
such a letter.'
The young man changed colour. Then he threw himself
into a chair.
' Well,' he said, 'I suppose you will tell me presently who
you are and what you want.'
' A man who was not foolish, and was good when such a
lady as Nina '
' As Nina !' He sprang to his feet. ' You come from
Nina ?'
' When such a lady condescended to love him, would be
so much honoured that he would ask for her conditions and
not lay down his own. Oh, to make her happy who every
evening makes hundreds of people happy, and sends them
home full of lovely thoughts, ought to be happiness enough
for any man. But you—oh! you !—you dare to make con¬
ditions. A great genius is in love with you, and you order
her to give up her work. You pretend to love her, and
you ' Here Yera's eyes overflowed, and her voice choked.
'You come from Nina? Tell me, have you a message—a
letter—from her ? Who are you ?'
' My name is Vera; but you do not know me. I am stay¬
ing with Nina. I am never going to leave her, whatever
happens. Never, mind, never.'
She spoke with great firmness and resolution. The young
man gazed at her bewildered.
' Nina is ill,' she went on.
'Nina? 111?'
' She has been ill for three weeks. All the time she has
been off her head, and has been talking about you. That is
why I have come here.'
'Nina? 111?'
' She has come to herself again, and she has left off
talking about you; that was the first sign by which we
knew '
'Nina? 111?'
' And I've come about that letter of yours. Here it is.
I've borrowed it, but I must take it back.'
20
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHAN0T1S
' What am I to do ?'
' Do you want to make her get well, or would you rathe?
kill her? Well, then, sit down and write her another
letter.'
' What am I to say ?'
'You are to say you withdraw this letter, and that you
are truly sorry and ashamed for writing it, and that you
humbly beg her pardon for insulting her with such a con¬
dition, and hope she will forgive you. I wouldn't, if I were
Nina; but perhaps she will, because she is a great deal
better than all other women put together.'
He sat down obediently, his face flushed, his hands trem¬
bling. He wrote rapidly, covering the four pages.
' There,' he said, ' give her that. Tell her—tell her if my
life would be of any help to her, I v ould give her that.'
Vera read the letter without asking permission. Since it
concerned Nina's health and happiness, why not ?
' Thank you,' she said. ' It looks as if you were really
sorry; of course, you ought to be. I dare say she will
forgive you, and let you come and see her. I will write to
you.'
' No—no; I will call—I will call this afternoon. I shall
be able to see you, at least.'
Vera turned to. go.
' Stay !' he cried ; ' you think I have been a brute.'
' I do,' she replied, with the candour of an unspoiled
soul.
'You don't understand. I have nothing in the world
except my allowance from my father, who is rich. I have
no profession, and no way of making money. He allows ma
to marry Nina only on the condition that she leaves the
stage. If she does not, he will disinherit me.'
' Is that all ?' asked Yera the unworldly. ' You would
rather keep the money than Nina? What a lover!'
I know not where she got her experience or theory of
love, but this is what she said, with fine contempt in her
eyes.
' Again you_ don't understand. I should then be in the
despicable position of a man who lives upon his wife.'
' Why ? Are you too proud to do something ? I would
mow the lawns and sweep up the leaves rather than do
nothing.'
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS 21
' I am not too proud ; I am only too ignorant.'
' Would you like to be an under-gardener ?' asked Vera,
thinking of her own possible patronage.
He shook his head.
' What can you do ?'
' I can do many things, but nothing that I can make into
money. I can shoot, I can fish, I can play games, I can
ride '
A happy thought—nay, an inspiration—flashed across the
girl's mind. She had often seen a cavalcade ride along the
road—a troop of half a dozen girls with one man, riding.
He was their teacher.
' Why don't you become a riding-master ?'
' Eh ?' The young man started. ' Why not ? I could
teach riding. I will. I cannot live upon Nina's salary.
Tell her, child, that her husband must be independent.
Tell her that if she can stoop to a riding-master '
' I will tell her,' said Vera.
VIII.
A fobtnight later Nina lay on a couch beside the window.
She was dressed—she was rapidly getting better. People
had left off calling; there were no more bulletins ; the pro¬
cession of flowers had ceased to encumber the adjacent
roads. She was better, and she was going to take a long
summer's rest at the seaside. At her feet, in a low chair,
sat Vera, gravely watching in case she might want anything.
' Child,' said Nina, who had been silent, 'he came here
this morning while you were out. Nobody could be kinder.
He is quite fixed about becoming a riding-master.'
' You laughed again yesterday afternoon,' said Vera. ' I
heard you.'
' Did we laugh ? You thought I was never going to laugh
any more. What can I do for you, Vera? Oh, my dear
child! what can I do for you, who have done so much for
me? You dragged me back from the jaws of death; you
have given me life again—and my lover again. What can
I give ycu?'
' Why,' said Vera, 1 you first showed me what happiness
.•means,'
22 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS
' I will play to you, dear.' She rose, and went to the
piano. ' When I am very, very happy—quite happy—X
don't want to talk or to laugh, but to play soft music.
People only laugh and make merry, because they want to
be happy. It is a sign. Old people do not laugh, because
there is no more happiness to be hoped ; and happy people
never laugh, because they have got all they want. Let me
play to you.'
She played for a quarter of an hour, softly. Then sho
began to talk while she played.
' I shall be so happy that laughing and singing will
become a burden to me. They are the prelude, you "know
—only the prelude—like the overture to the play. That is
why, when you first knew me, you were so attracted. You
were made to expect something, which excited and pleased
you. There is only one kind of happiness in the world, and
I have it—thanks to you, Vera, thanks to you !'
She turned her music-stool, and held out her arms.
' Child! You are nothing but a bag of bones and big
blue eyes. That is because you have spent yourself in
saving me. Now I shall make you grow fat and strong.
Vera '
' Well, Nina?'
4 You have told me everything—all about your father and
your aunt, who is a dear, good soul; but there is one thing
you have never told me—where did you get all those beauti¬
ful flowers ?'
Vera shuddered. Three weeks before she would not have
shuddered.
' I took them all,' she said, ' from the new-made graves.'
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
CHAPTEB I.
THE LAMENT OF DIVES.
| Is it really five years, Kit, since last we met ? I suppose
it may be so long ; but I have left off counting Time.'
' Why should you count Time, dear Dives ? You have
onjy to enjoy all the time there is. You can make the most
of every moment. When it is finished you can live in the
next. For the rich, time crawls. It is by those who work
that Time must be counted, because in the space he allows
to them they must make their money. This is the reason
why, to some of us, he flies, he gallops. Lord! how short
is the day when it is spent in work ! What says the song,
my own song ?
'" Life is long—for those who toil not;
Only long—for those who play."'
There were two young men sitting in a set of Chambers.
The place was simple Pall Mall: the time was two in the
afternoon : the season was June. The day was very hot
—every nody remembers the great heats of June in that
present year of grace: the windows were thrown open for
the air, and from the street below came up the continual
rolling of the cabs and the tread of many feet.
They had been lunching together ; the table was not yet
cleared, but they had left it: one of the two had taken the
largest and easiest chair in the room, and was now curled
up in it with every outward indication of complete physical
24
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
comfort. The other was standing at the empty fireplace,
leaning against the mantel-shelf.
The young man leaning against the mantel-shelf was he
who had left off counting Time. He was the tenant of the
Chambers—Denis Stirling by name—and he should have
been distinctly, even enviably, good-looking. In fact, he
was possessed of regular features, good eyes, light hair, and
comely limbs; but his handsome face was marred by a
cloud of chronic discontent, and his speech by a weariness
which was not at all like the Nineteenth Century Lassitude
of which we used to hear so much and now hear nothing.
That has gone: it has retired into the Limbo of old
Fashions, Fads, Hobbies, Affectations, and Pretences by
which small souls seek to seem great. This weariness was
not, with Denny Stirling, an affectation at all; profound
discontent really possessed his soul. A young gentleman
ought not to be always grumpy, particularly a young gentle¬
man who has everything that, in the opinion of other young
men, ought to remove grumpiness. It is, indeed, a condi¬
tion of mind which sits ill upon all youth, even on the very
stonebroke. In the days, not long ago, when young men
of superior intellect and the Higher Culture showed, by an
air of melancholy, the burden laid upon them by the mere
presence of the uncultured, they all with one consent
avoided grumpiness. One could stand apart, chin in air :
one could be melancholy in falsetto : one could sprawl; but
one could not be grumpy.
The other young man, he who lay low in the easy-chair
and purred with mere physical ease and comfort, was in
figure stout, even round: in complexion ruddy: he had
short brown hair : his nose was broad; this is always an
excellent sign in man, and betokens good fellowship : his
eyes, which were protected by spectacles—not a pince-nez,
but plain outspoken spectacles—gleamed behind those
orraments like unto the big Fiji cats' eyes: quite ordinary
observers would have remarked that there lay in his eyes
the light which poets call the twinkle, likening it unto the
flickering of the stars. This is happily not uncommon
among us. Cranks, faddists, hystericals, advocates of
women's suffrage, and those who think to make the world
wise and good by Acts of F^liament, cannot possibly havq
THE LAMENT OF DIVES
25
it. Nature denies it to them. Bishops, however, are some¬
times endowed with the twinkle : and I have known Editors
of comic papers to lack it. One can imagine a Pope with
a twinkle ; but not the President of the United States.
The Irish vote forbids it. The name of this young man
was Cotterel, and as, of his two Christian names, the one
of which he was the less proud was Christopher, of course
his friends always called him Kit.
He sat up in his chair and poured out another glass of
Champagne, which he held up to the light, murmuring
softly, as if to himself, ' I love these beads, that rise out of
nothing and bubble on the surface. They mean joy and
idleness. Why cannot we always be idle and happy?
Dives, you are idle, you should be happy. There is froth
upon the tankard : there are bubbles in the soda; but they
are not the beads of the French vintage.'
' Kit,' said the other impatiently, ' you talk as if you
were still an undergraduate. How can a man of your age
sing the praises of Champagne?'
' In the matter of Champagne I am always an under¬
graduate. Denny, it was a happy chance that threw us
together again to-day. The world is so big that we might
never have met. Yet it is so small, especially at this end
of it, that one is always meeting somebody. This is the
narrow end—your end—the fat and toothsome end—where
Champagne flows from all the aqueducts. My end is the
Fleet Street end, which is lean and thirsty, and given to a
cheap drink made, I am told, of an infusion of malt.'
I give notice that those people who believe that what is
called the Supernatural requires, even for its most remark¬
able developments, anything beyond the most commonplace
surroundings, had better read no farther, unless, which i3
too seldom the case, they are prepared on the spot to
change their convictions. As everybody knows, who has
read the recent works of the more advanced thinkers, it is
no longer the romantic surrounding that is wanted. Things
most remarkable now take place daily under the most
commonplace conditions. Things most unexpected are now
developed in simple drawing-rooms—nay, one is told, in
rpoms Qf club§, We no longer look to the Moated Grange,
26
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
the Ruined Abbey, the Deserted Churchyard, for spirits and
their companions of the silent world. They come to us m
our own houses and in broad daylight. It is, after all, only
a return to the good old times. The Jinn was wont to sit
upon the bare rocks by the sea-shore in the open day,
rejoicing in the sun : he visited the fisherman in his hut at
noontide : in the cool of the afternoon he walked, for all the
world to see, under the shade of the trees in the Caliph's
garden. It is therefore no new thing that the Other World
should call, so to speak, upon the World of London. Is not
the West End as good as Thibet? Why should Arabia the
Happy be preferred to Kensington the Comfortable ?
No historian before myself has discovered that these con¬
descensions or advances, these offers of familiarity on the
part of the Other World, occur regularly at intervals of
about a hundred years, and always towards the close of a
century. Amazing things are recorded of Alchemists, at
the end of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth cen¬
turies. Again, at the great awakening of a hundred years
ago there appeared prophets, clairvoyants, and mesmerists.
At the present day, there are those who annihilate space :
those who bring messages from the dead with the regularity
of the telegraph department: those who practise palmistry
and divination. Those who lifted tables have retired in
sulks. Therefore, the things which I have to describe need
not be considered as in any way more remarkable than
other things which daily happen under our very noses, and
are witnessed by most credible spectators; and as you will
presently discover, they were neither remarkably new nor
remarkably original. No reader of history expects things
new and original.
' But what are you doing, Kit ?' asked Denny.
' I have been called to the Bar. I wish they hadn't called
me, because the fees finished off all that was left. I am
starving, Denny.'
He looked up and laughed, with the glass in his hand.
Bacchus himself, dressed in modern garments, might thus
have looked and thus have laughed.
' But you are fat, Kit; fat, smiling, and apparently happy.'
' Who would not smile over a bottle of champagne ? But
I am starving, all the same, That is to say, I actually have
THE LAMENT OF DIVES
27
to work. Denny, my friend,' he proceeded solemnly, ' work
is called the common lot; it is a fatiguing lot. I work '—
he sighed—' for such of the journals and organs and things
as will have me. I don't get on very fast because'—he
yawned—' I work so little. If I smile it is with an aching
heart, because I abhor work.'
' He abhors work!' Denny repeated it with wonder.
' Why it seems to me as if there was nothing else in the
whole world worth having.'
' I have had, I own, ambitions. I would rise ; I would
soar,'—he flapped his elbows and rajsed his feet off the
cushions,-—' but this fat, foolish body of mine forbids. It
will be fed with meat and drink, fumigated with tobacco,
lapped in slumber in bed, and laid at rest in club chairs. It
is a beast of a body. I could become a great novelist or a
great dramatist but for this body. As it is, I have to
remain the greater part of the day in idleness, and therefore
in poverty. Sometimes—but never mind. And you ?'
' I am still, as you said, Dives. I am a millionaire.' He
said this with a face of the deepest gloom. ' Nothing more.
I continue in great riches.'
'Fie upon it for a troublesome complaint! yet, methinks
there are remedies.'
' Not when one is so enormously rich as I am. Well,
Kit, your poverty does you no harm, your laugh is as strong
and genuine as ever. I suppose you still make up stories
and tell them, and still write songs and sing them ?'
' I do. If I want them sung I must sing them myself, so
I go to the club, and sing them there. And I make plays,
and have to act them myself, if I want them acted. Tell
me about yourself. You have been travelling. What else?
You look less cheerful, now I come to look at you, than a
man should in your delightful position. Life—I quote from
one of my unacted and unfinished comedies—is like this
glass, full of bubbles. They rise and sparkle and disappear;
yet they are delightful when we catch them. Why don't
you sit and catch those bubbles? Go on, sweet Dives.'
' I have nothing to tell at all. I've been travelling. The
world is now full of hotels, and they are all exactly alike.'
' If it's a good pattern of hotel, why not ? Come now.
Why not ?'
11 have done nothing, and I never shall do anything,
*8
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
except receive my dividends, and spend some of them.
That is all.'
' The Emperor Domitian ended a similar career by catch¬
ing flies. You used to talk formerly, I remember, about
certain responsibilities '
' Oh yes—yes ! we used to talk.' The young man dropped
his hands into his pockets as if they lived there. ' When-
we "were young we used to talk a good deal of nonsense. It
did no harm, and helped to pass the time. I ve gone
through those illusions.'
' That seems unlucky. Now, for my part, I cherish every
one of the illusions. Hang it, sir, if it were not for the dear
old illusions—Love, Friendship, Unselfishness — do you
suppose that anyone would take the trouble to read my
novels when they come to be written, or to see my plays
'when they come to be acted ?'
' If I employed any people, I might own to responsibilities.
But I don't. They have converted the "Works into a
Company, and bought me out. If I had an e;tate and
tenants I might feel responsibility; but I have none. I do
not possess an acre of land or a house anywhere. Nobody
pays me rent; nobody receives wages from me; nobody
curses me, and nobody blesses me. My money is all in
funds and securities of that kind. I have no responsibilities
at all—except to humanity in the abstract.'
' A hard case. Well, you can fall in love. That will
pick one individual out of the lump of humanity. There
are lots of really nice girls who wouldn't mind marrying a
rich man, however rich he might be, if he would put his
case prettily.'
' Love ? Well . . . sometimes I think so. But I dis¬
trust women. They would only marry me for my money.'
' Dear me—this is sad. You really must get something
to do, Denny. Why not go in for politics ? No ? There is
literature. There is Art.'
' Without the stimulus of necessity one cannot one is
afraid of being third-rate, after all.'
' You've got 'em pretty bad, old man,' said Kit. ' About
as bad as they are made.'
' You lucky beggars who've got to work '
'Lucky beggars —lucky—who've got to work J' Kit
repeated, staccato.
THE LAMENT OF DIVES
29
1 You can go on with the old illusions. You can believe
in philanthropy, lofty human nature, disinterested self-sacji-
fice, pure patriotism and all the rest of it.'
' These are very alarming symptoms,' said Kit.
' Nobody knows'—young Dives plunged his hands deeper
into his pockets—' nobody can understand what a disgust¬
ing thing it is to have so much money. It takes the colour
and the taste out of everything. It makes everything yellow.
It turns everything into cold boiled veal.'
' Cold boiled veal,' Kit replied thoughtfully. ' It is a food
seldom exhibited at the club.'
' If one was an eldest son, a man of family, with a title
and an ancient name and a good old house, it would be
endurable. As for me, I came into an immense pile of
money and a going concern when I was ten. I've got no
family : I can't even show a coat of arms : the ancestral
smockfrock or the leathern apron is within the memory of
the aged.'
' Dreadful!'
' It began at school. All the other fellows looked forward
to work: they had a career before them and distinction to
win. The rich boy—people don't understand how lonely it
makes him—knows that he needn't work at all. He hasn't
got to learn anything. You might as well expect a girl
engaged to be married to learn a trade. The older you grow
the worse it is for you. If you've got any abilities—Lord
knows whether I have any—it seems like taking the bread
out of some other fellow's mouth to cultivate them. You
happy fellows who've got no money can show the world how
clever you are. All I had to learn was a taste for claret, so
to speak.'
' Very good thing,' said Kit, ' if you can get good claret.
The taste without the claret is what they have given to
Tantalus and to me.'
' Other fellows,' Dives went on, ' when they want any¬
thing, have got to work for it. That makes them understand
how good it is. As for me, the moment I begin to want a
thing, I am able to buy it. You know you can't value any¬
thing if all you've got to do is to order it.'
'True . . . Most true.'
• And when you come of age and go out into the world,
you find out—every rich man finds this out in a very short
30
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
time—that mankind are mostly made up of those who beg
and those who steal. When he discovers this, he has to
spend most of his time in protecting himself.'
' One has heard something of this kind before. You put
on armour, I have heard—the whole armour of Indiffer¬
ence.'
' They find out where you are, though you hide yourself
under an assumed name in an island of the Pacific Ocean.
They pelt you with letters : they lay every kind of trap for
you : they ransack your record to find out your weak places:
they threaten, cajole, flatter, weep : they lie in wait for you
when you go out of the house : they get inside the door on
false pretences : they develop inconceivable craft and
subtlety, and all to get your money.'
' And you meet them '
' I never answer any of the letters. I never reply to any
of the sturdy beggars, I never give anything to the earnest
secretaries, the starving curates, the importunate widows,
the distressed authors, the paralyzed old ladies '
' Poor old things !' said Kit.
' I answer none of their letters. Only the invitations—
the invitations,' he repeated, with a weary sigh. 'I suppose
that you, now, are still able to accept an invitation with the
hope of pleasure ?'
' If there is good claret in the house and the girls are nice,
why not ?'
' Why not, for you ? Under the smiles of the hostess you
do not detect designs : you do not see an intention to catch
a prize for her daughter—you do not fear that the host is
going to spring a trap upon you in order to get some of your
money.'
' None of these terrors assail me,' said Kit.
' In short, you have not learned to mistrust the whole
world ?'
' I have not. But I now perceive where the yellow
comes in.'
' Happy man ! Your poverty is your best treasure. Oh !'
his languor dropped from him and he spoke in earnest.
' There ought to be no rich men: it is bad for the State that
men should become rich : it is ruin—ruin—for a man to be
born rich. Wealth makes paupers, beggars, and thieves—
all our charity only generates more paupers and more
THE LAMENT OF DIVES
3i
thieves. We alleviate suffering in order to disguise the
cause of suffering : yet men can only learn how to act by
suffering : you cannot raise, or lift, or shove along humanity
by persuasion, by coaxing, by bribing : the only thing that
will save the world is pain. Prick the sluggish lump, and it
bellows : starve it and it moves. When humanity has been
at last lashed into understanding, men will learn—not
before.'
' Oh ! I say,' said Kit.
Denny stopped with a queer kind of laugh.
' I ought to be the last to preach this doctrine, of course.
That is because I am rich—if I had nothing I could preach
whatT believe. Nevermind—come back to the mistrust.
Man, I mistrust, I say, the whole world—whom do I not
mistrust ? My oldest friend—the girl whom I might have
loved—every poor wretch who is starving, but who may be
an impostor—every good cause—even philanthropy itself—
every church, and everybody in it, from Archbishop to pew-
opener.'
' I now understand,' said Kit, ' the cold boiled veal. And
it is a great pity that you cannot borrow my eyes for a
little.'
' What would be the good of borrowing your eyes ?'
' If you had my eyes you would perceive that there are
people in the world who never beg at all and only steal on
recognised principles—as when the Q.G. takes fifty guineas
and doesn't even read the case. You would also make the
acquaintance of people who would help you to keep up the
old illusions—love, friendship, sincerity—everything. I
am in love myself—desperately in love, with the dearest,
sweetest, loveliest little fairy in the world, and I ought to
know. Illusions, sir ? Hang it—they are the only realities.
You poor rich creature, if I could only lend you my eyes
for a little spell and make you see—what a difference there
would be in you !'
'Yes, Kit—yes—if '
' Come down and live with me for a bit. Come in dis¬
guise. Pretend to be a Pauper. My friends won't care,
provided you are a clever and a clubable Pauper. To be at
once a Pauper and a Pool,' he added thoughtfully, ' must be
the Devil.'
' It would be no use. I should be found out next day.
32
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
Then the distressed gentlewoman would be upon niS
again.'
' The long purse can buy pretty well everything,' said
Kit. ' Why not look about for a mercenary Jinn or a hard-
up fairy and pay him to do your bidding, and change you
into something else for a while—say, a strolling banjo*
man? There must be spells and incantations in existence,
if one knew how to get hold of them. You might get a
Lamp or—or—I say, what the deuce is the matter ?' He
jumped out of his chair as he asked the question, gazing in
wonder on his companion.
For Mr. Denis Stirling was giving evidence by face and
eyes and by gesture of surprise in extremity. He leaned
back no longer, but stood upright, showing, very strongly
the symptoms above delicately hinted at.
' What is it, man ?'
' I did not know. I had forgotten—I thought it was only
an old wife's story.'
' Forgotten what ?' And again Kit's voice died away in
a whisper. He tried to pour out for himself another glass
of champagne, by way of cordial; but his fingers lacked the
strength to clutch the bottle, and he felt as if the earth were
rolling beneath him.
' I learned it in Damascus,' the other returned. ' I paid
a large sum of money for the secret. My friend, your words,
spoken in jest, recalled a possession which I hardly ever
thought to employ. With your permission—if you will—■
that is—be so extremely obliging '
' What am I to permit ?'
' What you proposed, I say, in jest, can be effected if you
please.'
' What did I propose ?'
' That I should see things with your eyes. In order to
do that we should have to exchange ourselves.'
' That is impossible. There are no longer any slaves of
the Lamp or King.'
' Perhaps. But the thing remains. Consider a moment,
Kit.' He spoke quite steadily and fluently; but kept
his eyes fixed upon his friend, who had no choice but to
meet his gaze. And still the earth sank under him and
things went round and round, and it was as if the room
and everything in it had vanished clean away. ' Consider,
THE LAMENT OF DIVES.
33
Thy friend. This exchange is no new thing. It is, on the
other hand, quite a common thing—we read of it every¬
where. The incantations of Circe are founded on this
secret. By means of this the great Afreet Sakhr conveyed
the soul of King Solomon, for three days, into the body of
a kitchen scullion. Thus was Lucius transformed into an
Ass : thus King Kobert of Sicily was made to become a
beggar. Nay, even parts of men have been sold or ex¬
changed. Thus are the cases of Peter Schlemihl, who sold
his shadow: of Luke Lucraft, who sold his appetite : of
L>r. Jekyll, who changed his outward appearance : Thack¬
eray's Baron . . . not to speak of Mr. Bultitude and the
boy '
' You cannot, really.'
' I can if you will permit me. The thing, as I said, is by
no means new.'
' Hang it!' said Kit. ' The question is whether it is new
to me. It is no new thing for a baby to be born; but to
me it made all the difference in the world. And dying is
quite common, but the thing will have all the interest ef
entire novelty to me. Are you joking, Denny ?'
' Certainly not. See . . .' He went into his bedroom
and returned with a box, about the size of a glove-box, made
of scented wood, carved. ' This contains a phial. Behold
it!' He opened the box and showed a long flat bottle lying
in a red silk cushion within. ' This is a very precious box
indeed. There are not half-a-dozen boxes in the world
containing anything so precious. The secrets, my friend,
which belong to the soul have been discovered long ago—
long before those which belong to the body. The contents
of this phial acts upon the will as cocaine acts upon the
nerves.'
' "Why upon the will ?'
'How should I know? If a man takes a few drops of
this preparation he surrenders his will, for the time, com¬
pletely to the person who administers it. Look at me. Do
not take your eyes away.' He spoke with authority, but
indeed Kit felt that his eyes were fixed; .he was fascinated,
as the bird by the snake. ' If you take them, for in¬
stance '
' If I take them——' repeated Kit, feeling a3 if he were
in a dentist's chair after the chloroform.
3
34
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' If yon take them, I shall carry out your proposal, I shall
exchange with you. That is to say, you will enter into my
body as into a lodging—you with your own mind, your own.
memories, your own learning, your own inclinations. I into
yours. Do you consent ?'
' For how long ?'
' We can say a day—a week—a month—just as you like.
But to do anything at all in the time, we want three months
at least. We will say three months exactly to the day.
Are you agreed to that ?'
Kit murmured something. Ho was growing weaker and
weaker.
' Kemember, you will have absolute control of everything
that is mine. You can buy, spend, lend, give, do what you
please with the whole of my fortune. I trust you with it
unreservedly. Only I warn you that you will find it
desperately dull. I, for my part, shall have to get along
as best I can with your more slender means. You will
have, for three months, just as fine a time as unlimited
wealth can give you.'
' It is like a dream,' Kit murmured. ' I will make Kosie
the happiest girl in the world. They shall all be happy—
all be happy.'
' Then—you consent ?'
' With joy—with pleasure—with . .
Kit lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was stand¬
ing with his back to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel¬
shelf. He turned and saw, to his amazement, in the mirror,
not himself at all—but Denny Stirling. On the shelf stood
the ivory box, and in it lay a long flat phial, from which a
few drops had been taken.
' I told you so.' It was his own voice—Kit's voice—that
spoke to him, and in the chair sat Kit himself; but he had
replaced the glass of champagne upon the table, and now
sat up looking strangely alert and wide-awake.
' I told you so,' Kit repeated. ' Don't look so astonished,
man. The trick is done.'
'What trick? Oh! I remember—I remember. Have I
been fainting ? I felt faint. What have you done ? Where
am I?'
' You will come round in a moment. Stay—drink this
wine. So—that is better. The stuff is awfully strong. As
THE LAMENT OF DIVES.
35
I told you, it acts on the will like cocaine on the nerves.
A most valuable preparation. Well, my friend, you are
all right again now, I hope. You are, for three months,
Denis Stirling, and I, for three months, am Arthur Christo¬
pher Cotterel.'
4 Oh !' The nouveau riche straightened himself out.
' Yes !—now I remember. You mesmerized me, I think,
and you gave me something or other—and, upon my word,
old man, you are the greatest magician of modern times.
Maskelyne is nothing to you. And—I say—I am Dives—
I am Dives !' He threw out his arms and laughed aloud.
And then he sighed a deep and grateful sigh. ' I am Dives,'
he repeated. ' I have got possession, for three months, of
an enormous income. Oh! it's splendid ! As for you,
Denny my boy—I mean Kit—I am sorry for you, because
you will have to be on the trot in a way you hardly expected.
You've got fifteen and sixpence in your pocket: you are
three weeks overdue with your landlady and there is a
sheaf of little bills lying on the table. A very lively time
you are likely to have.'
Kit, or Denny, sprang out of his chair.
' For three months I've got to work or starve ! Why, I
feel as strong—as strong ! Oh ! it is splendid ! I have
got to earn the daily bread.'
Denny, or Kit, sank into the empty chair and took up
Kit's abandoned glass of champagne, and fell back with
Kit's laziness.
' For three months,' he murmured, ' nothing to do but to
lie down and to enjoy the fruits of the earth in due season,
and to make everybody else enjoy them. For three long
months ! What a chance ! What a chance !'
CHAPTER II.
the dinner bell.
When the first dinner bell rang, those who were playing
tennis on the lawn began to play up faster, in order to make
the most of the minutes left to them : those who were stroll¬
ing and talking together in the garden turned reluctant steps
and slowly sauntered homeward: those who were sitting in
36 THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
the shade lazily moved their limbs and looked regretfully
at the setting sun.
It was an evening near the end ot August, when the sun
goes down about seven, and the dinner bell tolls also t e
knell of parting day. The day had been fine ; the sky was
blue overhead, and rosy to west and east: the air was
warmed through and through, the fragrance of jessamine
and lingering honeysuckle was borne on the breeze , a few
over-blown roses hung upon the bushes '. the voice of the
blackbird came from the woods, with the prolonged cry of
the yellow-hammer : the gardens were filled with the pro¬
digal luxuriance of late summer and early autumn—tall
hollyhocks flowering at the top, big sunflowers hanging
their heavy heads, sprawling nasturtiums, gladiolus broken
down by the wind, ragged masses of sweet-peas lying over
their sticks, and white-belled figwort—the bells filled with
bumble-bees.
The tennis players were young men and maidens, whose
sports, when they play together, it is at all times a joy to
behold : those who walked in the gardens were young men
and maidens going two and two,—garden walks were
originally made in pious imitation of that sloping way con¬
structed by the Patriarch, hand-railed on either side, which
led into the Ark : those who sat on the terrace, or under
the walnut-tree in the basket-chairs, were also young men
and maidens. It was, in fact, a company of young men
and maidens : if I were young, I should desire no better
company : when one is no longer young, there is no greater
pleasure than to look from a-near upon such a company, and
to be among them, though not of them.
Let me never cease to look on while the Hours them¬
selves, wreathed with flowers, dance, taking hands, and
sing with lusty voices, laughing with merry lips and lovelit
eyes and dimpled cheeks, flashing white arms, and tossing
fair curls over shapely shoulders. They dance not for me,
but for the young, who dance and sing and laugh, and run
along with them, not knowing that they cannot choose but
run. Earth hath no lovelier sight. Let me never turn
from them to look upon those other Hours, which attend
the old. Wrinkled dames are they—but their faces are
sometimes kindly and full of pity,—and thev dance and
sing and laugh no more. But though they are old, they
THE DINNER BELL
37
are still the Hours, and they never cease to run—faster and
faster still—and drag along with them the gray beards and
the old ladies, the rheumatic and the gouty, the asthmatic
and those who cough. Now at last they understand that
they cannot choose but go with the Hours, though the pace
is so cruel and the goal is so uncertain.
The house is not more than five-and-twenty miles or so
out of _ London, but only the county guide and hand-books
know it, because there is as yet no railway within eight
miles of it, and therefore there are no visitors. It is let for
the summer, or for a longer time if he should desire it, to
Mr. Denis Stirling. There is no prettier house anywhere
in the country. It was built at the time—Henry the Eighth
being then young, and of a slender figure—when the old
manor houses, thatched, timbered, plastered, were every¬
where being pulled down, and replaced by more stately
buildings in brick and stone. This house is of brick, a
house built on two sides of a square—the two which face
south and west. It is of two stories : the roof is high,
pierced with many small dormer windows, and covered with
red tiles : the square projecting windows give, it is true, less
light to the rooms than those of a modern house; but such
rooms as these—low, long, panelled with dark cedar, hung
with portraits, brightened with gilding here and there, and
with painted coats of arms, cabinets full of plate and china,
polished armour and gleaming weapons—want less light
than modern rooms, square and lofty. The front of the
house is covered with ivy cut close and trimmed, so that it
shall not hide the brick mouldings over the windows, and
the shield above the door. The rooms look out on a broad
terrace, which would be incomplete without its pair of
peacocks : beyond the terrace is a goodly space of lawn :
beyond the lawn is the garden—the old garden made five
hundred years ago for the solace of the ladies—a sweet and
lovely place wherein to dream the happy hours away with
a companion who shall receive the thoughts and fancies of
an idle summer morning. Here are the things which those
fair damoyselles loved : the fountain and the dial, the walk
covered with greenery of branches interlaced and protected
from the blasts of north and east by a tall hedge of holly
too thick for Boreas at his worst to penetrate : the trees
are mulberries and apples with twisted and moss-grown
38
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
branches : the flower-beds are formal; the flowers are of the
kinds beloved of old—nothing here that hath not been praised
by Elizabethan poets.
The house is part of the village. This is in accordance
with old English ideas: rich and poor must still live side
by side in love and friendship; the Church, which here also
forms part of the village, not dividing, but uniting them.
Except for its tower, which is older, the Church belongs to
the same period as the house: they have restored it quite
lately, and its sharply cut stones want the rounding hand
of Time. We will come to look upon it again after three
hundred years. Let us agree to meet again this day three
hundred years outside the lich-gate. In the churchyard
are the graves of the villagers : in the church are the tombs
and brasses of the people to whom the house and village
have at various times belonged. Outside the churchyard
and the house is the village green, and in the middle of the
village green there is a circle of tall elms surrounding the
old well. The cottages of the people are on the other sides
of the green. And there is nowhere a more peaceful or
more beautiful village than this—nowhere is there a fragment
of Arcacly more truly genuine. Surely—surely the people
must be full of all the rural virtues. Here contentment,
gentle speech and kindly thoughts must ever dwell. This
to believe, raises our love and respect for the rural virtues,
and encourages us in their daily practice, even when we
go back to town, where also the virtues of Arcady may be
practised.
The tenant of this house sat lazily in a basket-chair, one
of the Indian kind, where you can lie back and put up your
feet. He sat with his head on his hand, looking out upon
the garden and upon the people in it. When you saw
Denny Stirling last he was discontented; too much wealth
had made him grumpy : now the sunshine of content glowed
upon his face. He was talking to an elderly lady—there
must always be an elderly lady in every company — we
pretend that it is necessary on account of the convenances,
but it is, really, because the contrast of age with youth is
so useful to the latter. Sophia Gentry was the name of
this old lady. Everybody in the profession knows Sophia,
the water-colour painter. She is not, to be sure, quite the
leader in that branch of English Art, but by that unwearied
THE DINNER BELL
39
brush of hers she first kept her mother : then she kept her
husband and her mother: next, her husband and her
mother and her three children. She still keeps herself,
because so long a struggle leaves nothing behind it in the
way of accumulated wealth. She sat on a low chair beside
her host, her hands crossed in her lap, her face sweet and
benignant, set in its frame of gray hair, a picture of lovely
age.
' Denny, it is disgraceful. You ought to be up and play¬
ing lawn-tennis—or riding—or walking—or doing some¬
thing,' said the old lady. ' You really are the very laziest
man I have ever seen.'
1 Lazier than Kit Cotterel, with whom you are always
comparing me ?'
' Much. Because he is obliged to do something, some¬
times. Otherwise he would starve.'
' I like lying down and looking on and listening,' he
murmured. ' All sorts of thoughts come into a man's head
while he is looking on and listening. Pretty thoughts :
pathetic thoughts, so beautiful that they cannot be written
down.'
' Man does not live on beautiful thoughts alone.'
' Yet, Sophia mine,' he said, ' you who have to marry, on
what do you live ?'
' I live partly on memories,' she replied sadly. ' When
one comes to seventy years there are memories in every
breath of wind, in every hour that strikes—even in every
face that one sees. The dead are with me, Denny, and I
live with them.'
Denny took her hand and pressed it.
' You remind me,' she said, smiling, ' every day more and
more of my poor Kit Cotterel. Not in appearance, because
you are tall and—well—good-looking, sir; while Kit is short
and fat, and not beautiful at all.'
' He isn't ?' said Denny with a laugh and a quick gleam
in his eyes.
' No; not a bit. Even Rosie admits that. But you
have so many of his little tricks. He is fond of pressing
my hand, just to show that he understands me and loves
me : you know he is a kind-hearted lad, our Kit.'
' Humph !' said Denny. ' Is he ?'
' You talk like him; you love to call people by their
4o
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
Christian names, like him : you dislike ceremony, like him :
you even play and sing like him.'
' I told you, Kit gave me all his songs.'
' Yes : and you have caught his manner. And—oh, dear
me—you are so lazy.'
' Why are we here if not to be lazy? It is the summer
season : it is holiday : it is always afternoon : we are all
resting.'
' Yes—that is very well. You can be as lazy as you
please. There is this difference, though. To Kit, his lazi¬
ness is the ruin of his life : because he will not work, he
will not succeed. When it is too late he will repent and
reproach himself. And there is that girl to consider: he
will spoil her life too.'
' Beast of a Kit,' said Denny. ' Pitch into him, Sophia.'
' I was in hopes that you, as his friend, would speak to
him.'
' I have, Sophia, times out of mind. I have said to him,
speaking into the looking-glass, a thousand times: "Kit,
you are a pig." '
' Why into the looking-glass ?'
'Oh! for convenience, of course. Why else? "Kit," I
say, " you are a pig." But it is of no use, none. Kit must
go his own way. My opinion is, that when he has had a
long rest, and the opportunity of learning what his friends
frankly think of him, he will reform. He must. He shall
—he will—reform. I will make him.'
' You? No, Denny, you will only make him worse.'
At this point the dinner bell already spoken of began to
ring.
Sophia got up obediently.
' Think of the poor girl, Denny, and do what you can.
And now I must go. Alas ! only a week more—less than
a week. It is terrible to think that one must go back to
London again, and to the mill. Alas !'
' Alas !' Denny sat up lazily and echoed the sigh.
' As for ever doing it again, you will be too lazy, Denny.
Besides, such a thing is never repeated. It will become
a beautiful dream. I have for once had the life of a country
house in the midst of wealth and plenty and luxury. I
think I have never seen in all my life before so many
peaches and grapes £.§ I have actually devoured these
THE DINNER BELL
41
months. Denny—you foolish, lazy, inconsequentia person,
you have made an old woman happy. You have her
blessing, my son; and as for the girls — but here they
come.
The thing itself is so simple that one wonders why it has
never been done before, and why it is not done every year
by every rich man. Yet it is so unusual—in fact, it never
had been done before by anybody—that to the girls them¬
selves Jit seemed as if the man who did it had been sent
down straight from Heaven, in order to do something for
those who work so. hard and get so little. This young
Dives, as kind-hearted as he was rich, actually invited to
his house—and that the most lovely house ever imagined—
as many girls as the house would hold for the whole of their
summer holidays, if they could get any holidays. He
invited them in companies and troops : he also invited them
individually and severally, because no girl likes to be con¬
sidered one of a company ; and he invited young gentlemen
to meet them—yea, pleasing young gentlemen, open to the
sweet influence of Yenus, that bright planet more powerful
even than the Pleiades : impecunious they were mostly, like
the girls, but hopeful, and some of them had both feet on
the ladder. He said, this benevolent Dives :
' Come, you poor things. You are young : your feet are
aching to dance—you shall dance the soles off your shoes if
you like : your eyes are dim with tears, because your lips
cannot laugh—here you shall laugh as much as you please :
you yearn in your sultry lodgings for the fragrance of the
flowers, the babbling of the streams, the rustling of the leaves
—here you shall have garden, and stream, and woods : you
long for the society of other young people, especially of that
sex which makes sport and causes laughter, creates mirth,
and invents everything for delight and for use—here you
shall find them : you desire the play of youth and its talk,
the words which mean nothing and yet so much—here you
shall have that play. Come to me; I will give you feast,
and dance, and song—perchance, if kind Heaven will, you
shall hear the voice of Love. Other rich men, mOved by
the terrible fate of him who suffered Lazarus to lie at his
gates, draw cheques for hospitals and the relief of the
starving. As for me, I think of the poor gentlewomen for
■whom nothing is done, though they also lie at the gates of
42
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
the rich man's house, and eat the crumbs which fall from
his table. Come, then, all who can.'
Was there ever a more excellent Dives ? What gratitude,
what love, could be found adequate in return for hospitality
so gracious and so unbounded? Nay—it was whispered
that railway journeys were paid; that mysterious gifts of.
frocks, hats, jackets, gloves—and I know not what—arrived
for those girls who were invited. One should not inquire
too closely into these things. Certain it is that there was
no girl among all that company who had reason to be
ashamed of her dress, and how that circumstance could
have happened without mysterious or miraculous interven¬
tion one cannot understand.
They came running in, I say, laughing and chattering—
only twenty minutes left for dressing. Said I not that all
were young? The men were under thirty—well, thirfcy-five
at the outside. After thirty-five, as well as I remember,
one can no longer pretend to the premiere jeunesse: the
women were all under five-and-twenty, with an average
nearer to twenty-one than to twenty-five. In previous
parties at this Summer House of Holiday there had been
ladies of more advanced age, but, for certain reasons of his
own, Denny reserved a party all young for the last four
weeks. At the first aspect of the girls one became conscious
of certain small differences: they were not in all respects
like the girls one generally meets at garden-parties, and
dinners, and evening jumperies. Perhaps they were not
dressed so well: it is difficult for the male historian to speak
with authority on this point; certainly most of them showed
a creditable leaning towards the beautiful in raiment. On
the other hand, free thought, abhorrent to the average
feminine soul, marked their taste. Apart from dress, their
faces were somewhat graver than those of maidens who
belong to society, and their eyes were steadier. For, you
see, these girls were, all of them, every one of them, of those
who work for their livelihood. This fact will account for
many little points of difference. The men with them were
also working bees : not one among them all of those who
spend their lives in shooting and fishing and hunting, and
so earn the poet's reproach of barbarian. Now, if you come
to think of it, a country house filled with such guests as
these—young people all, and young people driven by neces-
THE DINNER BELL.
43
sity, possibly kind necessity—to work for their daily bread
—is rather remarkable, even at a time when so many
remarkable experiments are tried.
One of the first of the girls to run up the steps was Bosie
Bomaine. Everybody called her Bosie, and I believe she
liked it. But indeed, in this house, the use of the Christian
name was the only rule. It was quite as if they belonged
to the Early Church. Bosie was one of the race of Little
Women, whose history and origin will be found in my forth¬
coming great work—if ever I find time to write it—on the
Baces of Women in Great Britain. There are not now so
many little women as there were thirty or forty years ago.
Then they abounded : you will find them in the novelu—■
everywhere ; they went out of fashion, and were succeeded
by the dumpy, stumpy girl, whom you will find in the
works of Leech: these, in their turn, went out, and were
followed by the tall girls who now reign, with Mr. Du Maurier
for their Prophet.
None the less, there are never wanting some who still
worship the Little Woman: and though most girls show
that touching obedience to man's wishes which goes straight
to our hearts, and grow tall to please us, and remain dumpy
when dumpiness is fashionable, there are still some little
women who survive and possess the dear little dainty ways
once so dear to all men, and especially men of six feet and
upwards. They are mantraps of a dangerous kind, though
their taller sisters affect to consider them insignificant.
Insignificant, indeed ! There is no such thing as an insig¬
nificant woman.
But the Little Yenus is little all over: her face and hands
and feet and arms must be on the smallest scale : in their
smallness they must show the beauty of proportion more
sweetly than their larger-limbed sisters. And the Little
Venus is like her big sister in having many varieties and
kinds. Chiefly I love two kinds : the dignified little woman
—nowhere in the world can one find greater dignity than in
the little woman—and the little woman who has no dignity
at all. She has everything else, but no dignity. She is
lively, merry, laughing, charming, piquante, and affectionate.
She is never silly, and she is never affected; she is womanly
and human through and through : she may have a temper
■^-ghe often has so much temper that she is never out of it
44
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
■—but she is never envious nor spiteful: she is large-
hearted : she neither thinketh nor speaketh ill of her sisters.
When she is happy she is entirely happy : she loves warmth,
softness, and ease : she would like all the world to be rich,
and to possess the things which make life beautiful.
Such a little woman was Rosie. She added one quality,
all her own: she was caressing. Every man who talked
with her perceived affection for himself—sisterly affection,
perhaps—and interest in him. She was caressing in her
eyes and in her voice : on his very first introduction, every
man understood that this poor girl had been waiting and
looking for the chance of talking with him, and that she was
at last perfectly happy. This kind of thing makes a man
satisfied with himself and friendly disposed towards the
girl. No one, therefore, was ever found to speak evil of
Rosie, nor to call or to think her a coquette, even after
he had proposed to her—everybody always did that on the
second day—and had been refused—as always happened—
and had been taken to the nearest hospital to get his
shattered heart pieced together again.
See the contrariness of Fortune. She, who should have
been born heiress to a nice little Palace, with a beautiful
carriage, and fur wraps, and six-feet footman, and unlimited
credit with Madame Hortense, was forced to reside in one
of the little houses near the Addison Road Station, con¬
venient for the train—third class. Fate had robbed her of
her father, the famous Unsuccessful Water-Colour Painter.
It was also decreed that she was to have no money and a
copious—a cornu-copious—supply of brothers and sisters,
and a ridiculously inadequate allowance of gloves, frocks,
and bonnets. To add that she inherited her father's artistic
genius and his want of success, is only to give an additional
detail to these incongruous arrangements of Fate.
Among those who proposed to her was Kit Cotterel. She
was taken unawares—it was an unfair advantage : the thing
was done one summer evening, when she was perfectly
happy—except for her boots : she had on nice gloves, a new
frock, and a hat newly trimmed ; she was up the river—oh,
rare chance! The air was warm and fragrant: the lover
was as eloquent as if he had been the most industrious and
successful creature in the world : the maiden melted: she
had been no more caressing to Kit than to anybody else:
THE DINNER BELL
45
and she went home the fianc&e of a man as impecunious as
herself, and as uncertain of the future.
Rosie ran up the steps. When she reached the terrace
she turned round once more to look upon the gardens.
' Oh !' she sighed, ' how lovely it is ! And oh 1 one more
day is nearly done, and only a week is left!'
Denny Stirling, to whom she addressed the sigh,
responded with another so hollow as to be almost a groan.
Sympathy is as infectious as yawning: when one young
person begins to confide in another, the other—if of the
opposite sex—sighs in response. I knew a man once who
drew all hearts by the way in which he would mingle his
tears with the tears of any girl who was at once confiding
and beautiful and sad : yea—he would sometimes mingle
tears until lips met lips, so that he achieved a great reputa¬
tion, and became popular. He would also have become
rich, but he gave away all his money to the girls who
cried.
' Yes,' said Denny, ' three months are soon gone. I
thought they would last for ever.'
' Alas ! they are nearly gone.'
' Will you come out after dinner, Rosie ? It is going to
be a lovely evening.'
' I am afraid I cannot, any more.'
' Why not ? There will be stars in the infinite azure,
with deep blacknesses between them. I will show you the
blacknesses, and the stars you can see for yourself. The
jessamine is always most fragrant after dark. There are
cock-chafers buzzing across the lighted windows, and buck-
beetles. Gnats are lively under the trees, and we will look
for a glowworm. You told me the other night that you had
never seen a glowworm. With you for a scientific com¬
panion, I cotild search for that glowworm half the night.'
' There are also in the garden, sometimes, men who forget
what is due to their friends,' she replied with severity.
' Never. There cannot be such men. If anyone has
seemed—I say, Rosie, seemed—to forget this important duty,
it was for the first and only time. Forget their friends ?
Why, they would have no one to borrow from.'
' Well, Denny, I did think '
There is no reason why a sentence need be completed
when three words give the key to the rest.
46
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' You will come, Eosie ?' he answered, and if anyone had
been listening he would have thought that there was some¬
thing—even a great deal—of tenderness in his pronunciation
of the Christian name. Nature has infinite varieties of
everything, but in nothing is she more various than in the
pronouncing of the Christian name.
Eosie looked at him reproachfully. That is, she honestly
intended reproach. But she broke down, and her eyes
became sisterly and sorrowful, if not affectionate.
' I will come, Denny. But—remember.' She held up a
finger of admonition, and passed in. What was he to re¬
member? The young man remained outside, looking after
her with an odd expression of bewilderment and anxiety.
The next who came up from the tennis-ground was a girl
in pink, with a pale blue blouse, held in place by a leather
belt and a bright buckle. It is a dainty costume, and the
pride of this year of grace. This girl was Yernon Cheviot—
everybody knows that this is only her literary name, and
that her real name—Molly Damper—is not nearly so dis¬
tinguished.
There is a prejudice against the literary young lady. She
is believed to be plain and to be careless about dress; she
runs, it is thought, to nose and to spectacles. These be
calumnies invented by those who have got pretty faces and
shallow wits. Vernon Cheviot's is a case which should,
destroy this prejudice. The young lady who becomes a
poet or a novelist or an artist of any kind is not necessarily
plain.
' I am to take you in this evening,' said her companion,
one of the youngest Masters of a great Public School. ' You
shall scold me all through dinner, if you please. I would
rather be scolded by you than '
Here they both disappeared within the door, and one of
the peacocks squalled for luck, and so the rest of the speech
could not be heard ; and, as this young lady has very little
to do with the story, it matters not.
Then the rest came trooping in. There was the teacher
from the High School. She had acquired so vast a know¬
ledge of philology that the Cambridge Examiners gave her a
place in the first class of the Classical Tripos, and the High
School Board gave her another place in their School worth
exactly one hundred pounds a year—so magnificent is the
THE DINNER BELL
47
endowment of feminine Scholarship. But this immense in¬
come she kept to herself, a secret locked up in her bosom—
because no High School teacher ever owns to her salary. It
is a Rule of the Profession.
There was another—but, no. Why enumerate them?
They were gentlewomen all, and had for the most part been
brought up in the expectation of being provided for by some¬
body. Among those who came here for a holiday and a
rest during Denny's three months' experiment were those
who try Fortune with the art of Fiction, and those who woo
her favour with the art of Painting: there were short-hand
writers, type-writers, governesses, clerks, players of dance
music, writers of addresses, interviewers, guides, secretaries,
indexers, translators,—everything. They came to rest and
to breathe, expecting nothing more than the boon of fresh
air, with simple food and shelter. They found a stately
house, with a return of all those things which once they had
known, and had long since lost by reason of Madame Poverty,
who drives away from her victims everything that is pretty,
happy, and comfortable.
The last to come in was Geraldine. You know the kind
of girl who is a kind of queen in her circle. She imposes
her sovereignty by no assumption of claim or heirship or
right Divine. It is conferred upon her without explanation
and accepted by all without question. Men do not try to
flirt with her; when she smiles on a man she confers dis¬
tinction : she is by nature a grande dame de par le monde :
she is too high for most: small men and mean men shrink
from her. Geraldine was tall—somehow the natural queen
is always stately. For her calm face and her tranquil eyes,
which seemed to reveal a soul in which there was no touch
of earthly passion or taint of earthly meanness, she might
have stood for Beatrice. As for earthly meanness, of that
she had none: as for earthly passion, is not earthly love
held to be a type of heavenly love, or even the gate by which
many are led to that joy ineffable? Yet some such women
never know that passion, because they never find the man
who is able to awaken within them the sacred fire. She,
too, was one of those who work. She was a decorative
artist, and chiefly spent her time in designing furniture.
She was not a tennis-player, and therefore the costume
affected by the other girls tempted her not. She was dressed
43
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
in white with a flower at her throat. Beside her Walked, a
lad of twenty or so: he was a slight and slender lad, no
taller than herself: he was narrow in the shoulders and
hollow in the chest: a beautiful boy—fair of hair but not
ruddy—he looked up at his companion, as he walked, with
large and full eyes—they were eyes of worship, even such as
those with which Dante followed Beatrice.
4 Best this evening, Bobbie,' said Geraldine. 4 Do not
talk much at dinner, and go to bed early. To-morrow we
will read your verses again, and we will talk them over and
think how we can find a publisher.'
4 It seems as if I roust go on working, Geraldine. I am
so full of thoughts and I have so little time. Let me sit up
a little while to write by myself at night.'
4 No, Bobbie. You must go to bed early. And you must
not think of the worst. Why, you are better already, and
you have only been here a fortnight. See what fresh air
and a holiday can do for you.'
4 Yes, I am better here. But next week I must go back
to the old drudgery. What is the good of getting into
Heaven, if one has to go out again after three weeks ? No
—no—forgive me, Geraldine—I shall have had you and this
place for three long precious weeks. Oh ! I shall have
enough to remember all through the winter. Forgive me—
I am not ungrateful—no—no. In the drudgery and the
misery of it ■'
4 Yes, Bobbie; but patience—have patience. Things may
happen.'
4 What can happen to one who has no friends and no
money ? But I shall remember. Oh ! Geraldine '—he took
her hand and stooped and kissed it—41 shall remember.'
He walked slowly up the steps and into the house with
hanging head.
4 Is he better ?' asked Denny, looking after him anxiously.
4 His cough is better. But there is the winter before him
and '
4 Yes—I know. Can nothing be done?'
Geraldine made no reply; but followed the boy.
Strange and wonderful are the ways of rich men. Here
was Denny, the young owner of millions : he knew, he could
not choose but know, that all the boy wanted was rest, sun¬
shine, relief from work, a warm climate : given these, he
THE DINNER DELL
40
would recover and might grow strong; without these he
would die—he would most surely die. And yet he seemed
to love the boy. Nobody, except Kit Cotterel, had ever been
so kind to Kobbie or shown so much interest in him. Yet,
he asked—he, the rich man, asked—if nothing could be
done ! And he sighed as he looked after him, and some¬
thing like a tear rose in his eyes ! And he could stop it if
he chose ! Strange it is to be Dives.
Left alone, Denny Stirling looked about him as Rosie had
done, and then he sighed.
' I've written to her,' he said, ' every other day. And she
still replies exactly the same ! She must love me as much
as ever. And yet she carries on. Oh, it is her nature!
What has she said to me here that I could object to—over
there ? I can't keep away from her. I am longing all the
time to throw my arms round her and tell her all. But, I
mustn't. She would never believe me—never ! ' That's the
worst of being before your time—or behind it. I dare say in
a year or two an exchange of this kind will be all the fashion.
It will be an admirable leveller and peacemaker. This kind
of thing they used to do in the days of King Solomon. And
now they'll begin it again; but we are before our times—
and Rosie would never believe it. I must be very careful—
very. A single moment off my guard, and '
He shuddered and went in to dress.
CHAPTER III.
the confessions of a fiancee.
At ten o'clock the air in the garden was still warm and
balmy. Those who sat or walked under the stars breathed
the fragrance of many flowers, though "the season was so far
advanced. The heavy scent of jessamine hung in the air as
persistently as a London fog. This perfume, as is not
generally known, formed a principal ingredient in those acts
of witchcraft which were designed to suggest thought,
induce temptation, and destroy the will. Especially it was
found sovereign for softening the heart and opening it for
the reception and the bestowal of confidence. Every young
person has felt this soft influence of jessamine. A very fine
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
flowering specimen formerly grew in the garden of Eden,
close to the apple-tree. Those who were in the garden on
the terrace not only breathed the incense of this seductive
plant, but their souls were lulled to rest by the music which
floated out of the doors and windows of the drawing-room.
This goodly company sometimes danced, sometimes sang,
sometimes made and acted plays, sometimes talked; but
whatever they did, there was always music — sometimes
such as falls peacefully, and sometimes such as stirs and
stimulates, and sometimes such as sets the feet spinning—
but always music.
Two of the company were walking up and down the
terrace : one—you may recognise her by her slight and
slender figure, clothed in white, a lace shawl over head and
shoulders—was Eosie Komaine; the other—a tall form
walking beside her with hanging head, as if despondent—
was Denny Stirling. Eosie kept her promise: she came
out after dinner, but not alone ; others were in the garden,
but they were in pairs, for mutual solace and protection
against wild beasts or ghosts.
' Back again,' the girl was saying—' back again to the
old life.'
' Poor child ! and—what was that you said yesterday ?
the unsatisfied longing !'
' Anybody who is too poor to have what she wants suffers.
I suppose, from unsatisfied longings ! Oh ! how I yearn
—how I long—how I pray for the things I shall never
get!'
' Tell me what they are—some of them.'
' They are everything. I should like to surround myself
with pretty things—a pretty house with pretty furniture,
pretty dresses, and pretty people. Poor people may be
good and interesting and heroic, and anything you please,
but they never have pretty things about them—never.'
' Poor child! Eate is cruel. Where there can be no
beauty, there should be no desire for it! But then the
world would never get on at all, would it ?'
' If we only had a world which had done getting on, and
was quite got on, you know—arrivi—so that we were all
rich and artistic, and really nice together! and if the easy
life was served out to everybody instead of one or two here
and there.'
THE CONFESSIONS OF A FIANCEE
Si
' You would do no work, of course.'
' Of course I would not. Every woman loathes task¬
work—though, because so many have got to do it, some of
us pretend to like it. I should like to wake up every morn¬
ing with a sense of holiday, nothing before me but to feel
the joy of living.'
' And in this life, this beautiful life, will there be'—he
hesitated—' would there be any place for love ?'
' It is so like a man to ask such a question,' she replied,
smiling superior. ' Oh ! Denny, have you got to learn, at
your age, that a woman can never be happy without love
You might as well ask me if there would be no air, no light,
no sunshine in life. Why, every dream of every girl is
brimful of love. Of course, there will be love. I can speak
openly, because, you see, I am engaged,'
' I forgot. Yes, you are engaged.'
' Yes,' she replied shortly—meaning: ' I am indeed; and
to your friend.'
4 Yes,' he repeated, as one who would have added : ' 1
know it, and am going to remember it.'
' Yes,' she said, for the third time, now meaning: ' And
mind you do remember it.'
This kind of conversation may be continued as long as
each side sees the other's meaning. As soon as the thread
of thought is lost, it ceases to interest. Denny broke it off
at this point.
' You will marry, and then you will have all that you
desire. Kit will give you everything. He must—he can
desire nothing better than to pour the whole wealth of the
world into your lap.'
Rosie laughed.
' Poor dear Kit! This is exactly how he himself talks.
All the wealth of the world is to be mine. He will pour
sackfuls of diamonds, and rubies by the score into my lap.
I shall have only to hold up my apron. And all the time
he is weeks in arrear with his landlady. Kit give me every¬
thing ? Why, the poor dear man has got nothing to give:
and he never will have anything.'
' Never ? But Kit will work. You shall see.'
' He will promise to work. Then he will sit down and
dream that he has worked hard and is enjoying the wealth
pf all the Indies as the fruits of his labour. No; Kit has
52
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
no money, and he never will have any. He has no rich
relations, even, to leave him any. Rich uncles are extinct,
as a race. Uncles there are still, I "believe; but they are
all poor, with distressingly large families of their own.'
4 Yes,' said Denny, as despondently as if he himself were
as poor as Kit. 4 This age has witnessed the final degrada¬
tion of the uncle. He can sink no lower. He is now
married—forgetful of his nephews, selfish beast—and he has
children of his own. I forgot, though. Had I not myself
an uncle, who gave his little all to me, and nothing to my
cousins? But why can't Kit—this poor dear Kit—make
money like everybody else ?'
' He is so horribly lazy, you see. He cannot wcrk. He
can do nothing but lie and smoke his pipe and dream away
the time. He is Lob-lie-by-the-fire. Sometimes he writes
verses. Mostly he sits about with his pipe. In the summer
it is in the open—and in the winter it is in the most com¬
fortable chair that the club has to offer by the fire. And he
dreams.'
' You can't sell dreams,' said Denny. 4 There ought to
he a market though, somewhere, for really good, first-class,
artistic dreams.'
4 He is going to write the most wonderful novels and plays
that were ever seen. They will take the w7orld by storm.
But they don't get written. Oh ! I am very fond of Kit—
everybody is.' Why did the young man groan at this point ?
4 But I am under no illusion as to the life before me.'
' For example—the kind of life ?'
4 Just what it has always been. I was born in a muddle,
and I shall go on in a muddle. You did not know my poor
dear father, of course. There never was a more delightful
parent, and the way he believed in his own work quite to
the end was wonderful. But nobody ever bought his
pictures, and really I now begin to believe that they may
have been, after all, deficient in—well—strength. Do you
understand ?'
4 He was, in fact, unsuccessful.'
4 Yes. Well, you see, Kit, in literature, is exactly like
that parent of mine in art. He is always going to do great
things. Some day we shall marry, I suppose,' she sighed.
41 don't believe Kit will be half so nice as a husband. We
^hall find a horrid cheap flat with three or four rooms an I a
THE CON EE SSI ON S OF A FIANCEE
kitchen. We shall have a single servant, who will trample
on us. We shall always be behindhand with the rent and
the washing : there will never be any money for nice things,
or for going anywhere or doing anything. As for society,
what can one expect ? Debt and duns and tightness is my
portion in the world. I am a third-classer, too proud to
talk to the other third-classers.'
' No—no—Kit will change. He must, he shall.'
Rosie shook her head.
' I know my Kit,' she said,' better than you. And I have
no illusions. And poverty will be nothing new: we have
been poor and in difficulties. One is used to it. We cannot
escape Fate. When such people as Kit and I marry, the
situation is quite easy to foretell.'
' There is your own art.'
' Oh ! I have not forgotten it. My own art earns for me
about as much as the wages of one of your housemaids. It
will add a trifle to the family income, and a great deal to
the family worry.'
' Have you seen Kit lately ?'
' No. Three months ago he sent me word that he had
got some work to do which would take him out of London.
I suppose he has been lying on the sea-shore dreaming and
smoking all the time.'
' Has he not written to you ?'
'Oh, yes ; he has written: he writes to me three times a
week. And he says nothing about his work.'
' There, you see ! What did I tell you ? Three months
on end of work,—three steady months of hard work—grind¬
ing work. There's a splendid beginning for you! There's
perseverance !'
'Yes,' she replied doubtfully. 'Tell me, Denny—you
who know Kit so well — what do you think of his
style ?'
' You mean the style of his songs and verses ?'
' Yes, and of the more ambitious things, the things that
he sends to Editors,—the things they generally send back.
Have you seen any of them ?'
' I have seen all of them.'
' Then what do you think ?'
She did not stop1 to ask him how it happened that he had
seen all these things.
54
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Nay—first—what do you think ?'
' He has been as much rejected as most men. And I
really think he ought to expect nothing else.'
Denny started.
' Have you told him this ?'
' No—I have not. When you are engaged to a man, and
he brings you' a thing and reads it aloud, and thinks he has
put into it all he has in his heart, and asks you, with a
trembling voice and eager eyes, what you think of it—what
can you say ?'
Denny grunted something inarticulate.
' Can you tell the. poor boy that it won't do at all—that
it wants re-writing ?'
Denny shook his head.
' No, one can't do it. A girl can do nothing but purr and
murmur and tell him how sweet it is,—how true and touch¬
ing,—the best thing he has ever written—the best thing she
has ever heard. Then he goes away happy. It is no good
for a man to be engaged unless his girl can send him away
happy.'
' None—none,' Denny replied, hollow-voiced.
' He never has the patience to re-write his things—to sit
down and worry and to work at them. He gives ten
minutes to his work, brings you a pretty little sketch and
calls it a finished picture.'
' Yes—I fear—1 suppose—that may be so.'
Denny took his chin in his left hand and stroked it.
This is a gesture which indicates embarrassment or diffi¬
culty. It may also mean other things.
' Don't think, please,' Eosie went on, ' that I am taking
away poor Kit's character, or talking unkindly about him.
All my friends say the same thing.'
' Do they indeed ? It is truly kind of them. Friends—
candid friends—are so useful and so kind.'
' Why, Denny, must you be so sarcastic ? Kit himself
might have been speaking.'
' No, no, Kit would have spoken less' like a finished
picture : more like a sketch.'
' Nobody talks better than Kit, for that matter.'
' I am glad to hear that he has some good qualities.'
' One would think you were offended. Of course he has
good qualities. He is the most generous of men, to begin
THE CONFESSIONS OF A FIANCEE
55
with. He gives away most of his money, and lends the
rest.'
' And lives on ■ ■'
' No; on what remains, he gets into debt. Poor Kit, you
see, in money matters is a terrible donkey. But then,
everybody loves him.'
' How can you—how can everybody—love a man who is
a donkey, and who is always in debt, and whose style is
sketchy ?'
' Absurd! you love the man—not his debts or his style or
his donkeydoms. They are not a part of the man.'
' Well, Kit ought to be happy,' said Denny, ' if only
because one woman '
'Thank you,' she interrupted him quickly, ' if one woman
didn't another would. Men can always comfort themselves
with that reflection. Kit, now, is perfectly happy, though
he hasn't seen me for three months. He dreams that he
has just brought out a novel over which the world has gone
frantic. Or else, that he has just produced a play which
has driven the town mad. This kind of dream comes to
him every day.'
' It seems a harmless occupation.'
' Perfectly harmless. Kit will never make his wife
jealous. She might, to be sure, wish to see him more prac¬
tically occupied. She will have the butcher's bill, the
laundress's bill, and the third application for the rent,
spread upon the table, with twopence in her pocket. Pity
that it is not enough for a husband to be harmless.'
I suppose there is hardly anything more offensive to a
man than to be called harmless. To be called ill-tempered,
surly, grasping, prodigal, unjust, may be borne with philo¬
sophy ; but to be called harmless—actually not able to
injure anybody—a creature without a kick in him, is a
deadly thing. It was too dark for the girl to see the hot
blush—of sympathy for his friend—mantle to her com¬
panion's brow.
' One of Kit's idle dreams,' Eosie continued, ' was to do
exactly what you have done this summer.'
' Was it ? Then he did dream something practical.'
' What is the use of dreaming things that you can never
carry out ? He used to say, however, when he was rich—
"when" you see—that he meant to take a country house
0
TllE DOUBTS OF DIVES
and fill it all the summer with girls and people—like these
who are here, you know—without money, but just as fond
of society and everything as if they were rich.'
' Yes—I suppose I borrowed that from Kit,' said Denny.
' I borrowed all his ideas as well as his songs. I wish I
hadn't.'
' You wish you had not 1 Oh, Denny—and you have
given so much happiness to everybody ! You cannot wish
that happiness had never been. Don't say that, Denny,'
she added, in her most caressing voice. 4 And we are all so
grateful to you for what you have done. Oh, so grateful—•
and we all owe you so much ! Oh, so much !'
4 Kosie !' he cried, with passion irrepressible, 4 I don't caro
for all the rest—if you alone '
But she fled.
4 I am a Fool,' said Denny, with emphasis. Then he
walked quick to the end of the terrace, where there was a
stone bench, upon which he sat down, also emphatically.
4 A Fool !' he repeated. Then he took his chin in his hand
again and began to think. He had a good deal to think
about. He had just heard some very remarkable and un¬
palatable truths. To begin with, the girl to whom Kit
Cotterel was engaged had no "illusions about her lover. How
can you be in love without illusions ? They are, the
anatomist knows, at the very root and foundation of love.
But, as this young man knew not, here is one of the divine
and unfathomed mysteries of the feminine heart. The
thing which is absolutely impossible in man is done every
day by the merest girl, when she loves a man and yet has
no illusions about him. The girl who was engaged to Kit
confessed that she had habitually deceived him as regards
the beauty and value of his work, which she always under¬
stood to be sketchy. Kit, she knew, would never get on—
he was too lazy—he was too dreamy ; he would always be
poor and always in a muddle; the life before her was one of
continual struggle ; she would be dragged down and kept
down by poverty; and all because her husband was so lazy
—so dreamy—so unsuccessful.
He sprang to his feet. No—no—it should not be. After
a long holiday of three months even this Neapolitan lazi¬
ness would be satisfied : even the idle Kit would be able to
turn over a new leaf—a new leaf. Denny sat down again
THE NEW LEAF
57
Vrith a sweet smile, attracted by the imaginary possibilities
thus presented to his mind, and for full a quarter of an hour
dreamed of splendour and prosperity, of fame and fortune,
to be found written on that new and lovely leaf.
CHAPTER IV.
the new leaf.
When Denny awoke out of this soothing dream he returned
to the drawing-room, quite cheerful again, and ready to
dance or to play, or to take part in any kind of festivity.
He had, it is true, felt a little annoyance at Eosie's frank
utterances. This vexation had now vanished : the beatific
Vision of the New Leaf consoled him. Pond wretch ! He
thought he was going to have complete control over that
new leaf. Every Resolvcr thinks that. But you shall see.
He came back to the drawing-room, therefore, quite
happy.
4 Sing us a song, Denny.'
' What shall I sing ?' He sat down, turned a smiling face
upon his friends, and ran his fingers carelessly up and down
the keys. ' What shall I sing ? Will you have Kit's song,
" Eor those who play"? He gave it to me three months
ago—words and music.'
He had a soft and musical voice of no great power, but of
sufficient compass, and he managed it skilfully.
' Oh ! the earth is full of treasure,
And the soul can find its fill :
'Tis a garden-house of pleasure—
For the joy of those who will.
And her treasures waste not—spoil not :
And they follow day by day ;
Life is long—for those who toil not ;
Only long—for those who play.
* Twine the roses—bind the lilies—
While we dance and while we sing ;
For the hours, sweet partner Thillis,
Fly like swallows on the wing.
Yet each moment as it flieth
Doth so sparkle in the sun,
That its mem'ry never dieth
Till the very day is done.
5§
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Let us wander in the meadows,
O my love, and whisper low :
Let us linger in the shadows
With the ghosts of long ago.
Morning, noon and eve shall find us
Hand in hand and cheek to cheek :
Oh ! the mem'ries—how they bind us !
Oh ! the past years—how they speak •
'Good old Time is no despoiler
When he giveth gifts so rare ;
But the miser and the toiler,
And the student in his chair,—
These he fills with tears and sadness
For the swiftness of his way :
Life is long and full of gladness—
Only long—for those who play.'
Among the guests was one newly arrived, named Pinder,
more commonly old Pinder. He is certainly no longer
young Pinder. Men of fifty permit themselves to call him
old Pinder. He has trodden the pavement of Fleet Street
and the Strand for nearly fifty years, and has been during
the whole of this period perfectly well-known to all the
editors and to all the journalists. He now possesses white
locks and a flowing beard : he carries his seventy years with
vigour, and he still does exactly the same work as when he
began at the age of five-and-twenty.
Mr. Pinder was not accustomed to the society of ladies;
he therefore remained in the drawing-room only for the
short time he considered due to politeness : he was not fond
of music ; he therefore sat by himself in a corner and read
the evening papers. Without them—he always read them
all—he felt himself cut off from all that one holds dear.
Just as Denny finished his song, and while the echoes of
the last notes were rolling about the rafters of the roof,
everybody was startled by the half—the better half—of an
interjection more fitted for the smoking-room of the club
than for a drawing-room.
' God bless me !' cried Sophia, as Speaker of the House.
It was a call to order.
The interjection came from Mr. Pinder. He choked—
coughed—hid his face with the paper—and replaced the
utterance by one of a milder character.
' Kit Cotterel, by the Lord!' he cried.
THE HEW LEAF
Geraldine drew the paper from his hand. ' Oh!' she
Cried, reading the passage which Mr. Pinder pointed out.
'Eosie ! Eosie ! come, read this.'
Eosie took the paper and read it.
'But I don't understand it,' she said. 'He has never
given me the least hint of this kind of work. There must
be some mistake.'
' How can thereJbe any mistake ?' Geraldine asked. ' It
is perfectly circumstantial. Oh ! Denny, come and read
this. Come, everybody. Prepare to be astonished. It is
about Kit!'
Eosie laughed, incredulous.
' It is quite impossible,' she said. ' Quite. Kit couldn't
do it. Unless, perhaps, he was acting.'
Geraldine seized the paper and read the paragraph
aloud :
' " Those who were present at the St. James's Hall last
night to hear Mr. Arthur Christopher Cotterel's Lecture on
the Future Eelations of Capital and Production came away
firmly persuaded that, whether the speaker's doctrines are
sound or not, a question which we reserve until the publi¬
cation of the address, here is a man who will have to be
reckoned with. It was no surprise to those present to learn
that the two anonymous articles lately published on branches
of this great subject in the Contemporary, which have attracted
so much attention, are also by him. Mr. Cotterel is a Bar¬
rister, a Cambridge man, and a Journalist. We believe that
the secret of his studies in sociology and economics has been
so well kept by himself, that no one of his many friends has
had the least reason to suspect that he has been training
himself for a social reformer. The wealth of knowledge
and illustration lavished upon these articles would point to
extensive travel as well as to enormous reading. It was,
therefore, amusing to hear one or two of his friends declar¬
ing that his travels were limited to Paris or Brussels, and
that his reading must have been carried on in the dead of
night; and it is remarkable that a young man who may
become another John Stuart Mill, but with a more genial
temperament and a warmer feeling for humanity, should
have begun by courting notoriety as the writer of light vers
de sociiU, which he was wont to sing, himself, at his club.
We note the fact on the testimony of many in the Hall who
Co
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
knew him, and came to hear him out of curiosity, and were
expecting a comic entertainment. The address, delivered
with faultless eloquence, trained voice, and a disciplined
gesture, was nothing short of a vehement attack on the
existing social systems. To the subject-matter of the dis¬
course it is probable that we shall have to return again,
and seriously. Meantime, the address is to be repeated,
and is a thing to be heard." '
' Kit Cotterel, by the Lord !' said Mr. Finder again.
' Oh ! I knew—I knew he would do something great,
some day!' cried Geraldine, with glistening eyes. 'Kit
was bound to do something great. Kosie, are you
proud ?'
' I cannot understand it,' said Kosie, looking blankly at
the paper. ' Only yesterday I had a letter from him, quite
in his old style, full of fun and foolishness. And not one
word—not a single word—about this oration ! It is impos¬
sible. His head must have been full of the subject. It
must be some other Kit.'
' Some other Kit,' said Mr. Finder. ' Without a doubt,
some other Kit,' he repeated. ' Kit Cotterel on the Rela¬
tions of Capital and Froduction ! As well have Kit Cotterel
on the Hittite Tongue !'
'And besides,' Kosie added, 'Kit has been out of town
for three months; so that it cannot be he. Oh, somebody
has taken his name. Or it is another Cotterel confused
with Kit. A reporter's mistake, or perhaps a reporter's
joke.'
' It is about three months,' said Mr. Finder, ' that he
began to fall off at the club. The fellows met him from
time to time, and brought back strange stories. He cut
everybody dead : he pretended not to know them. Kit
seemed anxious to forget all his old friends !'
' What are you talking about ?' asked Kosie. ' How
could he meet anyone ? He has been out of town for the
last three months. If he has come back it was only
yesterday.'
' Well, I met him less than a month ago, and he had a
bundle of proofs in his hand, and locked mighty important
and busy. Other fellows have met him here and there.
He may have been living out of town, but he has certainly
had to come up pretty often.'
THE NEW LEAF
61
' I know nothing more of his movements,' said Eosie
coldly.
' And undoubtedly,' continued Mr. Pinder, ' he has grown
serious. Fancy Kit Cotterel serious ! Well—I've lived for
seventy years, and perhaps I've known even stranger things.
When I met him he pretended to have forgotten me. Ac¬
tually—pretended that!'
' Well,' said Eosie, ' I dare say he did forget you for the
moment. Even Kit can't be always thinking of the club.'
' I had to tell him who I was.'
' His real friends,' interrupted Geraldine, ' knew that he
would come out some day. As for his laziness, I have always
felt that it was nothing but the collection and the concentra¬
tion of his powers.'
Eosie laughed.
' Oh ! Geraldine,' she said, ' to think of Kit concentrating
his power 1 But I don't understand,' she repeated. ' What
does he know or care about Political Economy ?'
' I've read the articles,' said the man of letters, ' and I
will say that they are astonishing. One would think the
fellow had been all round the world, and had read all the
books ever written. I'll never believe in any man again—
never!'
' Denny !'—Geraldine turned to him. Nobody had taken
any notice of him. He was standing beside them quite pale.
He looked dismayed. ' Denny, what do you think ?'
' What do I think ?'
' Kit has turned over a new leaf. You said he would,'
said Eosie. 'A new leaf! Oh ! what does it mean?'
' I do not know—I cannot understand,' said Denny. ' It
is horrible to think of ! Social reformer ! Lecturer ! Writer
in the Contemporary ! Good Heavens ! What can be done?'
For he remembered that, yet but a week, and then
' A new leaf—and what a leaf! Oh ! it is intolerable !'
' Well,' said Mr. Pinder, ' I don't know about that. Wo
are a free country. If Kit likes to turn socialist, or anarchist,
or radical reformer, why should it be intolerable ?'
' A new leaf!' Denny repeated. ' This, at least, one could
not expect.'
' I think it is delightful,' said Geraldine. ' Here are you,
persisting in thinking the man fit only to make light songs
and set them to pretty tunes—and I knew all along the
62
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
great things lying dormant. Oh ! I knew he would come to
the front some day!'
'Perhaps,' said Denny, 'he may break down, almost at
the outset. Perhaps he will get tired of it, and go back to
his club. Let us wait a week—I know Kit. Oh ! I venture
to prophesy that he will never keep it up.'
' It's a dreadful disappointment,' said the old man. ' I
looked upon Kit as my natural successor. He had all the
symptoms of stopping exactly where he was.'
' Thank you, Mr. Pinder,' said Rosie. ' We may congra¬
tulate ourselves that he is saved from that fate !'
She said this with great severity, and retired from the
discussion concerning her lover.
Denny sat down, his chin again in his hand, looking at
Mr. Pinder, and wondering that the old man had all this
time entertained so strong an opinion and said nothing about
it to the person chiefly concerned. The glamour of that
dream about the new leaf faded quite away. The page was
turned, doubtless, but what was the new page like ?
Mr. Pinder went on :
' It's really very wonderful. You all know poor Kit's style
—slipshod and careless—eh?'
' Slipshod and careless,' Denny echoed. ' Always the first
rough sketch instead of the finished picture.'
' Just so. Well—he has completely changed his style.
Yes—how he's done it I don't know. It is clear as crystal,
and polished like marble. A man can change his personal
habits; he may take to drink and give it up again; but how
he can change his style the Lord only knows. He has
changed it, however, somehow. Can the leopard change
his spots?'
' In other words,' said Geraldine, ' Kit has for once in his
life—the first time—taken real pains, and shown what he
can do. This is the result.'
' Yes.' The old man looked at her keenly under his white
eyebrows. Then he glanced at Rosie, who seemed puzzled,
but not proud. ' You always believed in him—didn't you ?
Well, it seems that we have lost Kit Cotterel. I am seventy
years of age, and perhaps I have known things happen more
wonderful even than this. I thought when I met Kit the
other day,' continued the Sage, ' that a change had come
over him. First, he did not see me—that was nothing.
THE NEW LEAF
63
Then he did not remember me—that was absence of mind.
Hut when I asked him to lend me half a sovereign and he
refused, I perceived that he was gone—our Kit was gone.'
' I think, Mr. Pinder,' said Geraldine, ' that Kit has
already lent his friends too many half-sovereigns.'
' He thought so too, for the first time in his life, and must
needs explain his refusal by adding a maxim or two : " When
a man knows he can borrow," said Kit the Moralist, " L.
will not work." "When he knows he can borrow"—con¬
found the puppy ! A man who knows he can borrow will
not work." He heaved that maxim at my head. I can't
say more.'
4
An hour after midnight, and the only two left awake in
the house were Mr. Pinder and Denny Stirling. They were
in the smoking-room, with ' materials,' and really, as the
elder man remarked, considering the comfort of the chairs
and the quality of the Scotch, and the late hour, one might
almost fancy himself back at the club.
' Now they are all gone to bed, we can talk,' said the old
man. ' No house is tolerable till the women are in bed.
This Scotch is admirable. I seem to have known you, my
boy, all your life, though I've only really known you for the
last few days. I suppose it's partly because you are so
amazingly like Kit—poor beggar ! I mean before he want
to the Devil and became serious, and began to fling
maxims at his best friends.'
' I believe I resemble him in many particulars.'
• You do—not in your money, nor yet in your appearance;
for Kit had no money, and in appearance he was common.
Short and fat and, well—common. It is the only word.
Quite a common object to look at.'
' Quite,' said Denny, colouring and grinning. ' A pebble
by the sea-shore. A paving-stone on the kerb.'
' But like him in your ways. Poor old Kit! He's as
good as gone. He means to get to the front. Well, I've
never been there, but I don't think it can be quite so com¬
fortable as in the back rows. All the people looking at you,
and making critical remarks. No. It is more comfortable
to sink your early ambitions, and stay in a back seat.' Here
he finished his tumbler, and instantly began to tackle the
wire of another potash. ' I say, my boy, did you observe-^
64
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
well, but did you not—how the two girls took the news to¬
night ?'
' What two girls ?'
' Why, the girl he is engaged to—and the girl he ought to
be engaged to,' said Mr. Pinder, with looser grammar thau
is becoming to a critic.
' What do you mean ?' ,
' I've known Kit all his life, and you haven t. The girl
that ought to be his wife nearly cried with joy—she's the
girl that loves him. The girl that's going to be his wife said
she didn't believe it—she doesn't care, you see, whether he's
going to be a great man or not. Women are rum cattle—•
very rum.'
Denny got up and walked to the bookcase. When he re¬
turned, without a book, his face was very red.
' What are you saying about the girls ?'
'I've known Geraldine all her life, and Kit too. Now, if
a man must needs get married, and so spoil all the comfort
and independence of his life, there's a girl for you!'
' Geraldine seems a very good girl,' said Denny impar¬
tially.
' She is. And she loves that jackass, Kit, with all her
soul and all her strength.'
'Nonsense. They have always been together; she takes
a real and kindly interest in him.'
' She loves him, I tell you. And she's a fool for her pains.
First, because he used to be a lazy, good-for-nothing beggar,
always promising and never performing. And next, because
he has now turned into a prig, who treats his old friends to
moral maxims. And, if there's a third reason, it's because
he hasn't got the sense to see what a splendid creature she
is, and so takes up with that little ■'
' Stop ! I say,' Denny thundered, and brought his fist upon
the table so that the glasses jumped for fear.
Mr. Pinder looked at him with wonder. Why this heat ?
' What the devil are you flying into a rage for?' asked the
old man after a blank stare. ' Geraldine isn't in love with
you. The other girl isn't engaged to you. Can't a man speak ?'
' No, no—only—forgive me—Kit is my old friend, and I
can't bear to hear him—and the young lady he is goino1 to
marry—talked about in this way. Besides, it is all non¬
sense. How could Geraldine be in love with him ? They
THE NEW LEAF
were brought up together—they have always been together :
they are almost brother and sister.'
' Almost, not quite. In these things an inch is as good as
a mile. Almost—yes. Why, my friend, I can see it in lier
eyes. But we will talk no more about it.'
'Good-night,' said Denny, abruptly rising. 'I shall go
to bed.'
' You are not going to bed yet ? Why, it isn't one o'clock.
Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord ! How country habits corrupt one.
Fancy being in a house with half-a-dozen men, and not one
of them out of bed after one o'clock. Well, well. Go to
bed, my young friend: I shall have one more potash—or
two—or three—and go up presently.'
Denny went to his own room, but he did not immediately
go to bed. He walked about, thinking, his mind in a diffi¬
culty the like of which had never before happened unto any
man. Finally he sat down and wrote a letter :
' My dear Kit,—I have heard a good many surprising
things about you to-day. I always knew that you were a
lazy beast, and I always suspected, when I could bring my
mind to look at things clearly, that you were marked out by
Fate for failure, debt, and difficulties. I now hear, to my
enormous surprise, that you have in the last three months
developed a most surprising change in your habits. You are
industrious, and you have already made some kind of name.
I am also told that you have changed your old style into
something quite new, and not in the least like the eld. You
are further reported to have cut your friends, and to refuse
them when they impetrate a loan. All this promises to be
exceedingly awkward in the future.
' Now, as the great Return has to be effected next week,
would it not be advisable for us to have a few days together
before that event, so as to learn exactly what has been done
on both sides? Otherwise there may be rhany awkward
misunderstandings.
' Come to-morrow, in time for dinner. You will find a
house full of friends. The girls are in great force.
' Yours, in the bonds of forgery, imposition, and treachery,
' Denny Stirling.
' P.S.—What the devil do you mean by changing your
old style—my style ?'
66
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
CHAPTER Y.
kit's ieeivat.
It was perhaps a pity that Denny forgot to say that he
expected Kit; it was certainly a mistake that he did not go
to meet him and prepare his mind with the view of avoiding
certain accidents which might have been foreseen. But in
a situation so unusual, it is difficult to provide against every¬
thing.
Unfortunately Denny was entirely occupied with con¬
sidering this new leaf, turned, not by himself, but by
another. Otherwise, he might have given a thought to
Rosie.
Now, when the station fly rumbled round the carriage-
drive, at six o'clock, those who were playing tennis stopped
in their game, and those who were talking or walking about
desisted and looked up with natural curiosity as to the new¬
comer.
It was quickly seen to be none other than Kit Cotterel
himself, the man who had grown suddenly serious and
plunged unexpectedly into profound depths of philosophy.
He actually looked it. Instead of Kit, smiling and nodding
to everybody, as was to be expected, had his approaching
visit been known, there was seen, sitting well back in the
open carriage, turning his head neither to the right nor left,
a perfectly grave person approaching a company of complete
strangers. The aspect of Kit, as grave as a bishop, caused
the unthinking to shout and laugh. When he got out of
the vehicle, instead of running round and shaking hands
with everybody, he surveyed the company with face un¬
moved, and disappeared within the house.
'Goodness gracious!' cried Sophia. 'He is playing his
new part off the stage. Surely he need not pretend to be so
absorbed in meditation as actually not to know us. His
eyes fell upon me, and showed not the least recognition.
Geraldine, am I grown young and beautiful again, for a
miracle, so that I am no longer recognised T
' You are always young and always beautiful,' said
Geraldine. ' Kit is certainly full of thought. I never knew
him like this before,'
KITS ARRIVAL
6?
' My dear, I feel as if a jug of cold water had been poured
down my back. We are too frivolous to be recognised.
But we shall see him presently, I suppose; and perhaps
he will unbend a little. He will not descend quite to the
old frivolity, of course; but he will come down a little.'
Kit was taken straight to the library, where Denny
awaited him. The young men shook hands; but with a
certain constraint,—a little; suspicion, or, at least, jealousy,
because each had to give an account of his stewardship.
' You are looking very well,' said Denny. ' I think I have
never seen you looking better. And of course I ought to
know. I hope you find the—the quarters comfortable.
They are more roomy than the old onCs, though somewhat
lower. I suppose you found the increase of capacity round
the chest a little strange at first. The thickness of the
legs would not trouble you much, nor a certain loss of
straightness in those limbs : you find your foothold firmer;
and—from certain symptoms—I should say that you found
a healthier appreciation of drinks. Indeed, I sincerely hope
you have been quite comfortable.'
' Perfectly, perfectly: I am quite satisfied with the
accommodation. And you ?'
' I have been very well, thanks. I was rather too tall at
first, and found I knocked my hat about a good deal under
the trees. And there was a little difficulty in persuading
the organs to adapt themselves to certain habits requiring
stronger action. I need only hint that you will find your¬
self capable of much more wine and Scotch whisky than
before.'
' Quite unnecessary,' said Kit with some severity.
'No excess, you know; only good cheer and a healthy
appetite. One is stouter, I think, in consequence. As for
you, I think that you have fined down the lines somewhat.
Face and figure alike are thinner. But that may be con¬
sidered—by some—an improvement.'
' It is certainly an improvement. A complete change in
the habits of life has produced the effect.'
' Well—well—one can easily go back again. No great
harm done, old man.'
' Quite the contrary. You used to sit up half the night
smoking more tobacco than was good for you, and drinking
a ridiculous quantity of stuff. How could you expect any
68
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
work to be done with such habits as those ? I do not
smoke at all, and I go to bed by eleven.'
Denny laughed derisively.
4 When I took up my residence,' Kit continued, 4 in these
lodgings, the hand shook and there was a strong desire for
drink every morning.'
' There certainly was. But a single little whisky and soda,
first thing in the morning, used to set that right.'
4 Those symptoms are now quite gone. There is no more
need for a whisky and soda at any time.'
4 Oh—well—I suppose it's an improvement,' said Denny
doubtfully. 4 What do they say at the club ?'
4 I do not know. I have quite left off going to the club.'
4 Left off going to the club ?'
4 The men, I found, are accustomed to drink at odd times
all through the day, and their conversation, though they are
mostly literary men, seemed to me extremely unprofitable—
all froth and sparkle.'
4 What more do you want ? Froth and sparkle ? Where
else, I should like to know, can you get froth and sparkle ?'
4 In fact, I found that your former associates '
He paused, as one who does not wish to inflict needless
pain.
4 I hope to Heaven you did not tell them what you thought
of them.'
' There was no necessity. I simply stayed away. I had
my work to do.'
4 Yes. Somehow I always found time for the club.'
41 gathered from the Editors to whom you were known,
that my—your—reputation was that of a man able to turn
out light and airy stuff—pleasant for the moment—when he
could screw himself up to the point of work. I assured the
Editors that their view was a narrow one, and I brought
them work of a very different kind. You will, I assure you,
find yourself in a vastly improved position. You will never
again be expected to write frivolous verse.'
4 Oh!'
4 Yes. And more than that: you have become an
orator.'
4 So I hear.'
4 And a champion of the greatest cause ever advanced—■
nothing less than a complete reconstruction of Society '
KITS ARRIVAL
' Don't! . . Thank you very much ; but give it out in
Smaller doses—break it gently 1'
' To return, then, to your new habits. I rise every morn¬
ing at six, and get two solid hours of work before breakfast.
After breakfast a sharp walk and then more work until one,
when I take a little light lunch.'
' A light lunch.' Denny laughed. ' Man, I used to take
a solid steak and a pint of beer, with a pipe or two after it.
A light lunch ! Why, there is no meal in the day more
delightful than a good solid lunch, with a clear run of
tobacco and talk after it, till dinner time.'
' A sandwich and a glass of Apollinaris,' said Kit, ' some¬
thing that will not interfere with work. Then one goes on
for an hour or so, after which it is time to go and see my
Editor and talk over a subject. If I am to write a leader, I
go away and set about it. I can generally get it done by
eight—fortunately I am a quick writer. Then, of course, I
have some dinner and go home. It is a good day's work, I
think,' he added modestly. ' After that I merely make a
few notes, look up a reference or two, and so to bed by
eleven.'
' Good Heavens ! What a life ! Why, it is all work—all
work. It isn't life—there is no life in it.'
' Don't be ungrateful. Consider what I have done for
you. In three months—three short months—I have raised
you from an occasional contributor of light articles and
verses of Cockney-land to the position of leader-writer on
a great daily. Instead of doing a review occasionally, when
you could get it, for a weekly, and a poem now and then
for a comic journal, you now discuss in the best magazines
of the day the Condition of the People and Social Econo¬
mics,'
' What do I know—what do I care—about the condition
of the people ?'
• You can read what I have written, which will guide
you; and then you must hasten to get up all the informa¬
tion you can find upon the subject. I have laid, in fact, the
foundation of a splendid reputation for you, not to speak of
fortune.'
' And you've gone and changed my style,' groaned
Denny.
' Yes. It was formerly unfinished, Cleverness in it, I
7°
The doubts oe dives
dare say, but sketchy and unfinished. You will find it
improved, but, of course, you will have to write up to your
new level.'
' Thanks,' said Denny, grinning unmirthfully. ' You have
been exceedingly kind. Have you, may I ask, enjoyed
making all this mischief?'
' Very much, indeed.' Kit's face lit up ; he became once
more almost like the old Kit. ' To wake in the morning
with the consciousness that only a day or two lies between
yourself and destitution : to feel that you have got the work
to do which will stave it off, and that you can do it and
do it well, really was the most inspiriting thing I ever
felt.'
' Pity you cannot continue to feel inspirited. As for
me '
' The heights where working-men live have a bracing
air. And the food which one actually earns—how good
it is!'
' Glad you like it.'
' When I began, with about fifteen shillings in my pocket,
there were five weeks' bills unpaid to the landlady '
' More, I should have thought. But you know best.
How has she behaved about it ?'
' And the table was littered with accounts unpaid.'
' People do get troublesome -sometimes. You didn't let
them worry you, I hope ?'
< Worry me ? I had no ease of mind until I had paid
them all—every one.'
' Paid them all ? Paid my debts ? You ? How the
deuce did you manage that ?'
' In the usual way. You do not suppose that I worked
for nothing. After all, the bills taken together did not
amount to much.'
' No. One blushes, certainly, to think how small is the
confidence, how limited the credit, of the individual. Even
at the club there is no tick, and they won't cash cheques.
But is it true ? Am I really square ?'
' I believe so, unless there is something behind.'
' My dear fellow, there couldn't be anything behind. My
creditors are not the sort to allow anything behind. Well,
I shall feel a little strange, at first—cold—without the
friendly interest of my creditors, who will make no more
KITS ARRIVAL
71
kind inquiries after my progress. This is bad for them, as
well as for me.'
' It was my clear duty,' Kit said severely, ' to pay your
debts. A man in debt is nothing better than a slave.
Until the debts were paid, I confess that I sneaked in and
out of the house like a thief. I did not dare to face the
woman of the house. I trembled, for fear of her just re¬
proaches.'
' I am out of debt, then. I wonder how long it will last ?
And money, perhaps, in your pocket ?'
' You will find an account opened at the bank: there is
something there—say, fifty pounds or so. There are also
two or three papers as yet unpaid for.'
' Fifty pounds ? Good heavens ! Fifty pounds all at one
time! Fifty pounds !'
Kit shrugged his shoulders.
' Don't forget, if you please/ he said, ' that you have a
character to lose, thanks to me.'
' I feel grateful. As soon as I have lost it, I shall be
more grateful still.'
' Well, what have you been doing?'
Denny sat down, and laughed.
' When you know the whole, you will be pleased indeed.
You have kept a lovely open house here. No end of
deserving young people in distressed circumstances have
been having a high old time. There have been feasting,
dancing, singing, play-acting, picnics, love-making, and
universal happiness for three months.'
' And now they will have to go back again to their
humble work, and be made discontented for life.'
' They were discontented before. I've done more—but
you will find out when you come back.'
' You have, in short,' interposed Kit angrily, ' turned the
money to the most mischievous purpose possible. Every
foolish gift or thing people wish to have, only makes them
forget that what they want they must work for.'
' If you had to work, my dear fellow '
' I have had to work for three months, and it's the
healthiest time I have ever had.'
' To be sure, I forgot. Well, that is what I have done.
I have increased the happiness of people by giving them
something pleasant to remember. And, as for you, I have
72
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
created for you a character for general benevolence and good¬
nature, which you will find, I take it, as pleasant as it is
unexpected.'
' Benevolence ! I hate the very name. There ought to
be no such thing as benevolence. Well, go on.'
4 No, my dear friend. I will not go on. Meantime, you
will meet your friends, these girls and people, at dinner.'
4 I thought,' said Kit, in agitation, ' that you would only
spend the money on your own amusements.'
4 And I thought you would just pawn my watch, and
borrow half-sovereigns, and get on anyhow.'
41 was a fool,' said Kit, 4 not to have guarded against
this.'
4 Perhaps you were. That reflection brings me comfort.
I've had a glorious time, too. To wake up in the morning
with the thought that there is no work to be done but to
enjoy yourself: and if you think of anyone in trouble, all
you've got to do is to help him out of it. Why, it's godlike !
It brings out a warm glow all over. Only a few days more,
and I go back to the life which you have poisoned with your
confounded activity.'
4 And I to the life which you have ruined by your abomin¬
able benevolence.'
They stood facing each other, hands in pocket, chins stuck
out, snorting a kind of defiance.
'Take care,' said Denny. 'Fair words, my friend. There
are still a few days left. Still time left to pauperise half
London. Serve you right, too, for changing my style.'
4 If you come to that, there is time to engage you for half-
a-dozen more articles, which you will not be able to write.
You and your confounded benevolence! What right had
you '
They snorted again, and glared at each other with such
sudden boiling-over of wrath as, in the old days, would
have impelled them to rush at each other with any weapon
handy, such as a chair—which was beautiful either for
defence or offence—or a poker or an umbrella—the article
was formerly made strong for the purpose—or even with
fists and feet. Next day they might have had a duel, or
they might not, according to the courage of the assaulted
party. This uncertainty lent additional attraction to the
fight. Now that there are no duels there is no fighting,
THE UNEXPECTED
73
and though young men sometimes quarrel, their wrath is
left a half-completed tale. The cheeks of these two, how¬
ever, were red, their eyes flamed, their lips were parted and
their nostrils dilated, just as if they were actually going to
fight.
How the situation would have ended I know not. I fear,
however, that it would have ended tamely, with a walk off
in opposite directions. But at this moment a diversion
was effected of a most surprising and unforeseen character,
which altered, suddenly and completely, the whole situa¬
tion.
CHAPTER VI.
the unexpected.
For at this moment the door flew open and Rosie appeared.
' Kit!' she cried. ' Oh ! you have actually come, and
without letting me know you were coming !'
There was nearly the whole length of the library between
them. She came flying down the room, her eyes bright,
her lips parted, her cheeks glowing, the sunniest, joyfullest,
lovingest greeting on her brow, her hands outstretched, a
welcome in every line of her slight and dainty figure. What
lover in all the world but would have rushed to meet her,
and to enfold in his manly arms so sweet a girl?
Alas ! There could be but one. Denny, it is true, turned
quickly, as if he was the welcomed lover: he checked him¬
self, however, blushing a violent brick-red ; and as for Kit,
he looked round with lack-lustre eyes, and made no move¬
ment at all—not a step, not a word, not a sign of greeting.
Nobody has ever seen such a thing, except, of course, at
rehearsals, where, if something goes wrong in the love
scene, the lover and the maiden alike have to let the love-
light die suddenly out of their faces, to drop their passionate
arms, and to stand aside till the point has been settled.
But this was no rehearsal: this was a scene in the real
Comedy of a woman's Life. Rosie caught the dull, stupid
look, void of recognition : the light and joy suddenly
vanished from her face : her hands dropped: she stood
quite still, wonder-stricken.
74
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
For her lover's face plainly asked, 'Who is this girl? I
do not know her.'
' Kit!' she cried, ' what is the matter ?'
Kit looked from her to Denny, and back again. But he
replied never a word.
' Kit! Kit! what is it ?'
She shrank back as if she had received a blow.
' Pull yourself together, man!' cried Denny, roughly
taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. ' Are you
only half awake ? You will excuse him directly, Bosie,' he
said. ' It is only a momentary weakness.' It might have
occurred to Rosie that to shake a man violently by the
shoulder is unwise treatment for momentary weakness.
' Wake up, Kit! Can't you see that it is Rosie—Rosie
Romaine ?'
' Oh ! yes—yes—Miss Romaine, of course.'
' Is he ill ? Oh ! Mr. Stirling—Denny—what in the
world has happened to him ?'
' I don't know. Man ! don't go off again.'
' I am broad awake, thank you. Nothing has happened,'
Kit said, coldly and slowly, with vengeful face turned to the
other.
' There, again—you can't have forgotten !' cried Denny.
' Pull yourself together, I say.'
'No—no — certainly not. Pray forgive me — Miss
Romaine.'
Denny whispered something in his ear—something short
and strong—but the girl heard it.
' I think I had better go,' she said. ' I am sorry I came
at all. You seem to have been drinking, Kit, or you are
gone mad—one of the two—and whichever it is '
' No—no '—for now he perceived that he had really
made some stupendous blunder—' I am not mad—nor am I
drunk—I assure you. The fact is ' he turned to Denny
for support or explanation. ' Help me out, can't you!' he
cried, in desperation. ' You have got me into the mess—
help me out!'
'Help him out!' cried Rosie. 'What does he mean?
what can he mean ?'
' Yes—yes,' said Denny. ' It is my fault. He arrived
tired and overcome—I ought to have insisted on his taking
rest—or a drink—or something. Instead of that—I am a
THE UNEXPECTED
75
blundering idiot, I confess—I brought him here to talk over
business—and in our discussion—he has been greatly over¬
worked, which I ought to have known—only last night we
were talking ahout it—you remember, Eosie. The papers
in the Contemporary, you know, and the speeches ahout the
new thingumbob—you remember—and a great deal more
that we did not know—change of style—a thing by itself
that would kill most men—break-up with old asso¬
ciates '
He paused, partly out of breath, and partly for lack of
invention. The most experienced inventor often has to con¬
sider what next.
' Pray go on,' said Eosie, looking at her shame-stricken
lover. ' He has worked so hard that he has forgotten the
girl who promised to marry him—wonderful effect of hard
work, truly!'
' No—no—no; you misunderstand,' said Denny. ' What
I was coming to was this, that while we were discussing a
certain point we disagreed—disagreed—you know; in the
heat of argument people frequently disagree '
' And so he forgets his friends !'
' And all of a sudden Kit fell down in a fit. I had just
picked him up when you came in. He was slowly recover¬
ing consciousness—of course he didn't know you. But he
is better—you are much better, Kit, now—are you not?
Eh ? steady-—steady.' He seized his friend by the waist as
if he was going off again—and pinched him in the fattest
and tenderest part of the arm—so that he jumped. ' Shake
hands with her,' he whispered—but the girl heard again.
' Call her Eosie.'
' Pray forgive me—Eosie,' said Kit, coldly extending an
uncertain hand, while his face still betrayed an utter absence
of recognition.
She refused his hand with a gesture of indignation.
' Is he somebody else ?' she asked.
' I should have thought so myself,' Denny replied, ' if it
hadn't been for that fit. Don't hurry him. He will come
to himself again presently. Don't hurry him.'
' How could he actually forget me ?'
' Such a fit—it is of uncommon occurrence, and only
comes to people when they have worked too hard—is suffi¬
cient to account for anything.'
7'°
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' I am remembering again,' said Kit, lending a band at
last. ' Have I been saying anything foolish ?'
' Let me look at you, Kit,' said the girl. ' Oh, you are
very far from remembering yet. I should say, from your
manner, that you have been drinking. That is my explana¬
tion—and if so '
' No—no—I never drink.'
' He never drinks—now.' Denny still interpreted. ' For¬
merly he had a praiseworthy swallow—now he never drinks.
We must forget this painful incident. Lay the blame on
me. The nervous system is easily shaken, and once out of
gear—you know '
' He is as strong as a bull,' said the girl. ' He i3 out of
this mysterious fit—now, at any rate—and look at him.
Why, he doesn't know me yet. Kit—Kit—Mr. Arthur
Christopher Cotterel—are you clean out of your senses ?'
' No—no—I shall be all right presently—not to know you
—Miss Romaine—Rosie '
'Miss Romaine, again? Oh! it is too ridiculous. You
are playing with me, sir.'
' No—no,' he murmured.
' I assure you,' said Denny, 'that what has happened '
' I want his explanation, Denny, not yours,' said the girl.
' Why, he looks at me still as if he wondered who I am.
Let me refresh your memory, sir. I am Rosie Romaine,
and I live at Chelsea, and I am a painter—a water-colour
painter—and you, after assuring me that you were in love
with me, made me promise to marry you. I have had letters
every other day from you for the last three months: one
came yesterday morning, in which you said absolutely
nothing about coming here. Now—have you anything
farther to say? Do not help him, Denny, if you please, to
make up anything. Let him speak.'
'No,' said Denny. 'Let him keep silence till he has
recovered.'
' Well, I will leave him. To stay with him in his present
condition is impossible. Understand, sir, that I must have
from yourself, and not from Denny, or any other friend, an
explanation of this—this outrage.'
' Yes,' Denny murmured in wrath irrepressible, ' it is an
outrage—it is nothing short of an outrage.'
' Then, sir'—she continued to address her lover, who
THE UNEXPECTED
77
stood with hanging head, not daring to say a word—' when
you are able to talk rationally, I shall be ready to listen.
Till then '
She turned and swept out of the room with the dignity of
an offended Queen—but with trembling lips. When she
reached her own room, and not till she had shut and bolted
the door, she sat down to cry. Kit loved her no longer—
that was certain : his face, his eyes, his words, his manner
—all showed he had actually clean forgotten her. Was
ever girl more cruelly insulted ? And from her pocket she
drew her last letter in the dear old handwriting—with the
dear old phrases—ending-with the dear old words, 'I love
you—I love you—I love you.' Oh ! the fond lover ! And
the next day he had forgotten her. He must be ill—some¬
thing terrible—some sudden shock must have happened.
And her heart presently softened. Kit could never have
behaved in such a strange manner unless he was suffering
from something—never—it wasn't possible. She would
wait and hear what he had to say.
' Confound it all!' cried Denny, stamping his foot, when
she was gone. ' This is the most unlucky chance—the most
frightful accident—that could have happened. Couldn't
you see, man? How on earth . . . Here's a girl comes
rushing into the room with her arms out, and calls you by
your Christian name, and you stare at her like a blank
idiot '
' How was I to know ?'
' Why, you donkey, you are engaged to her V
'Well, you ought to have told me before I came. It is
all your fault.'
' Engaged—now you see what you've done. You've made
me look as if I'd forgotten my own sweetheart. That's all
—forgotten my girl — the sweetest and most lovable little
girl that ever lived. That's all! Great heavens ! That's
all!'
' Well, why didn't you tell me ?' Kit repeated stolidly.
' Because I wasn't going to have you going about in my
shape to make love to her.'
' Well, then, why did you send for me here ?'
' I forgot what might happen. I do forget sometimes.
It's the awkwardness of this business that one has to be
always remembering, and guarding against things.'
78
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Well, the only question now is, What is to be done ?'
' I don't know. Make up something. Go on having
giddy fits. Be overworked. Go on being giddy. Reel
about. Stagger.'
' I will do what I can,' Kit replied gravely. ' The situa¬
tion is delicate, I confess.'
' Delicate or not, you have got to get out of it, somehow.
Mind, you must—you must—you must.'
' Am I to make love to her ? I don't want to ; but if you
Rink I ought '
' I suppose ' Denny changed colour—' I suppose you
must—to a certain extent—pretend. There will be a row
royal in any C2.se. Perhaps it would be better to let things
slide till this week is over. But she won't allow it. She
means to have it out at once. Well, I suppose,' he con¬
cluded doubtfully, ' that you must make love.'
' Oh !' Kit looked more doubtful still. ' I don't like to
ask impertinent questions, my dear fellow—but in these
matters—want of experience. . . . One would like to know
how far one may go—what is expected and allowed.'
' Here's a chap !' cried Denny. ' One would think he
had never made love to a girl in his life. Oh ! I would get
up and confess the whole business if I thought she would
believe it. But she wouldn't. She would think it was a
put-up job. No woman would ever be got to believe it.'
' After all, it's only a lovers' quarrel. She'll make it up
and come round fast enough, when we've had a little
explanation. I shall tell her about that fit again.'
' Will she come round ? If I know that sweet girl, it
won't be quite so easy. Hang it all! not to recognise your
own girl—and, mind,—she doesn't believe in that fit. She
thinks you are drunk—I saw it in her eyes. She didn't
believe a word about the fit from the beginning.'
' Well, I will do what I can. Of course I must call her
by her Christian name—Rosie? Who is Rosie? How
long have I been engaged ? Tell me all and make haste
about it. A very pretty interruption to work this job
promises to be.'
' And mind,' said Denny, after impressing these and other
points upon him, ' the house is full of your old friends.
Don't pretend not to know them. Don't be standoffish
THE UNEXPECTED
79
with them, because they don't expect such treatment, and
they won't have it, and they'll visit it upon me next week
if they get it now.'
' Well, tell me beforehand who they are.'
' There's dear old Sophia Gentry, the painter.'
' Never heard of her.'
' Well then, pretend to have heard of her—shake hands
warmly with her. You may kiss her, if you like. I think,
indeed, she will expect it. Everybody kisses Sophia.'
' I don't want to kiss her.'
'There's Geraldine—tall, good-looking girl—remember
you've been friends from childhood. She'll want a little
private talk—and you must tell her everything. But you
mustn't try to kiss her, because she isn't that kind of girl
at all—even with her oldest friends. Well, then there's
old Pinder, to whom you refused the loan of half-a-sovereign
the other day. You'll find him rather distant in conse¬
quence.'
' A disagreeable-looking old man with a red face and a
loud voice? I remember him. No—I should certainly not
lend that man anything.'
' Well, then there are others—mind you laugh as if you
were glad to see them. Oh ! and as for Eosie—but it is
too late for you to explain anything before dinner. You
will sit next to her, and you had better sigh and let her
understand that you are getting slowly better. Don't drink
anything but Apollinaris. That'll convince her, if anything
can, how ill you have been. Kit Cotterel must be very far
gone indeed when he lets the champagne pass him—or the
claret either—or the port—or the sherry. Oh ! Lord—
Lord ! how shall I ever make it up with Eosie ? Poor
child ! Poor child!'
CHAPTEE VII.
what has come to him ?
Kit obeyed his instructions in so far, that he came down
to dinner late—so late, that they did not wait for him.
He dropped into his place, which was next to Eosie on one
side and to Sophia on the other/with a smile and a bow to
the latter—who took his hand and held it affectionately.
8o
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' My dear boy,' she murmured, ' we are all so proud of
you. I must learn all about it after dinner.'
But there was something in his manner which chilled
her, and she dropped his hand, looking at him with surprise.
The others all welcomed him as ' Kit the Philosopher—Kit
the Preacher—Kit the Moralist,' laughing as if the new
character was a really excellent joke. He laughed in reply,
but coldly, as one who would be taken seriously. But
Mr. Binder regarded him with offended dignity. As for
Bosie, she addressed not one word to him, but conversed
with animation with the man on the other side. This was
remarked, naturally. Again, it was remarked that Kit not
only told no stories, but laughed at none. Nothing eould
be a greater proof of radical change in him than the fact
that he neither told stories nor laughed at them. Finally,
if more proof was wanted of his changed condition, it was
observed that he drank nothing. A small bottle of Apol-
linaris stood before him, which he did not finish. The
sparkling wine and the claret he refused.
' Kit,' said Sophia, ' you have grown silent. Can you
not leave London and your work behind you ?'
' I have brought my work with me.'
' Oh, but you must rest and take a holiday.'
' I have a good deal to finish within the next three days.
After that, I cannot tell'—he sighed—' how much holiday
I may take.'
' Well, Kit—but we are not always working. Not at
dinner, for instance. Where are your old spirits ? Where
are your stories? Why are you so stiff with your old
friends ?'
' Am I stiff? Indeed, I am sorry.'
' Look at Denny. You seem to have given him all your
spirits when you gave him your songs.'
' Perhaps I did. Don't you see that when one's mind is
occupied with really serious things, it is impossible to be
always laughing and telling stories ?'
' In your case,' said Sophia dryly,' it would seem so. But
you should not fall into the opposite extreme. There is
such a thing, my dear Kit, as a wet blanket.'
In fact, although Denny did his best to keep up a cheerful
flow of talk, there was a shadow upon the table caused by
the presence of this transformed butterfly, who was now a
WHAT HAS COME TO HIM?
Philosopher. From grub to butterfly we know, but not
from butterfly to grub.
But when they went into the drawing-room the shadow
seemed for the moment removed. They all, except Bosie,
flocked round Kit. ' Oh, Kit!' cried one. ' Come, Kit!'
cried another. ' Now, Kit,' cried a third, ' sit down and
sing one of your old songs. Benny sings them all, and so
exactly like you, that we want to know which sings them
the better. One of your old songs, Kit.'
They led him, passive, to the piano, and made him sit
down on the music-stool before he had time to refuse. He
even went so far as to touch the keys with his fingers, then
he started up—remembering that he could not play or sing
a note—not even after the manner of the young man who
lives next door, and interprets the finest music with soft¬
ness, colour, and sympathy by the aid of the forefinger
alone.
' No,' he said—' not to-night.'
' Oh ! yes—you must—you must. Ask him, Kosie.'
' If you cannot make him, I cannot,' said Kosie coldly.
' I neither play nor sing at all,' he said blankly.
They all burst out laughing. This, indeed, was about as
bold and impudent a falsehood as was ever uttered. Why,
the man was bubbling over with music of the soft and senti¬
mental kind ; of the Bacchanalian kind, or of the love kind
—willingly at all times would Kit sit down to sing hymns,
Ancient and Modern, in praise of Venus or of Bacchus—of
love and wine. And as he sang, his light voice rolling
above the rippling of the notes, his face would shine and
beam, and his lips would so laugh and he would be so
happy in the exercise of his power, that everybody lovel
him. And Denny behaved in exactly the same manner
with equal enjoyment and equal command of the instru¬
ment, and with the same laughing eyes, so that the people
were divided in opinion which of them played and sang
the better. Mostly they found a superior delivery in
Denny's rendering, and some thought that he played with
greater finish. I believe that the superiority was due to
personal comeliness, in which point, without doubt, Denny
had the advantage. And if only for his singing, Denny was
now as popular as Kit had been. No young man is so
universally beloved, as he who can play and sing with ease
82
THE DOUBTS OP DIVES
and freedom, and as if he enjoyed it himself as much as his
hearers. Witness the popularity of Mr. Corney Grain, who
really must enjoy his own singing and playing, just as much
as the people whose mouths he keeps open and whose eyes
he keeps dancing.
' I cannot play,' he repeated, without laughing,—' I mean
I cannot play to-night. I have no voice—and I—I had a
little indisposition—a giddy fit—after I arrived this evening'
—he looked towards Eosie, who cruelly kept her face
averted—' and, in fact, I must not attempt any music to¬
night.'
' You have had an upset of some kind,' said Sophia,' that
is very certain.'
' Quite certain,' said Denny. ' Of course you must not
play or sing to-night. Eest for a few days is what you want.
Don't think, Kit, of trying to sing. Next week as much as
you please. I'll sing you a song—one of your own songs,
Kit—written before you began to instruct the world from the
pages of the Contemporary.'
He sat down and ran his fingers over the keys lightly and
pleasantly—this preliminary touch of the fingers is like the
kiss of two lovers—and then he sang.
' It is exactly as Kit himself used, to-night,' said Sophia
Gentry. ' I have heard him sing that song a dozen times.
Denny, have you no style of your own ?'
' No, only a variation here and there of Kit's. You don't
mind, Kit, do you? You wouldn't like your style changed
—would you ? Not even to be improved ?'
Then Mr. Pinder bore down upon him with the demand
for an explanation written plainly on his face.
' We haven't seen you lately at the club,' he began.
' No—I have been too much occupied of late to spare the
time. I cannot waste my time, as some men do, in idle
talking at the club.'
' It is a great pity, sir, let me tell you,' said Mr. Pinder
savagely,' when young men give up habits of good fellowship,
and pretend that work is the only thing for which they were
brought into the world. A very great pity, sir, let me tell
y°n.'
He retired without asking, or obtaining, any more ex¬
planation. But this kind of talk does not promote cheerful¬
ness. There fell a constraint upon the party. The people
WHAT HAS COME TO HIM?
33
looked at Kit with increasing wonder. It was a miracle.
Like all miracles, it would not last long. Presently, they
thought, he would change again into his old self: he would
sit down and begin tinkling the piano and singing one of the
songs for which he was so famous. It was not in Kit's
nature to keep serious very long. They would wait.
Nobody said these things, but everybody thought them.
One of them, however—Geraldine—took him quite seriously.
She sat down beside him when he had extricated himself
from those who wished him to sing, and began talking to
him in a confidential voice—not a whisper, but a low tone
which is not intended for the whole world to hear. A young
lady can only talk so to a man if she is a very old and inti¬
mate friend, almost a sister.
' Kit,' she said, ' tell me truly—is it a settled change of
purpose, or only a passing fancy ?'
' It has been settled for three months,' he replied. ' If it
will last another week, I should say that it will always con¬
tinue. You know '—he smiled gravely—' there are crises
and dangerous points in everything—we are now on the
verge of a very important crisis indeed.'
' Your look is settled, Kit: your eyes are grave. These
are very good signs. Oh ! you are so very right. It was
indeed time to throw off the indolent trifling which affected
your friends so much. Life cannot be all singing and telling
stories. But you must not give up singing altogether, for
the sake of those who love to hear you.'
' I shall sing again in a few days, I dare say.'
' After the crisis is weathered ? And what does Kosie
say ?'
' She finds me changed, he said shortly.
' Why, so do all of us. Of course you are changed, but
for the better. We are proud of you, remember that—ten
times as proud of you as when you thought it the finest
thing in the world to go to the club and sing your songs to
the men there.'
At this moment Denny began to sing another of the ditties.
Truth to tell, the lines of the ditty had just a little touch of
the music-hall about them, and there was a tag or refrain
which also suggested that Institution for the formation of
national taste.
' No, Kit,' said Geraldine, ' I was wrong. You must give
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
up singing these songs : they would be incongruous for you
henceforward. A man who wrrites on such subjects and m
such a style—a man who addresses crowded audiences on
grave and important questions—cannot sing those songs any
more. Promise me to sing them no more. ^ ^
' Ask me next week ; I cannot promise anything just now.
' Let Denny go on singing them : they suit his light and
sparkling character. He is like a bottle of champagne, so
full of life and spirit. But they suit you no longer. The
songs seem part of him; he is of a disposition so sunny, so
generous, and so—so like what you wished formerly to seem,
Kit. The verses are all about happiness and sunshine and
feasting : they suit a man like him, who is so rich and has
no sense of responsibility : he laughs at effort: if he sees
suffering, he relieves it on the spot: and he is quite as lazy
as ever you were, Kit.'
' Or ever will be again,' he replied, smiling.
This young lady, he now perceived, was an extremely
beautiful girl, quite unlike the pretty little creature upon
whom his clumsy hoofs had trampled. She was tall and
stately : she possessed a countenance of great beauty, set
and serious. She sat close beside him and talked with a
sisterly affection and sympathy, very delightful to any young
man, particularly to one who had never seen or spoken to
her before.
' I wanted to speak to you as soon as I could, Kit. I
wanted to come directly after Kosie, you know, just to tell
you how happy the change has made me. Oh ! I have been
waiting so long, looking for the Kit of the old days, the brave
boy who was filled with noble ambition and lofty ideals, and
nourished with the greatest thoughts and words of the
greatest men. I knew very well that he would-come back
to us some day. Such a boy might wander out of the way ;
he might stay down below in the valleys for a while, but he
would be sure to climb upon the mountains again. I waited,
and I had patience, because I was so certain that he would
come back to his old dreams.'
Kit murmured something. The girl's deep eyes spoke
volumes of joy and gratitude for the return of the Prodigal.
' The frivolous, idle dreamer, the indolent Kit of the°last
five years, has quite gone, has he not ? Quite, quite gone.
Never to return '
WHAT HAS COME TO IIIM?
' I cannot say ; ask me again in a few days, in a week.'
' When this terrible crisis shall have passed ? But,
remember, you have always told me everything.'
' It is so long,' he murmured, ' since we have known each
other, is it not ?'
' Why, Kit, all our lives we have played and talked
together—^since I was a little girl of three and you a boy of
eight.'
' Yes, so long—so long. We are such old friends,
Geraldine. I fear—I tremble——'
' Why ?'
' I fear that the frivolous idler and dreamer may return.
In a few days you may see him back again.'
' Be true to yourself, Kit, and this can never happen.'
He shook his head.
' I tremble,' he said, ' Geraldine, even with you at my
side '
' With me at your side ? . But you always have that, if
you choose—and, besides, you have Rosie.'
There was not the smallest touch of suspicion or jealousy
in her voice. She meant what she said :
' You love Rosie: she will make you happy.'
' Even if I had you,' he added, with a look of admiration
in his eyes that had never belonged to the old Kit. Indeed,
in these old boy and girl confidences there never is any
admiration on the part of the boy, though there may be
plenty of worship on the part of the man. ' Even if you
were always at my side, I should tremble to think what
might happen. Because, you see, what I have done has
now advanced to a stage where a strong man is required;
and I know not whether I have the strength, the courage,
or the perseverance to continue the work.'
' There is a touch of Kit the dreamer—not Kit the man
of action. Strength? You are full of strength. Nobody
knows your intellectual strength better than I do. There is
nothing, Kit—nothing in the world—that you cannot do, if
you only choose.'
Denny interrupted them.
'Rosie is in the library,' he said. ' Will you go to her,
Kit?'
He administered a warning fpowp, as Kit rose quickly
and departed,
86
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' What is the matter with them, Denny?' asked Geraldine.
' Everybody noticed that they hardly spoke to each other
during dinner.'
' Rosie came running into the library at a most unfor¬
tunate moment. Kit, you see, was over-heated, or overdone,
or something, and he had a sudden giddiness—nearly fell
over—had to sit down—kind of fit.'
'Kind of fit? That seems alarming. Kit never had
such a thing before.'
' No ? Comes of hard work—that kind of fit. Those
articles, you know. Well, Rosie came at the moment when
he was just recovering. And, in fact, for the moment he
did not recognise her—seemed not to know who she was—■
and she was a little put out; thought it was neglect. Now
he's gone to make it up with her. Five minutes will square
it. Lord! they've had a hundred quarrels. She was
always flying out at him for laziness and debts and late
hours. And they always kissed and made friends again.
I'll give Kit ten minutes to make it right.'
CHAPTER VIII.
LET ME EXPLAIN.
' Now, sir,' said Rosie, tapping her foot impatiently.
' You saw what happened,' he began.
' Saw what happened ? Of course I did. Saw what
happened ? Pray, sir, if you knock a man down with a
bludgeon, do you begin your apologies by asking him if he
felt what happened ?'
' Please let me go on. I am all impatience, Rosie, to set
this matter straight.'
' Go on.' She turned her head aside as if she could not
bear even to look at him. She was in a tempestuous mood,
which Kit's strange behaviour about the singing had not
gone far to calm.
' I was going to say that when you came into the room—
I was not, for the moment, myself.'
' That you need not tell me. The question is how long
it will be before you are again yourself ?'
LET ME EXPLAIN
87
'I am now—again—myself,' he replied; but with a
faltering voice, because he felt that the statement would
hardly bear defence.
' No, Mr. Cotterel, you are not. And until you can make
me understand what this means—what is the reason of this
conduct '
' Indeed, I do not know in what words to assure you of
my sorrow and pain—at what must, I own, seem incom¬
prehensible '
' Sir—you only make things worse.' She drew herself up
and spoke in the iciest tones. ' You now say that you have
come to your senses, and that you know at last the girl to
whom you are engaged. You recognise her again. Why,
it is I now who do not know you. Where are you gone ?
What has become of you ? What evil spirit possesses you ?
Why do you speak to me like this ?'
He made no reply.
' Have you any complaint to make of me ? Have I
offended you in any way? If so, it must be since the day
before yesterday, when I received your last letter. Here it
is.' She drew a letter from her pocket. ' Perhaps you
will at least remember writing this letter. Look at it.
That is your handwriting and that is your signature, I
believe.'
' Yes—yes—of course I remember very well. Am I to
read it ?'
' Bead it aloud.'
' " Dearest and best of girls " '
' Am I the dearest and best of girls ?'
' Certainly. Of course you are.'
At this point he should have dropped the letter and taken
her in his arms and had no more discussion. But this,
unfortunately, he neglected to do. The old Kit, whenever
they quarrelled, always made it up that way, and perhaps
Rosie expected a repetition of the treatment.
4 Either you are telling the most shameful of falsehoods,'
she said, 4 or you have acquired quite a new manner of tell¬
ing the truth. I don't like the new manner. Go on !'
4 44 Dearest and best of girls—I have nothing to tell you—
no news to give you—except that I am
4 Stop ! You had no news to give me. You had been
■writing all these papers—you were going to make a great.
88
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
speech—you were coming down here on a visit you had
caused yourself to be talked about—and you say that you
have no news to tell me ! Really, I think you must be
clean gone off your head.'
' No news—I meant—that would interest you.
' You think so meanly of the woman who is—or was—-to
be your wife, that you do not even tell her such news as
that of your own complete transformation. And this is the
man who used to tell me everything !'
' I meant to surprise you '
' No—no. You didn't care enough for me to tell me
anything. Go on. Finish your letter.'
' " No news," ' he went on, ' " except I am always and
always and always, with ten thousand kisses, your lover—
your lover—your lover." '
' Do you mean that still ?' asked Rosie, giving him a second
chance for the familiar treatment.
' Certainly—of course—why not ?' he replied. 11 assure
you '
'Yes; but you needn't assure me. You have now
recovered. What is the good of all those assurances when
I can see with my own eyes the change in your manner
and in your looks ? Kit'—she turned upon him fiercely—
' you no longer love me! Now, don't protest and assure—
because it is no use. Good gracious ! Do you think I
cannot see very well? Have I no eyes? Have I no
memory ? You no longer love me ! Tell me—I ask again
■—have I offended you in any way ?'
' No—no—no—not in the least.'
' Then how can you write in the old manner one day and
two days afterwards meet me with such a change ?'
' I can only explain as I have already tried. I have been
too busy, perhaps, to think much of such things.'
' Too busy ? But you have written to me every other
day.'
' Yes—yes—no doubt. But—■—'
'And long letters, too. It was by your advice that I
came here when Geraldine asked me to come with her.'
' You see—it was a sudden thing—a kind of fit.'
' Don't, Kit,' she said earnestly. ' Do not add more
falsehoods to the pile you have already heaped up. I
WQpdgr §he pressed her head with her hands—' if we are
LET ME EXPLAIN
89
both in our senses. We can't be—I must be mad or you
must be mad. Do you suppose I believe that story about
giddiness ? You were not giddy. You simply did not know
me. Oh ! what can it mean ? What can it mean ? What
has happened ?'
' What should happen ?' His voice was constrained.
' It is so terrible that I am frightened,' said the girl. ' My
own lover does not know me. When he hears who I am,
his eyes follow me about as if trying to make out who I am.
He sits beside me at dinner and says nothing—and when I
look into his eyes I find that the old look has gone out of
them. The man has actually forgotten the girl whom but
yesterday he said he loved.'
'No—no—Eosie ' — he pronounced the name with an
effort—' I am not really changed. You are mistaken. It
is only that I have been greatly occupied and perhaps over¬
worked, and—and—you will forgive me, Eosie. I will go
away again to-morrow, and come back in a day or two—
next week—and you will find me the old Kit again. Will
you forgive me ?'
As if remembering what is due from an accepted suitor,
he made an attempt, but feebly, to lay his hand upon her
waist. The girl shook him off with a shudder.
' No, Kit—not with that look in your eyes. No ! It is all
over between us. You can leave me now. It is all over, I say.'
' All over ?'
' Well, why doesn't the man go ? I say it is all over—all
over—all over,' she repeated, raising her voice. ' Good
gracious ! what did you expect ? What did you want ? Do
you think that after Ob, it is absurd ! Go away, if
you please, Mr. Cotterel.'
' Oh, I say !'—Kit seemed to awaken suddenly—' I must
set this right somehow. Look here—Eosie—well, then—if
it must be '—it was unfortunate that he sighed at this point,
because a sigh is often the outward sign of inward satisfac¬
tion—' if it must be—don't send me away like this. Let me
go away to-morrow—as I proposed—and come back in a
week. You will see then. I promise you faithfully that
I have not changed.'
' He doesn't understand—even yet—the enormity of the
thing he has dope |' cried the girl, ' lie can't under¬
stand it,'
9°
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Give me a week. It is all I ask.'
'No—I will not. But—well, something is clue; there
may be something to explain—some way out of it. I will
give you two days. If, in two days' time—■—'
' It is too soon. I want a week.'
' If in two days' time I see the old look back again—then
—then—perhaps I will ask you for explanations. If you've
fallen in love with some other girl,' she added coldly, ' of
course it would be much better to tell me so at once, and
have done with it. If not, in two days I shall expect the
old look back again.'
' The old look? Now—I ask you, how can I compel the
old look to come back if it won't ? "Where is it—the old
look? A man can't alter his eyes.'
'I will give you two days,' she repeated—'two days
more. If by the end of that time you are not again the old
Kit—why, all will be over between us. Do you quite under¬
stand? Two days.'
' Make it six,' he said with the air of one wTho pleads with
his uncle for a higher advance. ' Only make it six, and I
am sure— oh! I am quite sure—that the old look will come
back.'
' Oh ! you cannot be in your right senses. This is absurd.
Why make it six ? No. If in two days I do not see the old
look and hear the same voice '
' You don't mean that the voice is changed as well as the
eyes !'
' Your eyes are the same as they always have been. They
are common gray eyes. Quite,' she added icily, ' of the
common kind. And your voice is the same, I suppose—
rather a high pitch in it, nothing unusual in your voice.
You have the same face, too—not an uncommon face—and
not a very beautiful face either. Your nose is much the
same—short and broad—and your mouth hasn't greatly
changed in three months. It never had any shape to speak
of- '
' Pray go on,' he said.
' Your figure is much the same as it used to be,' Kosie
added,—' short and thick. I certainly did not accept your
hand because anything that belonged to it was beautiful.
As for your manners, they are not aristocratic. And as for
your customs, they are lazy and shiftless,'
LET ME EXPLAIN
9i
'Well?'
' Seeing all these things—that I took you in spite of
everything and knowing everything that I had to expect—
I can only say that if my promised lover comes to me, after
three months' absence, with all the love gone out of him—.
out of his eyes, out of his voice, out of his face, out of his
manner—why, he may give me back my promise and go
away. For I will have no more of him. And that is the
last word.'
4 No more of him,' he repeated.
4 No more of him. Two days, therefore, I give you. Two
days. During that time you will not walk with me, sit
beside me, talk to me, write to me, or use any of the
privileges of a lover. A lover ? Oh ! With that voice and
with those eyes! And not to know me again! Not to
remember me !'
She ran away, leaving him alone. She ran out of the
library into the garden.
'Iam sorry for Kit,' he murmured. ' I really am sorry
for Kit. But it's his own fault. Why couldn't he have
come to town instead of making me come down here ?'
Was it by accident, or was it by design, that Denny was
on the terrace when Kosie ran out from the library?
4 You have seen him ?' he whispered. 4 You have made it
all right with him ?'
4 No, I have not. You will please not to ask me anything
about him at all. Something dreadful has happened to
Kit.' The tears rose to her eyes, but she brushed them
away for pride's sake. 41 wonder if he has been so
horribly hard up that he can think of nothing but his
debts ?'
4 He has no debts. He has paid them all and he's coin¬
ing money. Fifty pounds he has accumulated—actually,
fifty pounds ! Why, it is opulence—and all for your sake.'
4 Mine ? For my sake ! Please do not let me hear any
more falsehoods; I have heard too many already.'
41 could not tell you—about myself—anything but the
plain and simple truth. Kosie, I cotdd not.'
She broke away and ran down, alone, into the dark
garden. Denny looked after her with something like a tear
in his eyes.
Then Kit himself came out, looking uncomfortable.
92
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
'Wel1 ?'
' I've had it out with her,' he replied. ' It isn't well.
Look here—you know—you can't expect a man to show in
his face and his voice and his eyes that he's in love with a
girl he never saw before. They can't do that even on the
stage.'
' It's the most blundering business I ever came across.
Of course she expected to see—what she always used to
see. Besides, if you were half an actor ! As for acting, if
a man can't fall in love with Bosie at first sight, he isn't a
man—he is only a—a—a writing machine.'
' Thank you. But I don't happen to care much about
your very little women,' said Kit coldly. ' Venus was five
feet six, I believe. In point of fact, I have not fallen in love
with Miss Bomaine.'
' What did she say ?'
' Just exactly what you might expect. She is deeply hurt
and offended. As for her forgiving me—or you—I don't see
how she can. The thing is too flagrant.'
Denny said something which was really needed in order
to satisfy his feelings.
' In a week's time, when you begin to plead with her
yourself, I fully expect, old man, that you will get what at
your club they call, I believe, the Boot—the Boot. Mind,
it is all your own fault. Don't blame me.'
Denny made no reply at all.
' I've begged for a little time. I asked for a week—you
understand why. I'm to have two days only. That is all
she will give. If, in two days' time, I can give some kind
of explanation and can show that I have recovered the old
eyes and the old manner — why then, perhaps -Other¬
wise the Boot, my friend, the Boot!'
CHAPTEB IX.
with fbienes so old.
Breakfast began at half-past nine. As a general rule
everybody was tolerably punctual at this, as at every other
meal. Bosie, for her part, appeared fresh and smiling as
if there had been no quarrel or anything at all out of the
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
93
common on yestereve. Yet such a thing when it happens
is immediately whispered all over the house. The Temple
of Fame has, you see, many departments. In the lowest of
all, the goddess employs messengers who are made to run
about perpetually on domestic business, picking up tittle-
tattle, whispering things that happen, things that have not
happened, things that ought to have happened, and, above
all, things that ought not to have happened, in the ear of
everybody in turn. Some of the messengers, however, of
this department—those who are very active—are engaged
in working up the personal paragraphs for the papers. He
who haff been told off for special service in this house, there¬
fore, went round industriously to the pillow of every young
lady in turn and told her, murmuring in her ear, so that
the words sounded like the very breath of her sleeping self:
' There has been a quarrel between Kit Cotterel and
Rosie. He received her to-day as coldly as if he did not
even know her. She is very angry and threatens to break
it off.'
It must, I say, have been one of these messengers who
had conveyed this information in a secret midnight manner,
because everybody knew exactly what had happened. Yet
Rosie had told nobody except Geraldine and dear old Sophia
and one or two more, and these under promise of confidence
the most inviolable. Everybody knew it, and all were pre¬
pared to meet her as a drooping lily, with murmuring words
and the kiss of condolence and some of the luxury of woe.
She walked in, however, with no external signs of wanting
sympathy or condolences. A smile was on her lips and
resolution sat upon her brow. She took her seat and
nodded to everybody with even more than usual spright-
liness, and accepted food readily, as if a lovers' quarrel was
apt to make one hungry. This conduct caused universal
admiration. Thus, it was felt, should every girl, who knows
what is due to herself, receive and resent the coldness of a
lover. Where there is no ardour, there can be no love. To
hang the head and weep in a corner is unworthy the name
of British maiden. Only those who had observant eyes
discovered that the girl's cheek was a little flushed and her
eyes a little too bright. But to show no outward sign or
token after such a rupture, or, at least, such a very pretty
quarrel, is like coming out of a fight without a scratch.
9-1
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
Fortunately the other combatant was not present. He
had the grace to stay away. That awkwardness, if any,
was spared the poor girl. Kit gave his friends no oppor¬
tunity of observing how far his coldness was real or fancied,
and Denny sat beside the deserted one paying her all the
attentions—it was afterwards remembered—of a lover.
But she received them passively.
It was the day of the last picnic. They all made haste
to talk about it. Every morning they arranged their plans
for the day, and divided into parties, and made up matches,
games, plays, and the rest of it. But four days more and
the holidays would be over. Then, once more to London—
once more to the weary round of work—once more to the
search for the honest employer, and for the remunerative
work—once more, for most of them, short commons in the
way of luxuries, and, in the way of social pleasures, starva¬
tion. Therefore there was some sadness already hanging
over the party—the shadow of approaching change.
As for the unlucky Kit, this absurd .lover, who had
actually forgotten that he was in love, and knew not even
the face of his mistress, he got up earlier than the rest and
went forth into the meadows and the stubbles, probably
with the hope of warming his poor frozen heart in the
sunshine. He did not return until the picnic party had
gone. Then he went into the library, sat down at a table,
spread out his books and papers, and in one minute became
as much absorbed in his work as if there had been no
Bosie at all. In fact, there was no Bosie to him. She
belonged to the other fellow—it was not his love-quarrel.
Presently the door opened softly and he looked up. It
was Geraldine—the girl who had been Kit's ancient and
familiar friend. He was safe with her : she it was who
applauded the great transformation and was proud of one
so industrious.
She walked to his table, her face full of sweet seriousness,
and laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.
' Kit,' she said, ' when I learned that you were not going
to join the party, I thought I wTould stay at home too, so
that we might have a good talk together about many things.
Are you too busy for a little talk ?'
' I am always busy, said this working bee, ' but never
too busy for you, Geraldine.'
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
95
e Fancy you always busy ! It is too delightful. Oh, the
change ! Tell me how it came about—this wonderful
transformation.'
' Well—as I said before—at twenty-seven one has played
long enough.'
' That hardly seems a sufficient reason. Never mind, the
thing has happened, and oh ! dear Kit, we are so proud of
you, and so happy 1' Her eyes became humid. ' The lazy
and careless time is over and gone—all our disappointments
are ended—that is enough.'
She would have said more, but her voice broke. She
laid her hand upon his and pressed the back of it—quite a
sisterly method of hand-pressing.
' You think too much about it, Geraldine,' he said.
' No, no ; I cannot think too much about it. Come—tell
me, first, what you are writing—verses ?'
' No, certainly not. What I am doing here—I have only
two or three days to finish it in, I must make haste—is a
paper on a question of Colonization. I studied it on the
spot—that is to say, I have got all the information as near
first-hand as possible.'
' Put it aside for five minutes, and tell me, Kit, what is
this trouble about Rosie ?'
' What is it ?' he repeated.
' You know, of course, that she is excessively hurt and
pained by your coldness.'
' I believe she must be. I am sorry.'
' She came to my room last night and had a great cry
about it. She says you actually did not know her.'
' I told her—I explained.'
' And she says that you love her no longer. What can
it mean, Kit ?'
' It means what I tried to explain to her—if she would
only believe me.'
Well, Kit, expl ain to me. You have known me long
enough and well enough to explain everything to me.'
' It is difficult,' he said, leaning back and dropping his
eyes, ' to make things quite clear. You see it is three
months since I have seen Rosie.'
The girl remarked that he pronounced her name with an
effort, instead of lingering over it fondly.
' Yes : it is three months. But you have written to her
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
constantly, and always with the most ardent profes¬
sions.'
' I suppose—force of habit—force of habit,' he repeated
with an impatient gesture.
' Well—but, Kit—Kit—what does this mean? Force of
habit ?'
' When she came running in, my mind was otherwise
occupied and I—I^in fact I was not thinking of her, and
perhaps I looked—I may have looked for the moment—as
if I did not recognise her. Only for the moment, you
know.'
' Yes—yes—that is what .Rosie tells me. You offered to
shake hands with her, but in so cold a manner that she was
simply terrified. And she declares that your manner and
look all the evening were those of a man talking to a woman
to whom he has just been introduced.'
' That is her imagination.'
' Well, but'—she persisted, ' I cannot understand. Do
you remember how you came running to me four months
ago with the joyful news that Rosie was going to make you
happy ? Do you remember, my dear boy, how your voice
broke and your eyes filled with tears while you told me
about her ? What has become of all that rapture ?'
' Where are the snows of yesteryear? Why tax me with
the mood of a day gone by ?'
' Is it possible—no, Kit, it is not possible—that you have
changed your mind ? If that is so ' She broke off,
because indeed she did not know how to finish the sentence
without a condemnation too grave to. be hastily pro¬
nounced.
' I asked her for a week—she will only give me two days.
I have assured her that if she will only consent to give me
a week, everything will come right again. But she won't.
That is her obstinacy, you see. If she would only give me
a week.'
' Why a week ?'
' Well, Geraldine, all I can say is, that just at the
moment I am so much occupied with other things that—■
that—well, in a wreek I shall be more free—you will see
then yourself. Your old friend will come back to you, per¬
haps, as careless and lazy as ever.'
' I want my old friend to stay as he is—thoughtful,
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
Studious, and industrious. My old friend as he was,—Kit
frivolous, lazy, and dreamy—I want to see no more. But
there is no reason why my old friend's heart should be
changed.'
Kit made no reply. Affairs of the heart are always
delicate things to speak about.
' Well, what shall we do then?'
' Make her give me a week, that is all I ask. Five days
will be even enough.'
' Why ? This is nonsense, Kit, stark staring nonsense.
Why a week any more than a day? If you love poor
Rosie still, you can tell her so to-day—or to-morrow, if
you like—just as well as next week.'
' It does seem so, doesn't it ? Yet—never mind Rosie ;
tell me about yourself, Geraldine. Are you happy here ?'
His voice perceptibly softened, and his eyes betrayed an
interest in this young lady which he had not shown at the
mention of poor Rosie.
' Oh ! yes. Denny is most kind and generous. I have
never before had such a holiday—you know that very well,
Kit.'
' Of course. How could you ? How could you ?'
It is to be remarked that though he knew no more and
no less concerning the affairs of Geraldine than he knew of
Rosie, the former did not find out his ignorance.
They talked together for two hours, in which the girl
was drawn on to speak of her aspirations and ambitions,
and the young man sympathized.
'We may not meet this evening,' said Kit, when she
would stay no longer. ' I was allowed two days. It will
be best for me to spend this interval out of her sight.'
' But—consider, Kit,—don't you want to see her, and to
be with her all the time ?'
' No, I do not. If she would only give me a week.'
' Oh ! you are mysterious again. I shall go. Kit'—she
laid her hand upon his arm — 'don't overdo ambition.
Leave some room for love. You should put away your
papers and come out, and put on a cheerful front as if you
knew it would all come right.'
' Oh 1 I know it will all come right. Of that I have no
doubt whatever,' he replied carelessly; ' but it will take
certainly six days, and if she would only——'
0
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
Geraldine shook her head, laughed, and ran away.
Kit took up his pen again and resumed his work.
But the face of the girl came between him and his hard
facts and harder logic. How can one reason calmly and
dispassionately with a girl's face between one s eyes and the
paper ? .
' Good Lord !' he murmured. ' He has been in the com¬
pany of that beautiful creature — that queenly woman ■
pretty well all her life, and he goes and picks up that little
insignificant creature who Now—if '
But here his thoughts became too tangled for continuous
speech. At such moments the brain goes off into half-a-
dozen lines of reflection, all working at the same time.
They are difficult to follow and impossible to interpret, or
translate into speech.
' If'—he thought: we are all of us perpetually thinking,
devising, contriving, lamenting, with this little conjunction
at the beginning. ' If she knew'—of course she did not
know—' would her heart, like every other woman's, harden
at the prospect of wealth so enormous ? No—surely no.'
He had learned from his own experience that there are
other women who do not continually desire a vast income
and the gratification of boundless desires.
He tried his work again. A second time he threw down
the pen. He got up, walked to the window and stepped out
upon the terrace. Lying on the grass under the walnut-
tree he descried the young poet, the boy Bobbie Lythe. He
was lying supine, his head upon his hands, apparently
asleep. Beside him was a volume of Keats. So lay Keats
himself upon the grassy slopes of Hampstead to gaze upon
the other grassy slopes which rise to Highgate, the last oaks
of the old Middlesex Forest lying between.
Kit watched the boy with interest. He knew the symp¬
toms. Indeed, this Kit—not the other—knew a very re¬
markable quantity of things. He marked the boy's hair—
fine, silky and abundant : the upper eyelashes long and
curled, the lower lying on the cheek : the fine oval lines and
the delicate hue of the cheek : the blue veins showing on the
back of his hand and on his temples. While he watched
the boy half-awoke, rolled his head, and opened his eyes!
They were liquid eyes, glistening and full. He closed them
immediately, and seemed to fall asleep once more.
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
99
Then there came walking slowly along the terrace, his hat
in his hand, his brown velvet jacket thrown open to the air,
the veteran Art Critic, Mr. Pinder.
' Ah !' he said, ' I thought you were off with the waggon-
load of women this morning. Pleased I was to get rid of
their cackle for an hour or two. Watching that poor lad?
Sad look out for him—very.'
' A case of Struma Beautiful,' said Kit scientifically.
' Struma what ?'
' Struma Beautiful. I should say, already in a somewhat
advanced stage. There is languor and lassitude of the limbs.
I dare say he has had a cough for a long time,—he is short
of breath.'
' Well, man, if yon mean that Bobbie Lythe will go off in
a consumption, I suppose we've all known that for a long
time.'
' In a little while he will lose his beauty,' Kit continued,
as if he had been a physician: ' the oval face will lose its
curves: his cheek-bones will show: his nose will grow
sharp : his hands will waste : his mind will grow languid :
he will go on getting worse, and suddenly he will die. I
have read of such cases and have seen them in hospital.
Each one is a warning and a lesson, if men were not too
foolish to learn. All our diseases—all our sufferings come
from ignorance and the blindness which never sees anything.'
Mr. Pinder stared. Kit the scientific—Kit the moralist-
was beyond him.
'Kit, Kit,' he sighed, 'how changed! It fatigues the
brain to think of you. And all in three short months: well,
no one thought you had it in you.'
' You see I did have it in me,' Kit replied coldly. This
old man irritated him.
' Don't overdo it, Kit. Not too much zeal. I dare say it
makes you feel mighty virtuous and superior. The fellows
at the club are left far behind. But don't overdo it; don't
come the moral philosopher over us. Leave us unrebuked.
Now, Kit, if you have anything left of the old Adam, let us
get our pipes and a tankard of something cool—the beer in
this house is perfectly lovely,—and find a shady corner and
have a talk.'
' Thank you, I have work to do ; and I never drink in the
morning.'
Ico
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Well,' the old man sighed. ' Stop a moment, Kit. There's
iiobody to talk to in the house; don't go in. Look heie,
Kit, about that half-sovereign ?'
' What half-sovereign ?'
' That insignificant coin which you refused to lend me the
Other day.'
' What does it matter ?'
' No, no—stop ! The coin is nothing ; it is the refusal
that sticks. It wasn't like you, to refuse that little loan.
You ought to have been gratified—honoured—by the request.
In your old age, when I am dead and gone, you will have
to confess that Pinder—Pinder, the Art Critic—Pinder once
asked you to lend him half-a-sovereign, and you refused.
This will gnaw like an adder's tooth. Besides, the thing
showed a spirit of suspicion—a nasty, tradesman like, arith¬
metical spirit.'
' Why so ?'
' Who counts what he lends or what he borrows ? We
lend each other a sovereign here and half-a-sovereign there;
who can keep account of such trifles ? When all is told,
nobody owes anybody anything; we are even. The slate is
wiped clean, and we begin again. Only rich men keep
accounts. That is why one should not desire riches. I say
no more. But I confess, Kit, that I was sorry for you, very
sorry. In one so young, too, and so hard-up.'
' I am not so young, my dear sir; and I am no longer
hard-up.'
' You accompanied your refusal with maxims, too—
maxims ! Well, I can never again borrow of you'—he
shook his head sorrowfully,—' never again. You are changed
indeed, my poor young friend.'
Kit was touched by the sincerity of the good old man's
lamentation.
' My dear sir,' he said kindly, ' we all change sometimes.
Wait a week or so, and perhaps you will find me changed
back again.'
' Let us hope so. You are missed at the club, too. Other
fellows can sing and play, but nobody so well as Kit—the
old Kit. Denny Stirling sings your songs now, but not so
well, Kit—not so well. Other fellows can tell stories, but
none like Kit—the old Kit. Denny Stirling tries. He tells
stories, your stories, too; but not so well, Kit—not so well.
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
101
Let us hope, indeed, that you will come back to us. What
profits it, my dear young friend, for a man to get articles
into the Contemporary, if he also becomes a solemn prig ?'
He was an old man, otherwise these wrnrds would have
been resented.
' Well—well,' he went on, ' Dixi. I have liberated my
soul. Enough about you. Now about other matters. Tell
me—between friends, you know—something about this young
Croesus.'
' What about him ? He is an old friend of mine.'
' So am I. But this young fellow I have only known since
I came here. ^He finds champagne every evening—the very
best of champagne,— and Scotch after it—and really the very
softest old Scotch I ever drank. Now, you know, hospitality
like this is really a direct invitation to borrow. Therefore,
advise me, Kit. Twenty pounds ? Too much, you say ?
You really think twenty pounds too much ? He's rolling in
gold, you know.'
' I say nothing,' Kit replied with severity. ' I am not
prepared to advise you at all in such a matter. Since you
came here as a guest, I must say, however, that it would be
more dignified to borrow nothing.'
' Kit Cotterel,'—the old Bohemian drew himself up with
offended pride—' at my age, and with my experience, I may
be allowed to know what is due to dignity. Understand,
sir, that a gentleman may always borrow without the
sacrifice of personal dignity; I have myself borrowed for
forty years. He cannot, it is true, accept gifts; he may not
take money. But he may borrow—he may borrow—without
loss of self-respect. Bemember that, sir.'
He clapped on his hat, and walked away with much dignity,
murmuring phrases that began with the letter d and ended
with the syllable prig.
Kit heard the words with superior pity, unmixed with
scorn or wrath. He looked at his watch. It wanted half-
an-hour of luncheon ; then he would meet Geraldine again.
But Mr. Pinder would be there too ; therefore, there should
be no more confidences.
Then the boy lying on the grass raised his head and called
him :
' Kit—Kit Cotterel, I saw you last night; but I couldn't
get in a word, And you looked so worried that I didn't try
102
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
twice. What has worried you, Kit ? To-day you look so
serious, so nervous. Is that because you have become a
great writer all at once? Won't you write anymore verses.
Come over here and talk to me. Don t ask me to get up
and leave this shady corner; the grass is soft and the light
is soft,' the boy murmured, as if the mere physical enjoy¬
ment was almost more than he could bear. ' Come over
and sit beside me, Kit; this place is heaven ! I am full of
lovely thoughts all day long, if I could only write them
down. Oh ! what poetry there will be when we reach to
fulness of strength and perfect language! But it will not
be all at once; we shall be always learning. Just now,
only to lie on my back, with the dancing flicker of green
shade and of sunshine playing through the leaves, and to
hear the drone of the bees, and to feel the breeze, is
happiness ; and to have you with me as well, Kit, it is too
much.'
' Are you better ?' asked Kit, wondering who the boy
really was.
' Oh ! I am ever so much better than when you saw me
last, three months ago. I had a bad time, rather, in July;
I think I should have died for yearning after the green
fields and the woods, if this invitation hadn't come. It was
through you that it did come. I have never thanked you
for it. Well, Kit, I shan't now, because it was nothing but
your way—always trying to do something pleasant for some¬
body. I've had the most wonderful holiday here,' he sighed
heavily; ' it is nearly over, but it will be a memory when
I go back.'
Looking at this lad, Kit remembered certain words of his
own about the wonderful power of suffering as an example
and a stimulus, and he thought that he should somehow like
this boy not to become an example and a lesson to humanity.
A thought unworthy of a philosopher. But it crossed .his
mind.
' Have you talked with Geraldine since you came ?' asked
the boy.
' Yes, we had a little talk last night, and we have had a
good talk this morning.'
' We have been talking a good deal about you, especially
since the splendid news came. We don't agree; I want
you to go on writing verses, but she wants you to develop
WITH FRIENDS SO OLD
the more serious side. Don't quite give up verses. Oh !
to write such verses as Keats wrote—where every line rings
and rings in your brain! Kit, think of that; you might
produce something as good. Don't quite give up verses.'
' I cannot say—just yet—what—I shall do.'
' Geraldine is ever so much better and stronger than she
was before she came. She is perfectly splendid now. I
say, Kit,'—he looked round to see if anyone was looking
—' do you think I shall offend you if I ask you a question,
' Ask as many as you please.'
' You are such a good old friend to me, and so is Geraldine.
It is a very impudent question, but it is in my mind always
whenever I see Geraldine and you together.'
' Ask the question, you will not offend me.'
' Don't you think Geraldine a splendid girl—one of a
million—the best girl that ever was ?'
1 Certainly,' Kit replied; with assurance. ' I am sure she
is all that she looks.'
' There is nobody like her, is there ? Nobody so unselfish?
Look in her face; it is the face of Beatrice. Only to look
at her face lifts up the heart,' his limpid eyes grew dim
with the ready tears. ' I say, Kit, in her presence it is
impossible to be mean and low—all base thoughts fly shriek¬
ing at her approach. As for me, I worship her; I fall at
her feet.'
Kit sat down on the grass beside the boy, whose enthu¬
siasm interested him. Besides, he felt a desire to talk and
to hear more about Geraldine.
' You worship her ? I do not wonder at it.'
' I am unworthy to speak to her, but she suffers me.
Kit, you know how kind you have been to me, how should
I have got along at all without you? It always seems to
me that it is Geraldine who has helped me, and not you. I
put you two together always—and when you have helped
me out of your poverty, I always think it is Geraldine who
has done it with you. She knows I love her, and I think
she knows that she is my goddess—my spiritual, not my
earthly mistress ! But you—Kit, you
' What of me ?'
' You have known her all her life. You used to play
with her, and you used to tell her all your ambitions. She
has never ceased to watch you and to pray for you, And
104
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
now you have come out so splendidly she is so proud and
happy; I cannot tell you how proud and happy she is '
' Well, and what of me ?'
He understood now the question in the boy's mind, but
he wanted to hear it put plainly.
' What I wonder is—every day—why you, who know her
so well, do not worship her also.'
Kit made no reply. He got up and walked about the
lawn ; then he came back again.
' " Out of her poverty," you said. Is Geraldine still so
poor ?'
' W7hat a question for you to ask ! Can she ever be any¬
thing else? Just before we came here she was very poor
indeed, because there was poor dear Sophia Gentry, you
know—none of her pictures have sold this year, and what
she will do when we go back we do not know. We are all
so poor—so poor.'
' All so poor,' Kit repeated.
' But we stand by each other. Kit, it makes me wonder
to see them all here. They go on as if they were born to it:
they dance, and sing, and play as if they had been doing
nothing else all their days. Well, Denny is the kindest and
most generous man in the world—almost as generous as
you, Kit.'
' And when it is over, you will all go back more discon¬
tented than ever.'
' No, no—filled with lovely memories. Discontented, after
such a holiday as this ? Kit, you are unreasonable.'
Kit nodded gravely and went back to the library.
CHAPTER X.
after luncheon.
At the mid-day refection Geraldine did not appear. Mr.
Pinder, still disposed to growl like the skies after a thunder¬
storm, Kit, and Robbie Lythe represented the whole party.
The boy quickly finished his luncheon and left the other
two, oetaking himself to the drawing-room, which he could
have to himself the whole afternoon, unless Geraldine should
happen to gome and sit besid© him. Here he would lie at
AFTER LUNCHEON
105
full length on cushions in one of the deep windows, and
watch the sunshine on the leaves without, or the light
playing on the painted coats-of-arms and the panels and
dark furniture of the long low room. This was his inten¬
tion, with the further thought of enjoying every moment of
the time, so that nothing should be lost or forgotten when
in the dark winter to follow he should remember this holiday
for his solace.
Alas ! he presently fell asleep, and so lost the whole after¬
noon ; though in his dreams he was carried to the Heaven
in which only young poets are allowed, there to be filled
with thoughts ineffable, which even the greatest of poets
cannot interpret into speech of man.
When Mr. Pinder, who still preserved the respectable
wreck of a once colossal appetite, had done justice to the
lunch, he clutched a decanter—a movement familiar to all
who have watched the veteran toper—and poured out three
glasses in succession, which he drank, not hurriedly, yet
with eagerness.
' Ha !' he said, pausing after the third, ' this is the wine,
Kit, which we can't get at the club. Madeira of some kind
is on the list, I dare say, though I have never heard of any¬
one calling for it. To driuk Madeira is a profession of
wealth. To place Madeira on your table is a proof of
wealth. It is the wine of the rich : it looks rich : it tastes
rich : there's a rich man's self-complacency about it: there's
an oily, unctuous self-satisfaction which belongs to the rich
man: it demands the finest glasses and the noblest decanters.
It ought to be on the table of every man who has made his
money.'
' Denny Stirling hasn't made his money.'
' No; but his uncle did—Sam Stirling—who wasn't so old
as I am by half-a-dozen years. The cursing it was, I believe,
that killed him.'
' What cursing ?'
' Now I come to think about it, the very last person I
should have expected to meet under this roof is that boy
who had lunch v7ith us-—Eobbie Lythe—the very last
person. If it's accidental, it's a very curious and interesting
accident. The very last person. I wonder he doesn't pull
down the pillars pf the house ! I wonder he doesn't snatch
the carving-knife and prod his host in a vital part 1'
io6
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
4 Why the last person ? Why shouldn't Robbie Lythe be
here ?'
4 Don't you know ? Your father knew, and Geraldine's
father—everybody who knew Tom Lythe knew the story.
I should have thought you had heard it long ago. But all
his friends are dead, and I suppose the thing has been pretty
well forgotten. Sophia Gentry knows it. Dear me ! when I
die, Kit, what an immense quantity of miscellaneous scandal
will be forgotten ! It doesn't get into the memoirs. If I
could only write the things I have heard ! Nobody's real
life has ever been written—not even Rousseau's or Saint
Augustine's. Now, there's the story of Sam Stirling, the
millionaire. WThat a tearing and a rending of reputations
there would be if I could write all that I have heard and
seen!'
He took another glass of Madeira, shaking his head sadly.
4 As for Robbie Lythe,' said Kit, fencing, ' one can see
that he is consumptive. What else should I know about
him?'
4 Try this Madeira. No ? You have turned over a new
leaf, Kit, and it's a reproach to your elders. You are
become Kit the sober, Kit the moral maxim-maker, Kit the
corrector of morals, Kit the censor, for which you deserve
to be expelled from the club. You are also Kit the indus¬
trious. You think you are going to lay the foundation of a
cellar of Madeira all your own, I suppose. Well, you will
never get that cellar; don't think it. They won't allow you
to get rich—the people who pay the writing-man. When
you are as old as I am you will very likely be as poor, with
the bitter reflection of feeling that all your work has gone
to make others rich. Now, I haven't done that. If I am
not rich myself, no one can say I have made him rich. No,
sir; that thought brings comfort. There is no successful
book of mine which has made a publisher rich. Well'—he
pushed back his chair and got up—' you can go and slave
for some editor or bookseller ; I shall go and have a quiet
pipe in the smoking-room, and a nap.'
4 But about Robbie Lythe. Sit down again, man, and
tell me all about it.'
Mr. Pinder took up the decanter. There were still two
or three glasses in it. He sat down again, his fingers curled
lovingly round its neck.
AFTER LUNCHEON
107
' Well, I knew his father, Tom Lythe. Very old friend of
mine, Tom was.'
' What had his father to do with this roof ?'
' I knew Tom early in life, when he was bright and clever;
and I knew him late in life, when he was soured with dis¬
appointments. At one time—a few years before his death
—I thought he had got over the trouble. Certainly, he
seemed settled down to steady and generally cheerful drink¬
ing. But in his last illness it all came back to him. I was
with him when he died, and he died very wretchedly.
Lamented his wasted life, and compared bis career with
that of his old pal, Sam Stirling; and he cursed him for the
cause of everything — cursed him solemnly, cursed him
with his dying breath, cursed him and everything belonging
to him.'
' Why ?'
' And, after twenty years, here is his son a guest and
friend of Sam Stirling's nephew and heir !'
' What does it mean ? Why should the man curse my—
Mr. Stirling?'
' They are both dead now, he who cursed and he who
was cursed. Nobody could stand up against curses so
tremendous. Sam Stirling died a year or two afterwards.
I suppose no one told him about the curse, and yet
Well, the world goes round, and here is the boy in this very
house.'
' You have not told me why this cursing was necessary?'
' Tom Lythe cursed his old pal because, you see, Sam
Stirling stole his invention.'
' What invention ?'
' Don't you know how that enormous fortune wras made?'
' Yes—yes, I know.'
'.Well, Tom invented the thing, not Sam Stirling at all.
Bless you! Sam never invented anything; he was too
stupid. He made Tom work, and stole what he made.'
' Stole is a strong word, Mr. Pinder.'
' So it is, Mr. Cotterel. You needn't look so savage.
Sam wasn't your uncle, and you are not any the richer for
his rogueries, are you ? Stole, I said. Sam stole the
invention, and grew richer every day ; while Tom, from
whose hands it had come, grew poorer and poorer,'
' Oh ! Is this true, I wonder?
io8 THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
1 Pact, I assure you; quite true. Tom tolcl everybody.
There wasn't a bar in Fleet Street or the Strand twenty
years ago where Tom's story wasn't known. To be sure,
the men he told it to were all soakers like himself; and
after twenty years there are not many left of any set of
soakers. They are all dead except me.' Mr. Pinder's
Madeira had the effect of making him repeat his words.
The wine of the rich will do this. 1 Bless you ! I don't sup¬
pose that Denny Stirling has ever heard of the story, or
Bobbie Lythe either.'
' I assure you Denny hasn't.' Kit sat up eagerly. 11
am certain that he hasn't the least suspicion—how should
he have ?'
' Tom told it to me a hundred times; he even wrote it
down for me. He wanted me to make a play of it—and I
did think, once, that it might dramatize. That was a good
time ago—five-and-twenty years ago—when I still thought
of making plays. Yes, there is a situation in it. Pity I
didn't work it up when I was still youngish and strong.
Dear me ! what a man I was at five-and-forty !'
' What was the situation ?'
' Old Sam Stirling made his money by '
' Yes, yes; we all know that. Get on.'
' Tom Lythe and Sam Stirling were apprenticed to the
same shop—mechanical engineers they were—and they were
afterwards employed in the same works. Pals, they were.
One day Tom, who was an original kind of a chap, made a
discovery. He's told me often what it was: but I never
understood wheels and cogs and things. Everyone to his
trade. Tom was a clever chap, but he was a fool. There
are two kinds of clever chaps, Kit.' The old man leaned
back in his chair, and rolled the glass about in his fingers ;
he also stretched out his legs and wagged his head, showing
that he was physically comfortable, and that he was in no
hurry to terminate this conversation. ' Two kinds—two
kinds—Kit, my moral and superior young friend. There's
the kind which invents, creates, and discovers—and is sub¬
sequently robbed, plundered, and turned stark-naked into
the street. I am one of that kind—every man who writes
belongs to that tribe. So are you; so are all the fellows
at the club. That's the reason why there's no Madeira like
this to be found there. The second kind contains those
AFTER LUNCHEON
who see their way how to make the first kind produce all
the work for them to rob. That is the set to join. If you
are wise you will pass over to that camp where they have
Madeira every day—-stuff like this. See how it clings to the
glass ! Just so doth Dives cling to his fine gold and his
precious stuffs. Molten gold this is—nothing less than
molten gold.'
♦ Can't we get back to the story T
1 There is not much story ; it's done every day, wherever
men work. You see, Kit, men are so wonderfully and fear¬
fully made that they work, they throw their best work, they
bring all their powers, their inventions, and their contri¬
vances, and lay them at the feet of their employer, though
they know him to be a greedy grinder and a sweater. Yes,
and they will sell the finest invention, just as they will sell
the most wonderful book or the most splendid picture —
whether on a canvas or in print—for nest to nothing to the
first crafty man who comes to buy it.'
' We are coming, I suppose, to an end before long?' said
Kit impatiently.
' We have come to the end of the story, and to the last
glass in the bottle '—Mr. Pinder poured it out as he spoke.
' I am sorry, Kit, that you would have none, because it
really was a most beautiful bottle of Madeira. There is no
more story, in fact. Tom Lythe made his discovery; his
friend Sam Stirling got possession of it. How he got it
matters nothing '
' You said he stole it.'
' Well, Sam became a millionaire out of Tom's invention,
and Tom remained in liis poverty. When one man gets
rich out of another man's brains while the inventor remains
poor, the first man is a thief and a robber, Kit. Is that
good political economy ?' He pronounced the last word
with some difficulty, but his meaning was clear.
' No; that is very bad political economy, because what¬
ever a man can buy becomes his own, whatever the price he
has paid for it. Did my—did Mr. Stirling purchase Tom's
invention, or did he steal it ?'
' The situation of it in the play which I never wrote was
something like this : Sam has found out—never mind how
—that his friend has hit upon an invention ; Tom has told
him in general terms, if you like. Then Sam sets his wits
no
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
to work to find out what it is, and he can't. He watches
his friend in the engine-rooms : he hangs about his desk :
he searches his drawers, but he can't find anything;
because, you see, Tom has his notes in his pockets all the
time. At last Sam makes him drunk, and whilst he is
drunk he steals the notes, copies them, replaces them-in
the drunken man's pocket, and next day goes and registers
the invention.'
' Did that really happen ?'
' Perhaps; I cannot say. The situation wasn't a bad
one, and I don't remember ever seeing it on any stage.
Perhaps he made Tom drunk, and then persuaded him to
sell his right. There was drink in it, I know.'
' One would like to know exactly how it was done, or if
it was done at all.'
' It was done, somehow: Sam got rich—Tom grew poor :
Sam remained a rogue and a thief—Tom became a poor
drunkard. When all secrets are revealed, Kit, my boy, I
would rather be Tom than that other fellow.'
' Are you really sure—certain—that some such thing
happened ?'
' I am perfectly certain—as certain as I am that this
bottle is empty—that Sam Stirling never invented anything.
He was a lumpish kind of man, with small eyes close
together, indolent in body and sluggish of brain. He
invent? No, sir; but he could deceive and steal. Many
a man has got the low cunning which enables him to prey
on men's brains.'
Kit, flushed and agitated, sprang to his feet.
' I am very sorry you have told me this story—and yet
I ought to know it. I cannot tell you. how sorry I am to
learn that shameful business '
' Why, what does it matter to you?'
' Perhaps we can hunt up the thing, and prove the exact
truth. Perhaps we may make up to the boy for this
treachery, if it was treachery '
'Well, Kit, you maybe devilish clever; you may write
very fine articles : but you can't very well make up for the
loss of a million or three millions—they say it is three
millions.'
' No—no, of course not; and yet—■—'
« Sam Stirling wasn't your uncle. Better let sleeping
AFTER LUNCHEON.
in
flogs lie. The boy knows nothing about it, and Denny
Stirling knows nothing. Best say no more about it.'
' It is disgraceful—it is shameful. It is enough to poison
the life of the man who has got that fortune, only to
feel '
' My dear Kit, these are heroics. The thing is done—
Tom is dead; and he cursed the robber, and the robber is
dead.'
' But the boy survives.'
' Very true; and, considering all the circumstances, I say
again, that it is curious, to say the least of it, to see Tom's
son enjoying the hospitality of Sam's heir, and both in
ignorance of these little facts. And now, my dear boy,'—
he rose slowly and deliberately,—' Madeira, if you drink a
whole bottle, is apt to get into the head a bit. I shall go to
the smoking-room, and sleep it off.'
CHAPTER XI.
the picnic.
In this favoured land there is everywhere within easy reach
a ruined castle or a ruined abbey or a British hill-fort or
a Roman camp. They have been left untouched by succes¬
sive generations, in order that young people may have a
place for picnics. So that the works of the great destroyers
—King Harry the Eighth, who ruined the abbeys, and
King Cromwell who slighted the castles—remain to keep
their memory green, as much as the massive piles of the
dread Sovereign, Great Cheops himself. When the young
man sits among these ruins, a dainty damsel at his side,
his seat a mound which covers broken tracery, shattered
mullions, and precious carved work; when he gazes down
the long roofless nave, upon the wreck of t»he once noble
west front, and murmurs a tender whisper in the ear of his
companion : when to these joys he adds the wing of a
chicken and a goodly slice of toothsome ham, with salad
from the salad-bowl and a bumper of champagne; and
when he thinks of the pale-faced nuns who wandered once
about the broken cloisters, that young man is moved to
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
gratitude for the benevolent monarch who made this p^acQ
a ruin—for him.
To such an abbey, still splendid with tall columns and'
windows of delicate tracery and lofty arches, came this
company in brakes and waggonettes. They rambled among
the grass-grown nooks : they stood within the walls of the
old refectory, and marked the place where the pulpit stood,
in which the novice read ' The Acts of the Saints '—the
only work of fiction allowed to the unhappy monks: they
laughed and chattered within the chapel, which once echoed
before break of day with their chanting : they peered into
the monks' kitchen, and wondered what culinary marvels
were tossed up for the Abbot, and how the monastic soup
was brewed: they stood beside the old fish-ponds, and
. asked how the carp and perch were dressed so that even
days of fasting might not altogether lack some carnal joy:
they walked about the broken cloisters which surround the
monks' burial-place—their bones lie long forgotten, even the
bones of the wisest Abbot and the gravest scholar and the
most beautiful illuminator and the most wonderful writer of
manuscript, all forgotten and their works destroyed. Their
laughter echoed about the walls, because, though they said,
' This is the Refectory, this the Abbot's room and this the
kitchen'—their thoughts were not at all among the dead
monks. Why should they be ? The present belongs to the
young. Theirs is the sunshine : theirs all the fruits. Dry-
as-dust and his friends are well stricken in years, poor
things. They may restore the old abbey, and revive the old
life—for their own amusement—the young have nothing to
do with the dead past, save to enjoy whatever heritage it
has conferred upon them.
In the very centre of this roofless church, Rosie sat upon
a fallen stone, Denny beside her. The merriment had gone
out of her face : she laughed no longer : the tears stood in
her eyes: while Denny, like a loyal friend, was pleading,
with all the eloquence at his command, the cause of his
friend. It was just at the very moment, by a curious coinci¬
dence—only nobody knew it—that Robbie Lythe was
putting that question of his concerning Geraldine.
' It is no use,' said Rosie, ' no use at all trying to shield
him. He has been carrying on a treacherous game. Every
other day he has written me a letter—a letter such as one
THE PICNIC
113
has a reason to expect if one is engaged ' She blushed
a little. ' If you were engaged you would know exactly the
kind of letter.'
' I hope I should under such happy circumstances behave,
in all respects, as an engaged man ought. If I were engaged
to—to one girl of all the girls in the world, I know that I
should exhaust the adjectives of the language and fill the
letters with one verb only—past, present, and future.'
' And all the time,' Rosie continued,' he has been actually
forgetting my very face. The only explanation he has
offered is, in fact, an outrage in itself—an insult that I can
never forgive—it is, that he had really, for the moment,
forgotten me ! There is an explanation from a man who
pretends to be in love !'
' It is awkward, certainly,' said Denny, rubbing his chin.
' It is extremely awkward. In fact, I never heard of a
position more awkward.'
' You can call it awkward if you please—I call it heart¬
less.'
' It seems heartless. But suppose'—he rubbed his chin
harder—' suppose—you know—a possible explanation. Kit
is a very good actor—isn't he ?'
? I don't know. Kit may be a buffoon when he permits
himself to lose his self-respect; but one can hardly call
him an actor.'
' Yet he is—Kit is a very fine actor and full of fun.
Quite full of fun. Capable of any kind of mad waggery—
which suggests a very simple explanation. He has come
down, I will suppose, resolved to play a little comedy. The
first thing he does—the opening scene in the farce, is when
the lover pretends to forget the girl he is engaged to '
' Oh! You think that, do you ?'
' I suggest it. The girl, of course, is highly indignant—
and threatens to break it off. He pretends to be repentant;
but still keeps up the pretence of coldness.'
' Go on, pray.'
' She gives him two days, in which to recover his old style
—his tenderness, you know—the longing in his eyes and
the softening of his voice—two days. He asks for a week.
She refuses.'
' This is, indeed, a beautiful comedy.'
'Isn't it? Quite admirable. She refuses to give him-
8
H4
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
more than two days. On the second day he keeps it up
still. He pretends love; but when she looks for the old
manner, it is gone—love is there no longer. Then she
breaks it off altogether.' _ .
' Dear me ! What a very funny piece it is! How ex¬
quisitely ludicrous !'
«Yes. But wait. That brings you to the end of the
second act. The third act is a week later—while the girl
is sitting, bitter against her faithless lover, perhaps
sad '
' Oh ! " perhaps sad." This is where the laughter comes
in, I suppose.'
' Yes. He comes back, you know, dancing and laughing,
all the old love returned—the old ardour and the old passion
—and she forgives and '
< No'—Rosie started to her feet—' she does not. She will
never forgive him,—never—never—never ! You call this a
comedy—you ? I thought better of you. I thought you
were more human.'
' I fear,' said Denny, ' that, after all, I have only made
things worse. My comedy was ill-conceived and impossible.
I give up the comedy. Let us try something else.'
' You need try nothing more.'
' Kit has been very hard at work, thinking like an owl,
and as solitary, for three months : he has given up his club
and all his pleasant vices : he has been industrious for a
long spell: he has changed his style, confound him: paid
his debts, and opened a banker's account—he actually has
money in the bank. Now, if you know Kit—and you do,—
you must know that after such a spell of work he will very
soon want a holiday. And so, you see, the new Adam wiil
be put off and the old Adam will return.'
But the girl shook her head sadly.
' He will come back,' Denny repeated. ' In a week or so
you will be wondering that you have missed him. He will
come back, and be as lazy and as helpless as ever, if you
wish : or he shall be as industrious and as successful as you
desire.'
Rosie shook her head.
' One does not love a man,' she said wisely, ' because he
is lazy and helpless. Do not think that. At present it
seems as if he was gone out of my heart altogether, never
THE PICNIC
to come back. But if he were to come, and with the old
light in '
She looked up and stopped short, because it was there—
the old light that she remembered—a light never to be
mistaken or forgotten: a light that never means anything
but love : the light that formerly lit up the spectacled eyes
of her lazy lover. She dropped her eyes and trembled,
blushing.
' You shall see the old light,' he murmured softly. ' Do
you believe that Kit has really forgotten you ? Do you
think—oh! do you think—that anybody could ever forget
you, Rosie?'
She got up quickly, with averted face.
' We will find the others,' she said; ' I think my affairs
have been discussed quite enough.'
She led the way out of the church to the ruins, where one
or two of the company were exhibiting such rags and shreds
of archaeological lore as are always trotted out on such
occasions: and the rest were listening with the intelligence
and interest which may be perceived on the faces of the
ladies at a scientific evening in the theatre of the Royal
Institution, or, indeed, upon any personally conducted tour
of improvement.
They spread the tablecloth on the grass of the Monks'
Refectory, and sat round, some on rugs and some on fallen
'stones, and some on mounds of turf. Here was a change
from the droning voice of the sleepy novice. But the walls
were used to these things: they were scandalized no longer
by the laughter of girls and the music of their voices. Pre¬
sently, someone—it was the young assistant-master—pro¬
duced a banjo, and began to strike upon that musical
instrument, and to sing a song, and everybody laughed.
Even the teacher in the High Schoql laughed, though the
thing was so very unworthy of the profession. Youth, you
see, will feast and laugh and be happy whenever it can : and
if a row of grinning skulls of the old monks had been strung
around the walls, with a legend reminding them that to this
complexion must they come at last, they would have feasted
and laughed in exactly the same way.
But Rosie sat quiet beside Sophia Gentry and suffered
the others to talk and laugh. Afterwards, it was remem¬
bered by those who are prophets after the event—a very
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
numerous and wide-spread profession—that Denny also had
intervals of silence, and that he kept glancing furtively at
Rosie, as if apprehensive or doubtful. Subsequent events
seemed to explain their conduct. They did not really explain
anything; but the after-event prophet thought so, which did
just as well.
When the sun was getting low they drove home, for the
most part in silence. The end of such a day is always
rather sad. Witness the vans when they come home from
Epping Forest. The soft influences of nature and the close
of a festive day incline the heart to melancholy—so that
many go home in tears.
Geraldine stood on the terrace to welcome them, when
they reached home—with her, Robbie Lythe. Mr. Pinder
still slept in the smoking-room — and Kit did not show
up that evening at all—nor do I know what became of
him.
CHAPTER XII.
the judgment op the second day.
The morning brought the second day, when the lover was
to show himself in his ancient manner — to display the
gallantry and ardour proper to love—or else
Rosie waited for him in the library. He ought to have
been there first.
It is a bad beginning—a most unfortunate omen—when
a girl is kept waiting. What is to be thought of a lover
who keeps an appointment a quarter of an hour after the
time ? Where is eagerness ? Where is ardour ? Where is
the burning desire to be with the object of his worship ?
Alas! where ?
To few women is it given to understand the eagerness and
intensity of a man's passion. But any tendency to the other
extreme every woman is quick to understand.
Rosie, therefore, waiting for her former lover, was in no
mood for trifling.
' So, sir,' she began, when he tardily appeared.
He did not at sight of her quicken his step, nor did he run
to protest penitence. Not at ail. He walked quietly to the
THE JUDGMENT OF THE SECOND DAY ii7
window where she stood, bearing in his hands a roll o£
manuscript. Because, you see, he proposed, when this
little interview should be completed, to go on with his work ;
and he was perfectly calm and collected, and only wished
that it was over and done with.
Therefore, though Rosie began with her ' So, sir,' she
stopped short when she observed the deliberation of his
step, and understood by the exhibition of the MS. that his
work was in his mind as well as his love.
' So, sir,' she repeated, with increased warmth, when he
stood before her, ' you have kept me waiting a quarter of
an hour. What have you got to say, now that you are
here ?'
' I am anxious to explain '
' I want no explanations !' She stamped her foot angrily.
' I will have none. If that is all you have to say, you had
better go at once.'
All she wanted, this poor girl, was to see once more her
old sweetheart as he had always been, full of love and of
tenderness, love shining in his eyes, love hanging on his
lips. And this man could give her nothing but explanations-
' I am anxious to say, Rosie,'—he still pronounced the
name with an effort,—' most anxious to assure you that
this little misunderstanding of ours can be easily removed
by a little patience, a little forbearance for three or four
days only. Let me go away now, and come back to you,
say, in three or four days.'
She laughed scornfully.
' I ask for bread and you give me a stone,' she said.
'No, sir, I will not wait! — I will exercise no more
patience.'
' Then, all I say is, if you will not accord me that delay
■—is that '
' Well ?'
' All I can say is that'—pity the sorrows of this poor
young man, about to pronounce a perjury of the most flagrant
kind—' that the fondest affection—the most sincere affec¬
tion,—the—the—tenderest love—-—'
' Oh, good gracious ! Why, you can't even act the part
the least bit! Stop this nonsense, sir—I will not be insulted
by it.'
' Then what in the name of goodness can I say ?'
118 TIIE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Anything but that. I expected as much, however. I
understood at once—oh! at once—when I ran in to meet
you two days ago, that it was all over between us. Why,
now, turn your eyes upon me, meet my eyes full. Let me
look—so.'
He obeyed with evident reluctance, and turned his
spectacles to meet her eyes. Alas! these same spectacles,
now so cold, had been nearly melted in the past by the burn¬
ing ardour of his gaze. And now
' So,' she repeated, ' nothing more need be said. Your
eyes are quite enough. To be sure, your voice and your
manner are also enough. But your eyes have settled it.'
' I am, I assure you, most unfeignedly sorry. This is a—
a—a most unfortunate occurrence. If there is anything I
can do or say '
' There is, I assure you, nothing. Well, it is all over.
You are free, and so am I. The Kit I used to know is dead
and buried.'
' No, no ; he is alive !'
' Dead and buried he is, and forgotten—or nearly. Who
are you, sir ? How do you come to call yourself Mr. Arthur
Christopher Cotterel ? You are a stranger to me. Yet it is
only three or four days that you told me in a letter'—she
took it out of her pocket—' you told me—:oh! how can I
say the words ! What does it matter what you told me V
She tore the letter into fragments and threw them on the
ground. One of the fragments, however, flew into his face,
lighting on his mouth.
It was as if he had been struck by the girl's hand.
Then she produced a small packet of silver paper, and
opened it with trembling fingers.
' He wasn't rich, my old Kit,' she said, her voice trembling,
and her lips, as well as her fingers. ' He wasn't rich at all,
and it is but a little bundle of presents that he could make
me. He used to idle away his time, talking nonsense to me,
the silly fellow, instead of working for money.'
She glanced up quickly, but there was not the least re¬
sponse in her lover's eyes. He looked puzzled, and even
bored. His eyes were stony.
She brushed away a tear, and hardened her heart.
' Well, he is gone. Here is a ring he gave me. Of course,
I took it off the day before yesterday, when I saw from your
the Judgment of the second day h9
face that it was all over. A pretty little ring, isn't it ? I
wonder if you remember what you said—he said—when you
—he, I mean, put it on my finger ?'
' At this moment,' Kit replied, in some confusion, ' the
words have escaped '
' Oh !' She snapped the ring in two—it was but a thin
little thing—and threw the fragments out of the window.
' Why ask such a man anything ? Here is the brooch. Kit
said it was his mother's. It isn't pretty; but I valued it
because it was his mother's. Take it back. Here is a Tri-
chinopoly chain. Kit bought it, perhaps you may remember,
of a sailor at the East India Docks. He gave the man every
penny he had in the world for it, thinking to please me, and
had to walk all the way home in the rain: that was the
kind of thing the old Kit used to do. There are two or
three other things, with a history belonging to every one;
but you have forgotten them all,' she added, still a little
wistfully.
' Perhaps not all.'
' Tell me one. . Tell me what happened when you gave
me this pencil-case.' She took it out of the parcel and
looked at it. 'I was so happy that day; I believed in my
lover—nothing makes a girl so happy as to believe in her
lover. Kit, if you will only say now again what you said
then—in the same voice and with the same light in your
eyes. No—no—it i3 useless ! The man is insensible. He
has neither memory, nor heart, nor any sympathy left. He
is of marble.'
' I am not, indeed; and yet '
' Take the things, Mr. Cotterel, and let me go at once.
The sight of you makes me burn with rage. Let me go
quickly—never dare to speak to me again.'
Said Kit—and this was really the most remarkable thing
he did say during the whole of this unpleasant quarter of an
hour:
' I promised I would do the best I could, and a pretty mess
I have made of it.'
' Very pretty indeed.'
They looked at each other in silence for a long space : he
with an exasperating bewilderment as if he knew not how
things hacl come about, or what he ought to do; she scorn¬
fully.
120
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' It is very curious,' she observed coldly, ' how a chai ge
in one's feelings about a man alters one's opinion of his
character and his appearance. My eyes are opened. I
cannot believe now that three days ago I actually thought
Kit Cotterel rather a good-looking man. Oh ! look in that
glass behind you. Is that a figure of Apollo ?'
Kit did not turn to survey himself. He only replied
gravely:
' I do not want a figure of Apollo. I am quite contented
to remain as I am.'
' Oh, but the poet of the club ought to look like a poet.
And to think that until quite lately I thought him really a
poet, with his smoking-room rhymes !'
' The poet of the club ? Yes, I believe I was the poet of
the club ?'
' I once invested his habits with romance. It seemed fine
for him to be too lazy to do any work—genius, I thought,
has eccentricities. It was a mark of genius that he should
smoke a pipe all day long with his hands in his pockets. It
was characteristic of him to take a wife and condemn her to
continual poverty and makeshift, owing to his laziness.'
The unhappy Kit opened his lips twice, but said nothing.
No sound came forth at all.
' It is as if I have awakened out of a long and bad dream.
Mr. Cotterel, I thank you from my heart. It is quite cer¬
tain that you never did me a greater kindness—that you
have never behaved with more unselfish generosity—than at
this present moment. I wish you better success, sir, with
your next wooing. But your pipe and your beer will make
up for the loss of a mistress.'
Queen Zenobia herself—the stateliest of Queens—could
not have walked down the room with more dignity, though
Bosie, poor child, was no more than five foot nothing.
The rejected lover looked after her with a look of per¬
plexity rather than dismay. When she slammed the door
—every woman reserves the right of slamming the door in
moments of indignation—he whistled. Whistling is not
usually regarded as a sign of grief—we give to sorrow words,
not whistling. Yet it exactly expressed his mind. What he
said by means of this sound was, in effect: ' The other fellow
will have all his work cut out to get that young woman
back'
THE JUDGMENT OF THE SECOND DAY 121
The door opened, and Denny cautiously put in his head
and looked round the room.
' I watched her from the porch,' he said, ' I saw her
running upstairs. Well, old man, you soon got it over.
Made it all right at last, I hope ?'
' I did my best,' said Kit: ' I told you I would.'
' What did you make up?' Denny asked anxiously. ' We
must both be in the same tale. What did you tell the dear
girl? I couldn't see her face. Well, it's all right, isn't it?'
' On the contrary, it's all wrong.'
' All wrong ?'
' Yes. All very wrong indeed. Just as wrong as it
can be.'
' I thought you were going to pretend. You told me you
had made up something.'
' My dear fellow—so I had. But things didn't go as I
thought they would. First, you know, I intended to make
my little speech about pre-occupation and an overwrought
brain ; and then she would have said something, and then
I should have said something more, and we should—I
suppose—have fallen '—he yawned a little—' fallen into
each other's arms, or something equivalent.'
' Something equivalent,' Denny grunted. 'Go on.'
' Well, she never gave me a chance—wouldn't hear me.
She was in a rage royal from the beginning. Now I
hoped '
' Oh ! you hoped—never mind what you hoped. What
did you say ?'
' Nothing, I tell you—I said nothing—I told you so
before. I couldn't get a word in edgeways. She never
gave me a chance.'
' What did she say, then ?'
' She asked me to look at her—that was enough.'
' I suppose it was. And your eyes had as much expres¬
sion as a boiled oyster.'
. ' Your own, my friend. But it was quite enough. I've
received a most emphatic dismissal, with plain speaking
about my personal appearance and the habits of my
life.'
' Then now you've made the job complete. Emphatic
dismissal 1'
' Accompanied, I repeat, by contemptuous reference to
122
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
my personal appearance and the habits of my life—as she
knew them. A girl who meant going on again would
hardly speak contemptuously of her loyer's appearance, I
take it.'
' What had she got to say about your looks, I should like
to know ? They used to be good enough for her.'
' She seemed inclined to ridicule the figure. Well, for
my own part, I am perfectly satisfied with the figure.
Compact, I call it,' he looked complacently at his effigy in
the glass. ' Compact, healthy, well-nourished, useful, and
—now that I've taken off some of the fat induced by
immoderate drinking and laziness — active. No organic
disease anywhere : no weak points that I have discovered :
no hereditary tendencies : a frame eminently fitted and
eminently designed for a life of hard and unremitting
labour.'
' So you seem to think.'
' As for my habits of life—as she understands them, she
is quite right. I don't call it good form myself, to spend
the whole of the night and the best part of the day with a
lot of fellows who do nothing but talk of the grand things
they are going to do.'
' If I'd only known what a prig you would become '
' Let me go on. She also very rightly insisted on the
selfishness of marrying a girl when you knew before¬
hand '
' I did not know beforehand.'
' Well, my friend, you have indeed got your work cut out.
I don't envy you the job; and if words and looks mean
anything at all, there is not a man in the whole world whom
that young lady will not marry rather than you.'
' I say, what is to be done ? Stop preaching, man, and
let us consider. Stay, I have it—I have it. Let us change
back again, at once. Let us lose no time. Good heavens 1
Every moment that we put off is a moment lost.'
' There is the promised article not quite finished,' said
Kit, ' but I won't let that stand in your way. Let us change
at once, by all means.'
' Where are the materials, then ?' Denny was all im¬
patience. ' Let us get back, and this evening I will astonish
them by the reappearance of the real Kit—none other
genuine. Quick, man, quick 1'
THE JUDGMENT OF THE SECOND DAY 123
' The phial is in my pocket. But first I have got to put
you under mesmeric influence. Sit down. Look at me—
keep your eyes on mine, and fix your thoughts on me.
Now—now—now.'
He waved his hands and concentrated his gaze. Denny
sat like a patient inhaling ether: passive, yet eager.
After ten minutes of violent exertion, Kit desisted.
' It is no use,' he said; ' something is in the way. What
are you thinking of now ?'
' I'm thinking of Bosie.'
' Pshaw ! Think of me.'
Again they began. After ten minutes more Denny
jumped out of his chair.
' This is fooling. Bemember, it was Denny who mes¬
merised Kit. Let me try.'
He tried for a quarter of an hour. The result was the
same.
1 It is no use,' said Kit, ' we must give it up. I suppose
the reason is that we agreed to remain as we are for three
months. We can't change now, until the time's up. Only
three days more—courage !'
4 Only three days ! Only three thousand centuries 1
And every moment that poor child growing to hate me
more and more. Poor girl, what must her sufferings be !
My mind is made up !' he cried desperately. 'I shall tell
her exactly what has happened—that you are not yourself—
and I—I—am the real Kit!'
He rushed from the room to carry out his desperate
resolve. A second time Kit wraited till the door was
slammed, and then whistled softly. After this he sat down
to his papers and continued his work.
CHAPTEB XIII.
1 understand me clearly.'
Behind the house there lies a wood, a deep thick wood,
where in summer the boughs spread interlaced overhead so
that the light is softened, and the sun breaks through in
shifting gleams and glances like dropping rain. In the
124
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
autumn the paths are thick with yellow leaves, and at all
times are strewn with twigs which crack under the feet as
one walks. Hither came Eosie, the nymph bereaved of her
lover. She came not to weep, because the time for tears
was gone: after the first day there was no room for tears :
she came to think. We always say we come to think when
we mean that we come to let the mind wander uncontrolled.
This is the time when a whole army of thoughts, fancies,
memories, and purposes, seize upon the brain and demand
space and an interval to occupy it, and do and say and act
as they please. At such times one must be alone.
Eosie wandered here alone, such thoughts hurrying,
driving, rushing in her brain. At times she came to the
edge of the wood, close to the garden. Then she heard the
voices of those who played or walked there, and she turned
back and plunged again into the depths, just exactly as if
she had been a nymph in Ovid's ' Metamorphoses.' But
none of Ovid's maids ever received such provocation as this
damsel. I know not how long she was alone. It may
have been an hour : it may have been ten minutes : thought
keeps no count of time. And here Denny presently found
her.
' Eosie '—he spoke in a whisper, though there was nobody
to hear him—' I am come to talk with you. Give me five
minutes only.'
' If you come as a messenger from Mr. Cotterel '
' I do, in a sense—and yet not what you mean.'
' Well, then, I am not going to listen to you. We agreed
yesterday, I believe, that my dead-and-gone love affair had
been discussed enough.'
' Yes, but what has happened to-day '
' It was a natural consequence of what happened before.
I don't want to hear anything. Denny—Mr. Stirling—you
have been a very kind friend to me—to all of us—don't
make me forget all the kindness. Let me go home without
mixing you up in my little troubles. You would not, I am
sure, desire to make them worse.'
' Make them worse ? Good heavens ! I would die
rather '
' Quite enough said. Will you leave me here, or shall I
leave you ?'
4 One word first—I want to explain.'
' UNDERSTAND ME CLEARLY:
' Once more, I will not listen to any explanations.'
' I must say it—you must hear me. Eosie, you don't
know—you don't understand. It is difficult to explain these
things. Kit is—I am—that is to say, the real Kit is not tho
present Kit.'
' No—of that I am perfectly certain.'
' Of course. He is changed—he agreed to change—now
you understand what I mean.'
' My Kit is dead and buried and forgotten. I did not
need to be told that he is changed.'
Denny made a gesture of despair.
' I cannot make her understand !' he cried. ' Once more,
if you were to see and understand quite plainly that he had
returned—quite himself, and in his right mind—could you
again '
' Never again. Once for all: never again. And now, if
you talk any more about him, I shall have to leave you and
go back home. Don't spoil my last days here, Denny,' she
said, in her soft sweet voice. ' I have been so very, very
happy here. Kit has done his best to spoil my happiness—■
just at the last—but—but—and if you will only say no
more about him, I assure you I can forget him '
But here she broke down.
' I will do anything you like,' he replied dismally. ' You
have only to command me. I will say no more, if you are
really and truly lost—hopelessly lost—to Kit.'
' You are indeed a true friend.' The tears rose to her
eyes, because he looked and spoke in such evident distress.
' Why, you could not be more in earnest if you were plead¬
ing for yourself instead of your friend. Oh ! if Kit had
shown only half the feeling that you have displayed—but
there, if he could have felt it, the occasion would never have
arisen. Denny, your friend isn't worth it. He doesn't
suffer : he doesn't give the thing a thought. His heart is of
stone. Why, I saw all the time he was only thinking what
he could make up, and longing to get rid of me. I am sure
that at this moment he is calmly sitting over his manuscript,
his mind wholly wrapt in his work.'
' Pleading for myself—I am—for Kit—for myself—in my
alter ego.'
' Your alter ego ? That is what one friend calls another.
Well, I shall hear no more pleading—I must hear you, siuco
126
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
you will still be talking about him.' She turned to go back
to the house, but he looked so miserable that she hesitated.
' Denny,' she said earnestly, ' you have been so kind to all
of us—you have made yourself so good a brother to us all—
and you seem to take this wretched business of mine so
much to heart, that I will try to make you understand how
I feel about it.'
' Tell me what you can—what you please.'
' You talk like a man, you know. How could we ever go
on—Kit and I—just as if nothing had happened? The
thing is impossible. Between the past and the future there
lie two days—the day before yesterday, and this morning.
Can I ever, do you think, forget the moment when Kit, my
lover—whose last love-letter was in my pocket—refused
even to recognise me ? Is that possible, do you think ?
Well, if it were possible—if I could acknowledge that his
mind was wandering—though one hardly likes lovers whose
minds go wandering—how could I get over this morning's
interview ? Love is dead. Kit was quite ready to protest
all kinds of love—but he is a bad actor: for that matter, no
actor ever yet put real love into his eyes—his face—his
voice—his carriage. It can't be done. Now do you under¬
stand ?'
' This is terrible.'
' Oh ! he will get over it. And a strange thing has hap¬
pened to me. If I confess it to you, it is because you are
so much his friend that I want you to understand every¬
thing. It is, that I really feel relieved now that it is all
over. At first I was very sorry. I cried a good deal, with
Geraldine, over it, and of course I was horribly, frightfully
insulted. Now I am glad to be free. It isn't only that the
transformation has brought a new person altogether—a com¬
plete stranger—but I cannot understand how I could ever
have thought myself in love even with the old Kit.'
' Oh!' Denny groaned. ' But you were in love with
him ?'
' I dare say I thought so. But I seem to have recovered
my senses and my eyesight. As for finding my senses, I
see that I am poor, and likely to remain poor unless, which
isn't likely, I develop some unexpected talent: but if I were
to marry this man, who would never do a man's share of
work, I should become ten times as poor, and a hundred
'UNDERSTAND ME CLEARLY' 127
times as miserable. I will bear the burdens that are laid
upon me, but not those which are laid upon him as well.
And as for recovering my eyesight, I now plainly see that
the life he used to lead was selfish and frivolous. How does
it help the household if the husband sits up all night talking
with his friends ? What honour, even apart from money,
does a man get who writes little catchy rhymes and sets
them to little catchy tunes ? That is all that poor Kit ever
did. He called himself a poet by profession, when he was
but an amateur rhymer. Now, of course, he is a prig, and
a complete stranger.'
' Oh ! But he had higher ambitions.'
' It is no use to have higher ambitions if you do not exert
yourself to achieve something of them. He was a beautiful
dreamer. Oh! yes. I know that I used to listen to him
with the greatest pleasure. He quite carried me away out
of myself with his dreams. I knew all along that they were
nonsense, but it made me happy to listen to him. And I
knew all along that he would make my life miserable.'
' Yet there was nothing he would not have done to make
you happy.'
' How can a married woman be happy when there is not
money enough? He was ready to do everything for me
except the one thing essential—to work for me.'
' But he has begun to work.'
' Very likely. I do not care any longer what he does. He
has become, you see, commonplace to me. Nothing is left
of him but his short fat figure and his spectacles and round
face. He is quite commonplace, a person of ordinary abili¬
ties, who thinks he has genius; a man, as I now perceive
plainly, of coarse tastes and low companions. In his new
shape he is even worse. «He used to be cheerful: now he
laughs no longer. He used to laugh with everybody: now
he is as solemn as an undertaker. He talks maxims : he
writes philosophical papers : he is a lesser Oliver Goldsmith
trying to look like John Stuart Mill.'
' Oh !' Denny groaned. ' If you only knew '
' I am no longer fond of Bohemia. And I never did care
for prigs.'
' Rosie—for Heaven's sake—your words tear me to pieces.
Believe me, I am, myself, the very man !'
' ^.re you ?' she laughqd? not understanding in the least
123
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
what he meant. ' Man and wife are no longer twain, but
one. Yet you and Kit are not man and wife. That you are
his very good and loyal friend you have proved in a way that
does you honour. But even David and Jonathan did not
call themselves each other, did they ? Well, I will say no
more, because I would not give you pain—who have given
me so much pleasure. You shall not think me ungrateful.
But you understand—you understand quite clearly, Denny?'
She looked up with soft pleading eyes, and her voice was
so tenderly caressing that the young man's knees trembled.
' There is no room left for any mistake. Plead his cau^e
no longer.'
' You do not understand,' Denny stammered.
' I don't want to understand. In a day or two I go home
again. It is not pure, unalloyed happiness that awaits me
on my return. But I shall be happier than I was, partly
because I shall have my stay here to look back upon. It
has been a very sweet and beautiful time.'
She spoke with an unaccustomed gravity. When she had
finished she held out her hand. Denny stooped and kissed
it without reply. Then they turned and parted, Eosie going
back to the house, and Denny staying in the wood. He,
like Eosie, wanted to think. His brain was filled with ten
thousand devils fighting, struggling, and trampling on each
other..
' I am a commonplace person,' he murmured. ' My asso¬
ciates and boon companions are a company who drink away
their brains : we dream of things we shall never accomplish :
my appearance is ridiculous: my future is certain : failure
is written on my brow: selfishness is the key-note of my
character. It is all over then. She could never forget these
things—never, never! Not even if I were to write the whole
of the thoughtful magazines for twelve months on end.
Never ! And I love her a thousand times as much as ever.
What to do ? What to say ? Where to turn ?'
For the first time in the memory of the oldest visitor,
Denny did not appear at luncheon. His place was empty.
But Kit was there, calm, philosophic, and not in the least
disturbed by the events of the morning. He looked round
the table with a front of brass, and caught the eye of the
girl who had told him so many home-truths without showing
the least sign of emotion. His eyes were stony: there was
' UNDERSTAND ME CLEARLY'
neither love nor memory, not even common interest, in
them. He did not care—he truly did not care that he had
been dismissed. This knowledge naturally did not decrease
the girl's bitterness.
The talk fell upon some topic of the day, one of those sub¬
jects on which ordinary people converse, with the ideas of
the day before yesterday's leading article. But Kit—this
long-hidden Kit—knew. He talked as if he had been on
the spot and in the thick of things. He talked like one in
the inner ring, and with such grasp of the subject, and
a knowledge so real, that Geraldine glowed with pleasure
only to see how her old friend was at last showing the stuff
which she always knew was in him. But Bosie, who had
no interest in the question, and cared no more about the
speaker, listened unmoved and without admiration. Besides,
her thoughts were in the wood, where she left the truest
and most loyal of friends. What did it mean, this passionate
pleading for a friend who, she now remembered, had never
once spoken of him during all the time of her acquaintance
with him ? Why this wonderful fervour of friendship for
one who certainly had got on very well without him ? Be¬
sides—besides, what meant that look in the advocate's eyes ?
Can one plead another's cause so thoroughly as to reproduce
the unmistakable look of love for vicarious and not for per¬
sonal purposes ? I do not say that the girl formulated the
difficulty in these words, but the difficulty was there.
' My dear,' whispered Sophia the sympathetic, ' you look
worried. What is it ?'
' Not that,' she answered, with the precision of a thought-
reader. 'I am free — and I am glad, not sorry. But,
Sophia dear, I think that the sooner we are all home
again and quietly at work, the better it will be for some
of us.'
CHAPTER XIV.
'tell me about youeselves.'
Sophia Gentey sat under a tree in the churchyard finishing
a water-colour sketch of the old tower. She was one of
those who are always at work, even though her work no
longer sold. This afternoon, she made, herself, a picture
130
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
far prettier than any she was likely to paint. She had
thrown off her hat, and sat bareheaded. She might have
represented the Muse of Painting grown old, her hair white,
her fair face lined with crows-feet. Yet, because she repre¬
sented the Muse and had spent all her life in meditation
over her Art, she was still beautiful, serene, never weary of
her work. Some artists manage to look the part so much
better than they play it. Beside her, on a flat tombstone,
sat Geraldine. They were talking, and the elder lady
prattled on, as painters do at their work; unconnectedly,
with pauses of silence, without much thought. They were
talking about people, which is the favourite and sometimes
the only subject of conversation with all of us, men or women.
' And so, my dear,' said Sophia, twisting her head about
so as to get the full effect of her last touches,' we had better,
after all, leave the matter alone.'
' I shall speak to him—once—about it,' said Geraldine:
' Surely I know Kit well enough to speak. We ought to
be quite satisfied that their decision is wise for both of them.
It would be dreadful if they were making some terrible
mistake which a word might set right.'
' I have seen, ever since he came down, that he no longer
cares about her. My dear, I think that the boy has become
so earnest in the pursuit of literature that he has no room
for any other thoughts. I saw the first evening, at dinner,
that he wasn't thinking about the poor girl at all. He was
distrait: he looked bored : when I have talked with him I
have found a constraint. And you ?'
'No—he is quite changed, that is true; but I find no
constraint. He talks to me,—perhaps not so freely; but
then not so boyishly. As for Rosie, she declares she is
really glad to be free. I wonder if she deceives herself ?'
' I believe not. Rosie was at first indignant, and no
wonder. Now, she is indifferent.'
' How can any girl who has once loved Kit ever become
indifferent to him ? But of course I knew him so long ago.
To me he is always interesting.'
Sophia stared sharply at her face. No — there was
nothing behind: the girl's calm face spoke of no earthly
passion.
' Is Kit thinking of some other girl ?' she asked, still half
suspicious.
'TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELVES'
131
' I believe not. He is thinking of his work.'
' Work is a fine servant but a bad mistress,' said Sophia,
shading her eyes to catch the effect. ' There is no touch
of Venus in such a mistress. My dear—here he comes.
He looks serious enough for a converted clown. Only think
how that solemn phiz used to light up with smiles un¬
numbered ! Oh! Kit is too much converted. You must
bring him back half-way at least.'
Kit lifted the latch of the gate and walked across the
churchyard to join them. He certainly did exhibit a most
remarkable solemnity.
' For once,' said Sophia, ' you have torn yourself from
your work. Take care, my son—life is not all work. There
should be society in it—and a great variety of other interest¬
ing things.'
' Yes—very likely. I came to ask a question.
' As many as you please, my dear Kit.'
' The old man Pinder told me yesterday, being a little in
his cups, a very queer story. It affects Denny Stirling—
though he knows—or knew—nothing about it.'
' What is the story ?'
' It is about the boy, Robbie Lythe. He says that you
know the story. About his father and about Denny's uncle
—the man who made all the money,'
' Oh ! that old story. I thought you must have heard it,
Kit. You know it, Geraldine ?'
' Oh !' she replied carelessly, ' I have heard there was a
story—an old quarrel—a great wrong done, I believe ; but
I have never paid any attention to it.'
'Yes,' said Sophia, 'there was a story; but it does not
concern any of us. Robbie's father, you know, went down¬
hill very fast towards the end—poor dear Tom ! You young
people do not understand that we also have been young.
The time seems so long ago, yet we have been young, like
you. When we started on the race there was Sam Stirling,
Denny's uncle—Tom Lythe,—Harry Pinder—dear me! how
ambitious and how clever he was in those days—and a great
many more. And now where are they ? In the race of life,
my dears, it is a very odd thing to notice how the horses all
set off running different ways.'
' But the story ?'
' Oh ! the story. Well, what matters the story ? Robbie
132
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
knows nothing about it. Nobody now can tell whether lb
is true or whether it is false.'
' Pinder says,' Kit persisted, ' that Mr. Stirling stole an
invention—stole it—and passed it off as his own, and so
made the whole of his great fortune.'
He spoke with a heat that seemed hardly called for by
the circumstances.
' I think he got it, somehow. Whether he stole it or not,
I cannot say. Perhaps he bought it.'
' But—to leave this man to get poorer, and to do nothing
for his son '
' My dear Kit, the thing is done, and cannot be undone.
I don't think, myself, that it is right to buy as cheap as you
can and to sell as dear, because in such a transaction some¬
body must be robbed : but then I am not in business. At
all events, it is always being done. Every day a picture is
bought for a pound or two, and afterwards sold for hundreds.
We cannot help it,' continued the wise woman, * if men are
so foolish as to sell their property for nothing.'
' Yet, if it were true, half of the estate, at least, should
be given to this boy.'
'Nay—nay—consider. Poor Tom Lythe, with all his
cleverness, could never have made a hundred pounds for
himself. He was born to make fortunes for other
people '
' Yes, I 'say, the half—at least the half of the estate,' Kit
insisted with strange pertinacity.
' Eobbie might be made perfectly happy with much less
than that,' said Geraldine. ' If he could only be taken
from the City and sent to the South for the winter, he might
pull through and last many years. It seems a little thing ;
but it is impossible.'
' Alas ! it is indeed,' said the artist. ' Unless I could
sell my pictures.'
' It shall be done, Geraldine.' Kit's face warmed up in
quite the old way. It was just so that he spoke when he
built up in dreams. ' It shall be done for him—I promise
that it shall be done—a tardy act of partial reparation.'
' Well, but,' said Sophia, ' there is no necessity for you
to make reparation. What have you to do with Mr.
Stirling's injustices ?'
' It shall be done, however.'
'TELL ME ABOUT yOUESELVES* 133
' Oh! they said the old Kit was quite gone,' said
Geraldine. 1 As if he could quite go ! Sophia dear, he has
got fifty pounds in the bank, and he is going to give them
all to Robbie. I can read his thoughts, you see.'
Kit smiled, but gravely, and he said no more for the
moment about Kobbie. But he sat down between them
and, very much in the old manner, began to talk.
' Let us be confidential,' he said. ' When we go back to
town and to work, how are our prospects ?'
' Gloomy, my son,' said Sophia. ' They are very gloomy.
Find me, if you can, some quiet and delightful old alms¬
house : there must be a chapel, of course; a garden and a
sundial. I should not in the least mind going into an alms¬
house, provided there were these essentials. I suppose they
would let me bring my own easy-chair and a few little pretty
things. I should make myself quite happy, and I should
have no anxiety. But I confess that the prospect ' A
look of pain crossed her face.
' Are things so very bad ?'
' They could not be worse. Then there is Kosie—poor
child!—she has not been making any real way lately. I
do not know what will become of Kosie. Her heart is not
in her work. It used to be with you, Kit.'
' It is no longer with me, I assure you. And you,
Geraldine ?'
' Well, Kit, if young people can be admitted to alms¬
houses too, I should like a cottage next to Sophia's. But
we have had a most delightful holiday. Whatever happens
in the future, we shall remember this time. And it finishes,
Kit, in the best way possible—with your success.'
He smiled gravely again and then, after a few moments
of silence, he rose and walked slowly away.
' Kit's new dignity as yet sits strangely upon him,' said
Geraldine.
' We loved the old Kit, my dear, and we have not yet
got accustomed to the new. Oh ! I confess that it is better
that he should wake up and work. It is more dignified.
And he is very, very clever ; but he is not so picturesque—■
and, oh! my dear, he is net so affectionate. Denny, who
is a darling, has all Kit's old affectionate way. Pity he is
so rich 1'
134
The doubts of dives
CHAPTER XV.
the last day.
The last day came : it always comes in the long run—this
abominable last day—and then we discover, with Augustine,
how short is that which hath an ending. Even the old,
old man, the aged, aged Antediluvian, lamented that man
should be cut off before a paltry thousand years were
reached.
The last day of the holidays is, of all the days that come
and go, the saddest. Going-away day is not nearly so bad:
it is the last day, when one feels that the merry company
are going to part immediately ; that this is the last chance
we shall have to say what we ought to say to each other;
that the time can never quite come over again in the same
way as we have enjoyed it. Other holidays there will be,
.let us hope; other sweet places—other pleasant companies
—await us still in the halting-places along the weary Haj,
the pilgrim's way: but there will be something missing—
some vanished face—some loss. The play-time is over—
the holy play-time when we have all been so good, when
no one has defrauded his neighbour, and there have been
no hard-forced bargains, no fighting over the plunder, no
robberies—in a word, no business. It is over, and on the
morrow we must go. Let us wander hand-in-hand along
the shore, and watch the rolling of the waves, and the white
crests of the flying horses in the bay, and the vessels that
pass to and fro : it is our last chance before we go back to
the way of war and the windy talk of men. For six weeks
we have been in this Garden of Eden : let us take one more
walk in it before we go back to the town, and the stones of
it, and the smoke of it, and the noise of it.
It was a melancholy party that gathered round the
breakfast-table that morning; but the saddest and gloomiest
of all the faces was that of their host, the hitherto cheerful
Denny.
' You reserve your best compliment for the last day,
Denny,' said Sophia. '*You are cast down on our account,
because we are sorry that it is over.'
THE LAST DAY
* No,' he said. ' Am I not cast down on my own ? A
horrid depression weighs me down. The most delightful
time I have ever had is over, and it can never come again
—never—never !'
'Why should it never—never—never come again?' she
echoed, smiling. ' Why are you so sure that it cannot
come again ?'
' That I cannot tell you; but it is gone, and another time
as good can never come again.'
They all sighed with one consent—a deep, harmonious,
melancholy sigh.
' We shall have it to remember,' said Sophia,' in the cold,
dark days of winter—in the fogs of the London streets we
shall remember this lovely house, and the sunshine lying on
the lawns—and the deep woods and the heath—we shall
remember all.'
'We shall remember all,' they murmured with tearful
eyes.
' And we shall remember—Denny,' said Sophia, laying
her hand in his.
His eyes softened. Manhood forbids the cloud to fall in
rain save in moments of the deepest emotion.
' But it is gone,' he said. ' What goes with it besides I
shall find out to-morrow. Come,'—he looked up and
laughed, the ghost of a laugh—' what must be, always is.
Let us take sweet counsel together. We have a day before
us—what shall we do with it? Let us make it like a
Foresters' Gala-day at the Crystal Palace—brimful of things
to do and things to see. Pity we haven't a steam merry-
go-round ! We will make it a memorable day.'
When the programme was complete, Denny left the girls
to carry out the preliminary arrangements—stage properties
are required for the simplest programme—and betook him¬
self, his face lengthening with every step, to the library,
where, as he expected, he found Kit hard at work, as
usual.
'Old man,' he said, laying his hand on his shoulder,
' hadn't we better audit our accounts, so to speak—learn
exactly what we have to face to-morrow ?'
' Yes ; I was going to say much the same thing. We've
rather avoided the difficulty, haven't we? I am finishing
off this paper for you. I think you will acknowledge that it
136
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
is, 011 the "whole, the best thing yon have done.' He took
up a pile of MSS., and fondled the leaves affectionately. ' I
cannot bear to let it go out of my hands. It is closely-
reasoned and But you shall see—you shall see. I shall
send it in for you to-night.'
' No, my friend,' said Denny ; ' you will keep it and send
it in under your own name, if it is to go in at all. But we
will talk of this presently. First, let me render an account
of my stewardship.'
' Don't vex me with the details of what you have given
away.'
' Very well. But something you must know, otherwise
you may be embarrassed; for, of course, you will have
to drop down easily. Where shall I begin ?' He sat down
on the opposite side of the table and opened a drawer.
' Here you will find some papers which you had better
read.'
' I don't think I shall. In general terms, you have been
doing as much mischief with the money as you could.'
'Yes, my ideas of the rich man's responsibilities are not
yours. I am not a political economist. Man, I find, obeys
none of your laws. May I expound the views of an ignoravt
person ?'
' Pray go on.'
'I look in the glass and I say, "Behold humanity !" I
find that all I myself ask of life is, to be happy. I have no
desire to work. I want love, fellowship, play, talk, music,
wine, sunshine, woods, lawns, and pleasant places. These
simple things make up life ; but mostly love, fellowship, and
play—I ask for nothing more. I want, I say, to be happy.
Build me a system of economics upon that foundation, and
I will look at it. Becognise the universal desire. Let work
be only necessary work, and play the thing to which it leads.
But you cannot do this: philosophers have never known
what happiness is. There is not even any verb which ex¬
presses the universal desire; we have to make a verb. I
want-to-be-happy; thou wantest-to-be-happy; he or she
wants-to-be-happy; we all want-to-be-happy.'
' Political economy works for the general, not the in¬
dividual, happiness.'
' Humanity doesn't care for the general, but for the
individual. You who are rich may—nay, you must—make
THE LAST DAY
137
Others happy who are not. If you refuse, my Dives, you
shall be deprived of your treasures ; yea, you shall be cast
into a lake of fire.'
' Suppose you take all my treasures and spend them in
making fifty people happy, as you call it—that is, in giving
them things which they have not earned,—what then?'
' Why, then they will have been happy. What else do
you want ?'
' For a little while.'
' Life itself is but for a little while. To be happy—to
enjoy the things which we cannot earn, even for a day—is
something in the brief span of life. Make us happy, Dives.
We die and are forgotten—we and our works: the next
generation follows with its works. The world repeats itself.
Some men work and make money; some work and do not.
Outside things change: shirtsleeves put on broadcloth;
broadcloth is exchanged again for shirtsleeves. Always
there is one cry, " Let us be happy—give us love, fellowship,
and play." Thanks to the chance that came to me, I have
given play-time to a few.'
' And now they must go back to work again no better off,
but only the worse, because more discontented.'
'When I took over the temporary charge,' said Denny,
returning to the question of his stewardship, 'you were
giving nothing at all to anybody.'
' I was not. I support no cause, no society, no charity.
Men must learn to combine. By combination everything
can be effected ; without it, nothing. Men must work out
their own salvation for themselves. You cannot impose
advancement; it must come from below. I strive for
nothing but what can be applied to the whole community
at the same time, such as education, and the teaching of
principles and combination.'
' There are the papers !' Denny laid them on the table.
' The sum of it all is, that I have made several people happy.
They were poor and in misery—misery undeserved. They
are young people as well as old people. Whatever you do
in the future, you can never escape from their gratitude.
Ho ! ho !' He put his hands in his pockets, and laughed.
' Dives, who was going to drive Lazarus from his door lest
he should pick up the crumbs—a thing dead against the
modern economy,—has gone out and invited Lazarus to
138
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
step inside: he has placed him in a warm bath, dressed his
bad places with a little sulphate of zinc or vaseline, clothed
him in a beautiful white robe, with a crown of roses, and set
him down to a feast. Wonderful!'
' Wonderful, indeed ! Yet the laws remain.'
' And your example—the example of three months—to
shame all rich men in every country.'
' I shall go abroad till it is .all forgotten. Meantime,
however, I have not done so very badly for you.'
' I know what you have done for me. You have pledged
me to a pile of work which I cannot execute : you have
converted me into a monster of industry : you have turned
me into an orator and an advocate of impossible things.
Very well, I shall just do nothing : I shall sit down. I
shall just go to the Club as if these things hadn't happened
—that is what I intend to do. In a week or two the men
will leave off chaffing.'
'Nonsense! You will—you must—carry on the work I
have started.'
' Carry on that work ? I ? Go about lecturing and
preaching? Never.'
' This paper which I have finished for you '
' Keep it for yourself—I shall go back to the rhyming
and the little journalism ; it is all I am fitted for. You can
carry on this blessed work of yours under your own name.'
' That is impossible. My papers are absolutely identified
with your name. Consider, a splendid beginning like this
must not be thrown away. The principle '
' I don't care twopence for the principle.'
' Then it is all lost and thrown away—all that I have
done in the last three months !'
' WThat does that matter ? What would it matter if
everybody's work were lost and thrown away?'
' Oh !' cried Kit, fondling his precious manuscript. ' Can
you not carry on some of the work ? Will you suffer it all
to be thrown away ?'
' I can't help it. I could no more carry on this work of
yours than you could write my songs. Be resigned : worse
things have come out of this confounded exchange than the
loss of your confounded work.'
' We ought to have considered at the outset: we ought
to have laid down rules. However '—Kit sighed deeply—
THE LAST DAY
139
'you are coming back to the old necessities, the old
stimulus. I return to the load of wealth, and to work
without a purpose or an aim. How much I envy you !'
Denny laughed scornfully.
' You envy me ! If you only knew with what melancholy
of spirit I return, you would not envy me.'
' As for me, my friend : in return for my three months of
work, I can forgive you everything.'
' And I, for my part, can forgive you even for changing
my style—I have had absolutely no work to do for three
months. To think of it! . In fact, I shall always be think¬
ing of it. You've been fagging and trudging and whipping-
up people to make them think as you want them to think :
I've been sitting in my easy-chair, just making them do
what I want them to do: I lift my little finger, and lo !
this House of Holiday for these poor girls !'
'I fear I have not, perhaps, been so considerate as I
should have been,' said Kit, softened. ' I ought to have
known how lazy you were. But, indeed, the chance of
work so filled me with a kind of rage that I have not been
able to stop, and I quite forgot you, your style, your repu¬
tation, and everything.'
' And I too,' said Denny, ' have been to blame, perhaps.
But remember, I, who never had a sixpence to spare, found
myself the master of millions. I ought to have considered
your opinions more. Forgive me.'
They shook hands over their reconciliation.
' And when you are back again,' said Denny, ' will you
really do nothing with your money for anybody?'
' I adhere to my principles. But,' he added, with a little
confusion, ' I find that there must be exceptions made,
when one gets to know people—when one learns certain
stories—in short—there is that boy, Bobbie Lythe.'
' You have heard the story about him ? I hoped that you
would not hear it. Perhaps it isn't true.'
' True or not, the boy shall be cared for. Send for him—
promise for him whatever you please.'
' Yet, consider, the example of his sufferings would be so
useful a lesson to all his friends.'
' Then there is Sophia Gentry: you shall do what you
will for her. Do not suffer her to have any fear for the
future.'
14°
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
'Yet, consider—the poverty of this poor lady can but
teach other ladies to be less incompetent.'
' As for that other business,' said Kit penitently, ' I am
afraid I have botched that for you; but, indeed, I could not
help it.'
' No; that is botched indeed.' There was no necessity
to name the business. ' Man! I don't care twopence for
the other difficulties—I can get over them in a month.
But this is different. What is to be done with this ? I see
no way out of it; I shall never get over it, I fear. Kit
Cotterel is packed off—bundled out—cleared out like a sack
of rubbish. She despises him : she hates him. I shouldn't
mind her hatred, because hatred might always turn again
to love; but she despises him. Love can never survive
contempt. I am done for—done for.'
'Well'—Kit showed little sympathy with this aspect of
the case—' suppose you have lost her : after all, there are
other girls.'
' None that I want.'
' Why, man, look round you. Have you no eyes?'
' Except for Rosie, none.'
' There is one girl in this house as far above Rosie
Romaine as '
' Who can be above her ?'
' You have known her all your life—you played with
her: why, you used to tell her all your ambitions and your
plans.'
' You mean Geraldine ?'
' Of course I mean Geraldine. You have had this beau¬
tiful, this sympathetic, this divine girl beside you all these
years, and you actually have not fallen in love with her !'
' Eall in love with Geraldine ?' Denny laughed pleasantly.
' That is quite as impossible as to win back the other. We
have always been friends too close for love. I used to tell
her everything, as you say—my little ambitions, in the days
when I still had ambitions. Poor, dear Geraldine ! I fear
I have been a sad disappointment to her. She would persist
in expecting great things of me. But, in love with Geraldine?
That would be impossible.'
' Can there be such a man ?' Kit asked of the heavens and
the wide, wide world—gazing around him. >
♦Besides, there was Rosie—little Rosie —the plague and
THE LAST EVENING
141
torment of my life: we quarrelled every other day, and
made it up again with kisses. Poor, dear Rosie—and now
I have made her heart bleed. Poor child! What can I
say ? what can I say ?'
CHAPTER XVI.
the last evening.
It seemed understood as the day went on that everybody
was also to have a few minutes' private talk with Denny.
He held a kind of reception in the library, one following the
other at intervals. Some came to thank him for private
and separate kindnesses—how else could so many new
frocks have come into existence ? Some came to thank him
for the lovely time they had had. Some came to say that
they were going back to hard and ill-paid drudgery with new
courage and hope. Some spoke with tears. Not one but
spoke out of a full heart.
Among them came Mr. Pinder. It was half-an-hour or
so before luncheon time, a period of the day when this good
man was always most depressed. His latest drink—unless,
as sometimes happened, he had taken a glass of beer in the
morning—dated ten or eleven hours back, and he was there¬
fore at dead low tide.
' I am better for my stay,' he said, though in the whole
course of a long life he had never been anything but perfectly
well and strong. ' But the Theatre calls loudly for me to
return. There are new pieces coming out everywhere. I
must get back to work.'
' Well, work seems to agree with you.'
'It is not work,' said the critic, 'that hurts a man, it is
not getting enough work. When one is seventy, the younger
men cut in and take the best part of the work. It is the
universal law. The world belongs to the young—and to
the old man who has not been able to save, there is an evil
that the physicians cannot cure.' He glanced at a cheque¬
book lying on the table. Perhaps, he thought, it had already
been used for some of those women, who would wheedle this
poor young man out of his last farthing. ' Cannot cure,' he
repeated in hollow tones.
142
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
Denny laughed.
' I think I know one remedy,' he said. ' An alleviation,
at least. Come, old chap, how much will you borrow ?
How much shall I lend ?'
The Dine Art critic hesitated. With such a chance one
should not be too modest. Yet he hesitated. Then he
blushed rosy-red—see how young doth Art still keep her
followers !—and boldly plunged.
' I would borrow,' he said, ' no more than my needs
demand, no more than I can repay. A man may borrow
without loss of self-respect.' Perhaps he meant that the
loss of the self-respect came in with the repayment. ' Lend
me, my friend,—lend me—thirty pounds.'
When he left the room with that cheque in his pocket,
his conscience smote him because he hadn't made it fifty.
Then came Robbie Lythe. As yet he had not heard what
was to happen to him, and he was plunged in melancholy
at the prospect before him.
'Understand clearly, Robbie boy' — for he stood in a
dream, not able to realize what was given to him—' you
shall never go back to the City. You are free—you have
no work to do. In the winter you shall go to Egypt, or the
Riviera, or Algiers: in the summer you shall write verses
and live among your friends. You are to have an income
of whatever will be found sufficient for everything.'
' I cannot understand. You do not mean it!'
' Go, Robbie. Tell Geraldine, and ask her to interpret
and tell you what it means. Go—you are a free man.'
Then Geraldine herself came.
' Oh !' she said, ' what is this that you have done for
Robbie? Is it all true—quite true? Denny, you have
saved his life ! Oh ! and I thought you so cold, because you
must have known that he would die if he went back to his
work, and yet you offered to do nothing. Yet why should
you ? Robbie is nothing to you. To Kit and to me he has
been a great deal always. We love him. But he has been
nothing to you, which makes your kindness the more won¬
derful.'
' That is settled then, and we need no more thanks ; and
perhaps the boy will grow stronger in time. Geraldine,
is it really, do you think, all over between Kit and Rosie ?'
THE LAST EVENING
143
11 fear so. He is quite cold about it. And she is quite
determined.'
' Do you think that time '
' No. I am sure that time will never help. It is a
rupture complete. She has quite given him up, and that
without an apparent struggle. She does not seem even to
suffer any pain. It is as if Kit, who is so much changed, is
no longer the man she loved.'
Denny made no reply.
In the afternoon a little drawing-room comedy, written
by Denny, was performed by the author and by Kosie. It
came off with great applause—never had Kosie played any
part better. Then dinner, which followed the comedy, was
animated and even gay. After dinner they had a little
music and singing.
When that began, Kit, who could never now be made to
play or sing—he, who formerly had been always singing,
stepped out of the room into the garden. Here he found
Geraldine alone. Perhaps he knew that she was there.
' I was thinking,' she said, ' things turn out so strangely.
We come here expecting nothing but a few weeks' holiday,
and the whole current of our lives is changed. We leave
you in London, and you are suddenly transformed. We
find here another copy of your old self, as bright and clever
—and sometimes as careless and frivolous. We come with
heavy hearts, thinking that nothing could save poor Kobbie,
and, behold ! his life is at least prolonged, and he will have
no more anxiety. When we came, you were in love and
Kosie was happy. Now '
' Now, Kosie is no longer in love and I am happy. Never
mind about Kosie or the past. Let us talk—of ourselves—■
Geraldine.'
There was a change in his voice which ought to have given
her warning. But she was one of those girls who do not
easily notice such warnings.
' In the old times I used to walk and talk with you and
tell you my little thoughts.'
' They were great thoughts, Kit.'
' And then I began to make songs—those fatal songs !—■
and the ambitions disappeared, and you have been ashamed
of me ever since.'
• Disappointed—not ashamed, Kit.'
144
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' The old times. It is pleasant to think and talk of them,
is it not ? before Bosie—before anything else came between
us. She is gone now, and I am free. Geraldine, we are
free.'
Just then the touch of a manly hand fell upon the piano
in the drawing-room, and Denny's voice was heard carolling
a song—one of Kit's old songs :
' She is not a country damsel, but a sweet
And a dainty maid of lordly London town :
She cannot call the cows, and her feet
Seldom stray on breezy moor or lofty down :
She never carried milk pails on her head,
And she cannot churn the butter or the cheese :
She never tossed the hay or made the bread,
And I know she'd be afraid to drive the geese.'
' Listen !' said Geraldine. ' If it were not for the voice,
which is not yours, one might say that here was Kit himself
enjoying the thing that he once seemed most to love—the
applause of those who heard him sing. Why, the song is
yours ! You wrote it two or three years ago and showed it
to me. I thought at the time that to go on writing such
easy trifles in rhyme was quite unworthy of your powers,
and my heart sank, I remember, because you were so proud
of the lines. But I was afraid to say what I thought. And
you were already twenty-five.'
' And now I am twenty-seven. Time to change, was it
not ?'
The singer went on with his foolish ditty, rolling it out as
if he loved the rhyme, and the music and his own voice, and
as if everybody else must love them all, too :
' Upon the sunny side of Regent Street,
Where the lovely things in stately shops are shown,
There I linger when my purpose is to meet
This shepherdess of lordly London town.
And her cheek is just as rosy, and her eyes
Are just as bright as any maid can show ;
And sure no country miss in such a guise,
And apparelled with such dainty art, could go.'
' Oh, Kit! And all the time you were building a temple
of air and light, just as when you began. But your temple
was becoming, alas ! more and more like a public-house, and
THE LAST EVENING
*45
your muse more and more like a barmaid. Oh, Kit! and
we who loved you and hoped so much of you !'
Then the singer's Voice rose again, and he sang the third
verse:
' She's £ls wise and she's as witty as Bhe's good l
She is sunny as the sunshine, and as free :
She will lose her heart some day—as she should^
But I'm sure I hope she won't, except to me.
For her sweet sake I love both square and street;
Yea, every street of lordly London town :
And her first and Christian name is Marguerite,
And her surname will—perhaps—be—soon—my own.1
1 "When I read those lines to you, Geraldine,' said Kit,
with softened voice—yet she suspected nothing—' was it in
the Square garden ?'
' Yes ; and in May, when the lilacs filled the air and the
laburnum was in blossom.'
'And—and—was I mad? was I dreaming? Did no
thought cross your mind, Geraldine—playmate and friend—
that the words might have a—a—meaning—a deeper mean¬
ing between you and me, I mean ?'
'No—Kit—why? They were a song written by you—
only a song. Besides '
' Sometimes men get mad and do mad things. Sometimes
they pass over the flowers lying at their feet and go to pick
flowers not half so sweet in other fields. Sometimes '
' Kit, I don't know you to-night. What are you saying ?'
' It is because I don't know myself. Geraldine, it is be¬
cause I am free.'
' Free ?'
'I am free—and I have awakened at last.' He caught
both, her hands and held them tightly. ' Oh ! I have been
blind-—blind ! Geraldine, it is you I love—you—you 1'
' Kit, let me go. Oh ! Kit, you must not.'
' I must—I will! Forgive me for the wasted years. They
shall be wasted no longer. You shall guide me and inspire
me, my dear.'
She resisted no longer while he held her in his arms and
kissed her.
He forgot everything: the explanations that would have
to be made—the approaching return to his own personality
—the risks and the difficulties—he was quite carried away.
10
146
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Oh ! Kit,' the girl murmured. ' Are you sure—are you
really sure—that Rosie no longer. . . . Oh! what will she
say ? And on the very day after !'
' It shows the sincerity of the separation : it shows the
reality of my love. Dear, let us not think of Rosie. Let us
talk of the future. Let us talk of love.'
' My dear,' said the happy lover half-an-hour afterwards.
' There will be a great deal to tell you in a day or two.
Perhaps you will be surprised—even distressed at first.'
' No,' she said, ' you cannot distress me, Kit.'
' It is about Denny Stirling and myself. You have noticed
a certain resemblance. Do you like him ?'
' I like him for his generosity. He is certainly a most
generous man. But he wants earnestness.'
' If he were to become suddenly earnest, could you—do
you think a girl might love him ?'
' Perhaps. I do not care to ask. As for me—why, what
a question!'
' What if he were to become earnest ?' Kit persisted.
' Kit, can't you understand that some things are impos¬
sible under any circumstances ?'
' But you knew me when I was in the same idle vein.'
' Yes, and I knew you before. I knew of what great
things you are capable, Kit.'
The lover suddenly let her hand, which he had been hold¬
ing, fall, and walked away.
The girl sat waiting for him, wondering what was in his
mind. Presently he came back.
' Geraldine,' he said, his voice constrained, ' Geraldine—
whatever happens—we have had this evening. . . . Oh ! my
dear—my dear.'
' This,' said Denny, panting, 'is the most delightful waltz
I have ever had.'
His partner sighed.
' And now there will be no more dances,' she said.
' Why no more dances ?'
' Because there never are any. Who is to give a danca
among us ? Why, we all live in cheap lodgings. You can't
dance in cheap lodgings. Shall we have one more turn ?'
Geraldine was playing, and over the piano Kit leaned,
watching her with yearning eyes.
THE LAST EVENING
*47
' There'—as the music stopped—' that waltz is another
thing of the past.'
' Shall you remember it ?' Denny whispered.
' I shall remember the whole of this day.'
'Let us go outside. It is cool. We may pursue our
studies in Natural History. Perhaps we shall find that
glowworm.'
Eosie hesitated—with the usual consequences.
' Tell me once more,' said Denny,' would it be quite impos¬
sible—even if Kit came back—his once self—his former self ?'
' It is very good of you to persist in favour of your friend;
but I have already told you a dozen times—it is quite im¬
possible.'
' Not if he came dancing and laughing—with the old light
in his eyes ?' 4
' Oh 1 if you still persist '
She turned as if she was going back to the house.
' No—no ! Oh ! you don't understand. Eosie, I have
never, never ceased for a single moment to love you.'
'You?'
' You are horribly mistaken. It is not Kit who has
ceased to love you.'
' No—he is changed. I believe he is changed into you.
I don't understand what you are talking about.'
' He is—he is changed. It is I who love you now.
Eosie, best and sweetest of girls, it is I who love you always
—always.'
He folded her in his arms just as Kit had been wont to
do, and kissed her just in Kit's old form—with the same
ardour and the same impetuosity.
' Oh !' she murmured, ' what does it mean ? Denny, how
can you love me, when you know that I am only just
released from Kit ?'
' I am none other than Kit.'
' How can you say such things ? You are Denny.'
He held her in his arms.
' How shall I make her understand ?' he said. ' There
will be a time for explanation next Week—many weeks after
next week—only believe that I love you, Eosie, better than
you were ever loved before.'
' But oh !' she said, ' you are so rich and I am so poor—
and they will say '
143
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Wliat do I care what they say? Besides, I am not so
rich. Oh! I will explain it all soon. My dear, can you
love me ?'
She made no reply. But she left her hand in his, and
one needs no other answer.
' But tell me,' she said again, ' why you keep on saying
that you are the same as Kit ? You are not—you are not!
I could not love you if I had not forgotten Kit. You are
Denny—you are tall and handsome. How could I think I
loved that poor Kit ? And oh ! how can you love me when
you know that once I thought I loved that other man ? I
wonder you do not despise me.'
' Bosie !' he groaned, ' your words pierce my heart. How
can I explain ? What shall I say ? What have I done ?
What will become of us?'
At two o'clock in the morning there were left in the
drawing-room only the two young men. They glared guiltily
at each other.
' I am afraid,' said Kit, with manifest unwillingness,
' that there is more trouble before us.'
' What's that ?'
' Why—oh! no doubt a few words of explanation will
make all clear. As soon as we are again exchanged we can
have a little interview—both together—with—with the
young lady.'
' What the Devil have you done now ?' cried Denny.
' I admire Geraldine above any other woman that I have
ever seen. I admired her from the first moment that I saw
her. She is the only woman with whom I could pass my life.'
' Well ?'
' Well, I have told her so—and she thinks it is Kit him¬
self—and she has accepted me. I ought to be the happiest
of mortals, but I am not, because to-morrow I shall be
Denny Stirling, and I have gathered that she is prejudiced
against you—or him—or me. Says that Denny reminds her
of Kit at his worst.'
' Geraldine has accepted me ?'
'No—me. But she will want this little explanation.'
Denny smote his brow with an interjection not found in
the grammar or taught in the schools or permitted in tho
play-ground, and rushed from the room.
TAKE YOUR FREEDOM
149
CHAPTER THE LAST.
taks your freedom.
Early in the morning, before the maids were about, Denny
came downstairs, dressed, and sallied forth into the garden.
His face was pale, and despair sat upon his brow. Dark
rings were round his eyes. He stood upon the terrace,
looking about him. Then he tossed his arms as one who
is in great trouble of mind. William, the under-gardener,
who was mowing the lawn, thought his master must really
be having 'em again; otherwise why should he look so
queer, and throw about his arms ?
There was, however, one more person up and out. This
was none other than Kit. He had been out half an hour or
more already. Presently, seeing Denny, he came forth,
shamefaced.
' You here?' Denny cried.
' Yes, I am here. I was restless; I got up early,' said
Kit gloomily. ' I have not slept a single wink the whole
night for thinking.'
' Nor have I. What shall we do ?'
' Let us consider the situation from the outside,' said
Denny, endeavouring after impartiality. ' Let us put it
before ourselves plainly and without the least reserve.'
' Well then, let us try.'
' Last night, when you told me about Geraldine and your¬
self I ran away, because I was afraid—yes, I was actually
afraid to tell you what had happened to me only an hour
or two before. It complicates the situation horribly.'
' Not fresh troubles ?'
' Yes, fresh troubles. I was resolved, I told you, to
explain everything to Rosie. I tried to make her under¬
stand, but I couldn't. And last night, driven to despair, I
tried again. I told her that I had never ceased to love her.
I told her, as plainly as I could speak, that I was, in fact,
the real Kit, who had never changed in mind ; and when I
thought she was on the straight track for understanding,
I—I—in fact—I kissed her, and then I found that she
hadn't understood anything at all. And now she believes
that she is engaged to Denny Stirling.'
150
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' Understand me,' said Kit firmly, ' no power on earth
shall make me marry Rosie.'
'And understand me. Not for worlds would I marry
Geraldine.'
' I do not intend to let you.'
There was silence. The men were resolute.
' Well, what is to be done ?' asked Denny. ' It won't
help us to quarrel. What can be done ?'
' I don't know. At least, the only thing ' He looked
wistfully at his friend, and paused.
' Let us once more try to face the situation. Geraldine
will never listen to Denny Stirling. Rosie will never listen
to Kit.'
' That is the plain truth. You couldn't put the case
more plainly.'
' As for the work you have done in my name, I shall not
carry it on. I shall let it drop. This is a short and easy
way out of the difficulty. Better than long-winded explana¬
tions.'
' That won't help us with the girls.'
'No, it won't. And now there is no time for anything
to be done. It is the most horrible difficulty. Suppose we
go on as we are for another three months.'
' What is the good of that ? Geraldine will become more
attached to me, and Rosie to you. An extension of time
will only make things worse. As for changing at all,' said
Kit, ' I don't want to change. I am quite comfortable as
I am. I shall be extremely sorry to give you up. I feel as
if I could stay here altogether. The mansion, so to speak,
is comfortable and sound. The necessity of daily work is
a most delightful stimulus, and I really associate this frame
■—this lodging—not you at all—with the success which has
attended my three months of work.'
'Well?'
' I have won for you an excellent character,' said Kit
severely. ' As for your new style, I should like you to com¬
pare your former style, slipshod and ungrammatical, with
your later, clean and correct.'
Denny grunted.
' We must change back,' Kit repeated, with a look of
inquiry. ' That is inevitable, of course. I suppose that we
must change back again;*'
TAKE YOUR FREEDOM
' It will be horrid,' said Denny. ' I believe you've set
everybody's back up with your priggish airs.'
' If you come to that,' returned the other, ' I suppose you
think it will be a pleasant thing for me to find myself trans¬
formed into a he Lady Bountiful.'
' Ah 1' said Denny humbly, ' there I feel as if I hadn't
done enough. I ought to have made a much better use of
the opportunity. Perhaps I have partly failed to rise to the
situation. Yet I think I have done nearly all that could
be expected of a man who has always regarded a bank-note
with awe, and a hundred pounds, all in a lump, as like
unto an inaccessible peak. You will forgive me for not
making a better use of my time ?'
' We won't re-open that question,' said Kit. ' Look here,
all the rest could be got over; but this business of the girls
can't.'
' No, it can't. I see no way out of it—none at all, except
more explanations, a blazing row, and perhaps the influence
of time.'
' Time will do no good in this case. Geraldine, poor
girl'—his voice broke—' she thinks that Kit is changed for
good. When she sees him fall back into the old courses, it
will break her heart.'
* But you must tell her.'
'You have tried telling Rosie, and she didn't understand.
Do you believe that anybody will understand? It is an
old story—an " Arabian Night" story: the Jinn and King
Solomon exchange bodies—King Robert is turned out of
his body by the angel—everybody knows the story by
heart; but nobody will believe it in these days. We may
go on explaining till we are black in the face! Geraldine
will only go on believing that Kit has gone back to his
frivolous and idle courses because he was tired of being
serious and industrious.'
' And Rosie will go on believing that Denny, to whom
she was engaged, has treated her with the same icy cold¬
ness as she experienced from Kit. Good heavens ! A second
time 1 It is enough to kill her.'
' Then, again, what is to be done ?'
There was silence.
' My friend,' said Kit, after a pause, I have been think
ing this matter over all night,'
152
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
' So have I.'
' And I have found a way out of it—the only way. ^ I
trust to your calm, cold reason, although it certainly entails
upon you a great sacrifice, to adopt my way.'
' Any way—any way—never mind the sacrifice, if it will
only make Eosie happy.'
' There is this way left. To remain exactly as we are.'
' What!'
' We must not change at all. That is the only way. We
must remain as we are. We must somehow make it im¬
possible that there should be any change.'
' Oh ! that is impossible.'
' On the contrary, quite possible.'
' What! Am I to rob you of your fortune ?'
' The fortune has never brought me any happiness. Take
it—take the paltry money and welcome to it.'
' He calls a fortune of three millions " the paltry money !"
No, my friend; I can do much for you, but this I cannot
do.'
' You must.'
' I will not.'
' You shall. Consider, there is Geraldine. She will cer¬
tainly—most certainly break her heart if you do not con¬
sent. And there is Eosie—to be treated a second time to
neglect and coldness. Oh ! it would be the most cruel, the
most outrageous thing. And it will certainly happen, be¬
cause I really will not undertake again to look the lover. I
have tried once and I have failed. I could not try again.
As for your misery and mine, I do not speak, we need not
consider them.' This is always a safe and conventional
thing to say—a thing that the pit quite understands, though
dismal looks proclaim that the speaker is considering his
own misery very much indeed. ' The exchange, I say, is so
vastly to my advantage that X hardly dare to propose it.
My fortune in exchange for my work ! It is giving an
oyster-shell for the mines of Potosi.'
' Absurd! There are three millions of money—three
great massive millions!'
' What is money compared with the great cause which I
have begun to preach ?'
' Well, and how is ope to give up one's own self-^-one'9
piemorig§ ?'
TAKE YOUR FREEDOM
*53
' Ygu won't. After a bit you will clean forget your old
Belf. Don't let that trouble you. And think of Rosie. She
likes wealth : she will delight in soft and luxurious ease and
idleness.'
' She would.'
' And with her always at your side,' the tempter con¬
tinued, ' think of the beautiful verses you would write wdth
no pressure from without—no trouble about making money.
I believe there is an opening just now for a society poet.
The post is vacant, step into it.'
' If I consented, it would be under conditions. You would
have to take two-thirds of the money.'
'Not a sixpence—not a penny. It is against my
principles. There should be no rich men at all. When
the present race of rich men dies out there shall be no more.
Besides, I must have the stimulus of necessity: without
necessity there can be no good work. No conditions.'
' Then flatly, I cannot.'
Upon this Kit, with a silver tongue and the pertinacity of
a mosquito, began all over again to argue it out.
Once more Denny refused except upon conditions.
Again Kit began. This time he drew so moving a picture
of what he intended to do—what he could not choose but
do : how his eyes, ice-cold and strange, would once more
greet the lover-like eyes of the unfortunate girl, mocked and
insulted a second time : how her reason would totter and
give way, how she would linger bereft of reason till death
released her—and all—everything—all this misery because
her lover refused to accept a fortune.
' Well,' said Denny at length, moved to submission by
this terrible prospect, ' I agree.'
Once more they shook hands.
' And now,' said Kit, ' I suppose nothing is to be done.'
' Nothing—except, perhaps, to avoid the mesmeric sleep
and to break this phial.'
He drew the box from his pocket and dropped the bottle
on the stones of the terrace. Denny felt a curious faintness
and dizziness ; in a few moments he saw nothing. Then
he recovered, and saw his friend Kit looking about him as if
asking if anything had happened.
' Denny, my friend,' he said, ' why are you up so early?
It is only half-past seven. Has anything happened ?'
154
THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
'1 seem to have been restless. And you ?'
' General nervousness. Too much work, perhaps. Let
us take a sharp walk before breakfast.'
' What a pretty box!' said Denny, picking up a carved
sandal-wood box. ' And who has been breaking bottles on
the terrace ?'
'It's very odd,' Kit replied. 'I must be nervous. A
kind of a sort of—a—a—half-idea or imperfect recollection
crossed my mind just as you spoke, as if I knew the mean¬
ing of that box. Never mind the thing ! It belongs, I
suppose, to one of the girls. How sweet and fresh is the
morning-air ! Denny, I wish you could sympathize a little
with my work and my principles ! I should like to convert
you above all things. A rich man among us is impossible.
Once converted, you would hand over all your money to the
State.'
' Thank you, Kit. No ! I shall keep my money, and
use it for the individuals—myself and Rosie first. I should
like to use a great deal of it for Rosie. She shall go dressed
in silk attire—in silk attire,' he repeated, singing the
words.
' You are pretty changed, old man.'
' If you come to that, so are you.'
' It was time for me to work, wasn't it?'
' The old careless Kit was perhaps the more interesting.
As for me, love has done it; that, and an improved view of
responsibilities, which I owe to you, Kit, before your new
departure.'
' The new departure I Well, I have Geraldine for my
companion and for solace. A woman may not lead or
guide, but she may accompany and she may console. To
think that I should have been blind for all these years ! I
shall get married as soon as I can. As for the club and
the fellows there, I have already dropped them. Poor old
Pinder is really too much for anybody. Did he impetrate a
loan ?'
' He did!'
They turned up at breakfast, fresh, smiling, and happy.
And, though all the rest were saddened by the approaching
break-up, these two young men preserved a cheerfulness
that, under the circumstances, was curious. But it wag
felt to be a compliment to the two girls,
TAKE YOUR FREEDOM
155
As a general rule, things spoken seriously, earnestly, or,
we say, from the heart, ought not to be spoken at break¬
fast, or at lunch, or even at dinner, because of the dreadful
flatness which falls upon tb.^ rest of the day. The evening
is the time for emotions. On this occasion, however, an
hour or so before the train which should take them away, it
was permitted to Denny to speak, after breakfast, a few
words of meaning.
' My dear friends,' he said, looking around him, ' since
yesterday morning, when we were all so dismal, a most
curious thing has happened : I don't quite know what, but
I feel an immense relief. It seemed to me, then—I don't
know why—as if everything was all over, and nothing worth
having could ever happen again. Now, I understand that
we are only beginning, and I've got to tell you something
that will please you, I hope. Sophia is going to stay here
as chatelaine, and this house will be kept open all the year
round. Let us fill it with people who have been pining for
sunshine and a holiday, and a little rest and happiness.
After breakfast, Sophia is going to unpack her things.
Bobbie, my boy, you had better stay here, too, until the
cold weather begins.'
They all pressed round him saying kind things. But the
tears rose to the eyes of some.
' You have done for me what you little expected,' Denny
went on. ' Let me confess. Before you came, I was grow¬
ing morose—the burden of great riches proved greater than
I could bear. I had no duties and no responsibilities.
You have made me understand that such a man as myself
can have no use at all in the world but to make some few
happier. I must not waste the money, but I may use it to
make some few happier. We will leave Kit, with his new
philosophy, to look after the common weal. I shall content
myself with individuals. He may work for humanity—I will
work for humans. He may contend that no one ought to be
rich. Very good—I shall not argue with him. I am rich.
I accept the situation—and without quarrelling with the
social arrangements which made that possible. But wTe
cannot be rich all to ourselves. That is the great discovery
of the last three months—since you good people came here.
And I owe it all to Kit, as well as his idle rhyme and his
music, and many other things. Shall I make an ill use of
155 THE DOUBTS OF DIVES
iny treasure if I apply it to extend—ever so little—the play¬
time of the world T
' Oh ! the play-time,' said Rosie. ' Do let us give a play¬
time to as many as we can.'
' It is to brighten their lives. What does your foolish
song say, Kit ?
' "Life is long—for those who toil not ;
Only long—for those who play.' "
Kit laughed, but soberly.
' Yes,' he said, ' that was in my play-time. Now I am
going to preach the doctrine that no one ought to be allowed
to become rich. Thus '
Sophia, who was beside him, kindly laid her hand upon
his lips ; and so the rest of that sermon was lost.
' And my explanations ?' asked Rosie, as soon as she
was alone with her lover, who really had all Kit's good
qualities and none of his faults. ' Where are the promised
explanations ?'
' The explanations ? Oh! yes.' He took both her hands.
' Once there was a young man who fell in love with a girl
at first sight. They do sometimes. They are made that
way. But there was another fellow—and so he wouldn't
speak—and he and the other fellow getting mixed, you see—
and what with one fellow changing his views and another
his style, and one improving his ways and the other his
manners '
' I quite see,' said Rosie, ' and the rest will keep. I don't
want any more explanations, if only—only—if you truly
love me, Denny.'
He had to postpone this assurance, because Kit and
Geraldine came in—and she was dressed for travelling.
' Kit,' said Rosie in her softest voice—in her most affec¬
tionate manner—in her most caressing way—' dear Kit, I
understand everything at last. Let us continue friends.
Perhaps, unconsciously, we deceived each other. Let us
continue friends foi' auld lang syne, and for Gcraldine's
sweet sake,'
THE DEMONIAC
CHAPTEE I.
now the thing came.
A little knot of half-a-dozen men sat or lounged about the
room. They had been sitting there all the evening. Some
smoked cigarettes, more ruinous to the nerves than opium ;
some took their tobacco in ancient fashion, with a pipe. On
the table stood two or three bottles of Apollinaris, and a
bottle of whisky, newly opened for some young profligate
who still dared to take it with his Apollinaris, in spite of
public opinion. These men constituted the best set in the
College: that was acknowledged by themselves. All were
reading men, and all good men. They talked of literature,
art, music, and poetry with equal readiness, and always with
that fine breadth of handling and those vigorous, certain
strokes which belong especially to their time of life. No
critic so unrelenting as the critic of twenty-one: no demand
for style more exacting than that of this critic. We lower
our demands as we grow older and perceive that they are
impossible. Just in the same way, we start with the belief
that every great man is a hero : that every beautiful woman
is an angel: that everything is possible to our own intellect:
and that life is long enough to satisfy all our desires—all—
all—even the boundless desires of youth.
So they talked, these young men: sometimes they were
cynical, as some young men love to be; sometimes the en¬
thusiasm of youth flared up, and they were carried far above
the region of the cynic, into the atmosphere of faith and
hope. And when the college clock struck twelve, and one
THE DEMONIAC
man got up and said it was time for bed, everybody felt that
the evening had passed away too quickly—as is, indeed, the
case with every beautiful evening, and more especially the
evening of life. Then the tenant of the rooms was left
alone.
His name was George Humphrey Atheling. He lay back
in his easy-chair, loath to go to bed. The College, when the
footsteps of the departing men ceased upon the stairs, became
perfectly quiet. He was, after a little while, the only man
out of bed. The candles on the table were burning low.
' I suppose I must go,' he murmured with a sigh.
Yet he lingered. He got up, however, and looked out of
the window, which he threw open. The night air—it was
early in the month of May—blew fresh and cold upon his
cheek : the broad lawns of the Fellows' Garden stretched at
his feet in the moonlight, the two great walnut-trees casting
black shadows : beyond the lawns the flower-beds and shrubs
lay massed together in black and white. He sighed agaig,
being a little tired, and shut the window.
Yet he made no haste to get into bed. For some reason
or other, he did not want to go to bed: the thought of bed
made him uneasy. He was nervous this evening; he had
become, since his friends left him, suddenly and strangely
excited. Yet why ? There was absolutely no reason why
he should not lie down at once and go to sleep as usual.
Nobody slept better or more readily than this young man.
Nothing had happened to excite him or make him nervous.
He had not been reading too hard—George was one of those
happily-constituted persons who never read too hard. He
had not been smoking too much—a couple of pipes is not
excessive ; he had certainly not been drinking—George never
did drink. He had not been gambling—he never did gamble,
unless you call sixpenny points at whist gambling for a man
who has seven thousand pounds a year of his own. George
Atheling was a perfectly healthy, steady, and well-balanced
young man, who had been at a school where the masters are
said to have the greatest possible influence—and the best
possible influence—over the boys, and are themselves, ono
and all, as remarkable for virtue as they are for football.
For, if he lacked principle—a thing which one would be
sorry to affirm—such a young man would make up for the
defect by deeper reverence for Form For, many things
HOW THE THING CAME
159
which afford the greatest gratification to the baser sort are
regarded by such young men as beneath contempt, if only
because they are bad Form. Almost everything is bad Form
which pleases the great mass of mankind. Only those things
are to be followed which advance the development or culti¬
vation of the soul, a thing which every young man must
especially regard with jealousy. It will be perceived that
this kind of teaching may very well convert a healthy boy
into a self-conscious prig: in fact, it very often does. That
is its weak side. On the other hand, when you have got a
strong brain to deal with, there is no better way of beginning
the world than to start with an immense respect for your
own possibilities.
George Atheling, owing to this enormous respect for him¬
self, read diligently for honours, desiring to get a First Class.
It is always good for a young man, at the outset, to have a
First Class behind him : it illustrates these possibilities in
him. For the same reason, he cultivated literature, art,
and music. That is to say, he conscientiously ploughed
through the Masters, and endeavoured, as yet with small
success, to understand what constitutes a good picture and
what a sonata should suggest and teach. In some athletics
he was good, especially in rowing: he spoke at the Union
rather stiffly, but after careful preparation of his speech. It
was understood that he would certainly enter upon a politi¬
cal career, and his friends believed that he would quickly
step to the front and become a great statesman. It is as¬
tonishing to reflect upon the magnificence of the careers
prophesied for certain undergraduates by their friends. If
only half the greatness were really to come off, the country
would not be big enough to contain all its great men But
though events do not come off exactly as they are prophe¬
sied, there are, as in every other condition of things, com¬
pensations. Many of the men, for instance, continue to
believe in their own possible greatness, and are thereby made
happy. Fate or accident has prevented them from receiving
the world's acknowledgment of their greatness; but all the
same they are kings of men; they are the unappreciated
prophets.
Had George Atheling continued in the line of life which
he had laid down for himself, he would have gained his First
Class: he would have been called to the Bar: he would
THE DEMONIAC
have entered the Ilouse of Commons: and then^— But
one cannot tell what might have happened afterwards. Only
one thing is certain, that the school priggishness would have
been shaken off at an early period. A man of his bodily
strength could never become a prig. Heard one ever of a
great, strong man continuing in the paths of the prig ?
But he did not continue in that line of life. A thing hap¬
pened to him, this very night, which was destined to change
his line of life altogether; a very strange and terrible thing;
a thing which he had never suspected, dreaded, or antici¬
pated ; a thing of which he had never heard.
Understand, to begin with, that there were no premoni¬
tions ; also, that he had no anxieties of any kind ; that he
was perfectly happy, and satisfied with himself, his lot, and
his expectations ; that he had heaps of money ; that he had
no bad brothers, elder or younger ; that he had no foolish
virgins for sisters; that he was twenty-one years of age;
that he was perfectly sound and strong—a goodly and a
proper young man. These things must all be clearly under¬
stood.
To look at, he was a very fine young man. He stood over
six feet in height, and for breadth of shoulder, depth of
chest, solidity of legs and arms, was built for two inches
more at least. Everything about him was modelled on a
gigantic scale : his hands were big, his fingers long and
strong; his limbs were huge ; his head was big, his features
were strong and distinct; his short hair curled all over his
head, for the very strength of it. He rowed five in the
college boat, and had refused a place in the 'Varsity trial
eights.
Nothing wrong about this young man at all. Nature had
fashioned him in her kindliest mood : nothing at all wrong.
Nature is so seldom in a really kindly mood. For upon one
she bestows an asthma, on another gout, on a third rheu¬
matism, on a fourth neuralgia : to speak only of nervous
complaints which lie dormant for many years, and break
out when one grows older. Another she afflicts with short
sight, partial deafness, a stammer, a squint, or some other
little defect or deformity which all through life shall pro¬
hibit perfect enjoyment. Others she endows with poverty,
coupled with ambition; or with obscure origin, coupled with
poor cousins in multitudes; or with stupidity, coupled with
HOW THE THING CAME
rank which demands great parts. This young man she
endowed with great riches, good birth, perfect health of
body—so far as he himself or the world could understand—
a strong brain, industry, and resolution, and ambition : what
more can Nature possibly do for any man ? One thing
more she can do. She can make him one of those who
speak the great English language, and belong to one of the
two great English nations. And this, too, Nature did for
George Atheling.
As he turned from the window his eyes fell upon an
unopened letter on the mantelshelf. He took it and glanced
at the handwriting.
1 It is from Elinor,' he said, and tore it open.
' Deaeest Geoege,' it began, with affectionate familiarity
—' I think that I have at last succeeded in overcoming all
scruples. My mother has given her consent at last; the
pater has never really objected. I am to enter Newnham
in October. As I shall be eighteen in September, I may be
supposed, at least, to know my own mind. I am getting on
very well with my " coach," who is a delightful old gentle¬
man, and a miracle of learning. My Latin prose still leaves
a good deal to be desired. In Greek I am doing much
better. I work all day long, except for my two hours of
exercise—which everybody, especially my coach, insists
upon my taking every day. I ride or play tennis Oh ! I
am full of ambition and of hopes! We shall be under¬
graduates together, but you will be in your third year while
I am in my first. You will look down upon me. Never
mind!
' You dear old boy, I mean to get my First Class, too.
The way has been shown by other women. I will be a
First Class in Honours, if only to stand on the same intel¬
lectual level as my husband. He shall not be able to talk
about things of which I understand nothing. What you
read, I will read. I will be your companion and your equal:
I will take my place beside you, not behind you. I could
not marry a man who would look down upon me from
heights which I was unable to reach, any more than I could
marry a man whose mental level I could easily surmount.
Not so, sir. If I go to Newnham it is that I may make
myself worthy of one who is to become a great man—a very
THE DEMONIAC
great man. Let me be a, very great woman, if he is to talco
my hand. Write me long letters—quite long letters if
you can spare the time, all about yourself. Good-bye, you
dear old George.
' Affectionately,
' Elinor.'
A very pretty letter. It went straight to the young man's
heart. His eyes softened as he read it.
' Newnham, Nellie! We shall be undergraduates to¬
gether. But I am afraid they won't let me ask you to dine
in Hall. . . .'
Not much love in the letter, but enough. When young
people have known each other so long—namely, from child¬
hood—and have dropped into an understood engagement-,
almost without a word spoken, at nineteen and sixteen, it
would be absurd to think of raptures and darts and flames.
A calm and steady flame, at best, was the love of these two
young people for each other.
' Newnham ! Nell at Newnham ! I wonder how often I
shall be able to see her?' George put the letter in hi3
pocket. ' Nell a First Class in the Classical Tripos ! Well,
why not Nell, as well as any other?'
He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. There
a strange disquiet seized him : his heart began to beat; he
shivered ; he thought he must have taken cold. He hastened
to seek the friendly embrace of the blankets.
Now, if he had known what was going to happen, he
would have sat up to wait for it. He would have met that
thing broad awake, with a stout heart and an iron will. If
he had understood the fluttering of his heart and the vague
disquiet which filled his soul, he would have known that
these things were caused by a benevolent fairy, incapable of
doing more than pluck at his sleeve and whisper in his ear
and warn him—though by signs that he did not understand
—not to go to bed that night at all.
Because, you see, on his pillow, waiting till he should be
asleep, when he could whisper evil things, and fill him
with abominable purposes and horrid temptations, sat a
Devil. George did not know this, unfortunately, and so lay
down, closed his eyes, and in a few minutes fell fast asleep.
He slept for two hours. Then, suddenly, he started
HOW THE THING CAME
violently. He heard, as one sometimes does in dreams, his
own name called loudly. He sat up in bed and listened.
No, it was only a dream.
He was about to lie down again, still half asleep, when
he became aware of a most singular feeling in the throat.
It was dry and parched: it grew drier, more parched, every
moment: it seemed to be on fire : quickly, in a few moments,
the dry throat became like a red-hot furnace, and there fell
upon him a necessity to drink, just as one must pour water
upon flames. He sprang out of bed and seized the carafe.
But he put it down without drinking any of the water. It
was not water he wanted. Not all the water in the Nile
would assuage that raging thirst or put out that fire. He
rushed into the other room. On the table stood that bottle
of whisky newly opened for the man who had taken a little.
He seized a tumbler and half filled it with spirit: then he
filled up the glass with water, and drank it at one breath.
Oh, the sweetness and the refreshment of that draught !
He took another and another, with deep-drawn sighs of
satisfaction. Not Tantalus himself, when the water ceased
to avoid his lips, drank with greater rapture or more greedi¬
ness.
It was over. He wondered what it meant. What had
he done to cause this sudden and horrible thirst—this raging
fire in his throat ? He sighed again. It was over. Would
it come again ?
He went back to his bedroom: but he took the bottle
with him; and he sat on the bed, trying to understand the
thing. Such a consuming thirst he had never before ex¬
perienced—not even after the first row over the course—
not even when climbing painfully up the slopes of Snowdon
—never had he felt, never had he conceived the idea of such
a frightful, appalling, overwhelming thirst.
No man in the world had ever been more temperate than
George Atheling—not more abstemious, because he always
took his pint of beer with his lunch and his claret with his
dinner, like any other man. But not the least breath of
suspicion had ever rested upon him in the matter of temper¬
ance. Whisky and potash were to be had in his rooms by
those who chose; he never did. Punch and toddy are now
as extinct as saloop and purl; but the whisky and potash
remains.
THE DEMONIAC
George, however, never drank this compound. Up to
this moment his head had never felt the potency of drink,
nor had his mind ever understood how men can crave for
ardent liquor. Never-^never—never.
Therefore the thing must clearly have been by the instiga¬
tion of the Devil.
While he sat Upon his bed the fiery thirst assailed him a
second time. It was a flaming, roaring, raging, consuming,
devouring thirst. He was all throat—burning, scorching
throat. The thirst compelled him—forced him—drove him
—to drink again. He drank plain whisky, whisky and
water, plain whisky again. At last he seemed to have sub¬
dued the thing; but he had nearly finished the bottle.
He lay back wondering stupidly what it meant, and what
illness was about to follow. Again—a third time—the fire
broke out again. He drank up the rest of the bottle,
dropped it from his hand on the floor, and fell back, asleep.
The whole business had hardly lasted five minutes. Perhaps
he had never been fully awake at all.
At seven o'clock his gyp looked in to call him. He found
his master lying on his back breathing heavily, his face
flushed. At the bedside, on the floor, lay the empty bottle.
'Good Lord!' said the man, 'I opened it last night at
nine o'clock, and none of the gentlemen drank it. He's
finished the whole bottle. Mr. Atheling! who'd ha' thought
it ? Here, wake up, sir—wake up ! Mr. Atheling—of all
the gentlemen in the College !'
He could not wake him up. He therefore desisted.
The gyp—by name Mavis—was a man about five-and-
forty. He belonged to the College; his father had been a
gyp before him, and his mother was a bedmaker; he had
never dreamed of anything better for him than the post he
held. He had now been a gyp for twenty-five years ; that
is, for eight generations of undergraduates. He was a man
whom some men loathed, and others regarded as the best
servant in the world. He was always respectful, always
noiseless, always perfect in his work. Yet some men
loathed him ; they spoke of worms, reptiles, and things that
crawl, when his name was mentioned. His eyes were
always downcast, and his face, clean shaven, was always
pale.
IIOW THE THING CAME
The gyp, therefore, finding that he could not wake up his
master, took away the wliisky-hottle, left him, and went
about his work.
At nine, at ten, and at eleven he looked into the room
again. At last he found Mr. Atheling sitting in the bed, half-
dressed.
' Whatever is the matter, sir ?' asked the man. ' What in
the world '
' I've got a splitting headache '
'Well, sir, you'll excuse me, but if you drink a whole bottle
of whisky at night, what can you expect but a head like a
lump o' lead? I wonder you're alive, sir, that I do. A
whole bottle!'
A whole bottle ! George started, remembering suddenly
what had happened.
' Mavis,' he said, ' something very strange has happened
to me. I got up in the middle of the night with a raging
thirst, and I began to drink. I had to drink, else I should
have gone mad. Why'—his eyes rolled and his voice
became thick—' I feel it again. I am going mad, I believe.
My throat is on fire—it is on fire !'
He fell back upon the bed and buried his head in the
pillows, with a groan.
The gyp, Mavis, had seen other young men—they are by
no means so numerous as they were wont to be fifty years
ago at this ancient Seat of Learning—he had seen them in
the repentant morning when punishment is administered
with equal hand, and when hot coppers, fiery throats, dis¬
ordered stomachs, parched tongues and fevered brows are
served out among young sinners. He knew the symptoms
and supposed that these were no more than the effects of an
ordinary case.
' What you want,' he said, ' is a small glass of stuff, neat
—a hair of the dog '
' Quick ! Quick ! The whisky. Bring it! Bring it!'
The gyp opened another bottle and brought it. To his
amazement, his master, the most sober of young men, did
not wait for a glass, but began to pour the whisky down his
throat, drinking it out of the bottle.
' Good Lord!' he cried. ' Mr. Atheling, sir, consider:
you'll kill yourself!'
JJe caught his master by the arm and tried to take the
THE DEMONIAC
bottle from him. George raised his fist, massive and
ponderous. The gyp recoiled at the very sight of that huge
weapon. He fell backwards into the tub, wThere he sat with
eyes of terror and of amazement, regardless of the cold
water, while he saw his master gasping between the drinks,
with red, swollen cheeks and staring eyes.
' Good Lord !' he cried again, 4 he'll kill himself !'
He got up and essayed to dry his clothes a little with the
bath-towel. George went on drinking, but less greedily.
The first strength of the attack was gone. Then it left
him altogether and he staggered out into his keeping-
room.
Breakfast was laid, but he refused to take any, throwing
himself into a chair.
The gyp cleared away the things and left him, shutting
the outer oak.
When he came back about five or six in the evening, he
found his master lying dead drunk on the floor; and another
bottle of whisky was gone.
' Now,' said Mavis, ' I wonder what's best to be done for
him and for me.'
He contemplated this Fall of Man with more than common
curiosity: other Adams he had seen fall in a like deplor¬
able manner, but never such an Adam—such an unexpected
Fall.
'Well,' he went on, 'nobody would have believed —
nobody. The very last gentleman in the College—that's
what I should ha' said. That's what the Master would ha'
said. That's what the Tutor would ha' said. That's what
all the gentlemen would ha' said. The very last! And
such a truly determined Go ! I never heard tell of such a
drink before. I never see such a drink. He ought to be
a dead un with all that whisky ! If he hadn't been such a
uncommon big man he would be a dead un, too—stiff un
and dead!'
He lifted his master, with great difficulty, from the floor
to the sofa; and then he left him there. But he impressed
upon the bedmaker, who knew nothing about the bottles of
whisky, that Mr. Atheling was ill and must not be dis¬
turbed on any account. He himself would look after
him.
fn the evening, at nine o'clock, the gyp came again, He
HOW THE THING CAME
167
laid out a little food upon the table in ease his master should
awake hungry, and he left him in darkness and went away.
It was full daylight when George awoke. He sat up on
the sofa and looked round him. He had fallen asleep on
the sofa. He remembered nothing more. He got up, un¬
dressed, and went to bed.
In the morning his gyp found him sleeping like a child.
The fever had spent itself.
Presently he arose and dressed. His hands shook, his
head was aching; but he felt no more thirst.
' Mavis,' he said,' you were here yesterday—in the morn¬
ing.'
' I was, sir.'
' Tell me : did you ever—did you ever see a man in such
a condition before ?'
' Well, sir,' said the man, ' I have seen many a gentleman
as drunk as a log; but I don't think I ever see any gentle¬
man so fierce with it as you were yesterday morning.
Lord! It seemed as if you couldn't get the drink down
fast enough!'
' I could not, indeed. You have exactly described it.'
' Three bottles of whisky gone since Tuesday night, and
now it's Thursday. There's many a poor fellow as gets the
Horrors on a good deal less than that. Three bottles of
whisky in one night and a day ! Because last night you
didn't drink anything.'
' Mavis, who saw me besides yourself ?'
' No one saw you. No one, sir. I took good care of that.
I took away the bottles and told Mrs. Grip '—she was the
bedmaker—' that you were ill and not to be disturbed. She
suspects nothing. If she did, it would be all over the
College by this time. No, sir ; I know my duty to the
gentlemen of the College, I hope. Your oak was sported
and you were not at home to anybody—not even to the
Master, if he'd been taking a walk this way.'
George breathed more freely. It is bad to be at the
mercy of a servant; but even that is better than to have
your shame proclaimed all over the place, though you
must He drew his purse from his pocket. There was
in it a ten-pound note and some money. He took out the
note and gave it to the gyp—thus the Britons bought out
the Saxons, and the Saxons bought out the Danes.
i68
THE DEMONIAC
'This,' he said, 'is for yesterday, for to-day and for to¬
morrow and ever afterwards.'
' You're very kind, sir, I'm sure. I wasn't thinking of
ti ai.' Mavis pocketed the present with a smile of satis¬
faction which could not be restrained. ' Of course, sir, no
one shall know. And if at any future time '
' Silence !' cried George, with gathering wrath. 'There
can be no future time. It is impossible !'
He marched into his keeping-room, being now fully
dressed.
Mavis pulled out the note and looked at it. Yes—his
eyes had not deceived him. It was a tenner.
' Lord !' he said. ' Here's luck ! And it's only a begin¬
ning. He's sure to do it again. They always do. Pity!
Pity ! He's at the end of his second year a'ready. Ah !
what I might have made out of him by this time—if he'd
only begun when he was a freshman !'
CHAPTER II.
how the thing was received.
George swallowed some breakfast. Then, reflecting that
the men were all at lecture and that nobody would meet
him, he took his hat and walked out of College. He wanted
to be alone all day in order to think about it—to put the
thing clearly to himself. In order to be alone he must walk
out of the College and out of the town.
He took the road before him—that which leads to
Madingley—and tramped resolutely along the broad flat
way which stretches across the broad flat country.
Por the first time in his life he was humiliated. Worse
than humiliation had fallen upon him : a profound abase¬
ment—a feeling of degradation. He was hurled from his
heights of self-respect. ' I am a hog! I am a hog!' he
said a thousand times. ' I made no resistance; I drank
because I was thirsty. What became of my strength?
Where was my will ? Where was my self-respect ? All—
all—vanished in a moment. Why did this thing fall upon
me? How was it caused?' With other questions rising
naturally out of the situation, just as an examination-papey
HUW THE THING WAS RECEIVED iCg
rises naturally out of the Peloponnesian War. Only, had
he attempted to pass this examination, to answer these
questions, he would have been most certainly and surely
plucked, because he had no answer to any single one.
How did it happen? Why, it is a thing incredible.
Who could expect it ? That a young man of strictly tem¬
perate habits should thus suddenly become a drunkard—
that he should drink for two days and more without stop¬
ping . . . who could believe it ? There is a well-known
story of a monk who, for some reason, was condemned to
commit one of the deadly sins. He chose drunkenness as
the least deadly—if there is any difference in the deadliness
of sins. When he recovered, he found that he had com¬
mitted all the rest. George Atheling was like that monk in
one respect—namely, that he had actually done the thing
which he had always held in the greatest loathing and con¬
tempt. Like the late Duke of Sussex, he had always been
inclined, on hearing the commandment, 'Thou shalt not
get drunk,' to murmur, instead of the form appointed, the
words, 'Never did that; never did that.' The command¬
ment forbade a thing which was impossible to him. It was
meant for other people. And he had done it: he was that
miserable, cowardly creature—a drunkard !
He walked hard : he grew hot: he grew thirsty. A
dreadful fear fell upon him that this might prove a return
of the former thirst insatiable. He stopped at a little
village shop where they kept gingerbeer, and ordered a
bottle of this delectable compound with horrid forebodings.
Nothing followed. His thirst was only the result of
fatigue and exercise, coupled with the natural effects of this
orgie. He drank his gingerbeer, and felt relieved. Pre¬
sently, he turned and walked back. When he reached the
College he was so much better, that he was encouraged to
venture into Hall, where he accounted for his absence the
day before by a little evasion—one of that kind not put
down by the recording angel. He said he had had a touch
of sore throat, which was perfectly true. He was looking
ill, they told him. What he felt was that he might, at any
moment, be seized at the throat by this Devil of a thirst
and betray himself. Fortunately, this did not happen.
He retreated, after Hall, to his own rooms, afraid to
firust himself any longer among his friends, Hq wenfi
THE DEMONIAC
to bed early, nob so much because be was tired, but
because he was anxious. He went to bed with a dread¬
ful fear of what might happen. He woke at three,
expectant. Nothing at all happened. He had no desire
for drink. The thought of drinking whisky at that hour
filled him with loathing. He laid his head upon the
pillow, and fell asleep again. In the morning, he awoke
perfectly recovered. He got up early, took a header in the
College bath and a run round Parker's Piece before break¬
fast. He was himself again. Nay, though he thought of
the thing with horror, it was principally because he had
made so shameful a surrender. Should it ever come upon
him again, he would fight it down. Certainly, he would
fight it down. But, perhaps it would not come any more.
Mavis, for his part, regarded his master with a greatly
increased interest. And he took care, being a thought¬
ful gyp, and knowing what was due to his gentlemen,
that there should be, ready to hand, at least one bottle
of ardent spirits to carry his master along, in case he
should again be visited by that consuming thirst. It
will be observed that Mavis belonged naturally to the tribe
of those who live by providing for the vice of others. Mavis
was disappointed. The time went on, and there was no
second attack. He watched his master closely. He drank
next to nothing. He trained and rowed in the College
boat; he read in the mornings, and in the evenings went
about among the other men exactly as before. It seemed
as if he had forgotten that night and day. George had not
forgotten it. Such a thing is not so readily forgotten; he
had yielded, cowardly. Such a thing as a disgraceful sur¬
render is not easily forgotten. But he had been taken
unawares. If it should fall upon him a second time, he
should know how to fight it. He had been attacked sud¬
denly, and in his sleep; he was half asleep. Next time,
should there ever happen a next time, he would meet it
as a man should.
Other things happened which prevented him from for¬
getting it. A man in the College—a man with whom
George would not consort, a man of low and vicious habits
■—was known to be suffering from delirium tremens. This
made the men talk of drink, and deepened George's abhor¬
rence of the pit into which he had fallen. There were
HOW THE THING WAS RECEIVED 171
articles and letters also going on at the time in the papers
on the Great Temperance Question. These he read with a
sense of guilt and shame. And one evening a thing was
said which gave him food for much reflection.
It was in a small company of talk in the evening. They
were talking at large, encyclopaedically, as young men de¬
light to talk. Every clever young man would be Doctor
Universalis—possessor of all the knowledge there is. For
the moment they talked of heredity.
' Everything is hereditary,' said one of them who was
going in for science, and, therefore, had a right to pro¬
nounce. ' We inherit everything—our virtues and our
vices, our strength and our weakness—from our fore¬
fathers.'
' According to that,' said another, ' no man can be praised
or blamed.'
' Not for his virtues or his vices, but for the extent to
which he carries them. When a child is born, we ought to
be able to predict for him all the forces which are latent in
his brain and are going to grow up with him-. One grand¬
father was penurious, or one was extravagant; one was
rash, or one was timid; and so on. Unfortunately, we
keep no record of our grandfathers and their peculiarities.
If we were to begin to do this, it would be the better for
our grandchildren. I take it that inherited tendencies may
be strengthened or weakened according to the action of any
generation. If the worst man in the whole world could
realize the miseries his way of life was transmitting to his
children, he would instantly become virtuous.'
' Well, but we inherit all the virtues that there are, as
well as all the vices. And we inherit all the diseases that
there are as well.'
' As for the diseases, each generation gets, happily, only
a part. Asthma goes to one, and gout to another. I sup¬
pose it is the same with the virtues and the vices. We
haven't time, in seventy years, to work through the whole
of our inheritance. Methuselah is the only man who really
did that. Things seem capricious only because we have
not found out a Law of Heredity. Take the most hereditary
thing of all, for instance—drunkenness.'
' Drunkenness hereditary ?'
' Why, of course it is. As hereditary as gout. In a large
172
THE DEMONIAC
family it will attack one and spare all the rest. Or it will
jump over a whole generation, and break out in the next.'
George heard no more. For now he remembered a little
episode in his own family history—a thing he had heard
once, and had long since forgotten. His own grandfather—
his mother's father—had, to use a familiar expression,
drunk himself to death. He remembered plainly hearing
that fact stated somewhere—drunk himself to death. How,
he wondered, philologically, can a man drink himself?
Why, if every draught accelerates his end, the liquor may,
by a figure of speech, stand for the breath of life. He
drinks himself up.
Who told him this ? Not his mother, certainly. Yet he
knew it. He had heard it. His grandfather died quite
young—under thirty. He drank himself to death. So
this, then, was part of his inheritance. His friends talked
he sat silent, resolving to meet this danger with a strong
will and the courage of a valiant heart. He longed for the
occasion to arrive. The soonfer it came the better. Since
the battle had to be fought out, let it be fought speedily
while he was at his strongest and best.
The occasion lingered. The term passed by without any
further trouble.
On the last day of term most of the men went down. It
suited his arrangements to stay up for one day longer. He
had almost ceased to fear the Thing. He was so sure of
his power to meet it, when it came, that he tried to trouble
himself no more about it. To be sure he had yielded
shamefully. But then he was taken unawares. The next
time
He sat reading in his room until midnight. Then he
went to bed and fell asleep.
Early in the morning, before daybreak, he awoke with a
start. The horrible thirst was upon him a second time;
the fire in his throat, the craving—irresistible, vehement—
for strong drink had seized him again.
He made no resistance; he attempted none : it seemed
impossible for him to think of resistance : he never thought
of resisting. He rushed into the other room.
There was no whisky. He found a bottle of brandy, and
drank that. When it was finished, he hurled himself upon
$he bottles of sherry as Ajax thrqw himself upon the inno«
HOW THE THING WAG RECEIVED 03
Cent sheep, and made dead men of every one till he rolled
over and became an unconscious log.
Three days later, pale and haggard, knocked to pieces by
an orgie far longer, far worse than the first—an orgie which
terrified the gyp, and almost drove him to reveal what was
going on to the tutor—George Went down. Mavis, after he
had carried his master's portmanteau to the College gates,
went back to his staircase, and sat on the stairs Smiling
with satisfaction. In his pocket was another ten-pound
note. Yery few College gyps, he reflected, even when
they've got a young nobleman on their stairs, had made a
better term of it than he had done.
George went down, wrecked in mind more than in body.
For a man may fail once and yet retrieve his good name.
Regiments have been known to run away from the enemy
one day and to defeat them the next. But George failed
twice, and the second failure was far worse than the first.
He fell into despair. He could no longer associate with
other men. He must leave the University. He wrote at
once to take his name off the College books without assign¬
ing any reason.
' Pity he is so rich,' said the tutor. ' I hoped that he
would have gone on as he began,, without the ordinary
stimulus of necessity. Nobody ought to be allowed to be
rich till he is fifty at least.'
He was himself doing extremely well, and he was forty-
nine.
The tutor was wrong. It was not his big income which
made him lazy; it was this truly awful Thing that had
fallen upon him. This it was that made him afraid and
ashamed to return among his old friends. Sooner or later
they would find him out.
Once—twice—in Cambridge. A month later—in London,
and never any resistance at all. Never the least power of
resistance. As soon as the fiery furnace began to burn in
his throat, he rushed to the bottles and drank—drank—■
drank—mad—mad to extinguish the flames.
All that summer he stayed in London. He would not
trust himself to see his fiancde, Elinor Thanet. He wrote
making excuses. He was afraid to face her.
Then a great dread fell upon him that he might somehow
be attacked without the means of allaying the Thing. He
174
THE DEMONIAC
thought he must have with him always a confidential
servant who would know what to do. There was the man
Mavis. He did not like the man much ; but he was a good
servant, and he knew the truth. Perhaps he would give up
the College. He telegraphed to Mavis.
Mavis came. He was willing to leave the College if it
was made worth his while. He was more than willing to
act as the keeper of a gentleman who wanted somebody to
look after him. Mavis proved a person of great resource :
he did not propose resistance or any other impossibilities:
he accepted the facts of the case : he looked for, and found,
to begin with, a cottage at a convenient distance from town
and quite in the country. On three occasions, between the
months of June and the end of September, he took his
master down to this retreat. He also took with him a large
hamper containing ardent drinks of various kinds.
In the intervals between these visits, George found him¬
self perfectly, absolutely free from the desire for drink. He
loathed the sight of whisky: he became almost a total
abstainer. In other respects,- he was the same as before:
perfectly strong and healthy both in mind and body. But
when the attack began he made no more attempt at resistance
than a man with neuralgia does to persuade himself that
there is no pain anywhere.
He fell into a profound melancholy. He now fully under¬
stood that the same disease which had killed his grandfather
had fallen upon himself. His career was stopped at the
outset: there would be no career possible for him. How
can a man do anything who has to go away into hiding every
month or so, while the Devil forces him to make a hog of
himself ?
When the men came back to College in October it was
reported that Mavis, the gyp, had resigned. It was also
said that Atheling had taken his name off the books.
Atheling ? What on earth did he do that for ? Atheling ?
Of ail the men in the College, the last they would let go.
Atheling ? What did it mean ? Despondency fell upon
the whole College, insomuch that the freshmen were awed
and hushed, and in Hall there was no laughter, and in the
rooms there were no stories told; and the College boat, for
want of their old number five, began, like Noah's Ark, to
creep slowly upon the face of the waters,
HOW THE THING WAS RECEIVED
175
George's rooms were taken by a freshman named John
Carew, a youth of promise who had obtained the first
entrance scholarship, brought up a scholarship from St.
Paul's, and was expected to become a Bell Scholar.
This young man took over the furniture of his predecessor
at a valuation. One morning, while he was searching in a
drawer of his writing-table, he came upon a layer of old
stationery. Among the envelopes was a cabinet photograph
representing the face of a very good-looking young man
indeed.
' What is this ?' said Carew, showing it to a man in the
room at the time. He was a third year man.
' Why,' said he, 'it is a portrait of Atheling, who was
going to do such great things—only they have not come off.
No one knows why he went down or where he is now.
Cherchez la femme, perhaps,' added the philosopher of
twenty-two.
' Anyhow,' said Carew, ' he had a good face—an admir¬
able face. One would not readily forget such a face as that.
I wish I had known him. A .face that one could not forget
if one tried.'
CHAPTEK III.
OF THE FALLING OUT.
' So, sir,' said Elinor, stepping across the lawn to meet her
lover, ' you have come at last.'
It was a warm and sunny afternoon towards the end of
September. A broad lawn stretched in front of a goodly
country house, modern, perhaps too new ; but the Thanets
are new people, as everybody knows. Yet not so very new ;
and their novelty is gilded. Not people of to-day, but of
yesterday, or even the day before yesterday.
It matters very little in these days how the money is
made ; but it maybe mentioned, as a detail, that the Tlianet
money was made by Elinor's grandfather in the good old
days of railway making, when the founder of the family
engineered, contracted, and constructed on the largest
scale possible, with results of a most satisfactory kind.
Elinor herself, an only child, might, judging from hey
THE DEMO Ml A C
appearance, have been the daughter of a hundred belted
earls ; but then our English girls, when they have got the
wherewithal, do in the second generation easily assume the
aristocratic manner and appearance. She was still quite
young, not more than eighteen ; more womanly in figure
than most girls of that age, and rather more serious in
countenance. This was, perhaps, due to her difficulties
with Latin prose, which still continued to give her anxiety.
It might also be partly caused by the neglect of her lover,
who had not been to see her all the summer.
' You have treated me so abominably, sir,' she said,
giving him both her hands, ' that I had almost made up my
mind '
' I am so very sorry, Nell. I could not possibly come
before. I have been kept in town by all kinds of business,
and '
' Oh ! business, indeed 1' she laughed, incredulous. ' You
know, George, you have never had any business in your
life. First, I thought you were going up for the Long;
then you said you were going to France or somewhere;
then I had that strange letter from you.'
' Forget that letter, Nell. I was ill when I wrote it.'
' I have forgotten it, because you would not have written
it if you had been well. I tore it up. But, George, you
must have been very ill to write such a strange, rambling
letter, all about heredity, and duty to posterity, and I know
not what.'
' I had a feverish cold which made me light-headed for a
few hours. Forget that letter, Nelly. I wrote it when I
was only half myself, and full of queer fancies.'
' Oh, it is nothing. It is forgotten. Let me look at you.
George, you don't look at all well—whatever is the matter
with you ?'
' Nothing, Nell. Nothing at alL What should there
be ?'
' Your face looks—what shall I say ?—puffy, and your
eyes look anxious. What has happened?' she asked
earnestly.
' Nothing has happened, Nell, except that I was certainly
ill for a few days. What should have happened ?'
She shook her head.
* Something,' she said. ' Why, I found out from your
OF THE FALLING OUT
letters that something was wrong. There has been—I
don't know—a discordant note in them for two or three
months. Well, you will tell me—won't you, George?—if
there is any trouble ? How can we be happy together unless
we share all our troubles, whatever they may be ?'
' Yes, Nell, yes—you are quite right. I will take all your
troubles on my own back, and you shall have no part of
mine. Come, that is my idea of fair division.'
She shook her head. That would not do.
' Well, then,' said George, ' let us talk about something
else—about you, for instance. Tell me all that you are
doing. Who is here, to begin with?'
George kept the talk on things indifferent until it was
time to dress.
' I must tell her,' he murmured during that ceremony.
' I must tell her something—enough. This is to be my last
visit. I will tell her to-morrow morning.'
' Mamma dear,' said Elinor, on her way to dress, ' there
is something wrong with George.'
' What should there be ?'
' I do not know. Something there is. Watch him during
dinner.'
No one else observed any change in him. Mr. Thanet
congratulated him on looking so well. A certain learned
physician, who was of the company and an old friend, told
him that he ought to be the happiest man in the world :
meaning, because he was young, strong and lusty, rich, and
happy in his love.
Those who were not old friends regarded with admira¬
tion this magnificent specimen of humanity. If they were
ladies, they envied the lot of Elinor ; and if they were men,
they envied the lot of the man himself. Fortunate in love ;
fortunate in gifts and graces; fortunate in birth, wealth,
and understanding: what more could Nature give him?
She had given him, in addition to these inherited qualities,
a grandfather who drank himself to death.
George had little conversation with Elinor during the
dinner. She observed that his hand shook a great deal: at
this she marvelled. And she observed that he drank no
wine, a thing which now causes no astonishment. He must
have been very ill, she thought, when he wrote that letter.
12
178
THE DEMONIAC
That illness had not completely left him yet. It altered the
tone of his letters : it altered the look in his eyes.
' My dear,' said her mother, after dinner, ' you are too
anxious about George : he seems to me very well.'
'No; he is not well. He is fidgety and nervous. I
dare say he will tell me about it to-morrow.'
George passed a most uncomfortable night. This was
inevitable, because he knew that certain things must be
said in the morning : certain things must be told which
would not be well received. He was not going to tell all
the things which had happened—not all. He could not go
to the girl and say:
' Nelly, the man you love is afflicted with a dire and
dreadful disease. He is assailed by a fiend who brings him
a bottle and commands him to drink. He is so weak and
cowardly that he has yielded to this Devil without the least
resistance. He has never resisted him at all. He has
never even attempted to resist him. He has been pre¬
vented from coming here all the summer by one attack after
the other. He is only here at great risk of being found out,
and between his attacks. He has a man-servant whose
chief duty it is to watch for the approach of the next attack,
and to take care of him while it lasts. In plain language,
your lover has become a confirmed drunkard in the short
space of three months !'
Could he say all this to the girl ? Could he write this to
her ? Could he even say this to himself in so many words ?
In the morning he declined to join the shooting-party,
and remained at home in order to tell as much as he dared
—as much, in fact, as would put an end to his engagement.
He was going to commit a kind of suicide. Heavens ! If
anyone had told him six months agone that he would of his
own accord try to find out words strong enough and cruel
enough to break off his engagement!
' Come into the library, George,' said Elinor; 'you have
something to tell me. We can talk quite freely now.'
This was her own study. A table in one of the windows
was covered with her books and papers. She sat down in
her own arm-chair before the table.
' I am getting on very well, George, My coach is quite
satisfied with me,'
OF THE FALLING OUT
179
' I am very glad, if it pleases you, Nell. What I have to
tell you will not please you so much, I think.'
He turned his head, afraid to meet her eyes,
' What is it ?'
He went to the open window and looked out.
' Only that we shall not be undergraduates together, after
all.'
' George !' She sprang to her feet. ' Not undergraduates
together!'
' I have made up my mind, in fact, that I would give up
reading for Honours. I think the time may be more pro¬
fitably employed.'
' In what way ? Why, you have always believed that a
First Class in Honours is the best start a man can possibly
make 1'
' I certainly used to hold that belief: I do so no longer.
If you consider our statesmen,' he said grandly, ' our lead¬
ing statesmen, you will observe that hardly any of them
have got a First Class. Now, I think that the study of
politics, history, perhaps modern languages '
' But, George, that is quite a new departure !'
' Quite a new departure. And, in short, I have already
taken my name off the College books. I am not going back
to Cambridge at all.'
' Oh ! but this is terrible! I cannot understand it. Oh !
George, I am so sorry—I am so very sorry !'
The tears came into her eyes as she spoke.
' It is done now,' he replied doggedly.
' But I don't understand it,' she said. ' What does it
mean ? When I saw you last—in May was it ? or in April ?
■—not since then—a long while ago—you were full of your
work and of College matters. You were resolved on getting
into the First Class. Nothing at all has happened since.
Yes, George'—she laid her hand upon his arms—' some¬
thing has happened. You are ill—you wrote an incoherent
letter. Has that illness anything to do with it ? Are you
still suffering from its effects? You are not yourself—your
hand shakes—your eyes are anxious—and they are cold,'
she added.
' Nothing at all has happened, Nell. As for my illness—
that was nothing.'
' Do you remember, George, years ago when you were a
I So
THE DEMONIAC
boy and yon wanted to hide from me that ugly cut in your
left arm, how you persisted in saying that nothing had
happened—till the blood ran down? Now, George, no
more fibs and fictions. Tell me, straight, what has come
over you ?'
' There is nothing to tell, I assure you '
'Why, your looks belie you. Your eyes are guilty.
Come, tell me what it is. Have you done anything foolish?
Any young man might, though you would be the last. I
have heard of men being rusticated for foolish things—
making bonfires or something ; but you could not possibly
go making bonfires.'
' No ; I have not been rusticated. I simply got tired of
reading. What is the good of a First Class to me? To
some poor devil who has got his way to make in the world,
I dare say it helps more than a bit. But to me '
' To you ? Why, of all men in the world, George, you
have got your own way to make. What signifies money ?
You may use your wealth as one means—but the least
worthy—of making your way. Where are your ambitions ?'
' I think—they are all gone, Nell,' he replied, trying to
speak and look cheerfully. ' They are all gone into the
limbo of forgotten resolutions. I have ceased to think in
the old way.'
' Gone ? Your ambitions gone ? Why, they are a part
and parcel of yourself! You have always taught me so.
Without ambition, what is life ? Who would desire to live
from day to day without work and without hope ? They
are your own words, George. You have said them a thou¬
sand times. And now you tell me that you are changed.'
' Yes; I am changed.'
' Changed—in everything, George ?'
He hesitated. He made no reply.
' If you are so much changed,' she went on, ' where is
the George to whom I am engaged ?'
He hesitated still. Then he said, slowly and painfully:
' I am quite changed. That is true. I don't seem, some¬
how, to care so much for the career which you and I have
so often sketched out and dreamed over. That is the change
in me. I have had enough of the University. It is only a
continuation of school, after all. Let me be my own master.
I dare say that the pld ambitions will return. It is, as you
OF THE FALLING OUT
say—well then, as I used to say—rather a pity to sit down
and do nothing all your life. It is like creating a new vice
to be handed down to your children. Everything that we
do or suffer, you know, is handed down to our children.
We may make them gouty, or rheumatic, or consumptive:
we may make them lazy or industrious: we may make
them drunkards if we choose '
' Well, yes, we can do all these fine things, I dare say.
You said something like this in your mad letter. But, my
dear George,- some ancestor of yours must have been a
preacher of moral commonplace, and you have only just
found it out. Seriously, what does it all mean ? Why do
you go off on heredity ? That has nothing to do with the
loss of your ambitions and the surrender of your career.'
' You will agree with me,' he went on, speaking in a con¬
strained and harsh voice, ' when you think things over. We
will give up all the foolish ambitions, and let the world take
care of itself. What is the world to us ? What has the
world done for us? Why should we do anything for the
world ?'
Yet a faltering in his voice. It was as if the new man
had no belief in himself. Strange ! What had come over
George ? The girl was bewildered.
' I do not understand,' she said again.
' Give up your own idle dreams, Nell. What does it
matter whether you get a First Class or not ? Think no
more about these trifles. Let us enjoy the world. We are
young. The world belongs to the rich and to the young.
Let us enjoy the world.'
Again it was as if he did not believe his own words.
There was no ring of conviction in them. George was quite
—quite changed. At any rate, whatever he used to say, he
used to believe. The girl blushed a rosy red. It was because
she was forming a most portentous resolution.
' If you have abandoned your ambitions,' she said slowly,
' you have abandoned yourself. You tell me that nothing
has happened. Why, I have lost my old friend—my old
companion—my'—her voice shook —'' my lover 1'
' No, Nelly ; not that.'
Again no sincerity. His face was unmoved. Nay, she
even thought that there was a look of relief in his eyes, as
if he was actually pleased at his own dismissal.
THE DEMONIAC
' He is gone,' she went on. ' Well, when he returns to
himself, he will, perhaps, come to see me again. ^ Till then
I do not desire to see him, or any substitute of him, or any
person parading under his name. Do you understand—
Pretender ?'
' I believe I understand.'
' Tell the real George that I am still his. I belong to
him, whether he returns or whether he does not, until he
himself sends me a release.'
' May not I give you release ?'
' Certainly not, sir ! You are not George Atheling. I
must hear it from my old companion—from my lover—from
himself.'
She turned and walked out of the library with a dignity
beyond her years. George made no effort, even by gesture
or by word, to stop her.
' It was inevitable,' he said when the door closed behind
her. ' It was inevitable.' He sighed—unmanly tears filled
his eyes. ' I had to do it. I have been cruel—cold—lying
—but it had to be done. I am a brute and a cad—but it
was forced upon me. Poor child ! It is a dreadful blow to
her. But it had to be done some time. The sooner the
better. She is only eighteen, and she will get over it—in
time. She will forget me, and fall in love with ' He
stamped his foot, and cursed that unknown lover of his
imagination. ' Well, all is gone now—freedom, honour,
ambition, love—nothing left but money to buy the stuff that
is killing me and strength to prolong the agony—unless I
end it—yes, yes—end it on the Voluntary Principle.'
He went out and sought the Post-office,. whence he de¬
spatched a telegram to his servant—the faithful Mavis.
At luncheon time—Elinor had a headache and remained
in her own room—a telegram arrived for Mr. Atheling.
' Fortunate,' he said, ' that I was not out shooting. This
telegram calls me back. I must return to London imme¬
diately.'
' Immediately ?' asked Mrs. Thanet. ' But you will come
back as soon as you can ?'
' As soon as I can,' George repeated mechanically. • And
now I have only just time to catch the half-past two train if
I go at once.'
Upstairs Elinor sat alone, as miserable as a girl under
OF THE FALLING OUT
i§3
these sad circumstances can expect to be. She had lost her
lover and her old familiar friend.
She was a clear-headed girl, and under no illusions. She
perceived that for some reason or other he wished to break
off the engagement. His words, his looks, his manner, all
showed that he desired to be free. Well, she had set him
free. She expected now that he would write her a letter of
release.
She told her mother that George had altered his views of
life, and that in a way so important that for the present
there must be no further talk about him. Meantime, she
said that, unless George released her, she was still bound to
him. And, as I said above, she was as miserable as a girl
under such sad circumstances can expect to be. But the
Latin prose, which she still continued, diverted her thoughts,
and the near prospect of Newnham sustained her. She
needed both support and diversion, because George made
no sign and sent her no release.
CHAPTER IV.
of the physician.
1 Yes,' said the Physician—the idiomatic ' yes,' which does
not mean assent, or promise, or anything of that kind, but
encourages the other man to continue.
The other man was George. He was doing what he ought
to have done at the very outset—consulting a man of science,
a specialist in nervous disorders.
' Well, I have come to tell you the facts—in confidence.'
' Go on, young gentleman. Again let us hear the facts.
You are suffering from drink-craving, I gather.'
George narrated the facts of the case. Let us do him so
much justice. He told everything, exactly. He concealed
nothing: not his own cowardly want of will: not his reli¬
ance on the secrecy of his servant: nothing. He sat in the
chair of suspense, the chair of anxiety, the chair of the
Patient: he made plenary confession.
' You have now told me everything ?' said the Physician.
' Everything. Can you give me any hope ?'
184
THE DEMONIAC
The Physician was old. He looked with pity on this
young man.
' There is always,' he said benevolently, ' hope for the
patient.'
' Not always, I suppose, for the Physician ?'
'Por the Physician,' the man of science repeated, 'not
always. Por the patient, always. Hope, young gentleman,
is a great medicine.'
' Tell me the worst, Doctor.'
The patient was at his lowest point of despondency. He
reached, as you will hear, a lower point of submission, but
never a lower point of despondency. It wTas after his inter¬
view with Elinor. He had begun to realize the dreariness
of life when there is nothing to work for, nothing to hope.
What is the use of reading or work of any kind, when one
has been ordered at the age of twenty-one to retire into
obscurity, sit down, and take no more part in anything?
' The worst ? You know it. As for hope, it depends upon
yourself. Your case is serious ; yet you are young, and you
should be brave. It has gone on for some time, and has
assumed already an apparent mastery. Yet, again, you are
young, and you should be courageous. It is an hereditary
vitium—your grandfather, you tell me—and it certainly
broke out without the least warning, just as one observes in
asthma and other nervous disorders. It is a very hereditary
thing. Yes, you are seized with an irresistible craving for
drink.'
' Irresistible as the flood of Niagara.'
' You seem to have no power of resistance. You are
driven like a sheep '
' Like a silly sheep.'
' You fall to drinking furiously, vehemently. You drink
enormous quantities of the strongest spirits: you drink
enough to kill you at ordinary times. In a day or two the
.fit passes. Yes. . . . All this time your will is paralyzed.'
' The mind refuses to work. It is Possession.'
' Call it so, if you please.'
' I cannot think, but the brain goes on working of its own
accord. I think a madman's brain may work in the same
manner.'
' Undoubtedly.'
' It presents me with a never-ending procession of goblins :
OF THE PHYSICIAN
IE5
images dance and caper—anything but walk—before my
eyes: tbey are creatures that have no shape or form that
one ever saw : they have heads of animals : they have
human faces which mock and jeer: they have eyes which
threaten and haunt. I hear voices in unknown tongues, but
they are hostile voices. Doctor, I cannot explain to you
half the horrors which attend the close of one of these
attacks.'
1 The common sort call them, simply, the Horrors.'
' Between the attacks, as at this moment, I feel no desire
for drink at all. I loathe it for the memory of these suffer¬
ings. When the attack begins the loathing is turned into
craving.'
' You can always keep a fire alight by feeding it.'
'I think of nothing but to satisfy the craving.'
' Have your friends advised you ?'
'No one knows anything about it; no one suspects. I
have left Cambridge in order not to be found out. My gyp,
who knows, I first silenced by a bribe, and have since taken
into my service. He never leaves me.'
' Ah!' The Physician looked dubious. ' A constant
attendant is useful in certain cases. But he should be a
judicious person, acting under instructions. Else '
'I have taken chambers in town. None of my friends
know my address—I go nowhere. For greater security, I
have a cottage not far from London, in a lonely spot, where
I take refuge whenever I have warning. My man Mavis
knows the symptoms by this time. He watches for them
like a cat for a mouse. At the first appearance of the
symptoms, he hurries me off to my cottage. With no one
else in the place except ourselves, I have it out.'
' This useful attendant takes good care that the stuff shall
be in readiness, I suppose ?'
' Oh yes—and plenty of it.'
' May I ask if the good man drinks with you, in a friendly
way?'
George changed colour.
' On such occasions,' he said, ' what can it matter ? At
all other times he is a respectful and obedient servant. At
the cottage he is—what you please—a brother tosspot.'
' Craving may be infectious. Young gentleman, have you
never even tried to fight against it ?'
i3S
THE DEMONIAC
' Fight against it ? Why, the Thing is a Devil! Fight
against it ? You can't fight a Devil! When first he flew
at my throat, I thought it was the Devil. Now I am certain
of it. You may try to fight a Devil if you like, but he will
best you, and that very soon.'
' There used to be a few old-fashioned ideas on that sub¬
ject,' said the Physician, ' which I would recommend you to
consider. The phraseology is antiquated, but you could
perhaps clothe them anew.'
1 Yes, it is easy for you to talk. One might have expected
this advice. But you never had such a Devil to fight—you
never had such a Devil.'
The Physician, who was old and experienced, shook his
head, as one who could tell very good stories about the
Devil, and of man's duels with him, on occasion and at
proper times.
' I'm quite sure you never knew such a Devil. Why, this
one draws and drags a man with ropes : he parches his
throat, and sets it on fire: he makes him gasp and catch his
breath. When he has become like one lost on a sandy
desert, he gives him'—the young man's face and gestures
showed that it was his own experience that he was de¬
scribing—' he gives him'—he gasped and drew a long
breath—'a Bottle — a heavenly—ah!—beautiful—ah!—
Bottle—filled full—it can't be too full—with brandy,
whisky, anything—ah!—and he bids him drink and be
happy. Fight such a Devil as that ? Doctor, I don't
believe that anybody ever did fight him. You know how
Christian's famous fight in the valley ended—well, if Apollyon
had been armed with a fiery furnace to ram down Chris¬
tian's throat and a bottle to give him afterwards, Apollyon
would have won. When he is away, I feel strong; I am
resolved to fight him ; I am quite resolute and determined.
When he comes, I let my weapons fall—shield and lance
and sword—I am a prisoner !'
He sank back in his chair, despairing.
' He should be exorcised by bell, book, and candle,' said
the Physician. ' In the days of Faith that would have been
practicable. Yes, in the old days you would have been
healed by Faith.'
' Well, since I do not believe '
' The case is less simple by reason of your unbelief. You
OF THE PHYSICIAN
187
have no fight left in you, that is plain. Nerve and will are
broken. You can make no resistance. "What should have
been beaten back as a suggestion of evil comes in the shape
of a Lord and Master '
' It does.'
' Then you must find someone to fight the Devil for you.
Your factotum—your brother tosspot—your boon companion
—this ancient gyp—can he fight him for you ?'
' Certainly not. He is paid to keep me out of harm and
beyond the reach of discovery. That is all he can do.
Once he refused to bring me more. He won't do that again.'
' Someone else, then.'
The young man rose from his chair.
' Look at me, Doctor,' he said. ' Do I look like a man
easy to tackle ? Bemember, if anyone comes to fight the
Devil for me, he will have to fight the Devil and me as well
—both together ; for the Devil is inside of me then, and I
have the strength of twenty.'
, You have seen that this young man was no puny creature,
but quite the reverse. We are accustomed to think that
persons afflicted with such a dreadful infirmity are generally
wretched creatures of weak frame and feehle heads—what
the London slang calls half-baked—the children of rickety
parents. Physicians know better. This disease singles out
the strongest and best, as well as the weakest and worst.
It is as impartial as the sunshine: it is as free from
favouritism as rheumatism, gout, asthma, or any other
disease by which mankind is plagued because of ignorance.
It drags down, slowly and swiftly, the clearest intellect: it
humbles the finest scholar : it ruins the most brilliant wit:
it corrupts the brain of the noblest poet: it knows no respect
for crowned heads, and shows no pity for paupers. Consider
this case : this splendid young man : this stalwart frame
this active brain: this masterpiece of Nature. No pity:
ruthless destruction of what would have been a noble life :
ruin of the fairest prospects. No pity! None! And all
because men are so ignorant that they cannot avert hereditary
disease; so ignorant that they go on creating hereditary
disease. Ignorance, my brothers, ignorance it is which fills
our hospitals and our prisons ; that cuts short our lives, and
plagues with grievous pains and sufferings. Ignorance,
nothing more !
THE DEMONIAC
' You look so big and strong, young man, that I cannot
believe you to be such an arrant coward.'
George flushed up ; but he restrained himself.
' A coward !' repeated the Physician. ' Say that to your¬
self every time you rush to the whisky-bottle. A coward!
You do well to take your name off the College books and
to break off your engagement. You are not fit to associate
with gentlemen or to marry a gentlewoman!'
' It is true,' George murmured. ' It is quite true.'
' Some poor creatures, like yourself, who have not the
resolution to bear any pain, however fleeting, seek refuge
in an Asylum. Here they may get looked after and kept
from drink. You would not. You would bribe the servants:
you are too rich for the honesty of any servants.'
' I believe I am,' said George.
' There is a way of nauseating patients—putting brandy
into their food.'
' I am nauseated already. I loathe the sight of spirits.'
' Or you might be subjected to hypnotic '
' I've tried it. No mortal man can hypnotize me.'
' Then there is one chance ior you—your only chance—
to be placed in some position where drink is absolutely un¬
obtainable. For instance, a temperance ship, where no
drink is carried on board at all. There are such ships. You
might, perhaps, take a voyage to New Zealand and back in
such a ship.'
The young man shook his head.
' Consider. When the attack seized you, it would neces¬
sarily spend itself in vain, because there would be nothing
to gratify and feed the craving. The second attack would
be shorter, and would entail less suffering. So with the
third.'
' Doctor, it would be of no use. There would certainly
be drink somewhere on board, and I should get it.'
' Again, consider the plan. You are rich. You can afford
to have a guardian or keeper. I will find you a young
medical man who would never leave you.'
' Doctor !' The young man sprang to his feet with the
appearance of tremendous resolution. ' I tell you what I
will do. This will be ever so much better than going as a
guarded passenger—a mark of scorn and contempt. I am
rich. I will hire or buy a boat for myself, and I will sail
OF THE PHYSICIAN
round the world. Not a drop of drink of any kind shall be
put on board that boat. I will take your young medico
with me. I will only land between the attacks when I can
safely venture. "Will that satisfy you?'
' Clearly, if there is no drink to be had, it will be of no
use craving for it. Well—and you will give over craving
for it, if you really and honestly carry out this plan.'
' Really and honestly, I will. I swear I will, whatever
it costs me!'
' Very good indeed. Nothing could be better. Meantime,
leave that man of yours at home.'
' I can hardly do that. Mavis is necessary to me. He
knows exactly what I want—apart, I mean, from the times
of »
'Well, if, as I say, you are strong enough to insist on
there being no drink on board the ship at all '
' I am strong enough for that, at any rate—when the
time comes. Doctor, you must let that young medical man
be strong, mind—strong. Dor I shall have the strength of
a madman!'
'He shall be,' said the Physician, 'as strong as Nature
and athletics can make him. But be resolute : let nothing
enter the ship, neither spirits, nor wine, nor beer.'
' Ulysses stuffed the ears of the sailors,' said the young
man thoughtfully, ' with wax, so that they should not hear
the song of the Sirens; and then the sailors tied Ulysses
to the mast—so that he heard, but could not obey. If they
will tie me with iron chains to the main-mast—nothing short
of iron chains will do '
' But there will be no drink on board. Remember that
the songs of the Sirens will be only a mockery to you. They
may invite you to drink, but they will give you nothing to
drink.'
' You don't know this Devil of mine. He is sure to bring
some on board; and if it is there, I must get it somehow.
Remember, Doctor, my guardian must never leave me alone.
He must bind me and tie me down on deck, and set watch
over me day and night. He must not trust anyone, mind
—no one—not the captain, whoever he may be, nor the
steward, nor my own man, even. He must never cease
watching.'
'I will give him the strictest instructions. You are right
190
THE DEMONIAC
to mistrust yourself. When will your preparations be com¬
pleted ?'
' I don't know. I dare say it will prove of no use, he
said despondingly. ' However, it shall be tried. ^ Mavis,
my man, shall set to work at once. Doctor, I will really
try your experiment; but I doubt—I doubt. You don't
know this Devil of mine. He is the most crafty, the most
subtle, the most determined Devil you ever heard of.'
He laughed, but not mirthfully.
' He has got to do with a man who has lost his nerve and
his will,' said the Physician.
' Find me the nerve and the will of somebody else, then,
But I doubt—I doubt. My Devil is too cunning.'
CHAPTER V.
of the voyage.
George went home. The more he thought of this pro¬
jected voyage, the more it pleased his imagination. Where
there was no drink to be had, there could be no craving.
It would be senseless to crave for the unattainable : as well
long for the luxuries of the Club from the day-room of a
workhouse.
First, however, he would make that confession to Elinor.
She should no longer continue to think that he had deli¬
berately set himself to wound and pain her into sending
him away.
' He therefore sat down and wrote:
' My dear Nellie,
' You told me on Monday to return to you when I
could go back in the guise and semblance of your old friend.
I denied, at the time, your charge that something must
have happened. I will now tell you plainly what has
happened. I have become, in the short space of four
months, one of those unhappy men whom I was wont to
lespise, called confirmed drunkards! I kept from you all
the summer, hoping that the habit would pass away. It
has not passed away. It is, on the contrary, stronger than
ever, and now I believe that I shall be a slave for life. If
OF THE VOYAGE
191
it is any excuse, I might plead that the vice is hereditary;
but the Physician whom I have consulted will not allow
that this is an excuse. The real fault is my own disgrace¬
ful cowardice. I went to you the other day resolved upon
telling you the exact truth—I could not. Therefore I in¬
sulted and pained you beyond endurance. You said that
you would continue to regard yourself as engaged to me
until I gave you release. Take your release. You are free.
Forget me as soon as you can. And do not blame me more
than you can help.
' I am going to try the effect of a long voyage. If that
succeeds—which I doubt—I will visit you on my return as
an old friend, no longer a lover. If it does not succeed, I
shall never write to you or try to see you again.
' George Humphrey Atheling.'
He wrote this letter, folded it, stamped it, and left it on
his table to be posted. Finding it there two or three hours
later, and remembering that his servant was gone out and
might be out all day, he dropped it into the breast-pocket of
an overcoat. Then he forgot it. This is an accident which
has happened unto many.
There it lay, in fact, while the writer of it was travelling
round about the world, and for long afterwards, all unre¬
garded and forgotten.
So that poor Elinor never got her release at all.
This done, he opened his biggest atlas at the map of the
world—nothing less than that would do—and began to con¬
sider the course he should steer. There is still something
exciting about a voyage round the world, though so many
undertake it every year, and seem to think so little of it. It
no longer takes the old-fashioned three years to accomplish
the task. It may be done, I believe, in seventy days, at the
rate of three hundred and forty-two and six-sevenths miles
a day. But in a yacht of your own which need not race
from point to point, you may still spend a good deal of time
in going round the world. It would cost him a great deal,
no doubt: yet, if the object was gained. ... No drink to
be got on board the ship. Splendid! Like going into action
with your colours nailed to the mast: or like defending a
beleagured city without so much as a white pocket-handker-
phief to fly.
192
THE DEMONIAC
What kind of ship should he want? A sailing yacht for
choice. But one would not wish to be becalmed in the
doldrums, or to be cast away on a lee shore. An auxiliary
screw, that was the thing. And when he had got a ship, he
must find a Master to navigate her. How does one look for
Masters? It is a very important thing to find a good
Master. He must be a capable person, skilled in his calling,
accustomed to command men : a sober man himself, even a
total abstainer, a man of good temper, a genial man, cheer¬
ful and jocund, able to tell a good story. It would be very
difficult to find such a Master. Then there was the crew.
Where does one gather a crew? This must be a picked
crew. Great care must be taken in finding such a crew.
Again, the provisions for so long a voyage. No strong
drink, of course; but every other kind of provision. There
must be immense quantities of provisions for so long a
voyage. Who thinks of everything? Would the ship hold
all that he wanted for so long a voyage? One might as
well go to the Army and Navy Stores, and order en bloc
everything they have got in stock. Except the drink, of
course. No drink on board this ship. No drink. Cer¬
tainly, no drink at all.
While he was thinking of these things, his servant, Mavis,
the ex-gyp, opened the door softly and came in.
4 I beg your pardon, sir,' he said, standing beside his
master : 4 may I ask what the Doctor said ?'
4 Oh! is that you, Mavis? I did not hear you come in.
Yes. The Doctor says that the only way out of it, is to
fight the Thing.''
Mavis coughed slightly, and the ghost of a smile played
upon his lips.
4 To fight the Thing, Mavis !' George repeated resolutely.
4 Very good, sir,' said Mavis.
' As for giving in at once, making off to your infernal
cottage, surrendering without the firing of a shot, hauling
down your colours—he's dead against it. Bank cowardice,
that is.'
4 Yes, sir.'
Mavis smiled again.
4 There are two ways open to me, he says : I may go into
a Home, which is always dangerous, because people may be
bribed. I believe you would even climb upon the roof and
OF THE VOYAGE
193
lower the bottles down the chimney, if you knew I was in
trouble.'
' I would, sir,' said Mavis loyally.
' Or I might go for a long voyage on board a ship where
there was no drink—not a drop of drink on board.'
' Then you would be quite safe, sir '
'Quite safe.'
' —To go mad or throw yourself overboard.'
'Not at all, Mavis. I am going to take with me a young
medical man—a strapping big fellow—to look after me.
After the first attack is met, there will be less trouble, you
see, with the second, still less with the third, and so on to
the end.'
' Very good, sir,' said Mavis.
' Yes; I have made up my mind. I will hire a steam
yacht big enough for the voyage, and I will sail all around.
the world—without one single drop of drink on board. You
understand that, Mavis?'
' Yes, sir. Without one drop of drink on board.'
' If that won't set me right again, nothing will.'
' Nothing will,' echoed his servant.
'Very good, then. Do you go at once—as soon as you
can—let us lose no time—to the shop where they keep ships
on sale or hire. I suppose it is somewhere down the river.
Find me one. Get a good one while you are about it.
Cheaper, I should say, to hire than to buy; and less on our
minds in case of her capsizing or foundering on the ocean.'
' Very good, sir. I will go this very morning.'
' Find out what the ship will cost, and—and—all about
her. Be careful about her age. I know how to tell the age
of a horse; but as for that of a ship, I can't advise. Take
counsel. She must be big enough to cross the Atlantic—in
fact, to sail all round this earthly ball. You will then find
out other shops where they keep captains, stewards, ships'
crews, and so forth, and learn how much it will take to
engage them. You will next find out how much it will cost
to victual the ship, and who undertakes this kind of busi¬
ness. But mind, Captain and crew must be all temperance
men : there is not to be one single drop of drink, mind—not
one single drop of drink put on board on any pretext what¬
ever. You yourself have got to be a total abstainer for the
whole voyage.'
194
THE DEMONIAC
'I understand, sir. No drink. Are we likely,' he asked
quietly, but his master understood, ' ever to be far from the
nearest port where they sell drink—in case '
4 We may be weeks from such a port.'
4 Oh !' said Mavis, smiling unseen by his master.
' No drink on board,' George repeated. ' We are going on
a temperance voyage. Nobody on board is to have any
drink at all. Coffee instead of rum—no drink !'
Somehow, the force of his order seemed weakened by its
repetition.
' Very good, sir,' said Mavis. ' As you please to direct.
I teg your pardon, sir,' he added ; ' but—if there is to be
no drink—single-handed, I could not '
' Didn't I tell you there will be a strong young medical
man on board ? Samson is his name. Long-haired Samson
—Samson Armstrong, M.D. Single-handed, of course you
could not tackle the case. I say, there will be a devil of a
fight when the time comes, Mavis !'
4 I expect there will, sir.'
4 Between us we shall floor the Devil. Once he is floored
—well, he is floored, I believe.'
He rubbed his hands hopefully.
4 Yes, sir, so I believe,' said Mavis. 4 Once floored '
4 As he must be when there is no drink. Hark ye, Mavis !
There is to be a determined effort. I've got to cure myself
now or never. Bring me home with a good record, and I
will give you two hundred pounds. Make a note of that.
Two hundred pounds! It shall be worth your while to
make the job complete.'
4 Thank you, sir,' said the man. 41 will do my best to
make the job complete.' As he was unseen by his master,
he grinned. 4 Make it complete once for ail,' he repeated.
He went out, and on the stairs he grinned again. 4 Com¬
plete ?' he repeated. 4 If he is a servant now, he will be a
slave before he comes back. Complete? Yes; I warrant
the completeness of this job.'
Mavis was really a most excellent servant. There was
nothing which he could not be trusted to carry through. He
disappeared daily for a certain period of time ; and in due
course informed his master that he had arranged every¬
thing, subject to his approval. There was a lovely little
steamer capable of riding through any conceivable seas,
OF THE VOYAGE
195
almost new, proved, completely provided, and ready to take
in coal at once. She was of 700 tons, and had already made
two voyages.
George went down to Gravesend, where she was lying.
On board he found the master mariner whom Mavis pro¬
posed to engage as Captain. A weather-beaten old salt he
was, with a grizzled beard, a clear blue eye, and a face of
the most resolute honesty that one had ever seen. His
credentials were admirable: he had sailed over every sea,
and knew every port : he was fifty-five years of age, and
had been a sailor since he was ten.
' I understand, sir,' said this excellent old sea-rover,
that you mean this to be a temperance ship.''
' I mean more than that. I mean that it is to be a
ship without such a thing as a bottle of drink of any kind on
board.'
' Very good, sir. So Mr. Mavis told me. As for shipping
the drink, that's the steward's business. Mine is not to let
the crew have any. For my part,' he said, looking more
honest than words can express, ' I don't know the taste of
rum, whisky, gin, nor beer—strong drink never passed these
lips yet.'
'Indeed!' said George. 'Then, in that respect, you are
the very man I want.'
Down below he found, waiting for him, the man whom
Mavis proposed to engage as Head Steward, who would be
Purser as well as responsible for all the ship's stores and
provisions.
This officer had served in the Orient Line. Ill-health
alone had caused him to leave this service. He, too, had
the best of credentials. His manner was soft and sleek,
rather like that of Mavis.
' A temperance voyage, I learn, sir,' he said. ' I've been
a temperance man myself—a Good Templar—for twenty-
five years. The crew won't expect any drink. As for your¬
self and your friends '
' We are all going to be total abstainers. This is to be
the first condition of engagement.'
' Very good, sir. Not a drop of drink shall come on board,
except by your orders.'
All this was very satisfactory. George examined the
cabins and the saloon, and went down into the engine-room.
THE DEMONIAC
Everything was spick and span, newly painted and fitted.
The Captain laid out some charts on the table. They were
going, he said, to sail on a most lovely voyage. Total
abstinence the whole time—a thiDg he put as the first C0J&-
dition of loveliness. Next, for the course 01 the ship . he
proposed to make for the Azores, St.Helena, and the Cape,
after that, for Mauritius, Point de Galles, Singapore, and
Hong Kong. After that, the Pacific Islands would occupy
them a whole year, if the Chief chose, and so on, and so on.
Nothing so eloquent as the fat forefinger of a skipper
travelling slowly across a great chart, pointing to unknown
lands and strange places.
As this forefinger showed the way, George, in imagination,
saw himself free of his burden : there could be no craving
where there was no drink to be procured: it would be a
short fever quickly spent. He engaged the Skipper; he
engaged the Head Steward : he authorized the engagement
of a temperance crew, and the victualling of the ship for a
temperance voyage.
Next for the medical man. The Physician was better
than his word.
' I have sent you,' he said, ' two instead of one. This is
because of your doubt—which has also made me doubt.
Perhaps there may be drink on board, after all. In that
case it will require at least two men to keep you from it,
because you are so big and strong. I therefore send two
young fellows, highly recommended. I advise you to take
them both.'
George engaged them on the spot. They were two young
giants, each as big as himself, capable between them of
fighting their patient and his devil combined. He found
that they understood exactly what was wanted. They were
not to put any trust in the giving of an order, but to look to
its execution : to watch that no drink, if they could prevent
it, was brought on board : and to take care that, in any case,
none was exhibited in the presence of the Chief. Especially,
they were to be on watch when the ship was in port.
In fact, they were zealous, intelligent young men : they
understood that this was a case involving important scientific
issues : they saw that distinction, pleasure, and profit might
all be derived from the voyage, and they embarked with
light hearts.
OF THE VOYAGE
197
Finally, one fine morning in the month of November, the
steamer Good Intent dropped down-stream off Gravesend,
bound for all round the world. On board that ship was a
man afflicted with a disease which no medicine can touch :
be was to be cured by the absence of the thing that feed3
the disease and that the disease constantly craves.
About a year and a half after the despatch of this inter¬
esting scientific voyage two bronzed and weather-beaten
young men called upon the learned Physician. They were
both big and strong men, good-looking, too, but their faces
were overcast. A cloud, as of anxiety, sat upon them.
' You have no doubt forgotten us,' said one of them. 1 We
are the two men you sent from St. George's to attend Mr.
Atheling on his voyage.'
' Yes—yes—I remember now. And how are you? And
how did you get on ?'
' We are very well, and got on very well.'
' It was a voyage which promised to be very interesting.'
' It has been deeply interesting,' replied the first speaker.
' Scientifically, of the highest importance,' said the other
young man.
' Ah ! I am glad to hear it. First, was it successful ? I
have often thought about the case—obstinate—hereditary—
treacherous—most difficult.'
' From your point of view—no.'
' From ours,' said the other young man, 1 most successful.
Most important.'
' Where is your patient ? And is he cured ?'
' He is at his own chambers. And at this moment he is
drunk.'
' Drunk ? Then—but you will explain.'
' Willingly. He is drunk now with whisky. On board
he got drunk in the absence of whisky.'
* Which leads us to our great discovery,' said the second
young man.
' I dare say I shall understand presently,' said the Phy¬
sician, ramming his hands into his pockets.
' We went out charged specially to keep him from drink,
and to watch him whenever he had an attack.'
' You did. You were entrusted with a very important
mission. You had a great chance before you. Here was a
THE DEMONIAC
man liable to attacks of craving for strong drink, put on
board a ship where there was not a drop of strong drink ■
and you were to watch over him, treat him as I suggested,
and guard him day and night.'
' We were,' said the first young man.
' We carried out our duty to the letter,' said the second
young man. ' Hence our great discovery, which will revo¬
lutionize '
' Pray go on,' said the Physician, turning to the other
man.
' Until the first attack came on, and, indeed, between the
attacks, our patient wanted no watching because he had no
desire for drink at all. A better companion—a better fellow
never lived. Then the first attack came.'
' Ha ! The first attack.'
' His man knew the symptoms, and warned us of what
was coming. He himself warned us. We had ample time
for preparation.'
' Very good. What did you do ? Watched him closely?'
' Yes. But first we searched him, at his own request.
He was most anxious that we should be thoroughly satisfied.
We searched his cabin : examined every corner of his cabin-
trunk : we looked into his berth and under the berth and on
the shelves. There was not so much as a bottle of eau-de-
Cologne. He had secreted nothing. And there was no
drink on board the ship at all. We had the cabin on either
side of him, and the Captain and his own man and the
steward had the three cabins opposite. I should like you to
understand exactly, otherwise you would never believe what
we have got to tell next.'
'Go on! The voyage was a failure,' the Physician
groaned. ' You have told me that. You are now going to
make excuses,' said the Physician gloomily.
' At sunset on the day of the first attack, Mr. Atheling
went into his cabin. We sat outside the open door. His
man, Mavis, went in and made some simple arrangements.
Then he came out. The door was locked. We watched
outside.'
' Fools ! You should have watched inside. I know now
what you are going to tell me.'
' We had proved that he had no drink in the cabin: we
were certain that there was none on board the ship. What
OF THE VOYAGE
199
was the use? We might just as well, if that was all, have
watched the case from the masthead.'
' In the morning he was drunk. You are going to tell me
that!'
' In the morning he presented every appearance of intoxi¬
cation. He could not be drunk, because there was no drink
for him to get at.'
' He was as drunk as David's sow, I suppose.'
' Well, he looked it. What is more remarkable, he con¬
tinued drunk for three days and more. We went in and
out of the cabin all day : there was no drink in it. I repeat,'
the young medico said earnestly, ' there could have been no
drink in his cabin, just as there was none on the ship at all.
None. Yet he presented every symptom of intoxication.'
' More,' said the other, ' his cabin smelt of whisky. Until
we arrived at our great discovery, it was the most mysterious
—the most unaccountable thing ever heard of. No one
would have believed it.'
' Good Lord ! What EOOLS !' said the Physician heart¬
lessly.
' We may be fools,' replied the first young man. ' But
we can at least show that we carried out our mission ; and
if it failed '
' It was because there exists a Force which nobody has
discovered before ourselves,' said the second young man -
' the discovery of which will make this voyage as memorable
as that of the Beagle.'
' Good Lord!' repeated the Physician.
'There was no drink on board,' repeated the ship's
Doctor.
' Rubbish !' said the Physician.
'There certainly was not. Of that we assured ourselves.
The Captain swore that there was none : we searched his
cabin. The steward assured us there was none : we searched
his cabin. There was the official book of ship's stores to
show that there was no drink on board.'
' Ha !' said the Physician, incredulous. This interjection
may be made to exhibit a vast amount of suspicion.
' You do not believe. Well, we" cannot help that. We
had the assurance of Mr. Atheling's man, Mavis.'
' I remember. The faithful retainer who always found
the drink. An excellent and most trustworthy witness!'
£00
THE DEM OKI AC
' At any rate, the poor man was in despair. His master
had given him a promise, in writing, of two hundred pounds
if the voyage should be carried out without his having any
access to drink. So that he lost the money—a very con¬
siderable sum to lose!'
' I begin to understand,' said the Physician. ' Pray go
on, gentlemen. Your behaviour has shown the highest
intelligence. When the conjurer directs your eyes to the
ceiling, you obey : while you are looking away, he does the
trick. Wonderful!'
' No. In this case there was no juggling possible. The
cabin-door was unlocked : we went in and out all day long.
We never saw him drinking. Yet he presented every
appearance of a man drinking himself almost into a coma¬
tose condition. He lay in his berth all the time : he was
never quite stupefied: sometimes he recovered partially;
sat up and began to sing: his eyes followed us with a kind
of suspicion.'
' No doubt,' said the Physician.
' We were compelled, in short, to believe that we have
discovered a new phenomenon—symptoms never before
observed in such cases.'
' Really !'
' Observe, first, that on the fourth day Mr. Atheling
came out of his cabin completely himself again. The sea
air soon restored his shaken nerves. He became again the
delightful companion, and he wanted no stimulant. Six
weeks later another attack. Again the warnings, again the
same precautions, again the same symptoms.' The young
medicine-man looked at this point preternaturally solemn.
His companion endeavoured, but with less success, to
assume the same solemnity. ' In fact, after making notes
and comparing our observations, we have drawn up a paper
on the subject. It embodies the facts and contains our
Theory.'
' Our joint Theory,' said his friend.
' Our joint Theory. We propose sending it to the Lancet.
It is called the Unconscious Simulation of Alcoholic
Symptoms.'
' Ho ! ho !' laughed the Physician.
The young men looked disconcerted.
' Allow me,' said the speaker. ' We account for the
phenomena by an Association of ideas, similar to t.hnsa
OF THE VOYAGE
201
which have produced the like results in the stories of
mediaeval saints.'
' Ha ! ha !' The Physician laughed again.
' Allow us at least to finish. As there was no whisky to
he procured, memory conjured up an exact reproduction in
the mind of the processes which had previously '
' Made him as drunk as David's sow,' said the Physician.
' Well, gentlemen, you will do what you please about your
scientific paper on the Simulation of Alcoholic Symptoms.
If you publish that paper, I shall have to call attention to
the fact that you were sent out to watch this case, and that
you allowed the patient to pass the nights, unwatched and
alone, in his own cabin. That is all. Have you anything
more to report to me ?'
' Nothing more,' said the chief speaker, abashed.
' Except,' said the other, ' that we have had the most
delightful voyage. Of course, but for this trouble.'
' I dare say,' said the Physician coldly. ' You were not,
however, sent to enjoy a delightful voyage, so much as to
conduct an experiment in the interests of science. And you
have failed. You have been tricked and duped.'
It is the most fatal thing for a young man to fail in the
first mission entrusted to him : no matter that he is not to
blame—he is blamed : he never gets another mission. As
for these two young gentlemen, who had made such a re¬
sponsible start, they got no more chances because they had
failed. Their scientific paper, which was to have made
their fortune, on the Unconscious Simulation of Alcoholic
Symptoms, never appeared. They parted company. One
of them is now a General Practitioner in the neighbourhood
of Tooley Street, Borough : he receives sixpence for every
consultation, and has to give a bottle of medicine with his
advice: he does pretty well, and has sometimes taken
thirty or forty sixpences in a day: he is married: but he
feels that even these blessings fall short of what might
have come to him had that scientific paper been published.
And he still watches .for new illustrations of this strange
and morbid trick of memory. The other is doctor on board
a steamer which voyages up and down among the South
Sea Islands, carrying passengers and picking up sea-slugs.
And even he is not completely happy. He now regrets that
they watched outside the door. Experience has taught him
the crafty ways of the toper !
202
THE DEMONIAC
CHAPTEB YI.
iiow the patient returned.
A few days later the subject of this valuable scientific
paper presented himself in person to the Physician.
' Humph !' he growled. ' So you've come back from your
voyage.'
' As you see,' George replied, with an assumption of ease.
But he had something of the appearance of the schoolboy
who cannot conceal or deny the fact. ' I've come to report
myself.'
' Very well. You need not trouble to report yourself,
because I know already what you are going to say.'
' Well, I am come to say that, as I expected all along,
the Devil proved too cunning.'
' And his victim too cowardly. Well, go on. You had
an excellent chance of curing yourself of a shameful and
insidious practice, and you have failed. And science has
lost the record of an interesting case. You have failed.
As for laying it on the back of the Devil '
' Anyhow, Doctor, the voyage was a failure.'
' I know that already—a ridiculous failure. After the first
month you ought to have come home again, for all the good
it has done. You have had the pleasure of throwing away
a good many thousands of pounds, and you are none the
better for it; but, I am glad to tell you after such a result,
very much the worse.'
' No ; not worse. I think I am really better. Because,
you see, now that I have made up my mind to the worst, I
am no longer troubled about resistance. I am resigned. I
accept the inevitable. I am not so unhappy about things
as I was. Better, Doctor, not worse. Much better !'
' Humph ! You are looking in very good health, at any
rate. Confound you!'
' I am perfectly well. That is the strange thing, con¬
sidering what I go through every two months. It has now
become a recurring attack at settled periods of two months.
Well, it seems to produce no bad effects upon me at all.'
His face had become broader and somewhat coarser.
now THE PATIENT RETURNED
203
Some of the finer intellectual beauty had dropped out: one
cannot very well enjoy such periodical experiences and live
such a life, and preserve, altogether, the spiritual look : but
it was a handsome face still. Not in the least the face of
an habitual drunkard. And always a good-tempered and
kindly face.
' I know all about it,' said the Physician. ' You need not
trouble to tell me. After a few weeks at sea the first attack
came. Your medical men—the intelligent pair who were to
keep you and watch you night and day—searched the cabin
and yourself for drink. They found none. They left you
alone all night—alone in the cabin—no suspicion of the
craft and subtlety of what you call the Devil! In the
morning you presented every appearance of one heavily
intoxicated. You were comatose with whisky.'
' That is true.' George smiled gravely. ' That is quite
true.'
' At every recurring attack the same appearances were
observed, after the same elaborate precautions had been
observed.'
' They were. The two young doctors have written an
Essay on my case,' he laughed. ' They call it a case of
Associated Alcoholism, or the Simulation '
' I know, I know.'
' I perceive that they have called upon you. Well, you
know, they are capital fellows: they play a good rubber,
sing a good song, handle their singlesticks cleverly, and put
on the gloves with good temper. They were never dull, and
only melancholy at the first go off, when the Simulation,
you know, began. They were unhappy then. Not a drop
of drink in the whole ship, and yet there I was—in the
cabin. They searched the ship as energetically as the
young man from the country searches the stage at Maskelyne
and Cook's.'
' Yes,' said the Physician. ' So I suppose. Pray, sir,
may a plain man, who is no conjurer, inquire how this
stupendous miracle—this conversion of water into whisky—■
was accomplished?'
' I told you that the Devil would be too cunning. Well,
now, Mavis, my servant '
' Oh yes, I remember—Mavis, your servant. Ah! he is
the Devil, then ?'
204
THE DEMONIAC
' I sometimes think he is. Well, like all great conjuring
tricks, it was really quite simple. When I told Mavis to
get a Captain, I was not aware that he had cousins in the
seafaring line. Luckily for me, he had. One of these was
a Captain—a very good Captain too, though he had lost
every situation, one after the other, through his habits of
drink. This I did not find out until afterwards. Otherwise,
the best of Captains. He pretended to be wholly un¬
acquainted even with the taste of spirits—a Eechabite from
his youth upwards.'
' That was an excellent beginning !'
' Truly. Then there was the Steward. He too, as after¬
wards appeared, was a cousin, and had got into trouble on
the Orient Line in connection with the Bottle Department.
He, too, professed total abstinence—said that he abhorred
even the appearance of alcohol. Well, you see, with those
two on board and Mavis, who I ought to have known cannot
live without his beer and his grog, it was pretty certain that
there would be always something on board. In fact, they
had enough on board, to sink the ship, but they kept the
thing dark. At dinner and at luncheon we had apol-
linaris.'
' Yes. And how did this admirable servant convey the
drink to your cabin ?'
' By a little contrivance. And it shows what a man of
resource my servant is. He knew what would happen very
well, and he provided accordingly. So that when it did
come, and that with a rush, and hardly any warning, so
that I verily thought it was going to kill me outright, there
it was all ready for me. " Mavis," I said, " get me the
whisky and I'll give you four hundred." You see, I had
promised him two hundred if he brought me home with a
sober record.'
' Good. Mavis was a far-seeing servant.'
' So he whispered what I was to do. Then your two
doctors searched the cabin and my pockets. They left not a
corner: they took out the mattresses and the pillows and
the cushions. When they were quite sure that there was
nothing for me, they allowed me to go in, and left me to
wrestle it out.'
' Left you. Fools !'
' To wrestle it out, they said. Then they sat down and
HOW THE PATIENT RETURNED 205
watched outside the door. They watched all night. But
the moment they were out of the cabin I unscrewed a cer¬
tain ornamental knob and drew out of it a tube with a
mouthpiece; and the tube, Doctor, was connected with a
cask of whisky. Now do you understand the subtlety of the
Devil ?'
' I do. I thoroughly understand it.'
'As for Mavis, he earned that money. I had a charming
voyage, varied by several little episodes of that descrip¬
tion. We were all pleased, especially the two men of
science.'
' That is all you have to tell me, I suppose,' said the
Physician coldly.
' That is all. I have given up the idea of trying to resist
any more. If I cannot be cured except by my own resist¬
ance, I can never be cured at all.'
' No; you are now beyond hope. Well, Mr. Atheling, it
is a thousand pities to see a splendid man ruined. Shall I
read your future ?'
' If you can, Doctor.'
' Your will has now grown so weak that you cannot resist:
you shrink with terror from the mere idea of resistance : the
attack, which is a kind of spasmodic action, and should be
met and defeated by resolute refusal to yield, is now magni¬
fied, in your imagination, into a terrible, monstrous, power¬
ful Devil, to whom you surrender basely and cowardly
without a blow. Well, you will go on in this miserable
weakness, growing slowly or swiftly, as the case may be,
worse and worse, as a rudderless ship drifts slowly or
rapidly on a lee shore. The attacks will become more
frequent and more violent—perhaps both. You will gradually
lose the only thing which now protects you—that small
amount of self-respect which makes you hide yourself and
your vice when it overtakes you. Presently you will cease
to care whether your friends know about it or not. You
will no longer have the desire to preserve a good name. All
the time your mind will be deteriorating as your will
weakens. Remember that on his strength and will depends
the whole life of a man. Your judgment in business affairs
will be impaired. All your finer qualities—they have
already suffered loss—will be destroyed: your learning,
your skill, your art, your genius, your eye, your taste—all
2c5
THE DEMONIAC
will go. In course of time you will become, if you live, an
open, acknowledged, and daily drunkard. You will live in
this degraded and disgraced condition until, by mere lucky
accident, you will take cold, get pneumonia, and so^ be
kicked out of the world you have helped to make worse, into
another, where you will receive the treatment due to you.
As for your children, if you have any, you will have trans¬
mitted to them your inheritance, if it is an inheritance, of
alcoholic craving doubled and trebled, with far less power
of resistance than that with which you started. Not only
are you a coward to yourself, but you are a criminal to your
children.'
The Doctor paused and snorted.
George heard him without the least indignation, remon¬
strance, or surprise.
' All these things,' he said quietly, ' I have said to myself
over and over again. I have said them in agonies of reproach
and shame. I say them no longer. I feel no longer any
pangs of shame. As for what you prophesy concerning my
children, I have made up my mind to have none.'
' So you say now. Wait for a year or two. Wait till
your loneliness becomes more than you can bear. Young
gentleman, any weak creature may go and get married;
but it requires a far stronger man than you to remain un¬
married.'
' I see before me, in place of the future you have drawn,
a life of harmless obscurity. I have parted with my old
ambitions, because they are no longer possible to attain.
I have no career before me : I can attempt nothing. When
I die, the waves will close over me, and I shall be forgotten
in a moment and regretted by no one. Six times in the
year I shall go into retreat. In the intervals I shall be
calm and contented. The craving will not grow upon me:
it has not grown for two years: it does not come oftener
than it did '
' Because you are young, and have still left some of the
resources of your former life. You read — you walk —
you think. Wait till you grow weary of life without an
aim.'
' If your prophecy, or half of it, even, were to come true,
do you think that I should continue to live ?'
' Why, man, with such a vice as yours, you would love
HOW THE PATIENT RETURNED
20 7
your life too well. Besides, your will would be too weak.
You could no longer bear to face a violent death, even to
escape the greatest shames possible to life. In your strong
frame already beats the heart of a coward.' George laughed.
' When I told you this once before, you winced: now you
laugh. Observe the deterioration that has already set in.
You laugh!'
' If you like. I never think of the thing that way now.
What would have been shameful and disgraceful two years
ago, is now a part of my life—part of my life. I feel no
more disgraced because I am afflicted with this incurable
disease, than if I had rheumatism. It is all habit. I now
understand how the worst criminal can entertain the most
virtuous sentiments. I am resigned to the inevitable.'
' One thing might save you: it is the only thing. For
the sake of others—for some great personal attachment—■
for some great scare on their account—you might make the
sacrifice of suffering. Or you might make the sacrifice of
death. For your own sake—never !'
' Then I shall never make either sacrifice. I am, as you
say, too great a coward. And I can never again care greatly
for any human creature.'
George went away. He had expected no help from the
Physician, and he got none. He was like one who sees
Heaven—all glorious and blissful and eternal—before him,
but fears to pass through the fire of purgatory which lasts
but a little while. Many such souls there must be waiting
on the bank, cowering at the sight of the cleansing flame.
Yet he knew that he was getting worse: his purposeless
life, as well as his surrender, was dragging him down. But
he had formed a resolution: he would work. At least, he
would have some object to live for, if it were only to earn
his daily bread.
£ Mavis,' he said that evening,' I have seen my old Doctor
again. I told him that the Devil has proved more cunning
than he thought. He isn't acquainted with the Devil, that
Doctor.'
' No, sir.'
' He thinks he is, but he is not. The Doctor doesn't
seem best pleased with the result of the voyage. He ex¬
pected better things, Well, we did promise a different
2o8
THE DEMONIAC
ending, didn't we ? We did start with the intention of com¬
pleting the job ?'
' We did, sir,' said Mavis.
' And we have completed it, though not exactly in the
way we intended.'
' Come, sir; after all, it don't do yon any harm. Even
the Doctor can't say but what you look as well and as
vigorous as ever. Lately, too, they haven't come quite so
strong, have they?'
' Well, I don't know about that.'
' A drunk now and again: an honest drunk, and have
done with it,' said Mavis. ' What harm can that do any
man ? Why, that's the way the sailors live. They couldn't
keep it up if it wTasn't for the looking forward. Think of
the gentlemen drinking their champagne every day ! Why,
it's far worse. As for you, sir, a more temperate and sober
gentleman don't live. You ought to take a pride in your¬
self, for your moderation. What is it ? A couple of bottles
of whisky once in two months. Spread it out—a quarter
of a bottle in a week—why, it's nothing!'
This was the longest speech Mavis had ever made.
' Very good, Mavis,' said his master. 11 will seek con¬
solation in that reflection. Meantime, I am going to make
a change. You shall have the cottage to live in. I shall
go and live in some part of London where I am not known.
I will let you know where, so that you may be on the spot
when '
' Very well, sir,' said Mavis.
' I have made up my mind to start afresh in a new place,
and on a new plan. I shall take another name. I shall
go and live a great deal lower down in the world. I shall
no longer call myself a gentleman. I shall not be a man
of fortune, but one who works for his daily bread. Perhaps
my new companions will forgive any little eccentricities of
conduct, if they do discover things. On the point of personal
dignity or self-respect they will probably be less exacting.
So that if the Doctor's prophecy comes true—and I'm sure
I don't know that it will not—they will not turn me out
into the wide, wide world with ignominy. There may even
be fellow-sufferers among them. Well, do you understand ?'
' Perfectly, sir. Am I to find you a place and a com¬
panion ?'
HOW THE PATIENT RETURNED
209
' No. This time, Mavis, I will look about for myself.
You provided me once with a Captain and a Steward and
a nice little workable knob, didn't you ? This time, I will
find for myself what I want.'
' What am I to do, sir ?'
' You can go and live in the cottage. I will pay yotl the
Bame wages. I will also pay the rent of the cottage and
your own board. You can live anywhere else if you like ;
but you must keep the cottage ready for me. Until I have
learned the feelings of my new friends on the subject, I will
keep on the cottage. You will call for me at the regular
times, and carry me off and look after me as usual. Other¬
wise, I shall have no more work for you.'
' Very well, sir.'
' You will be an idle man ; be a discreet man as well.
Guard those secrets of mine. And when next you meet me,
remember that you are not my servant, but an old acquaint¬
ance, with whom I have business relations.'
' Very well, sir,' said Mavis.
CHAPTER VII.
OP penelope and her WOOEr.S.
'Why will you still press me?' asked the girl. 'I have
answered your question already a dozen times.'
' I press you,' replied the man, ' because your answer
appears to me every day more and more unreasonable.
Surely, the time has come at last for you to give me another
kind of reply—if only another reason for —'
' No, my friend; I have only one answer. I am already,
as you know, engaged. Therefore, I cannot listen to any
talk on this subject, even from you—my old tutor.'
' You are engaged to a man who has neither written to
you, nor visited you, nor sent any kind of message to you,
for five years.'
' That is true. It is also true—and I must not forget it—■
that when last I saw him I assured him that I should wait
for a release from his own lips. I have wTaited, and I still
wait.'
' He went away. He has sent you no message since that
H
210
THE DEMONIAC
time. You know that three or four years ago he drew money
from his bank. Therefore, he was then alive. But he sent
you no letter or message. That shows that he thought you
were free. Perhaps he is dead. To you, however, the
question need not be raised. You are free.'
- ' If rich men like George die, their death is heard of by
their heirs. 1 do not believe that he is dead. Let him, if
he chooses, set me free.'
' Then he has forgotten you. Good Heavens ! As if that
were possible !'
' In either case I must wait. If he is dead—until I know
the fact. If he has forgotten me—until he tells me so him¬
self.'
This conversation was only one of many turning upon the
same point, the nature of which is sufficiently indicated. It
was carried on in the library of a great house in South
Kensington. The library was also the girl's study. It con¬
tained a good collection of books, and on the table was
heaped the pile of papers, magazines, and books, with the
inevitable waste-paper basket beside them, which denote
the presence of the scholar or the writer. These two young
people met each other as often as they possibly could : they
walked together: they rode together: they argued on the
things which most interested them ; and continually came
back to the same question and the same answer, with a
commentary on the latter furnished by the young man.
For the girl was so constant to a forgetful lover as to remain
faithful after five years of neglect and silence: and the
young man was so persistent a suitor that he returned con¬
tinually to his question, and as continually remonstrated
with the answer.
The girl, you perceive, was Elinor Thanet, now three-and-
twenty years of age. It seems old to those who are still
eighteen; but it is not regarded by those who are past three-
and-twenty as a great age, even for a girl. And at three-
and-twenty there is still the first sweet bloom upon the
cheek, and there is still some of the first fresh spring of
youth.
Y/hen we last saw Elinor she was on the point of going
to Cambridge, there to achieve the honour and glory of a
First Class. She fulfilled the first part of the programme ;
that is to say, she did go to Newnham. But as for the
OF PENELOPE AND HER WOOERS
211
second part, that event did not come off. Perhaps the
defection of her lover disheartened her : perhaps the intrica¬
cies of Latin prose worried her : perhaps she lost her ambi¬
tions : whatever the reason, she did not present herself at
the Honours Examination. Her friends, however, said that
she could have taken a First Class if she had pleased.
Many thousands of pass men say the same thing of them¬
selves ; but their friends commonly accept the statement
without zeal, even with frigidity. Few, indeed, have it said
of them. So that Elinor retired from her University course
with great and uncommon distinction. Not to take a First
Class when you can have it for the trouble of asking for it,
argues a superiority that has never yet been found, even
among the College Dons. The consciousness of this
distinction was doubtless the reason why Elinor, on re¬
turning to London, treated the common herd of admirers
with so much disdain. Her own common herd was more
numerous than that of many other girls, because she was
going to be rich. Every picture, even the most beautiful,
looks all the better for being richly framed.
Elinor Thanet was also distinguished by a very remark¬
able circumstance. She was engaged, and her lover had
disappeared. At this time no tidings had been heard of him
for three years. She herself had heard nothing of him, or
from him, for five years. But for three years he had drawn
no money from his bank, and had made no communication
with his lawyers. Yet he was a rich man, having an income
of many thousand pounds a year, all of which lay accumu¬
lating—a great mass of unused wealth. And certain cousins
who were greatly interested in his welfare were beginning
to ask when the missing man should be considered dead.
These circumstances—the First Class which had not been
taken: the lover who was not to be found : and the fortune
which would come to this young lady—made her a person
of the greatest interest. As yet no one had succeeded in
persuading her that her engagement had been broken off
long ago. No other girl ever had so convenient a weapon of
defence. Nay, of offence as well, because it could be used
to drive away a persistent suitor as well as to ward off a first
approach.
The only man who was allowed to persist was John
Carew, Professor of Political Economy in Gresham College,
2 f 2
77/£ DEMONIAC
sometime Lecturer at Newnham. The word 'sometime'
sounds well, yet John Carew was at present only six-and-
twenty. He was one of those who march to the front early.
Many men there are—most men—who can never march to_
the front. Their place is in the ranks : they are too diffident
as to their natural gifts and graces for any ambition at all:
they are afraid of themselves : they cannot picture them¬
selves incurring vast responsibilities and exercising great
authority. Not so such a man as John Carew. He strides
straight up the hill. ' My place,' he says, 'is in the front
row. Make way, if you please, for me.' After a bit they
have got to make way and to put him there, when very
likely he shows that he was right.
Up to the present, as you have seen, John Carew has done
very well, as well as can be expected by the age of twenty-
six. He had no family interest or connections : he was the
son of one of those successful clergymen who get a newly-
built district church in a suburb inhabited by clerks. His
father had no money to spare: yet this fortunate youth
received the best education that the country can give, pro¬
ceeded to the University, took the very best degree possible,
became a Fellow ; and at twenty-six was Professor in a
London College, with as great a reputation as one so young
can well obtain, and with every promise of greater distinction
to follow. All this magnificent success sprang out of a
school scholarship, and it is the history of successful men by
the hundred.
John Carew, however, was not inclined to stop at a College
Professorship. He meant to rule a larger class than gathered
in his lecture-room. That he had no money was a hindrance.
Fortune favoured him again, because she threw in his way
a girl, beautiful and belonging to the world of society, and
wealthy, with whom he allowed himself to fall in love. Had
this girl not been wealthy, John Carew would not have
allowed himself the luxury of love. Since she was wealthy,
he loved her very dearly and sincerely. He meant, if he
could, to marry her. He meant, by means of her wealth
and position, to advance himself. A perfectly desirable girl
from every point of view does not present herself to every
young man ; and especially to a young man who makes it
his aim to take no step m life, especially not such a step as
marriage, unless it be a step in advance.
OF PENELOPE AND HER WOOERS 213
John Carew's face was irregularly good-looking, and bore
the stamp of resolution and of courage. He had the chin
and mouth of a man who meant to have his own way. He
had the clear-cut nostrils, the straight eyebrows, the steady
eyes, and the square forehead of one whose mind was active,
and happiest when working on things hard and tough to the
general multitude. It was the face, the head, and the figure
of the fighting man. And in these days when the world is
looking in all directions for leaders, I really think that John
Carew has as good a chance as anybody of showing what
stuff there is in him.
'Let us talk of something else, then.' He went to the
table and took up a book. ' Tell me what you are working
at.'
' Another time. Something,' she said, ' has brought back
the memory of my old lover—I know not what note has
been struck. I seem to hear his voice and to see him stand¬
ing before me. I do not think there is anything, my friend,
that I should wish for more than to see him again, and to
hear from his own lips what he has done, why he went away,
and why he has forgotten me altogether.'
' You agree, then, that he must have forgotten you?'
' Something happened to him—the nature of which I
cannot so much as guess—something happened which altered
not only the whole course of his life, but his very nature.
What can alter a man so much in three months ? Not any
ill stroke of fortune : not ill-health : not any other law busi¬
ness—at least, that I ever heard of. What could it have
been ?'
' I do not know ; I cannot even guess.'
' Consider! He has gone away: he has left his great
wealth untouched : he has not drawn any money for three
years.'
' He is probably dead.'
' No ; I am certain that he is not dead. We should have
heard of his death, somehow. Why did he go away ? What
is the cause of his keeping away ? If it were love or mar¬
riage, he would still want his money.'
' And you—if you wrere to meet him, how would you re¬
ceive him ?'
' He would be always my brother—I have not a spark of
any other feeling left for him, At one time it was different,
214
THE DEMONIAC
I was very fond of him, and thought a great deal about him.
He was in my thoughts nearly all day. That was because he
was always with me, I suppose. We used to play together. I
don't know even how we became engaged. No word was
said, I know, but one day we met with a warmer pressure
of the hand—and that was all. Poor dear boy ! He went
out of my thoughts—Cambridge drove him out—and he
went out of my heart. I have long ceased to lament him,
or to fancy that I love him ; and yet—yet—I want to hear
from his own lips—and the last words that I said to him
was a promise of constancy !'
' A promise—yes ! but since for all these years you have
heard nothing—whether he is dead or alive ; or if you heard
that he was living three years ago, the fact that he never
wrote a line shows that he considers you free long ago—long
ago. Elinor, do not waste time over such a man any longer.'
4 Eind him for me. Formerly ladies enjoined great tasks
upon their knights—-—'
' Will you call me your knight?'
' Yes.' She gave him her hand, which he kissed. 'But
not, yet, anything more. This is my task which I lay upon
you. Eind that missing lover. Tell me where he is. It is
really a very little world. Eind out where he is and bring
him to me, or me to him. If you wish to please me, find,
my faithless lover.'
' If you had ordered me to slay a giant or a dragon, I
should have complied contentedly. But for finding your old
lover What is his name ?'
' His name is Atheling.'
' Atheling ? I seem to have heard the name somewhere ;
I don't remember at this moment. Atheling?'
' He has a pleasant, musical voice, rather low. A clever
man, with ideas. He started with the intention of being
something great—Prime Minister. He was as ambitious as
you.'
' Am I ambitious ?'
' You are nothing else, except that you are clever—much
cleverer than George, who would not have got beyond Secre¬
tary for the Colonies. I believe the stupid man in the
Cabinet is always put into that post.'
' Well, I have his name. What shall I do next? I cannot
search the wide world for him, because my lectures forbid
OF PENELOPE AND HER WOOERS
my absence. But I can start inquiries. I believe that when
a gentleman is wanted by the police they send round a
description. But then the police know where such gentle¬
men as they want mostly resort, which is a great advantage
to them. They don't know where such a man as your friend
may be found.'
' You are much more clever than any police.'
' Let me rather slay a giant for you, Elinor. I would
rather kill a dozen giants.'
' Their death would bring me neither joy nor profit. Let
the poor giants live, and find my poor old friend.'
' It is such a wonderful thing—such a mysterious thing !
"Why should the man go away ? Why should he keep away ?
How does he live ? He must be dead.'
' A man doesn't die without somebody knowing about it.
Death is a public thing, even for the meanest man. Every¬
body knows it. People find out what the man died of, who
ho is, and all about him. It is a thing which cannot be
concealed any more than a birth.'
' He may be in San Francisco—or in Hong Kong—or any¬
where you please !'
' No ; he was a thorough Briton. He would never be
comfortable except at home. He would never be happy
unless he was living his old familiar life. Where he is living,
and why, I cannot tell. Find him for me, my friend; find
him out 1'
CHAPTER VIII.
in arcadia.
There is a suburb—a district—of London, where those
reside who have to court happiness on a hundred and fifty
pounds—two hundred pounds—even three hundred pounds
—a year. Not all those who enjoy incomes of such a figure
live in this district, but few live here who are burdened with
a larger income. It is a pleasant country : the roads in it
are broad and planted with limes or planes : the houses are
nearly all built after the same pattern, one of a kind which
does not require the pencil or the imagination of the archi¬
tect. They are small houses—your only true comfort in
this cold climate lies iq snugness. Each house has a base-
216
THE DEMONIAC
ment sitting-room, which in winter is commonly used as the
family living-room: on the ground floor is the best room :
above are three or four bedrooms : at the back is a narrow
strip of garden, in which those who are clever and can give
all their leisure to the task contrive to grow quantities of
flower-bearing plants : it is also useful on Monday morning
for a drying ground, when the incense of soapsuds arises
weekly in a fragrant steam and ascends to the Goddess of
Cleanliness ; then the back garden presents a waving white
surface broken only, to the eye of the upper story, by the
green poles : the garden generally has a swing in it for the
children, and in many cases there is even a green arbour
where the gentlemen of the family may take, in the cool of
a summer evening, the solace of tobacco. In front of the
house is a small, a minute garden, which has sometimes
only a single laurel in it, but more often boasts of a laburnum
or a lime, or even a hawthorn. And many of the houses are
covered all over with Virginia Creeper, so that the autumn
aspect of this quarter is all glorious without.
Apart from the convenience of the residences and the leafy
beauty of the roads, I have often thought that the most
precious quality of the district is the entire absence of any¬
thing which can humble the residents and make them
envious. No great houses rear their lofty fronts beside
these simple two-storied structures: no one possesses a
private carriage, not even the doctor: nobody keeps more
than one servant: there are no dinner-parties; a dress coat
is absolutely not known; dinner is regarded, not as a
function or religious ceremony, but as an operation—like
stoking the engine—necessary, expensive, even with the
best management, and a thing to be jealously kept within
limits. Yet, though there are no dress-coats, think not that
there is no society. There is a great deal of society; young
folks enjoy greater facilities for meeting each other than
persons who obey the stricter law of convention and pro¬
priety : the girls get lots of pretty things to put on—most
pretty things, in fact, are cheap—though they have to make
up these pretty things with their own pretty hands, for their
own pretty figures. As for getting engaged, they are all
engaged, sometimes half a dozen times over-—but not more
than one at a time, so lofty is the moral standard—before
they finally settle down, There ig an unwritten law, obeyed
IN ARCADIA
217
by all but the reckless and the unthinking, that a prudent
pair should not marry until the income reaches a hundred
and twenty: this once achieved, they form the procession,
strike up the ' Wedding March,' and march up the aisle
before the clergyman, conscious of having done their duty
in waiting, and now fully justified in commencing as Adam
and Eve in a new garden of Eden from which they hope
never to be turned out. There are dancing-classes in the
winter: in the summer there are excursions, trips, tourists'
tickets, and outings : there are lectures, concerts, readings :
and there is a social life of the church and the chapel—of
late years Church has discovered that she, too, must come
down and associate with her people if she would keep them
out of Chapel.
They are never dull. When men and women congregate
together and know each other as friends and neighbours,
they are never dull. Those places only are dull where the
houses stand side by side, and street lies parallel with street,
and no man knoweth his neighbour. Bloomsbury is dull;
South Kensington is dull; but this place—never.
One must not specify its exact situation on the map of
London. To name the place, if this history, should come to
be widely read, might cause a rush, an influx, an immigra¬
tion of strange folk who have nothing in common with these
people but their income. This would run up the rents,
enhance the value of the pews, and enlarge the views of the
butcher, which are already, Heaven knows, large enough!
Call it Clerkland, but it should be called Arcadia.
Quite the prettiest road in Clerkland is Daffodil Eoad : it
is at once the broadest, the best planted with trees, and the
most flowery. There are flowers in every window ; there is
a Virginia Creeper over every house, a lilac or a laburnum
in every front, a lime-tree for every two houses, along the
whole road. The line is broken by a red-brick Church set
among trees, and already pleasantly wrapped in ivy—the
Church of St. Luke the Physician—where the services are
musical and bright: the word ' bright,' as generally applied
to the modern church service, has a meaning quite peculiar,
but then everything should have its own adjectives. There
are forty-two houses in the Daffodil Eoad, each with its own
name all to itself, though the post-office, which lacks poetical
sentiment, insists upon a number as well,
213
THE DEMONIAC
The residents in the road mostly know each other, either
with familiarity and intimate friendship or with a speaking
acquaintance. And they know each other's private affairs :
they know where every husband has his berth, and what is
his salary; what his family, what his wife's methods of
household management, and, pretty nearly, the weekly bill
of the butcher. It is not so much in a spirit of prying
curiosity that this knowledge is sought—curiosity, doubt¬
less, enters to a certain extent into the inquiry—we are but
human,—as in the desire to get, if possible, another wrinkle
into the great and wonderful mystery of managing. For,
lo you! we who boast that we are men—men the creators
— men the inventors—men who carry along the world—men
who discover, create, enlarge,—we men have never imagined
or devised anything that surpasses in ingenuity, wit, con¬
trivance, and marvels of results, the great Art of Manage¬
ment invented by Woman, and carried in this suburb to its
utmost perfection—a miracle and passing wonder of human
skill. It is indeed a most amazing art. Understand that
she who has to bring up a family of six on an income of two
hundred and fifty pounds a year : to educate them : to teach
them manners: to make them appear in the streets neatly
and, for the girls, prettily dressed, must for ever be studying
this wonderful art. She does not go out to spend: she
stays at home and manages : she does not buy this or that
as the whim seizes her, if she thinks that she wants it: she
manages. That is to say, for the most part she does with¬
out—she waits. But—consider—when at last, after patient
waiting, she arrives at the power of getting a thing that is
to add so much to the family comfort, she purchases it with
a far fuller joy, a far deeper satisfaction, a far greater thank¬
fulness than can ever be enjoyed by that unhappy Dives
who only experiences a slight sense of something lacking
before he orders and buys a thing. The matron who
manages gets the full flavour and enjoyment of everything
that she buys or possesses.
It is not, indeed, an unhappy life, that of the petites gens
—the Folk of the very small income. They have to make
their things last a long while: they hardly ever have as
much dinner as they could put away had they a free hand,
so to speak : they must consider the penny for the omnibus
and tho halfpenny for the evening paper ; anything that
IN ARCADIA
219
cannot be made at home wants money—therefore every¬
thing that can be made at home is made there : the clever
husband with his own hands and the family gimlet executes
the little repairs of the house and furniture : sometimes,
but not often, he is so clever that he can actually make
things—cabinets, picture-frames, cupboards, garden-seats,
benches: his wife does the repairs of all the garments
except the boots—to the philosopher it is difficult to under¬
stand why she has not long since resolved to mend the
boots as well as the socks : the one servant does the washing.
It is astonishing how much may be saved when husband
and wife are thrifty and know how to manage. Above all,
and as the first consideration, one must not eat or drink
too much : the children are expected to finish up the bread-
and-butter, and not to ask for more : everything is doled—
the tea by half-spoonfuls, the milk drop by drop as if it was
a precious cordial, the butter is spread thin, and the cheese
is cut in bits the size of dice. Well, they have always been
accustomed to pare and to save ; it is their life : they are
never able to buy—they must manage.
Among the families of Daffodil Eoad was, until a few
weeks ago, one which differed in many respects from those
around them. The differences were in points minute to
those above and below, but of great importance to those of
the same level. To begin with, the head of the household,
understood to be by birth an Australian, was in appearance
quite unlike the rest of the householders. They, for the
most part, are small in stature and slight in figure : they
mostly, in middle-age, incline to primness : they are all,
even in earliest youth, neat in apparel, as becomes those
who are taught at the outset the mere money value of per¬
sonal appearance. This Australian was a big man : he had
a big frame, big hands, a big head, and a big brown beard.
He was careless in his dress, which generally consisted of
some brown stuff: he wore a pot-hat : he had such small
regard for appearance that he smoked a pipe in his front
garden : he was irregular in his church attendance : he was
not respectful to the clergy, speaking to the curate as if he
•was his equal: he was always genial, always ready to talk
and to laugh. He laughed quite freely, this singular young
man. In this quarter they are seldom given much to mirth
^-rnere idle mirth—because, you see, they must for ever be
220
THE DEMONIAC
thinking of Management, an art which demands that the
votaries give themselves np wholly to their Mistress.
He was not, in fact, in the least point like a City man.
He had no respect for wealth, and cared nothing about
money-making. Now, to these simple people the honour
and glory of toiling all day long in order to make money for
their masters is increased in proportion to the amount of
money they do make. When the year has been fat and the
garners are full, they swell out with pride, they give them¬
selves airs among their fellows. Why not ? It is the part
of a good servant, says the copybook, which we too often
neglect, to rejoice at the good fortune of his master. Such
observations as fell from the lips of Mr. George Humphrey,
so far from sympathizing with this view, were calculated
even to make the clerks ashamed of their zeal. He asked
openly what good it did them when the year's balance
brought an extra ten thousand or so to their master's
gains.
Of course his profession was known. It was that of a
journalist. Your true City man regards the calling with
unconcealed dislike. The pay is supposed to be uncertain :
there are no regular rises in salary : a man at fifty may
make no more than a youth of twenty: there are no fixed
hours. To a regular and methodical man the alleged un¬
certainties of the profession make it abhorrent and abhorred.
Why, the journalist does not even want an office, a thing
granted to the humblest beginner in Clerkdom : he may do
his work at home, while his wife is ironing the linen ; or he
may sit in public-houses and write; or he may go to Free
Libraries and write there ; or he may find a corner in the
printing-house and write there; or he may even write in
the street—horrible ! There is no dignity in such a pro¬
fession. And he is paid by the job : even a leader-writer
gets so much for his article: one might as well be a
working-man and get paid by the piece.
George Humphrey belonged, it is true, to the lower walks
of journalism. He had what is called a permanent appoint¬
ment as leader-writer, paragraphist, and sub-editor of the
Clcrkland Observer (with which is incorporated the Arcadian
Gazette), a local paper of more importance than those who
only read The Times would believe. This job brought him
in two pounds ten a week; but then he wrote nearly the
IN ARCADIA
whole paper, ancl it took him two days and a half out of
the solid six. He did it so well that when, as happened
regularly once every two months, he had business which
took him out of town for three or four days, the proprietor
gave him leave to go and find a substitute at his own
expense. In the remaining three and a half days of the
week George Humphrey occupied himself in writing short
papers for magazines, essays, sketches, notes of travel,
papers on books and authors, and so forth. He was a man
of industry and reading: he had travelled much and
observed much: he wrote in a pleasing style that had
flashes and sparks of brilliancy. Consider the enormous
number of weekly journals that now have to find attrac¬
tive stuff for their insatiate pages ! Paste and scissors will
do a great deal, but it will not do everything. Such a man
as George Humphrey, with so much experience and versa¬
tility, can always sell his productions, even if he cannot
command his price. The latter, indeed, varies according to
the liberality of the proprietor and the circulation of the
paper. It varies from nothing a column—one could tell
harrowing stories, were this the place—up to a whole pound
a column, which was George's highest price. In this way
and by working twice as hard as any man- in any other
calling for the same money, he made an income large for
the place and people among whom he lived, and no moie
precarious than that of a Doctor or of a Solicitor in prac¬
tice, though to the City clerk it seemed an uncertain, hand-
to-mouth, way of living.
The wife of the journalist sat at her open window one
evening in May, between six and seven. The evenings of
the sweet spring season of this year were as balmy as the
poet's dream of May. The day had been warm and bright:
the sloping sun shone all along Daffodil Eoad upon the rows
of limes in their pale chloral early foliage, upon the lilacs
and the laburnums and the hawthorn all in full splendour :
upon the Virginia Creepers, fast shooting up their long buds.
Daffodil Road was glorified. It has two such brief periods
of glory: one in the spring, too often spoiled by prolonged
east wind; one in the autumn, also too often spoiled by
September rain and premature frost.
Mrs. Humphrey sat with her work in her hands: the
cradle of her baby at her foot, and her two-year-old rolling
222
THE DEMONIAC
over a ball on the floor. That she was happy and contented
was manifested by her attitude, by her repose, by the low
soft croon of her voice, as she bent over her sewing or looked
up at her boy.
Nettie Humphrey was inclined to be small and slight in
figure, like so many London girls ; yet taller than most.
Her shoulders were rather narrow. Her head, however,
was well shaped and large in proportion to the rest of her :
her features were regular, and her eyes of dark blue—where
did she get those dark-blue eyes ?—were certainly fine. Her
mouth, firm and rather square, showed the possibility of
that precious quality which we call character. The room in
which she sat was furnished in a taste quite unusual. For
this quarter, while it clings to a best room which it has not
quite ceased to call a best parlour, runs to stiffness and
ceremony ; loves a central cable with books round it, and an
ornament in the middle of it; likes to have a looking-glass
over the fireplace; insists upon a piano, even though nobody
can play upon it; and covers up every chair with things
still called antimacassars, the name pointing to the dark
ages when men and women plastered their hair with scented
grease and wore it long. Moreover, the taste of this quarter
is great on mantel-shelf ornaments, inclining still to hanging
crystals and pink-glass jars, and it is not comfortable with¬
out a great hanging gas chandelier. This room, on the other
hand, looked like a room for living in. There was a com¬
fortable couch, ready to be wheeled up to the fire: there
were two easy-chairs: there was no central table : there
was no gas chandelier at all : there was no great looking-
glass. It was furnished, in short, much as if Mr. William
Morris himself had been asked to step in and do what he
thought best. On the walls there were pictures which the
visitors could not understand. Not their idea, you see, of
what a picture should be. And one side of the room was
clothed, covered, hidden by books.
Nettie looked at the clock on the mantel-shelf. 'Half-
past six,' she said. ' He will not come home before eight at
earliest.'
She resumed her work with a little sigh. Then she heard
footsteps outside, and got up to open the door.
Her visitor was young, like herself, and a married woman.
She wore a hat and no gloves. ' I just ran across, Nettie,
IN ARCADIA
22 3
she said, throwing herself into a chair. 'It's so dull at
home when there is no work to be done. How's baby ?
How are you, Georgie, boy ? Where's George ? How do
you like your new bonnet ?'
She was Nettie's younger sister, Victoria, recently married
to a clerk in a Bank on a hundred and fifty. Victoria was
like her sister, but smaller: prettier, in her way, yet of
much less consequence, to look at. She was very pretty,
indeed, of a beauty quite common, the small-sized beauty:
small, regular features ; bright, gray eyes ; light hair, of the
fluffy kind; very small hands ; and a mouth which, while it
certainly might be called a rosebud, had also in it that
slight but clear-cut curve which should be dreaded by lovers,
because it denotes temper. She was Lady Venus the Little
—and Venus with the vice of temper. Lady Venus the
Great—Venus the unapproachable—can never be put into a
bad temper. It is impossible for her to be in a bad temper,
even with those whose hearts do not beat at the aspect and
thought of her. She pities them, but she is not irritated by
the coldness of such natures.
' We are all very well, Vic. How is Charlie?'
' Charlie went off this morning in a hateful temper. • As if
a woman is not to be allowed to speak ! I did speak up,
though, and I will. I dare say he will come round again
during the day. If he doesn't, I don't care. Sulking hurts
him more than me. What have you got here? A new
chair? My goodness ! You had a new chair six months
ago. My dear, no income could stand it!'
' George buys nothing that he cannot afford. And we are
saving money. Do not worry about our dreadful extrava¬
gance. Vic dear, mother was here this morning. She had
a good deal to say, too, about the butcher's bill.'
' Well, it isn't what we were brought up to, is it ? As
much beef and mutton as you like, and all your washing
put out, and your dresses bought ready-made for you '
Vic sighed. ' You ought to think yourself a lucky girl,
Nettie. I wish to goodness I had your housekeeping money.
But there—it's no use wishing. Some day, perhaps, when
Charlie gets made assistant-manager '
' Patience, Vic dear.'
The girl got up and began impatiently turning over the
things on the table. Among them was a photograph album*
224
Tl-IE DEMONIAC
She opened it, There were the family portraits—her father
with a book in his hand, and the look of a philosopher equal
to the mightiest problems-—her mother with a self-conscious
smile—herself looking saucy, more like a chorister in a
burlesque than a respectable married woman—George, big
and bearded.
' Nettie,' she said, ' haven't you got any photographs of
George's relations? He must have some, you know. We've
all got father and mother and brothers and cousins—where
are his ?'
' They are in Australia, somewhere.'
' Well, if I were you I'd never rest till I found out all
about them '
' My dear, I do know all about them.'
' Their names and their professions. They may be only
shopkeepers. Not that I'd cast that in George's teeth. As
Charlie says, we can't all be born gentlemen. Though, to
be sure, I never would have married Charlie unless I knew
that his family were respectable.'
' I am perfectly satisfied upon that point,' said Nettie,
with dignity.
' George certainly—whatever people think—seems to be
all right,' said her sister doubtfully. ' His manners are
sometimes free, but I suppose it's Australian ways. And he
seems to be making good money in his way—though, thank
goodness, it is not our way. " Better a small screw and cer¬
tainty," says Charlie, " than to wake up every morning with¬
out knowing what you'll make in the day." And certainly
George goes on sober, and he's kind to you, and fond of the
children. He might listen to mother with a little more
patience. But we don't know his family, that's very cer¬
tain. And—a curious thing, Nettie—Charlie was talking
the other day to a gentleman, an old schoolfellow of h's,
who's been out to Melbourne, where he was an auctioneer's
clerk. Well, he says that he never heard the name of
George Humphrey there at all. I thought I'd tell you,
Nettie.'
' Thank you for nothing, Vic ! What does it matter to
me whether Charlie's friend has heard of George or not 1
Melbourne is a big place. There are half a million people
in Melbourne. Perhaps George has never heard of your
auctioneer's clerk,'
IN ARCADIA.
225
' To be sui46, clerks and journalists,' said Victoria, putting
down the album with a little sniff, ' do not always mix in
the same circles. So that, as you say, it may mean nothing.
But when it comes to hiding away your relations as if you
were ashamed of them, never talking about them, never
writing to them, getting no letters from them—what does it
point to ? Everybody thinks the same thing. It means
that you are ashamed of your relations. Well, my dear,
you're not married to George's relations, are you? It
doesn't matter much—only when I go on Sundays to take
tea with Charlie's mother, and all in a respectable way, I do
feel a bit sorry for you. I dare say it's all right. You've
got more housekeeping-money than your mother and me
put together. You've lots to be grateful for. Your babies
are beauties; and as for your things and your furniture,
though this is not my idea of a best room, they are as geod
as can be. You're far better off than before you were mar¬
ried. So that it would be a thousand pities if you were to
find out anything—wouldn't it ? or if your money was to
vanish away—wouldn't it ?'
Nettie nodded and laughed. She was not in the least
alarmed or vexed by these gloomy forebodings. In fact, she
was used to them. Her family never failed to warn her that
Fortune is fickle, that no one knew her husband's relations,
and that he had no fixed salary. Her sister Vic, especially,
gathered consolation from considering these dangers. Her
own housekeeping required the most watchful management:
her ' things' were on a very limited scale. But then she
was safe with her husband : she knew his family. He had
a safe income, though it was small. Her sister, on the
other hand, though she spent so much money, was married
to an adventurer whose family was a mystery, and who
neglected his church. I do not suppose that she actively
desired her sister's ruin; but she certainly consoled herself
in times of the greater tightness with thinking of her sister's
perils.
When Victoria was gone, Nettie worked on in silence.
She knew very well, she said to herself, all that there was
to know about her husband. His father had land up coun¬
try, outside Melbourne: he himself had no brothers or
sisters: he had inherited this bit of land and a trifle. He
had been educated, and was now in England making a living,
15
226
THE DEMONIAC
and a very fair living too, by journalism. Everything was
quite straightforward : nothing to hide. Yet, to her own
family, the case was full of mystery.
Another step outside the door. This time her brother
Horatio.
The Patager family consisted of Mr. Samuel Patager and
his spouse; two sons, Horatio and Herbert; and two
daughters, Antoinette and Victoria. The selection of the
Christian name is, in all classes of society, a matter of great
delicacy and importance. What names more happy than
those four ? The daughters happily married: one of the
sons married; there remained under the paternal roof the
younger son, Horatio.
Horatio was a bounder. No more illustrious bounder than
Horatio in the whole quarter. In his bounding he practised,
as far as his means allowed, all those arts and accomplish¬
ments belonging to the profession. He dressed, as well as
things would allow, in the latest fashion : he played billiards:
he talked of actresses : he attended dancing-classes : he
spoke familiarly of things unattainable : he put shillings or
half-crowns—when he had any to spare—on the favourite :
he smoked cigarettes : he was, in short, a commonplace,
pasty-faced, unwholesome young man, who should have been
taken awTay and made.to serve in the ranks for two years.
The other brother, Herbert, was a good young man. By
trade also a clerk, by profession he was a good young man.
The story of the good young man belongs to another place—
perhaps to another writer. He does not belong to this story.
Let us, therefore, with a word of gratitude for one good
young man in this world of wickedness, pass him by. It
was Horatio who called upon his sister, not Herbert. Horatio
the bounder.
'I say, Nettie,' he whispered, looking round the room;
' George not about, is he ?'
' No ; George has not come home yet.'
'Look here, Nettie—I'm stone broke. Lend me five bob,
there's a good girl. Only five bob—unless you like to make
it six.'
' No !' she replied shortly. ' I've not got any money to
lend. You ought to know that.'
' George gives you as much as you like. Lend me five
IN ARCADIA
227
bob, and you shall have it back on Monday. Put it down
to the house. He won't find out.'
' Now, ^Horatio,' Nettie replied, ' if you dare to say such a
thing again, I will tell George, and he will -'
' What will George do, I should like to know ?'
_' Well, perhaps he would take you up by the collar and
give you a good shaking. He could, you know, quite easily.'
' Oh ! would he ? I should like to see him '
He was small and insignificant to look at; but he fired up
at this insult, and looked, for the moment, quite valiant.
' If that is all you've come to say, Horry, you had better
go away at once.'
'A nice sister you are, to care more about your own
husband than your own brother! Why, there isn't another
woman in the world who would be as mean as you. Your
husband, indeed!'
' He does behave better than my own brother,' said Nettie.
' He doesn't go about to billiard-rooms, and he doesn't spend
his money in music-halls. And now go, or I shall tell George
what you say, and you will see how he looks when he is
angry.'
'I don't care how he looks. I say, Nettie, some day I
will find out what he has done, and why he is in hiding, and
then it'll be my turn. See if it won't. Talk of taking me
up by the collar. I'll have the knife in, Nettie, and I'll
twist it. Who is he ? Where are his family ? Him to be'
setting sister against brother! Well, I'll be even with him !'
He disappeared. It will be seen that the ' family,' be¬
tween them, caused Nettie a good many disagreeable
moments.
She had one more visitor. This time it was her father,
tempted out by the beauty of the morning.
The elder Patager suggested, by his appearance and
manner, that he wras the confidential clerk of a tall, portly,
and pompous City magnate. For he was himself, though
not tall, somewhat portly, as if, with a more generous diet,
he might assume really aldermanic proportions : and he
was a little pompous, out of office hours, as if he imitated
his chief at a respectful distance. His face was full, but
wanting in the true City fulness—such fulness as cometh
of turtle-soup. He spoke slowly and with the air of one
623
THE DEM OX Lie
delivering a judgment—yet the judgments -were weak. He
seemed to endeavour after a sonorous voice, but the result
•was feeble. One whose conduct of life was really governed
by the strictest sense of what was right. There is no employe
in the world so honest, so regular, so zealous, or so trust¬
worthy, as a good, elderly, life-long City clerk. He is above
suspicion and beyond temptation. He holds no Socialist
views as to the division of the spoil. He is contented with
his own salary. He has done better in the struggle of life
than many other men. Let us recognise the many virtues
of the man who keeps all the books for the vast trade in
the great City of London, and keeps them honestly and
exactly. Every such clerk, in the course of a long and
laborious life, builds up for himself, if it were only ac¬
knowledged, a monument of ledgers as high as the Dome
of St. Paul's.
' Well, my dear,'—Nettie was his favourite, chiefly because
her tongue lacked the readiness and the sharpness that
belonged to certain other tongues in his household,—' on
such a fine evening, one is tempted to forego the intellectual
pursuits proper to the time of day. So I thought I would
—yes—put down the evening paper and look in. This room
always looks comfortable, my dear, perhaps because you
are in it, though your mother doesn't hold with the style.
. And how's George ? Out still, looking for jobs ? An anxious
life—incessant anxiety—nothing safe or secure about it.
Give me the regular salary and absence from care.'
Nettie laughed.
• There isn't much worry about George, to look at him.
He eats well, and sleeps well.'
' But nothing regular. A day-by-day life. Well, well,
we cannot all be in the City. It's something to learn
that work keeps up,—something—something to learn so
much.'
' Oh ! the work is all right. It never was better.'
'I am free to confess, my dear,' the father began, with
his approach to poipposity, ' that I was originally deterred
by the considerations '
' Now you are going to say that George is only a journalist.
I have heard it so many times already !'
Nettie was getting irritated by their continued reflections
on her husband's calling.
IN ARCADIA
231
' I was about to say that the uncertainty of tlffi™
coupled ' iqb~
4 No fear about the work. Father, don't worry about
George. You've got enough to worry about with Horatio.
And look here, father : it's time that things were left off—■
you know what I mean—things about George. Else there
may be trouble. Victoria comes to-day, and Horry after
her, and both with the same story. As if there was any¬
thing hidden about George ! What is there to hide ? What
do you want to know, that you don't know?'
4 My dear, when you allow your daughter to marry a
stranger, you naturally ask yourself whether that stranger
belongs to a respectable family.'
4 You should have asked him three years ago, then. You
did ask—and so did I—and I am satisfied.'
4 Every man has got relations—even in Australia. He
must have a father and a mother.'
' George's parents are dead.'
4 To shake hands even with a cousin would be a satisfac¬
tion.'
4 Go to Australia, then, and shake hands with his cousins
there. Seriously, father, I can't have these things said any
longer by my own family. If they were said by anyone
else, I should very soon tell George. Then I know what
he would do : he would go away, he would take his family
away.'
' I sometimes think,' said her father meditatively, 4 that
they would be glad if George was found out in something.
They're always talking about him that way.'
41 believe they would !'
The personal pronoun in the plural may mean a great
deal. In this case it meant the mother, Victoria and her
brothers.
4 Words cannot break bones, Nettie.'
4 They may break love, though ! If I am expected any
longer to sit in patience while my husband is slandered, I
shall have to consider—that's all, father, And you had
better tell them so,'
/£ DEMONIAC
CHAPTER IX.
/T THE SIGN OF THE BON MAEI.
ff.ock the garden-door swung open and a ponderous
stTe^ Aie gravel announced the return of the Master.
Thougv/she had been married for three long years, Nettie
sprang from her chair and ran to meet and greet her husband.
He came in—the man whom you have already seen under
another name—big, bearded, his countenance ruddy and
cheerful. Remembering the wise Physician's prophecy, you
might expect certain outward and visible signs of decay.
Nothing of the kind was visible. Some of the old light gone
—some of the old eagerness vanished—but then he is three
or four years older. Besides, a big man cannot preserve
his youthful alacrity: he cannot be alert: his length of
limb and his breadth of shoulder will not allow the exhibi¬
tion of these qualities: he must move with a certain slow¬
ness. Hence it has followed that the great men of the world
have always been the little men.
He came into the room, his wife hanging on his arm, and
sat down with the sigh of one who has knocked off for the
day.
' Have you been busy to-day, dear ?' she asked. ' Are
you tired ?'
He patted her cheek gently.
11 have done a good day's work,' he said. ' And I claim
the right to be cross and tired and hungry. And you,
Nettie?'
' I will be cross and tired as well, then. The children
have been very good. Yic looked in and father. Yic was
rather dissatisfied and cross. I'm afraid she doesn't manage
very well—and, poor thing! she has got to manage so much.
Well, dear?'
He drew her to him with his great arms and kissed her
twice fondly.
Three years before he had assured a certain learned
Physician that he could never again care much for any
human creature : he meant that, having found it necessary
to break off one engagement, he did not feel for the moment
AT THE SIGN OF THE BON MARI
231
equal to beginning another. The learned Physician informed
him, in reply, that loneliness would prove too much for him.
Prophetic Physician !
He came to this part of London. He drew from the
Bank money enough to keep himself going: he proposed to
make this serve, and for the future to keep himself by his
own work. When such a man, untrained for any profession,
thinks of work he turns to journalism. Formerly, he turned
to teaching : now, he goes to.the nearest newspaper. In the
same way, women formerly, if they were compelled to work
for themselves, could think of nothing but governessing :
now, if that calamitous necessity falls upon them, there are
a hundred ways.
George became a journalist. That is, he offered himself
to the local paper : for the wages of a grocer's assistant he
began to furnish sketches, to look up things of local interest,
and to make himself useful. He succeeded : he got on so
well that he was now sub-editor—that is to say, he edited
the paper, but the Proprietor put his own name at the
top.
Presently he widened his work, as you have seen, and
began to work for magazines.
He lived alone in lodgings. He knew no one at all: he
made no attempt to make friends, and once in two months
Mr. Mavis called for him and took him away for two or
three days.
He presently found his life intolerably dull. He tried to
brighten it by going to places of amusement. They amused
him no longer.
Then he made an acquaintance. She was in the Post
Office. He got into the habit of speaking to her when he
bought stamps. It is quite easy to exchange a word or two
of simple courtesy with a young lady who serves out the
stamps and receives the telegrams. He discovered that she
was a pretty girl—nay, a very pretty girl—that she had
really beautiful eyes, and that she seemed, besides, to be a
quiet girl of good manners.
One Sunday afternoon he met her in the street. He took
off his hat. He assumed the position of an old acquaintance.
He walked with her. He informed her of his name and his
profession and the place of his residence. He obtained per¬
mission to see her home when she left her office next day.
232
THE DEMONIAC
He went back to his own lodgings a new man—in love once
more.
Now she was his wife and the mother of his two children,
the dispenser of his wealth. But he had. not yet, for her
sake, dared to meet and to grapple with that fiend. Still,
after the stated interval, Mavis called for him. Still, he
went away stimulated, partly by the suggestions of the faith¬
ful man-servant, partly by force of habit, and partly by the
Devil, into the craving which demanded that he should
become a drunken hog. That continued, but it did not
increase. The Devil took his tax—two days, or three at the
most—every two months. The rest he might give to virtue,
temperance and restraint.
' George,' Nettie said presently, her thoughts still running
upcn the question of her husband's people, ' this glorious
sunshine makes you think of Australia, I suppose ?'
' Sometimes, and of other countries where the sun is
warm.'
' And of your own people too. Wouldn't you like to see
some of them again ?'
' My own people ? Oh yes—perhaps,' he replied care¬
lessly. 'What made you think of my cousins, Nettie? I
am not very anxious to see my cousins, I think. What
made you think of them ?'
' I don't know. At least—but it doesn't matter,
George.'
' When one has no nearer relations than cousins—first,
second, or third—one does not think very much about rela¬
tions, I suppose. I have had no communication with any
of mine for four or five years. I wonder,' he added reflec¬
tively, ' if they think I am dead ? Because in that case -'
He paused with a little chuckle.
' Are they rich people ?'
' Some of them are very rich indeed. But we mustn't
look to them for any help. Nobody is less inclined to help
a man than a rich cousin. He is ashamed of poor relations,
to begin with.'
' They've no call to be ashamed of you, George. And we
don't want their money.'
' Certainly not.'
' Do they live in Australia?'
' None of them live in Australia, They all live here, iq
AT THE SIGN OF THE BON MART
233
England. When they do invite us to visit them nest, we
will go together, so that you may see their grandeur.'
4 Perhaps, dear, they may help the boys when the time
comes.'
4 The boys, I hope, will help themselves. You see, my
dear, I am perfectly certain that they will not think my
boys in want of any help.'
4 Do they know, George, where you are, and that you are
married ?'
4 Well, you remember that your father put a notice of the
marriage in the paper. Perhaps they saw that.'
4 Perhaps.'
4 Nettie, my dear'—he drew her to sit upon his knee
while he lay back, his head in his hands—4 let us talk, not
about rich cousins, but about being rich. How should you
like to be rich, now ?'
41 don't know. What do you call rich ? Four hundred
pounds a year?'
4 No. Five thousand—ten thousand—a year—all to
spend.'
41 can't think of so much. We could never spend so
much, nor half.'
4 Try to think of being so rich. Try to understand what
it means to be rich. I believe that a dream of great wealth
is the commonest dream of all. Did you never dream
what you would do if you were rich ?'
4 No, I never did. It would be foolish. Father used to
be fond of saying what he would do if he were rich. His
thoughts ran on great houses and gardens, and a carriage.
I think, too, he would like to have an office and a staff of
clerks. But that's the way of a man, always to be thinking
of something different. Thinking and wishing won't alter
things. A woman understands what is before her, and
makes the best of it. Many men, I am sure, never under¬
stand exactly what they are. My brother Horry, for
instance '
4 No, my dear. Horatio Patager certainly does not yet
understand himself.'
4 Then, you see, it is so silly of people in our station to
dream about getting rich. When a boy is made a clerk, he
ought to understand, to begin with, that he can never
become rich.'
234
THE DEMONIAC
4 Like a Franciscan, when he assumes the triple cord, he
renounces wealth. The modern Franciscan is the City
clerk.'
4 He must be content to live respectably and to do his
duty, and to set an example of honesty and moral principle
to those above him and to those beneath him in station.'
4 Quite right, Nettie dear. It is only since I have known
you that I have properly estimated the breadth and the
depth of the influence exercised by the City clerk.'
'Father was never rich. That is certain. But we
have always been most respected. Nobody can deny
that.'
' Consider, my dear. Give reins to your imagination. If
you were rich, you would have no anxieties. At present,
your happiness depends upon my health and strength. They
may fail. If you were rich, you would not think about
me so much, perhaps.'
' Then I could not love you so much, dear.'
4 The boys would have the best education '
'And learn to grow up idle, and so get into mis¬
chief. '
4 You would have your carriage and your servants, and
a big house '
Nettie shook her head.
4 These things do not attract me. Why do you keep
harping on rich people, George ?'
4 Partly, my dear, from a habit of curious speculation.
Partly, because there seems a chance—just, just a chance—
of our really becoming better off.'
4 Oh ! better off. That I don't say.'
4 Yes, a good deal better off. It is an opening. An offer
—provisional, of course—that I have had made to me, in
connection with a West-End paper. If anything comes of
it—why, then you would have to prepare yourself for a
considerable increase to your income, madam.'
4 Oh! How much?'
4 Last year I made three hundred pounds. What do you
say to six hundred ?'
4 George ! It is impossible ! Six hundred ?'
4 Improbable, my dear, not impossible. To the journalist,
as to the engineer, nothing is impossible. We do not know
the word. But «ve must consider before we make a bid for
AT THE SIGN OF THE BON MARI
235
this vast income. Being poor, my dear, has many advan¬
tages. I never knew how good a thing it is to be poor
until—until I married you, Nettie dear.'
1 Not that we are poor at all, George. And now come to
supper.'
After supper, George again began to talk about riches
and poverty. He persisted in regarding himself and his
wife as poor people, though they had quite the nicest house
in Daffodil Road, with every room furnished and paid for,
and nothing on the hire system ; and though his wife had
nearly a hundred pounds of her own, all saved since her
marriage, and standing to her name in the Post Office
Savings Bank.
' You see,' he said,' how simple is our life—how few are
our wants as we live now. If we had more money, the
wants would increase, the simplicity would vanish.'
' I am sure,' his wife replied, ' that we have everything
we want. We ought to be very happy, George dear, and I
am too.' She laid her hand upon his arm fondly. ' Very
happy, my dear, thanks to you. Who could be unhappy
with such a husband ?'
He kissed her. Then he filled and lit his pipe.
1 Let us, however, consider farther,' George continued.
' We occupy, at present, an obscure station, and have few
responsibilities. No one expects anything of us: wo have
few opportunities of cheating our employers, or sweating our
servants. My employer, for instance, the Proprietor of the
Clerkland Observer (with which is incorporated the Arcadian
Gazette) can, and does, sweat me. I remark the fact without
rancour. The practice hurts me little : it keeps me poor, in
constant occupation, and in good training. It hurts the
Proprietor more than it hurts me. It damages and weakens,
you see, his moral fibre. I watch it weakening. It makes
the downward slope easier for his poor feet. I look to see
him presently accelerate the pace, and—swish!—glide swiftly
out of sight into the chasm below.'
' No one talks like you, George. No wonder the curate
says you are above your station! "A remarkably well-
informed man," he said to father.'
George laughed pleasantly.
' No man, my dear, can be above his station. He may be
—he often is—below it. Sometimes I think that even the
235
THE DEMONIAC
curate. . . . But no. Any man may adorn his station, but
he cannot rise above it. To return. Consider another
point. We have two boys, the image, I am pleased to think,
of their mother. These boys, when they grow Up, will, per¬
haps, begin to form and to nourish ambitions—even in this
suburb ambitions may spring in the youthful heart. It is
not given to every man to become the contented clerk.
Now, if that should prove happily to be the case, they would
have the whole world before them. Any line of life—every
line—is open to them. The son of Croesus has no such
choice. His ambition may be soaring, but his field is limited.
When you come to think rightly of it, to be so near the
bottom, with the ladders all round you, by which you may
climb to dizzy heights in any direction you please, and the
lowest rungs all within easy reach and open to choice—it is
glorious ! It is splendid !'
The wife shook her head.
' I hope the boys will go on contented with their lot, and
as happy as we've always been. I don't believe in grandeur.
It only leads to wild ways.'
' Perhaps. Another reason for remaining poor. Wild
ways, indeed ! Wild w*>ys ! For the likes of us !'
' And we are not poor, George,' his wife insisted. ' We
are most respectable people. Father always says that ours
is the one class that keeps the country honest. We do all
the work, and the chiefs take all the money. Down below
there is drink. Up above there is profligacy. That's what
father says. With us there is honesty, fidelity, and moral
principle. We don't cheat, like the tradesman. We don't
grind, like the capitalist. We don't drink, like the working-
man.'
' And we don't profligate like the House of Lords. Your
father is always right, my dear Nettie. He is a most valu¬
able member of the State. Well, folks who are—not exactly
poor—like ourselves—are not introspective nor retrospec¬
tive.'
' I don't know what it means, George ; but I am glad we
are not.'
' We look not backwards or forwards. Disease, for ex¬
ample, we do not regard as hereditary. This saves us a
great deal of trouble and anxiety. We take no precautions,
yet we do not sit down in despair, For instance, there is
at the Sign of tiie eon mari
137
the hereditary disease of drink. Suppose one of our boys
was to break out in that direction ?'
' I cannot suppose. It is impossible !' the wife interposed.
' My boys, indeed ! Your boys, George ! To take to drink?
Impossible!'
' Quite impossible, which is the reason why I ask you to
suppose it. The friends of such an one call him a toper, a
drunkard, a coward, a disgrace to his family. He feels that
he must fight against it—there is nothing else possible for
him. If he does not, he will even lose his livelihood. Now,
if he were a rich man, he would sit down : he would say, " I
am a victim of heredity. There is no use in struggling." '
' Then he would be a fool for his pains. But nobody
could be such a fool as that.'
' I dare say he would. A wiser plan would have been to
avert the disease by ordinary precautions. Physicians are
agreed, I believe, that disease may be more easily averted
than cured. Well, my dear, we are all of us actively engaged,
in the course of our lives, in manufacturing diseases, ten¬
dencies, weak places for our children and the generations to
come. We are at the same time suffering the diseases which
our fathers were so good as to create for us. Sometimes I
think that we shall hereafter take turn about, become our
own grandsons, and so inherit our own creations.'
' We know that it is not so, George,' said his wife solemnly.
' As the tree falls '
' Quite so. Well, my dear, we who live a simple life
transmit a simplicity of living, a plain habit, and a healthy
temperance. Some of our good friends have inherited puny
bodies and tiny brains. Well, they are not conscious of
their inheritance. That is a distinct gain. They can there¬
fore go on hoping, and can go on working.'
' They do their duty, George, in that state of life '
' They do, my dear ; they faithfully do. And they have
their screw.'
If Nettie had any fault to find with her husband, it was
that he so often interrupted these little extracts from the
hymn-book and the Prayer Book which pious ladies receive
as the Very Word. What more would have followed we
shall never know, because at this point there was a knock at
the door.
The late visitor was none other than the interesting and
THE DEMONIAC
zealous servant, Mavis. But he was a servant no longer,
lie was Mr. Mavis. As such Mrs. Humphrey shook hands
with him. He stood in the doorway without saying a word,
his eyes dropped.
' Well ?' asked George, changing colour. ' You here again?'
' To-night, if you are ready,' he replied quietly.
' Business in Boston again ? So soon ?' asked the wife.
' How quick the time comes round !'
' Business it is, and in Boston, madam,' said Mr. Mavis.
' Train at ten sharp, if that suits you.'
He sat down, his hat in his hands, waiting. He was no
longer the servant, which was shown by his taking a chair,
but he looked like one still. One never shakes off the manners
of a servant.
' I'll pack your bag, George,' said his wife, with a sigh.
' I had forgotten: I suppose it is two months since you went
there last. And since it is business that pays so well, why
should I grumble ?'
' Since it has to be done, my dear'—George rose slowly
and unwillingly—' and since it cannot be done at home, I
suppose it may as well be done at Boston as anywhere else.
As for paying, ask Mavis himself how well it pays. Bread
and meat and drink and lodging and clothes it has been to
him for five long years.'
Nettie ran away to pack the bag.
' Don't you feel like it ?' asked Mavis.
' I never feel like it till you come. Damn you !'
' Then your throat begins to tickle, and your mind begins
to run on whisky, and presently you begin to gasp and your
throat burns '
' Hush! it has begun '
His wife came back, carrying the bag.
' Good-bye, George dear. Take care of yourself. I shall
expect you home in three days. We have got plenty of
money. Good-night, Mr. Mavis.'
' My dear '—George folded her in his arms—' let us think
no more of getting rich. Let us continue in obscurity. So
best. So we must.'
MY OWN HOME
239
CHAPTER X.
my own home.
Old men who have risen—young men who are rising—are
subject, from time to time, to a remarkable yearning after a
sight of the place they knew and haunted in the days of
small things. They must go back and look at the place:
they must revive the old associations. We have had, for
instance, recorded in the public journals, how one who rose
to be a languishing nobleman from a butcher's boy could not
refrain from visiting the scenes of his childhood, though the
visit was likely to bring trouble upon him.
Professor John Carew, as one of the young men who are
rising rapidly, was naturally impelled from time to time to
arise and revisit the scenes of his childhood. There was no
especial reason: the place was in no way romantic : and
there were no remarkable incidents peculiar to his own child¬
hood. Yet, once a year—or perhaps once in two years—he
would go off to walk once more about the old familiar streets
and roads and squares. There was the church dedicated to
St. Stephen, of which his father had been vicar: he was
never particularly fond of the church, and he had no great
liking for church services. It is not a beautiful church, being
an erection of red brick : one of those district churches of
which so many have been raised within the last twenty years.
He had spent many hours of tedium in that church while his
father—a good man, but no orator—read his discourse. Yet
he always walked down the road in which the church stood,
and contemplated that monument with interest. The
vicarage, next the church, was the place where he was born:
the garden, that in which he had been wont to play: the
road, that in which his feet first trod their hesitating foot¬
steps. He was not a sentimental man, but he had this
sentimental touch. Perhaps the thing which most attracted
him was, not so much the memory of the past, as the con¬
trast between his first beginning and the splendid future
which now seemed stretching out before him. This Church
of St. Stephen's stands in Daffodil Road. John Carew is as
much a native of the quarter as Nettie or Victoria Patager,
240
THE DEMONIAC
Therefore, when on this particular afternoon in June ha
walked about the place, everything was familiar to him.
He remembered a time when the whole world to him con¬
sisted entirely of roads planted with trees and behind the
trees little houses all alike, or nearly alike. Later on, the
whole world consisted of men and women living in a condi¬
tion of chronic tightness, the matrons managing with the
greatest craft and skill, the boys and girls always longing
for what they could not get. There is nothing in the world
so stimulating to some minds as the present contemplation,
or the past memory, of domestic tightness. On the other
hand, to some minds nothing may prove more narrowing
and enslaving. John Carew remembered how he had very
early resolved upon getting clear—somehow—of domestic
tightness. It made him angry to see his mother at work
every day and all day long, sewing, darning, contriving, ar¬
ranging : she had no independent life at all: no woman
with her income and her family ever has. Well, he would
fight his way out of it—somehow.
The place was so familiar to him. He recalled the prim
and precise clerk, who lived in this house; the clerk with
all the importance of the Senior Partner, who lived in that;
the clerk of a financier, who talked of millions. He re¬
membered them all: so regular at church, so narrow in
their ideas, so proper in their conduct, so solemnly common¬
place in their language, so limited in their ambitions. He
remembered, besides, the sons of these worthy citizens:
why, from the earliest he had felt that he belonged to
higher levels than they could possibly reach, though at the
outset they were all poor together. Tor such a boy as
John Carew the ladders of ambition have been planted.
Once the lad has his foot on the first rung, everything may
be achieved.
John Carew loitered along the road, thinking of these
early days when every step was hidden in mist and cloud,
though the mists and clouds showed golden in the sunshine.
The young man newly admitted into the ranks of the
successful, the parvenu among scholars, looks back upon
such a time with self-congratulation. When he is older ho
will think of it with wonder, that he should have been
taken from the herd and all the rest be left behind; and
with sorrow, that the joy of hope—the first budding of the
MY OWN HOME
241
timid, half-expressed hope—is so far behind. Presently,
John Carew began to think of a family he had once known.
Thus, we first think of the species and then select the indi¬
vidual : we first gaze upon the crowd and then pick out one
to represent the whole. The head of this family, he re¬
membered, was a clerk and a person of great dignity : he
was one of the churchwardens of St. Stephen's. His house¬
hold consisted of his wife, two sons and two daughters.
The boys, he was quite certain, were by this time in the
City : they were urbi ascripti: long since they had found
their desks : they were now, perhaps, making their hundred
pounds ,a year, or even more. Where were the girls ? The
elder always interested him, because she had large dark-
blue eyes which looked full of deep, deep thoughts, too wise
for speech, too spiritual for common man. Nay, there was
a time even when. . . . But happily that business went but
very little way. No doubt a mind of commonplace with
eyes of romance. How should a girl belonging to such a
house be anything but commonplace ? What had become
of Nettie? There was a younger sister—Victoria—but he
remembered less of her. She was four years younger than
Nettie. Yes, Nettie must be twenty-four—about two years
younger than himself. Very likely she was married : the
people in these parts marry early: perhaps she had gone
away—yet those people do not care about going away: they
are attached to their old quarters.
He lifted his head at this moment and looked around.
Heavens! The oddest, most remarkable coincidence ever
heard of! For at an open window, which served as a
frame for a portrait, he saw the very girl of whom he was
thinking. Five years, at least, since last he saw her. He
knew her at once: it was Nettie Patager. She was bending
over something—in fact, the cradle. He stopped: he
looked : he opened the gate and stepped into the little front
garden. She turned her head. Yes ! Nettie. There was
no mistaking the deep-blue eyes. She saw him, and cried
out with wonder, and ran to open the door.
' Why, it's never John Carew, is it ? Oh, do come in,
John Carew! We haven't seen you for ever so long, not
since your father went away. Do come in !'
She gave him both her hands, and would willingly have
kissed him had it been proper.
16
242
THE DEMONIAC
' Nettie, of course I knew you at once. And is this your
house—and your own ?'
He looked at the cradle and its occupant.
' It is my own house—all my own. Isn't it a nice house ?
And my own baby. I've got another little boy, two years
old. But he's gone out with the girl in his perambulator,
bless him !'.
' And what is your new married name, Nettie?'
' My new name ? I've had it for more than three years.
It's Humphrey. I think it a very pretty name. George
Humphrey is my husband's name.'
' I do not seem to remember the name, in the old time.
Perhaps he belonged to one of the Chapel folk.'
' Oh no, always a Churchman. But George is a new¬
comer. He doesn't belong to the place. He only came to
live here about three years and a half ago. My husband is
an Australian. He comes from near Melbourne. Fancy
my marrying an Australian ! Who ever would have thought
of such a thing ?'
' Why not, Nettie, if he is the man of your choice ?'
' Of course he is the man of my choice. He isn't in the
City, you know, which went against him at first, because
we are all City people here, and we like the old ways best.
Father thinks there is no safety out of the City. A young
man should get a berth in a good old House, he says, and
stick to it. That's his idea. Well, there is truth in it, too.
What father says is always sensible. So when George
came to the house first, he didn't get much encouragement,
and was rather looked down upon, because he is only a
journalist, you see. And a City clerk in a good House
naturally looks down upon a journalist.'
' Naturally.' John Carew sat down and listened. His
old friend talked along just as she had always done, quickly
—as all London girls talk—lifting her eyes, those wonderful
great eyes, deep and full, charged with mystery and unknown
depths of thought. ' Quite naturally, Nettie.'
' Yes. But George bore up. He has the temper of an
angel, my husband. Nobody ever saw him put out. When
my brother, Horatio—you remember Horatio?—was rude
to him, and chaffed him about his flimsy and his penny-a¬
line, he only laughed. By degrees father came round a
bit. He could see that George was a steady young man?
MY OWN HOME
243
and went off to business at regular hours. Then it was
found out that he was making a good income—more than
three pounds a week : and somebody told father that there
are journalists who make as much as eight or ten pounds a
week. So father made no further opposition. Besides, it
was too late, because I was bent upon it by then, whatever
anybody said. And so we were married at a registrar's,
just to show our determination. But we went to Church
afterwards, of course.'
' That was a happy time, was it not ?'
' Oh!' She clasped her hands. ' But it's been a happier
time since then.' She sighed. 'I often think I'm not
sufficiently grateful. None of us are. Yet I've got the
best husband in the world, and two of the loveliest children
you ever saw, and a nice house, and a good income to
spend. "What more can a woman desire ?'
' I think there is not much more to be got. Love, plenty,
youth, health, and strong children. Do you know, Nettie,
you have got everything that the world can give you ?'
She laughed contentedly. Fancy one woman—and that
woman under five-and-twenty—able to absorb all that the
world has to give ! Bightly is woman called receptive.
' I ought to be happy. I am happy, John.'
' And I am very glad, indeed, to see my old friend in such
good case.'
' But what are you doing, John ?'
' I have left Cambridge. I am a Professor.'
'Oh! A teacher in a school? Well, John, I am glad
you are not too grand for us.'
He laughed too. It is well to have one's position clearly
understood.
Then she went back to her husband again, as a woman,
selfish in her own happiness, naturally does. Nettie could
talk about George and the children all day long, and dream
about them all the night, and never feel the least desire to
change the subject.
' George is not a common journalist,' she continued.
' You must not think that. Once there was a journalist
who took a house next door to us. I believe that it was
his example which set father against the profession. The
beer that used to go into that house—at all hours, too!
Oh! He was a disgrace to the Boad. Everybody was
244
THE DEMONIAC
glad when he went away, though sorry for the poor wife to
have her furniture seized for the rent. My husband is not
like that man at all To begin with, he has been a most
wonderful traveller: he has been all round the world—
think of that! And he knows French and German : he can
quote Latin and Greek : and look at all his books !'
John Carew got up instantly, and began to examine the
books. A very good collection, so far as five or six hundred
volumes go. This man knew what reading meant.
' And you may start any subject you please, and you will
find that he knows all about it.' John began to think that
the man must be of the self-made, self-assertive, ostenta¬
tiously superior kind. ' Sometimes the Curate looks in of
an evening, and they argue. The Curate always pretends to
have got the best of it. But I know. It's my husband's
kindness. And as for writing, why, he can write anything.
He writes the leaders every week in the Clerkland Observer :
he sends descriptive articles to the magazines, and they are
taken : he can write poetry : he can write tales, too. Once
he wrote a most beautiful story, all about a man who was
in love with a girl. But he found out that he had an
hereditary disease; and he had to behave cruel to her, so
as to break it off without her being blamed. And so he
went away '
' And died of a broken heart ?'
' No. In the story he went to live among poor people,
and married a poor girl, and she made him happy in spite
of the hereditary disease. When he is hard up for a sub¬
ject, he opens his note-book, and writes out an account of
some island he has been to, and sends that to a journal.
As for money, we are getting on famously. We have every¬
thing we want; and we are saving, I can tell you. There's
baby waking up !'
In fact, the youthful Humphrey gave the usual evidence
of a return to consciousness. His mother shook him up,
after the manner of the fond mother, and administered the
bottle.
' It's half-past twelve,' Nettie went on. 'This is one of
the days when my husband comes home to dinner. He will
be home by one. Will you stay and have some dinner with
us ? Do, John, for old times' sake ! There's plenty and to
spare, If there is qne thing that we are extravagant in, it's
MY OWN HOME
245
housekeeping. Mother holds up her hands, only to think of
the butcher's bill. But then, I tell her, she hasn't got a
man to provide a dinner for. What does she want with a
big butcher's bill ? When we girls were at home, it was a
bloater one day and an egg another day, or a slice of bacon,
or a tin of Australian tongue, cold—and good enough, too.
And even father is content with a shilling for his dinner :
says that to spend more than a shilling on a meal is sinful
waste and gluttony, in one who is a clerk. But George is
that kind of man who is not happy if there is not plenty.
It's the Australian in him, I suppose. So it's only the prime
joints that content him; and—I will say this for him—he
has as noble an appetite as ever blessed a man. Then you
will stay, John ? It's a lovely steak—a picture—it is indeed.
I am going to see about it at once. That's kind now—you
will stay.'
She left the baby under his eye, and ran away. Pre¬
sently he began to discover the fragrance of this unrivalled
steak as it hissed under the influence of the clear fire in the
kitchen below. Nettie was not too proud, he observed, to
assist in cooking her husband's dinner. By this time he
had made up his mind concerning this unique specimen of
the Journalist—the complete and Perfect Journalist. He
was young, pasty-faced, undersized, conceited, self-assertive,
and underbred. He thought of the poor girl's enthusiasm
with a kind of pity. How good for a woman thus to nourish
illusions concerning her husband ! Since one cannot get
rid of a husband, better never to know or suspect the truth
about him. John knew the sheet, the Clerkland Observer.
You see, it existed in the time of his residence. He re¬
membered the character of its leading articles, and drew an
inference—hasty and without sufficient foundation—as to
the kind of man who would write those articles. Pasty-
faced, undersized, underbred, self-taught, and conceited.
And Nettie believed that he was a great scholar and a great
genius !
The clock on the mantelshelf struck one. Precisely to
the moment John heard a manly footstep outside. Then a
rushing footstep—it was the wife flying upstairs to greet her
husband.
' George, we have got a visitor—an old friend. Come
in '
THE DEMONIAC
The door opened and the Perfect Journalist appeared
John Carew caught his breath with astonishment. Pasty-
faced? Undersized?
Why, the man was a giant—tall, broad, rosy-cheeked,
handsome as Phoebus Apollo. Underbred?
He advanced with the best air in the world.
' Any old friend of my wife is welcome,' he said, holding
out an immense paw.
'This is John Carew, my dear,' said his wife. 'He was
son of our last vicar. Father was churchwarden. We often
used to go to the vicarage to tea in the old days.'
'Well, Mr. Carew,' said the husband, 'I am glad to see
you.'
' The vicar went away to another church '
' My father took a country living,' John explained. He
could not take his eyes off this man, so big, so handsome,
so totally unexpected. Besides, he had an uneasy feeliDg
that
'—And so we have never met until to-day, when John saw
me by accident.'
' I have been at school and at Cambridge,' John explained
again. ' When one gets among other sets and in other
places ' The uneasiness grew stronger.
' Yes,' said the Journalist. ' What was your College ?'
' Christ's.'
He was now quite sure that he had seen that face before,
somewhere.
'Ah !' He changed colour slightly. ' What year did you
go up ?'
' In eighty-four.'
When John went away, he thought it was rather odd
that an Australian journalist should ask these questions.
When one young man puts them to another, it generally
argues some acquaintance with the University.
' Eighty-four. Oh ! Yes. Eighty-four. That was
after ' He checked himself.
Then they went down to dinner. John observed, first,
that husband and wife drank water ; that is not so unusual
in these days : he next remarked that there was an obser¬
vance of dinner forms, simple enough, but not customary in
households of Arcadia or Clerkland, where there is only one
real dinner a week. The napkins, the table linen, the serving
MY OWN HOME
Ml
of the dinner by the single maid, showed an appreciation of
dinner as a ceremony or act of worship.
' George is particular about his dinner,' said his wife.
' At home we used to have it pretty much anyhow, except
on Sundays. George likes it properly laid and served.
Well—I must say that he has made me like- it so, though
mother would never give in to it.'
George volunteered no explanation of this singular taste.
By this time, however, John had discovered that the man
was a gentleman. Clearly, a gentleman. At every point
of him, a gentleman. How came such a man as this to
be so low down in the world ?—assistant-editor to a little
suburban local paper, living by chance contributions here
and there.
' I hear that you are an Australian, Mr. Humphrey,' he
said presently.
' An Australian,' replied his host shortly, and in a voice
which encouraged no more inquiry in that direction.
Then they began to talk about the topics of the day.
This Australian talked well: there was not the least self-
assertion : he was not conceited : he was not half informed:
and he did not talk the day before yesterday's leading article
of his favourite paper. Now, if one listens in a suburban
railway carriage where the people talk to each other, you
will observe, provided you are properly posted in the litera¬
ture of the Ephemerides, that the opinions exchanged,
offered or confirmed on the subjects of the day are those of
the day before yesterday's Standard or the day before yes¬
terday's Daily Neivs, according to the politics of the speaker.
This man, because he was an Australian, probably, talked as
one who has taken the trouble to get at the facts from his
newspaper and to draw the deductions for himself.
When the early dinner was finished, John Carew felt that
he had met an intellectual equal, and, in knowledge of men
and manners, a superior. But the College Don rarely has
an opportunity of acquiring much knowledge of men and
manners.
' Will you come to see me?' he said. ' I live in chambers.
If you would dine with me at the Savile '
' Thank you very much,' Mr. Humphrey replied. ' But I
do not belong to Club life or to West-End life at all.'
' That is the reason '
248
THE DEMONIAC
' Pardon me. You are very kind—but I live here,' he
spoke decisively. ' You, who know this part of the world '
' Yes, yes '—for the speaker left the sentence unfinished—
' I know—well. But if Nettie—forgive me, we always used
to call each other and to think of each other by our Christian
names—and you would come to my chambers alone, some
evening—if it is only to carry on this talk '
' Do, George,' said his wife. ' We go out so seldom—
never anywhere, except to mother's. I should like to go,
and John is such an old friend !'
' Very well, my dear, if you like it. Mr. Carew, one con¬
dition, please. We will gladly accept your invitation—if
you will allow us to find you alone.'
John Carew went home thoughtful. To begin with, here
was a very remarkable man—in any circle he would be re¬
markable : he was nothing but a small suburban journalist.
Now, such a man generally begins with being a reporter: he
writes shorthand : he attends local functions, inquests—he
is great in inquests : he portrays the local news: he is
acquainted with all the local tradesmen : he is influential
in getting advertisements: but he is not a gentleman, a
traveller, and a scholar.
Had he done something, to get so low down ?
On the other hand, why should he do anything ? Suppose,
which was probable, that he had come over here to seek his
fortune and had been compelled by poverty to take what he
could get ? He might very well not be eager to be intro¬
duced to the literary circle of the Savile Club as the assist¬
ant-editor of a suburban paper. A man must get up the
ladder somehow or other; there is no dishonour in any
honest way : but some of the lower rungs are rather better,
to look at, than others.
Nettie had done very well. Her large and lustrous eyes-
he remembered them when she was only a little girl—had
brought to her feet that Prince of whom every girl dreams
but few girls get—a man strong, capable, well-taught, well-
bred, affectionate and constant. Happy Nettie 1 Thrice
happy Nettie!
But—after all—how came such a man in such a place ?
He went to bed that night haunted with a sense of incon¬
gruity. What had such a man to do in such a place ?
What brought him there ? And he remembered the man's
MY OWN HOME
249
face—very odd thing : he remembered the face quite well—
—that is, part of the face, not all of it—quite well and
clearly he remembered it. Where had he seen it ? It was
one of those horrid half-memories which disturb and irritate
one, because the other half will not come back. He tried,
but in vain, to remember the voice, the shoulders, the big
burly form, the great hands, the whole appearance of the
man. He could not. It was only the face that seemed to
haunt him.
A trick of the brain! How should he ever forget this
splendid man if he had ever met him ? It was impossible.
One might as well try to forget some hero of romance : one
might as well forget Don Quixote—Colonel Newcome—She.
A trick of the brain—nothing but a trick of the brain !
CHAPTEE XI.
the eecluse.
The visit to John Carew's room was duly made, and the
condition observed. No one except the tenant of the rooms
wyas there to meet this suburban journalist of retiring dis¬
position.
Everybody knows the kind of nest—luxurious, well
furnished, aesthetic to a certain point, but with a kind of
severity—which the young Cambridge Don makes for him¬
self and transports with him when he leaves his College.
The rooms were a flat—young men who are Professors no
longer live in grimy chambers. There were two sitting-
rooms, both of them filled with books, but one having its
books only half-way up the wall, so as to leave space for
engravings hanging above. Great feeling was displayed in
the selection of chairs : in such rooms there should be no
two exactly alike; as there are diversities in length of limb,
so should there be diversities in depth and width and
height of the chairs. In a more advanced state of civiliza¬
tion these points will be observed, even in dining-rooms.
There was no foolishness of fashion : smaller people may
put up peacock's feathers one year, and blue china the
next; a young Professor must rise to the level that is above
250
THE DEMONIAC
fashion, and remain there. There were also a good many
' nice things,' chiefly gathered ronnd abont the shores of the
Mediterranean or the sandy banks of the Upper Nile.
The Professor observed when George Humphrey came into
the room that he looked about him with the eyes of one
who knows such rooms, and while Nettie cried out for the
beauty of the furniture, he began to go round among the
book-shelves, reading the titles and taking out the volumes
to look at the edition or the binding, or to refresh his eyes
with the mere sight of the text, like one to the manner
born. John Carew was not only curious about this remark¬
able journalist, but he was also by nature observant.
' This fellow,' he thought, ' is not self-made, whatever
else he is. That is abundantly clear; no self-made man
could handle a book like that.'
An observation which shows that the young Professor
may yet become a novelist. Because, you see, the self-made
man reveals his selfish training, to those who have eyes to
see, by his manner of handling the tools of training. "What
is the difference ? It is hard to say. The man who has
educated himself knows the value of books as much as the
man who ' makes' himself knows the value of money: he
respects them and loves them as much as one who has been
schooled and taught from childhood up; yet he cannot
handle them with the same appearance of affection. It is
their contents that he values. He is as one who loves
humanity for its virtues and its possibilities: the scholar
is as one who loves humanity for the same reason, but
delights to see his humans clothed daintily and behaving
with grace. Now, this Australian journalist showed the
scholar's handling.
They talked of many things. Their talk lasted till ten at
night. John Carew discovered that of quite recent books
his new acquaintance knew nothing at all; but of older
books, say six years old at least, he knew and had read
everything that men do read and talk about—the books of
Darwin—of Herbert Spencer—the novels down to the year
1885 or thereabouts—the poets down to that year—there
has not been much poetry since. It was as if for some
reason or other he had ceased to read about that year.
' I have read nothing of late,' said George, when he had
betrayed complete ignorance of what had recently been
THE RECLUSE
251
written and said upon a certain subject. ' It is now nearly
six years since I quite left off reading.'
' Eeally ? Quite left off reading ?'
' I was travelling about the world, sailing among the
islands of the Pacific, and so was out of the way of books.
When the wander years were over, and there was no more
money left, one had to get work somehow—any work that
offered. The work that came to me was—what you know.
There are no libraries, no new books, no new magazines,
and nobody to talk about books in my quarter.'
' I should have thought that you would have returned
with an insatiable thirst for books.'
'No. When you have to cadge around for the day's
dinner, there is not much thirst left for anything else.
Besides, one easily forgets those tastes ; one grows lethargic :
in your company some of the old enthusiasms may flash up.
Mostly, however, they are dead and gone.'
He spoke with a touch of sadness in his voice.
' They can easily be revived,' said the Professor. ' Surely,
surely, a year or two of uncongenial work cannot have
destroyed the fine taste, the scholarly instincts, the scholar¬
ship itself. Why, you betray these things in every word
you utter !'
' Only the smouldering fires—they are nearly destroyed.'
' Then leave these lower levels and let those fires revive.'
Nettie heard this talk with bewilderment. She under¬
stood in a vague way that John Carew, of whose actual
position she had but vague ideas, was urging her husband
to leave low levels—low levels ?—and go up higher.
' I must stay where I am,' said George. ' It is the com¬
pulsion of necessity—force majeure—the hand of Fate.'
'No, no ; there can be no such compulsion,' the Pro¬
fessor persisted. ' A man like you can command better
work. It is a shame that you should be giving yourself
away to a trumpery local rag. You ought to be on the
staff of a great paper. A man with so much knowledge of
men and manners, books and history, would be invaluable.
You ought to be making your thousand a year at least.'
' Oh, George !' said his wife. ' A thousand a year?'
' You cannot sit down contented with your present
work.'
' I don't know,' George replied. ' Perhaps I can do no
252
TI1E DEMONIAC
better. Being where I am, and making enough for actual
wants, why should I worry?'
' Oh! but to stick down there '
' It seems rather cowardly, doesn't it ? But I don't
know. You see, in our fortunate quarter a certain happi¬
ness, not of a very high standard, reigns in all hearts. If I
should emerge, we might lose this happiness.'
The Professor laughed scornfully.
' Shall we exchange the substance for the shadow ?'
George went on. ' In the higher levels there is no content¬
ment, but every man fighting for more and the standard
going up, and up, until nothing les3 than the best of every¬
thing satisfies anybody.'
' You are not serious ?'
' I am serious in this: that I mean to remain where I
am. As for getting better work, that may come subject to
the condition of remaining where I am. You don't wish to
leave your native quarter, Nettie ? We will stay where we
are—alone, and contented with our own company.'
' I would rather stay where we are,' said Nettie. ' But
I should like you to get work better suited to your genius,
George. And I should like to see a little more of the world
than we do.'
The Professor clearly perceived that, for some reason or
other, this man intended to remain in obscurity. I regret
to say that, like certain members of Nettie's family, he
began to suspect some reason of the baser kind for this
desire. It was absurd that a man still under thirty—so
well educated, so well read, apparently so well bred—should
desire the obscurity of such a life. Well, for Nettie's sake,
he hoped that it was nothing shameful that remained to be
found out.
When the visitors went away, John Carew began to con¬
sider what, if anything, could be done for this man. Those
who write for daily papers must be on the spot—in the
office—every day : they must see and consult the Editor.
But there are certain weekly papers where this is not
necessary. Many men write for these papers from the
country. He knew a certain Editor. To him he confided
the fact that he had found that rare creature, the retreating
modest genius who desires nothing but to hide his head
away from the haunts of men. There have been known
THE RECLUSE
2;3
such cases. The Editor, interested, undertook to consider
anything that this unknown genius should send him. Then
John Carew went again to Daffodil Road, and had another
talk.
' Think,' he said. ' No one asks you to stir from this
hermitage. No one will want to see you—all you have to
do is to furnish an article in the style suited to the paper
on a subject that may interest the readers. "Will you try ?
It is certainly a long step above the local paper.'
George hesitated.
' I have ventured to interfere with your affairs,' said
John, 'for the sake of my old friendship with your wife.
That is my only excuse. I see that you desire, for reasons
of your own, to remain in obscurity. I do not ask those
reasons—only for your wife's sake '
'You are very good. Yes—thank you—I will have a
shot at this paper. If I succeed, I am not bound or tied
down by any times or hours ?'
' None. But there is a good deal of work to be got on
such a paper—review work, politics, social articles. You
might succeed in getting so firm a footing on the paper that
the Editor would look for you as a regular contributor.'
A week later George had the pleasure of seeing a paper
by himself occupying a place of honour in small print and
in the middle. In the course of the next two months he
contributed half a dozen papers. Then, owing to certain
events which happened unexpectedly, this profitable and
honourable connection was broken off altogether, and now
I do not think it will ever be resumed.
The two men saw a great deal of each other during this
season. They became as intimate as is possible where one
man keeps an obstinate silence about his own people and
his early history. One resents this reticence—except, per¬
haps, in the case of a man whose people have been hanged,
or who has himself spent a term of years at Dartmoor.
We do not ask for confidence exactly ; but we do not like
concealment. Such men may make plenty of acquaintances ;
but of friends, few. Besides, why hide the fact of poor re¬
lations ? They are a nuisance to the man himself, particu¬
larly if they want to borrow his money or be asked to his
dinners; but they are not a nuisance to his friends. Not at
all. His friends rather like to tell how the man has one
254
THE DEMONIAC
cousin who keeps a lodging-house, and another who is matron
at a school. George Humphrey said nothing more about
either himself or his antecedents. He was an Australian,
from Melbourne—so his wife said: he had travelled and
spent all his money, and so was obliged to do what work he
could get—so he himself had confessed. What John Carew
himself perceived in addition to this was, that he was a man
of culture, education, and good breeding. In accepting his
journalistic work, in marrying Nettie Patager, he had come
down in the world. Had he done something ? Had he
gone under because he must? Perhaps. Poor Nettie!
Best not to inquire further, lest ugly things should be dis¬
covered and present happiness be destroyed.
In this way May passed into June, June into July, and
the two months' interval of virtue and temperance drew
towards its close.
' If you will come to-morrow evening,' said the Professor
one night, ' I will find the book and look out the passage for
you ; I think it will clear up the point.'
' To-morrow will do perfectly well,' said George. ' I will
turn up about eight o'clock.'
' My dear,' said Nettie. ' Pray do not make any engage¬
ments after to-morrow. Bemember, it is your Boston week.'
George changed colour. He grew red, and then pale.
' I had almost forgotten,' he said. ' Well, for to-morrow
evening, at least, I am free. The day after I may have to go
away on business.'
' He has business that takes him to Boston once every
two months.'
' Boston ?' asked the Professor. ' I thought that Boston
was extinct, dead and gone—I had an idea that it died in
giving birth to the new Boston. There can be but one
Boston.'
' Oh !' said George, ' the old Boston lives still. There is a
good deal of business in a quiet way at Boston. Mine is
business which, as it happens, no one can manage except
myself. I don't like it—I find it a great nuisance going
away for two or three days. It is an interruption. Still, if
it brings in money And we cannot afford to give up
regular work, can we, Nettie ?'
' I hate it,' said his wife. ' It takes him away from me:
it worries him beforehand: I can see him thinking about it;
THE RECLUSE
255
he gets fidgety sometimes, days before the time : and some¬
times he comes back looking so pale and shaky that it is
evident how hard they work him. I believe he works all
day and all night.'
' All night, sometimes,' said George, with a smile.
' Can't you give it up ?' said the Professor. ' Will not the
new work take its place ?'
' I cannot possibly give it up. I am under no positive
engagement; but yet I must not give it up. It is, I confess,
a great trouble and interruption, and the work—the work—
is uncongenial—and in many ways it is . . . sometimes '
He lost command of himself for the moment. ' It is in¬
tolerable ; but it can't be given up.'
His face clouded over. Conversation was stopped. The
Professor said ' Good-night.'
' George dear'—Nettie twined her hands round his arm
—' you were angry to-night about this Boston business.
Why do you let it worry you ? Give it up, dear—we can
make plenty of money without it. Oh ! I have always hated
it more and more, and now I can't bear to see you going off
with that horrid man, looking miserable when you start,
and coming home pale and shaken. I am always thinking
about it. Can't you give it up ?'
' No, dear, I can never give it up. Never—now. I might,
perhaps, if I had had the courage five years ago.' He
dropped his voice. 'But now—never, my dear. Let us
make the best of it.'
' And with such a man! I hate the sight of Mr. Mavis.
He looks like a worm, with his white smooth face and his
down-dropped eyes. A man who cannot even look you in
the face. Give it up, dear. Think of what John Carew
keeps on saying, and give it up.'
He kissed her sadly ; but made no reply.
' Business in Boston !' said John Carew to himself on the
way home. ' Business in Boston every two months, for
a literary man—wonderful! Business which makes him
wretched before, and shaky after it. Business which he
cannot possibly give up. Now, if I were in the Gaboriau
line, I would go to Boston and find out what could be the
business which takes a journalist there once in two months.
This is the secret of Mr. George Humphrey's retreat to the
jback seat of suburban journalism. This is the skeleton in
256
THE DEMONIAC
the cupboard. Business in Boston—why does he say Boston?
I don't believe he goes to Boston. Yet business of some
kind—of a regular kind—of an unpleasant kind—and of a
kind which must be done. I think it would not be difficult
to find out where his business lies, and of what kind it is.
Any man may be watched—-such a big man would find it
very difficult to escape detection. Yet—no, Nettie—though
I should like to discover the mystery, for your sake, my old
friend—I will not seek to disturb your happiness.'
CHAPTER XII.
he is alive.
In the morning, among the letters, John Carew found on his
table one from Elinor Thanet. It reminded him of a task
laid upon him, in which he had as yet taken no steps at all.
In fact, it was a task which he proposed to shirk, because
he had no great desire that the young lady's lost lover should
be traced. To find him might mean the awakening of old
emotions. He would rather wait, watch, and be patient
until the day, now certainly not far distant, when she should
herself own that the time had come when she might con¬
sider herself free.
The letter gave him a disagreeable reminder of neglected
duty.
' My dear friend (she wrote),
' I once asked you to help me in finding that long-
ost lover of mine. I do not know if you have made any
attempt, or if you have met with any success in your search.
But you would have told me if you had. Now I have some¬
thing for you to go upon. He is in this country. He has
quite lately been at Brighton : he may be there now. He
was at Brighton, in fact, three days ago. A letter has been
received from him, in his own handwriting, which is un¬
mistakable. I enclose a copy of it. The cheque which it
enclosed has been honoured, as he directs, by his agents.
We have all felt the greatest relief to learn that George is
really living. We now hope to find out very soon where he
LIE IS ALIVE
257
is, and why hb went away, and what he has been doing all
this time. " The Mystery of George Atheling " might be a
title for a shilling shocker. I am now wiser than I was
when he deserted me. Things which would have then ap¬
peared to my inexperienced eyes impossible, now seem pro¬
bable, because they are common. I believe, indeed, that he
left me because he had fallen in love with somebody else.
Further than this I cannot get. For if he had married that
other girl, he would have wanted money to maintain her.
But he has drawn no money for three years. All his money
has been accumulating. This cheque is the only one that
has been drawn : it is for a large amount; but then, I sup¬
pose, it represents the expenditure of three years. I put all
kinds of suppositions before myself. I suppose that he may
have been in some madhouse, or he may have been wander¬
ing in some wild and distant country; but I cannot tell
what to think. Give me, if you can, a little of your thought.
Advise me. And find my old friend for me.
' Yours very sincerely,
' Elinob.'
John Carew read this letter with satisfaction. She had
no longer any love for this old friend of hers. That was
plain. Well, wbat was he to do ?
The letter enclosed was very plain and simple :
' Gentlemen,
' Will you pay to the account of Mr. Joseph Mavis,
Union Bank of London, Tottenham Branch, the sum of five
thousand pounds, for which I enclose a cheque on my own
bank ?
' Yours very truly,
' G. H. Atheling.'
The letter was, of course, only a copy. The address given
was at a Brighton hotel, and not one of the best. And
though the letter was dated three or four days back, the
cheque was dated at the end of May.
He began the search at once. First, he went to the
lawyers—Mr. Atheling's agents. He found that they had
carried out the instructions. The money had been paid to
the account of one Joseph Mavis, at Tottenham.
17
258
THE DEMONIAC
' Who is Joseph Mavis ?' asked the Professor.
' He is described as a gentleman living in the neighbour¬
hood.'
' It seems very mysterious. Have you sent down to
Brighton ?'
' We have written, but have as yet received no answer.'
' Should you feel justified in advertising for Mr. Athel-
ing?'
The lawyer hesitated.
' It is doubtful, as yet, whether we should. Let us first
wait for the answer to our letter. We wrote to ask for an
appointment.'
' You ought to have had an answer before this. Stay, it
is now half past ten. I will catch the next train to Brighton,
and will go myself for an answer.'
The hotel named in the letter was one of those small
places in the upper and less attractive parts of the town,
called Somebody's Arms. A house of call for local trades¬
men, rather than a place for a gentleman to put up. John
Carew went in and asked for Mr. Atheling. There was no
one of that name in the hotel. A letter for a gentleman of
that name was waiting in the rack.
' But,' said John, ' we have a letter from Mr. George
Atheling giving the address of this hotel.'
This fact nobody ventured to explain.
' Has anybody at all been staying here lately ?'
' There was a gentleman,' said the chambermaid—' he
was here a week, and went away three days ago. Mr.
Mavis, his name was.'
' Mr. Joseph Mavis ?'
' I don't know, sir. He did not leave his Christian
name.'
This was an important fact, however. No Atheling had
been there at all. But one Mavis had; and Mavis, there¬
fore, to whom the money was payable, had posted, and
probably dated, the letter of instructions. Atheling, mean¬
time, who had drawn the cheque two months before, was
not with him. Yet the letter of instructions addressed at
this hotel was dated three days before.
John Carew came back to town with this news.
'Now,' he said, summing up, ' this man writes a letter—
the handwriting is, you say, undoubtedly his own. Another
LIE IS ALIVE
259
man puts an address and a date to it. The address is false,
and so is the date, because the cheque is dated two months
before. "Where is the man who wrote the letter and drew
the cheque ? Why was the false address given ? Who and
what is the man named Mavis ?'
' That we can find out very easily, I take it.'
' Have we not gone far enough to advertise ? There is
nothing like an advertisement. Advertise in all the papers
simultaneously. Do this first, while you go on finding out
who this man Mavis is. Are there any distinctive features
by which Atheling can be recognised ?'
' Well, yes; he is the kind of man who could be described
so that recognition would be certain.'
' Let us offer a reward, then—a good big reward—a
hundred pounds reward—for such information as will lead
to his discovery. The papers are sure to take it up : within
four-and-twenty hours the whole country will be on the
look-out for the man.'
This arranged, John Carew could do no more. He wrote
to Elinor and reported what he had done.
It was by this time evening, and his friend, George
Humphrey, was to call in an hour or two. He took a hasty
dinner at the Club and hurried back to his rooms.
The talk flagged. George Humphrey was gloomy; the
other man was occupied with the difficulties of the situa¬
tion.
' I must tell you,' he said at last. ' I can think of nothing
else.'
' What is it ?'
' I am trying to discover a man who has vanished ; and I
fear there has been villainy.'
' A man who has vanished ? Who is the man ?'
' He is a man; his name matters nothing, yet it will be
in all the papers to-morrow. His name is Atheling—
George Atheling.'
He was so much interested in his story that he did not
observe the sudden change in his companion's face.
' Atheling,' George repeated.
' This is the story. He was engaged to a young lady—
then almost a girl. He was a wealthy man. He had every¬
thing that any man can hope to have. He was young,
26o
THE DEMONIAC
rich, healthy, strong, highly cultivated, and with a great
future before him. Yet he disappeared suddenly.'
< Why T
' Nobody knows.'
' Nobody ? Did not the girl herself ever tell why he went
away ?'
' She never knew : she could not so much as guess. He
vanished, that is all we know. It was discovered that two
years later he drew some money. Then he vanished again,
and this time altogether.'
' Were not any of his companions found to tell where he
had been ?'
' No public inquiry was ever made, and no search insti¬
tuted ; therefore, we don't even know who his companions
were.'
' But the girl: did he not write to the girl ? Surely he
must have written one letter—just one—only to explain.
Men don't leave girls suddenly without some sort of an
explanation.'
' He made none.'
' Oh !'
George looked surprised, as if he knew something. That
is to say, John Carew remembered afterwards, too late, this
look of surprise.
' It appears, you see, that the girl and her lover had some
kind of a quarrel. She told him he was not himself—he
was changed somehow—it may have been nothing—a fit of
indigestion. She bade him go away, and not come back
till he could recover his lost self. So he went. But she
added, most unfortunately for herself, that she should con¬
tinue to remain bound to him till he should, when returned
to his right mind, release her. And she continues to con¬
sider herself bound to him to this day.'
' Oh ! But this is pure absurdity.'
' As I tell her. Such, however, is the fact. Now comes
the important thing. We have at last discovered that he is
still alive, or that he was alive a month or two ago.'
' Indeed ? How ? Has he been seen ?'
' No. His lawyer, however, received, two or three days
ago, a letter from him.'
' From him ?'
' From him. Unmistakably in his handwriting. It was
HE IS ALIVE
261
dated from a small hotel at Brighton. It contained a large
cheque, and it ordered the lawyers to pay this into a certain
account.'
' Oh! this is very mysterious !' George was now enter¬
ing thoroughly into the mystery of the situation. ' Very
strange and interesting indeed ! He wrote from Brighton ?'
' Yes ; but the cheque was dated some weeks before the
letter. His instructions have been carried out, and the
young lady has been informed that her former lover is still
living. She asked me to assist in finding him. I went
down to Brighton, and found that the man had never been
at the hotel at all, unless he was there under a false
name.'
' You are sure that there was a cheque ?'
«Yes.'
' For how much ?'
' It was a large cheque. For five thousand pounds.'
' For five thousand pounds ? The letter and the cheque
were both in his handwriting ? You are sure of this ?'
' The lawyers were quite sure upon the point. What do
you think? That a crime of some kind has been com¬
mitted ?'
' A crime—of some kind,' he replied.
He shivered : he turned pale : he remained in silence for
awhile.
The other man thought he was turning the problem over
in his own mind.
' I suppose,' he said, ' that there will now be more cheques
drawn, and continually more.'
' The man may spend his own money as he pleases. Can
he not ?'
' Certainly—oh ! certainly. Well, it will last a good
while; that is one comfort.'
' Yes ; it will take a good many cheques to exhaust that
little pile. What did you say you propose to do? You
have formed some plan ?'
' We must find him, wherever he is. That seems a clear
duty.'
' You think so ?'
' Certainly—we must find him. At present it looks as if
he might be in somebody's power. He signs a cheque for a
very large sum; he writes a letter which he neither addresses
262
THE DEMONIAC
nor dates. Perhaps he is all the time miserably locked up
in a madhouse, in the hands of some villain ; but we know
nothing. It is a mystery which must be cleared up.
Remember, he is rich. Those who have him in their power
may mean to keep him until they can get the last farthing
out of him. He has friends who have not forgotten him,
and he has heirs who are interested in seeing that his
estates are not robbed. You are a man of the world,
Humphrey ; can you suggest anything ?'
' I should like to know your own ideas first.'
' I think we should advertise. We should advertise a
description of the man as he looked when he wa,s last seen,
how he was dressed, colour of his eyes and hair, size and
shape of him, any marks—and so forth.'
' Do you yourself know what he is like ? Have you a
description of him ?'
' No. But the lawyer-people at the office say that they
can describe him so that it would be perfectly easy to find
him. They were doubtful about it at first, because, you
see, it is rather an awkward thing to advertise for your
clients; but this discovery, that he has never been to
Brighton at all, and that the letter was wrongly addressed
and dated, has frightened them, and they now seem ready
to go on until they find out. What do you think?'
' I think,' said George, rising, ' that you are quite certain
to find out where he is if you do advertise—and that before
many hours. But instead of advertising, I should, if I
were you, do nothing at all. Consider: he has written a
letter to his lawyer. This may prove his intention of letting
it be known that he is, at least, alive. If he is a wise man,
he will, from time to time, let his former friends and his
agents know that he is living. But when a man voluntarily
goes away and disappears, there must be reasons—good
reasons. This man would seem to have drawn no money.
The conclusions that may be drawn from this fact are many.
One is quite clear: he does not wish his new way of life to
be known. The man, you say, is a gentleman. Why not
respect his wishes—certainly the harmless wishes—of this
gentleman ?'
Some men might have suspected the truth. There are
not so many gentlemen and scholars in the lower walks.
But John Carew had so made up his mind that this man
HE IS ALIVE
263
was an Australian, that he did not suspect. What he did
arrive at, however, was something very near the truth.
' Humphrey,' he said, ' you speak from your own experi¬
ence. I have long suspected this. You have yourself
broken with your friends in Australia. You no longer
communicate with your own people. You have chosen to
disappear.'
' For very good reasons, perhaps the very same reasons
as those which drove that other man out of sight. Yes,
you are quite right. I need not ask you to respect my
secret. But, since you are willing to understand my posi¬
tion, can you not also understand that the other man's may
be exactly the same—complicated by the addition of this
great fortune, which he may be unwilling to assume again
either for himself or for his family ?'
' Yes, I see. I will think it over. After all, if we can
only get tidings of his welfare, and assurance that he is a
free agent, that should be enough.'
' I think it should he enough. A discovery might—it is
conceivable—do him a very serious injury. For instance—
take my case—your surmise is quite correct; I have cousins
here in England, in a very good position. It would not
please them to find me where and what I am—nor would
it make my wife and the children, when they grow up, any
the happier for knowing where they might have been—but
for reasons. You know the motto of the Courtenays—XJbi
lapsus ?—very bad Latin. It should be mine. It may be
Atheling's.'
' Yes. I think that we have been, perhaps, too hasty. I
will try to stop that advertisement at once.'
In fact, he did try. Unfortunately, he was too late.
' Let me see you again soon. Can we meet to-morrow,
or next day? In such a case as this, a third person—a
totally uninterested person like yourself '
' Yes,' said George calmly.
' —May be of the greatest service.'
' Unfortunately,' George replied, ' I am engaged for two
or three days ahead. I must go out of town. I have, as
you heard yesterday, business—business at Boston.'
Next day, Elinor received a letter, without any address,
which bore the post-mark of ' Kensington '—a good central
post-mark. She knew the writing.
264
THE DEMONIAC
' At last!' she cried, and tore open the letter.
' My dear Elinor,—Five years ago I wrote a letter, in
which I told you exactly the reasons why I had changed so
greatly in two or three months. I did not bind you to
secrecy; but so far as I have been able to learn, you have
kept these reasons a secret. I expected some reply ; but
after waiting some time, I concluded that I should have'
ncne. As an opportunity now occurs to write to you again,
and as I have learned that you are still unmarried—if that
fact has any connection with me, I most earnestly beg that
it may at once cease. My letter, indeed, gave you your
release freely, and from that moment. I cannot believe
that you could misunderstand it.
' I remain always, with friendly and affectionate
memories,
' Your old friend,
' G. A.'
' At last he has written !' said Elinor. ' It is his hand¬
writing—it was written yesterday. But he tells me nothing.
Well, I am free. Of course, I was free before, whenever I
pleased. And I think I am pleased now. I have had my
freedom long enough. What does he mean about a former
letter? Oh! he is mad. I believe he was mad then. I
believe he has been mad ever since. George must have
been locked up in some foreign madhouse.'
CHAPTEE XIII.
business at boston.
George Humphrey sat with his wife in the little slip of a
garden behind the toy villa. It was blossoming as finely as
if it belonged to a great house. Allow for certain well-
defined limitations of the London air, and you may make a
suburban garden bright with flowers through all the leafy
months from May to October. Lilies, nasturtium, migno¬
nette, convolvulus, green peas, scarlet runners, giant holly¬
hocks, sunflowers, the tobacco plant, the blue lobelia, hardy
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
265
annuals by the hundred, will adorn your narrow bit of
ground.
The children were in bed : the sun had gone down : it
was nearly nine o'clock, but there was still plenty of light.
Husband and wife sat hand-in-hand. They were silent:
their looks were melancholy : forebodings filled the mind of
one: he saw that the thing, long expected, had at last arrived:
his servant, who for five years had robbed him secretly, was
now beginning to rob him without concealment. He knew
how the letter must have been written and the cheque signed,
by whose dictation and under what circumstances. Once
begun, the thing would be repeated. He had known, since
the experience of the voyage, that he was in the hands of a
perfectly unscrupulous and calculating person. So long as
this person did what he was paid to do, that mattered
nothing. Not until now had he realized how completely he
had fallen into the man's power. And he was coming
again. That very evening he would come. At the thought
of the orgie which would follow, with the companionship
of this creature, this thief and rogue—his soul sank within
him. One way out of it. Yet he had long forgotten the
very possibility of this way.
' My dear,' said Nettie timidly, ' have you thought any
more of what John Carew said? I mean that you should
give up the lower kind of work, and go in altogether for the
best journalism.'
' Yes, I have thought of it, Nettie. I am always thinking
of it.'
' It has made me so proud to see your papers in the
Review every week. Even my father, who is so dead set
against the profession, acknowledged that there was some¬
thing to be proud of in being connected with such a paper.
If you could only keep to that kind of work alone ! Then
I have had more talk with John Carew—all about you,
dear. He says that you have seen so much of the world,
and that you have had so many experiences of men and
manners, that you ought to write a most splendid novel.
Think of that, dear !'
' An autobiography. Yes—I might write a powerful auto¬
biography, if I told the whole truth. But no one ever
does.'
' Well, dear, why not ? The children should learn to bo
2 66
THE DEMONIAC
proud of their father. I know how clever he is. Let them
know too. Let all the world know. Oh ! since we have
been to John Carew's chambers and talked with him, the
world seems to have changed. You have changed ; you
seem a different man, and oh! so much greater, George,
dear. Why, I can understand, now, what makes men dis¬
contented. Our young men are brought up to believe that
there is nothing possible for them but to become clerks.
They have no ambition. They go into the City and yet do
not try to make themselves rich. Other young men—like
John Carew, for instance—talk as if there was nothing in
life worth anything except ambition.'
' There isn't—much.'
' And yet for three years you have been contented to sit
down here among these unambitious clerks, and to toil for
next to nothing for that wretched local paper. And you
know the world. How could you do it? How could you
be so contented? Why, George, when I knew no better I
wanted no better. But you always knew, and yet you were
contented. You even seemed to be happy. How could
you, George? Was it because you had married me?'
' My dear, it was because I could not, anyhow, get rid of
that other me—myself me. You helped me to become con¬
tented. You made me happy.'
She shook her head. What did he mean by ' that other
me' ?
' Give up this Boston business,' she urged again. ' Give
that up, and I believe all would be right again.'
' Perhaps it would. Yet I cannot give it up.'
' I feel sure that it stands in your way. If you give it up,
you might go among gentlemen again. Why are you afraid
of going among gentlemen ? You are a gentleman yourself
•—I have known it all along—you are as superior to my
brothers as John Carew is. You belong to his set, not to
ours. I can see it in the difference of your manners when
you are with him. You are with an equal. With the men
here, you cannot disguise that you are their superior.
How could you ever marry me ?'
He patted her cheek, but said nothing.
'George, I should like our boys to be gentlemen too,
unless their mother stands in the way.'
' No, Nettie—no. It is their father.'
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
267
1 Tliey are the sons of a gentleman. Won't you give
them their right place ? Won't you sacrifice this—whatever
it is that stands in their way—for the sake of your wife and
children ?'
The man sat silent. He heard another voice besides—a
voice of three years agone—the voice of the Physician who
warned him :
' There is one other chance. It is that for the sake of
some person—out of some great affection—you may arm
yourself with resolution enough to fight the thing.'
The voice spoke out quite clearly. He looked down upon
his wife's comely head: he stooped and kissed it.
' I will give up the accursed thing,' he said. ' Whatever
happens, I will give it up. I will go back to my old friends.
Your boys, my dear, shall be gentlemen, as their father was
when he began the world.'
' George ! You will ? You promise faithfully?'
She caught his hand and kissed it.
' I promise faithfully.' He raised his head, and saw at
the head of the garden-steps the man whom he was expect¬
ing. ' I promise, my dear. I go to Boston—for the last
time. I am only going now, in order to make my arrange¬
ments for winding up the business and handing it over to
my successor. Then I shall come home. Por the last
time. You have seen Mavis for the last time.'
He kissed her and ran up the steps.
Five minutes later he was gone.
' But,' said his wife, ' it is for the last time. That dread¬
ful man will come here no more.'
Like many men, George Humphrey's habits were such as
to require the services of somebody to put his dressing-room
in order, after every visit he made to that apartment. The
wife ran tip to perform the duty. The drawers were open,
most of the contents were lying on the floor or on the
single chair. George had been putting a few things in his
bag.
She began to pick up the things and to put them back.
In a few minutes the room was in order again. The last
thing she picked up was an old overcoat which hung from
the wall.
' George never wears this,' she said. ' I have never seen
him put it on. It's quite an old thing, too. It only takes
268
THE DEMONIAC
up room. I will put it with the next bundle that goes. It
will bring in something.'
She began to search the pockets, a precaution always
observed both by those who sell their old clothes and by
those who buy them. Money has been found forgotten in
the pockets. I believe it is at Guy's that there lingers a
traditional romance, or romantic tradition, of a student who
was reduced to his last gasp, and on the point of renouncing
his career, when he discovered in the left-hand pocket of a
forgotten reach-me-down a whole sovereign. He remained
at the Hospital and became a Baronet, his son became a
Baron and his grandson is an Earl. And the romance re¬
mains for the comfort of all penniless students.
There was no money in this overcoat. It belonged to the
days when George had a valet, which accounts for the fact;
but in the breast-pocket there was a letter. She drew it
out. The letter was in an envelope, stamped and ready to
be posted. It was too dark to read the address.
Nettie carried the letter downstairs, thinking to give it to
her husband in the morning. But when she had lit a candle,
she read the address—' Miss Thanet.' Who was Miss
Thanet ?
The envelope, which had lain in that pocket for five years,
showed signs of wear. The coat had been put on and thrown
off a hundred times, but the letter had never been dis¬
covered. It had travelled all round the world. It had been
hanging up in the dressing-room. Nettie herself had taken
it down and brushed it a dozen times ; but the letter lay
there, undiscovered.
Nettie read the superscription once more.
I think that up to that moment she had never felt the
smallest jealousy of her husband. In his actual presence it
was impossible to feel jealous of him. His face, his manner,
the look in his eyes, drove out jealousy. Even when her
mother, or her sister Victoria, in her most spiteful mood,
suggested that with a perfect stranger you never know for
certain that there isn't another woman in the case, Nettie
never felt the least jealous. What they said, however, of
George's strange freedom from relations had sunk more
deeply than she would confess. Now, therefore, when
jealousy awoke full-grown in her heart, it was accompanied
by curiosity. Under these influences, which caused her eyes
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
269
to glow and her lips to stiffen, she tore open the envelope
and read the letter. You have read it already.
This letter she read through once, twice, three times.
Jealousy sank back abashed, and cowed curiosity hung her
meddlesome head. In the presence of this terrible confes¬
sion both those passions slunk away and vanished. The
concluding paragraph, with the signature, passed before her
eyes unseen. She read nothing but the awful avowal of a
confirmed and habitual drunkard.
1 Oh !' she thought—if her thoughts could be put into
words, a process which deprives them of swiftness, of bril¬
liancy, of eloquence, and of persuasion—' I know all now.
He goes mad for drink. This explains everything. He has
run away from all his friends for the very shame of it. He
lives apart from them because they won't let him live with
them. And the man Mavis is nothing but his keeper, whom
they pay to take care of him when he has a fit. He has
one coming on now. He goes away somewhere with his
man, and stays until the fit is over. Where can he go ?
The business in Boston is to get drunk without anybody
knowing it. Oh ! George, George—my poor husband ! My
poor dear ! My poor dear !'
What should she do ?
The first thought of such a woman, so brought up, is for
the daily bread of her children. Those who have never
known the peril of such poverty as lessens the daily bread,
do not begin by thinking of such a thing. The daughter of
the small clerk thinks of it always. She has had actual
experience either of her own or of friends in this direction.
She has either felt, or witnessed others feeling, the actual
pinch of unsatisfied hunger. Was the daily bread of her
children in danger ? Well, during these three years of her
marriage there had always been enough, and more than
enough. She had even saved a hundred pounds. Business
at Boston had never, so far, interfered with the supplies.
Then she thought of other things, but in no proper
sequence. A well-ordered mind would, I dare say, consider
the degradation of the man first of all. Nettie did not. She
considered the triumph of her mother and sister when the
thing was found out—if it should be found out. And this
thought filled her with rage and shame. She pictured her
father grave, but not dissatisfied to find that his prejudice
2;o
THE DEMONIAC
against journalists was justified. Also the malicious joy of
her brother Horatio, himself too much addicted to the
cheerful glass and the convivial bar.
A better-educated mind would have considered with
dismay the hereditary nature of the disease. Nettie had no
such ideas. If a man committed the sin of drunkenness, he
was a wicked man who ought to be punished, all the same
as a man who robs his employer. She had no fears about
her children, except that their father's weakness might
interfere with their up-bringing, and that they might find it
out. Therefore, it was not, after a little, pity for her husband
that so much filled her soul as indignation and contempt.
To go away and drink with a keeper! Not to be able to
resist a simple temptation !—to those who know not, it
seems a simple thing—but to yield at once, like a common
drunken tramp ! Oh ! Shameful! So it was—most shame¬
ful ; and yet—and yet—had she known the strength of the
temptation ! This, too, she was about to learn.
Business at Boston. That meant, she was perfectly cer¬
tain, business at Mavis's house—she knew his address.
Her husband gave it to her once with the injunction that if
he should at any time be taken ill, she was to send for Mavis
at once, in order to get business of an important kind ar¬
ranged. Suppose she was to go there as well ? She might
get into the house: she might even bring her husband home
safely : she might, at least, satisfy herself about these sus¬
picions.
It was about half-past nine. She called her single servant.
' I am going out with the master,' she said. ' It may be
quite late before I get back. Take both the children into
your own room.'
Then she put on her hat and jacket, and sallied forth.
Within ten minutes' walk she came to the great highroad
running north to Tottenham and Enfield and whatever lies
beyond. In this highroad there are frequent tram-cars.
She got into one of them, and was borne northwards.
Mr. Mavis occupied a cottage standing in its own grounds
in the broad valley of the river Lea, near Tottenham.
Though the town of Tottenham has been ruined and spoiled
worse than any other suburban town in the world, by the
erection of rows and terraces of hideous houses, there are
places where some of the old houses—not the great old
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
271
houses, out the little cottages—may still be found. This
house, built of the old red brick, and surrounded by a high
red-brick wall, stood in the middle of a really spacious garden
among trees : a cottage quite secluded and shut in. It was
the last in the road, and beyond it stretched the low-lying
meadows on either side of the Lea.
The cottage was, for the most part, unoccupied. No ser¬
vant lived there and no caretaker : no gardener attended to
cut the grass and attend to the flower-beds : the place was
deserted, save that once in a while there were seen lights,
and voices were heard. Yet it was tenanted : the rent and
the rates and taxes were paid with regularity. It was said
that a misanthropist lived here all by himself. He was a
hermit: he was a miser : he was a criminal: no one knew
who he was or what. Such tenants, so unknown, so mys¬
terious, are not uncommon in London. For instance, there
was a set of chambers in a certain Inn, some years ago, let
to a man whose name was over the door. The name re¬
mained over the door for twenty years, during which the
tenant never once came to the rooms, nor did anyone else
call, nor were the rooms entered. At the end of that time,
there was occasion to take up the floor for some gas-pipes.
It was found that the rooms were absolutely bare and un¬
furnished. Why had the tenant taken those rooms ?
Nettie found the place with little difficulty. She pushed
open the gate and walked in, her courage rising rather than
failing her as the time for action approached.
There was no light in the front of the house : she walked
across the long, rank grass of the neglected lawn: the air
was heavy with the fragrance of mignonette, honeysuckle,
and all the flowers of midsummer.
She stood in the porch and listened. She heard the
voices of men disputing. Here husband was there, then.
She recognised his voice.
She stole round to the back of the house. There was a
light on the ground-floor. But a white blind was pulled
down, and she could see nothing. She listened, but the
men talked in a low tone. She could distinguish nothing.
She went back to the porch. She would knock at the
door and call her husband out. Feeling for the knocker,
she became aware that the door yielded. It was not shut.
She opened it cautiously and looked in. Everything was
272
THE DEMONIAC
dark ; but the shadows defined themselves. She saw that
the little hall was empty. For a light shone through the
keyhole and under a door.
She stepped lightly across a hall, afraid of creaking boards.
Then she stooped—the thing has been often done before :
it is almost classical: at such a moment, and under such
circumstances, one is prepared to defend it: if it is necessary
to find out what is going on in a room, it is often the only
way. Nettie wanted very much to know : it was necessary
that she should know : the thing was too terrible not to be
faced : therefore, she stooped and—she looked through the
keyhole.
Yes. Her husband was there, and the man Mavis.
The table was covered with bottles, tumblers, jugs of
water, and bottles of soda, potash, and seltzer.
' I tell you,' said George, ' that the time has come to make
a stand. To-night, you say, it is the night when the Devil
is due. I feel nothing. I am sober. I have no thirst upon
me at all. I believe that if you had not come '
' I am paid to come.'
' —I should not have been troubled at all. I believe you
call the Devil up.'
' He would come without any calling from me. Why
now,' said Mavis, ' before a quarter of an hour—before '—
he watched his master's face keenly—' before five—three
minutes are out, you will have a tickling in the throat, then
a dryness, next a hot and dry tickling, and then '
' Damn you !' said George. ' You have called the Devil,
and he has come. Let me have air, and I will fight him !'
He pulled up the blind and threw the window wide open.
Nettie reflected that it would be safer and easier to look
through the window than through the keyhole. Moreover,
she would be able to see more. She therefore abandoned
her position, and stole out of the house and so round to
the back. Her husband was leaning out of the window,
breathing the fresh air as if for coolness.
' Oh !' she thought. ' I might throw my arms round his
neck and drag him ajvay.'
It is a pity, perhaps, that she did not. But too often we
let pass the first thought, which is always the right thought,
free from cowardice, pure from any unworthy motives. She
did not throw her arms about him and drag him away.
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
273
She took up a position under an ash-tree, not too far from
the window. The long branches fell before her like a veil.
She held back the leaves, and could see and hear as well as
if she was in the room.
Her husband left the window and began to pace the room
restlessly. It was a mere den of a room. There was a
small table of the commonest kind : one wooden arm-chair
was at the head of the table, another at one side : the first
was empty, on the second sat the man Mavis. The only
other furniture in the room was a great sofa—long enough
and broad enough, Nettie observed, even for her giant of a
husband. The place was dirty, unswept, unwashed.
' This evening,' said George, ' I shall fight him for the
first time. If I fight him once only, I shall defeat him for
ever. Villain! Scoundrel!' He meant Mavis, not the
Devil. ' If it had not been for you, I should have fought
him on the voyage five years ago ! But for you '
' If it had not been for me, you would be lying dead at
the bottom of the sea. Fight him, indeed 1 You fight
him P
' And you have made me draw a cheque for five thousand.'
Something caught him in the throat. ' You are a forger
and a thief! I shall go and see my agents, and warn them
for the future.'
' No, you won't warn your agents,' said Mavis. ' Because,
if you do, I shall leave you. And what will you do then'?
Five thousand ! Well, if you like to make me presents
while you are half drunk, it's your look-out. Little enough,
too, considering what I've done for you. Dragged all round
the world : made to live in this hole all alone : five good
years thrown away, and a good place given up. And you
kept all. the time respectable, so that not a soul suspects ;
and you, with a quarter-of-a-million of your own, to grudge
a paltry cheque like that ! Why, it is starvation ! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself: you will be, too, in half-
an-hour ! And I shouldn't wonder if you didn't -'
He paused and grinned, and turned to his occupation,
which was that of arranging the drink as if for a dozen
men. First he pulled the corks from two bottles of whisky ;
then from half-a-dozen bottles of seltzer. Then he mixed
the whisky and the seltzer in half-a-dozen great tumblers
with an ostentatious and even enthusiastic gurgling. And
18
274
THE DEMONIAC
at the sound of the flowing drink, the glou-glou of the
whisky, and the fizzing of the sparkling seltzer, ^ George,
who had assumed the attitude of the valiant soldier, such
as Horatius who kept the bridge, trembled in his knees;
and over his face—set to sternness, such as the face of him
who leads a forlorn hope—there stole a weakening, visible
and irresistible. There would be no fight after all, Nettie
observed. And again she thought of rushing into the room
to stop him even at the last moment.
Too late ! With a groan George sank into the chair set
for him. He was trembling and shaking in every limb : the
room shook with his trembling: the drops stood upon his
forehead, his cheek was pale with longing, his eyes were
fierce with desire, his lips shook with yearning. He re¬
sisted no longer : he stretched forth his hand and seized
one of the flowing glasses.
And Nettie understood the reason why he had business
in Boston. She understood with a sinking heart. This
man her husband? This man? Oh, the pity and the
shame of it! She looked as if she could have wept and
cried aloud, but wonder and amazement kept her still. He
drained the glass. Mavis gave him another—and another.
He tossed them down his throat as if he could not drink
quickly enough. He seized the bottle and drank the raw
spirit. Then he took another tumbler and drank that. He
drank in great gulps: he drank without stopping: he was
insatiable.
Good Heavens ! And the man had been her companion
for three years, always gentle, always kind, always tem¬
perate. Now she understood why he had fled from his own
people.
The man Mavis sat at the table looking on. Nettie
observed that he showed the utmost zeal in keeping up the
spirit of the thing: opening bottles of seltzer, pouring out
water, and making the tumblers fly, as if they were both
engaged in the merriest, maddest, most frolicsome feast ever
•devised.
At last George set down the bottle empty. A whole
bottle of whisky in a quarter-of-an-hour! And yet he
lived. Now Nettie understood why he was so shy of other
men. He was ashamed. In his sober time he remembered
this time of orgie, and he was ashamed. He was not fit to
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
275
associate with men who command themselves. Yet, she
remembered, he had thought himself fit to associate with her
friends and herself.
He lay back in his chair, smiling benevolently. He was
at rest. Surrender was followed by peace. It generally is.
When the enemy has got all he wants, he is ready to make
peace. George looked round him, peaceful and happy.
Never before had his wife seen on his face that look of
universal benevolence.
His eyes fell upon Mavis.
4 You are my benefactor,' he said. 4 Mavis, you are more
than a servant: you are a fond and faithful friend!' He
did not speak thickly, or in the least like a man under the
influence of drink. 4 You are more than a friend : you are
my better self: my other half: my better half—the half
which protects and provides'—he laid a fond hand upon
the empty bottle—' provides and thinks beforehand. What
can I do for you, dear friend ? Is it money ? Can money
repay such devotion as yours? No! But if you want
money '
4 Why,' said Mavis, 4 money is always useful; and I'm
past fifty; and here's your cheque-book and a bit of note:
paper handy. Since you will have it, I'm not the man to
say nay. We'll make it five thousand while we're about it.
Five thousand—not a penny more.'
George nodded sweetly.
4 Five thousand,' he said. 4 Very good indeed; five thou¬
sand. It is too little. But since you insist on taking no
more '
He began to write. He wrote quite well and easily, in
his usual handwriting. In ten minutes more he would be
past the power of writing. This was the golden moment,
known to every toper, when the brain seems—but is not—
at its clearest and strongest. This moment past, the clouds
gather: to think or to talk is impossible : nothing remains
except to drink.
41 have written,' he said. 41 don't know what my lawyer
has done with my money, whether it is lying at the bank,
or whether they have invested it somewhere. I have drawn
a cheque to their order, and I have written a letter. Here
it is :
276
THE DEMONIAC
' " On receipt of this note and its enclosure, please pay to
the account of Joseph Mavis, at the Tottenham Branch of
the Union Bank of London, the sum of £5,000.
' " Yours very truly,
' " Geokge Atheling." '
' What name did he say ?' Nettie asked. ' George what?
Not George Humphrey. He believes that he is rich, and
he has signed someone else's name. Oh ! It is forgery !'
' There, my friend,' George continued. ' It is some com¬
fort to me that, though I must fly from my friends and hide
my head, I have got you to fall back upon.'
' Oh ! you've got me fast enough.'
He took a black letter-case from his pocket, and carefully
placed in it the letter and the cheque.
' When I came here,' George went on, ' I thought that
among those little City clerks, and people of that sort,
nobody would care what anybody did. I was wrong. They
care more down here than they do up above. They think
more of behaviour and conduct, not less—these worthy
people. I would rather that Elinor Thanet found me out
than my own wife, much rather—I should be less ashamed.'
' Oh, my love ! Oh, George !' the wife murmured, ' and
now she does know !'
' That's all right, then,' the man replied, without much
sympathy. ' You must be getting dry by this time, I should
say. Let's begin again. Let's have a night of it. Lord !
I'm most as thirsty as you. Ha !'
He began, in his turn, to drink. Not with the mad
greediness of his companion, but with a steady purpose, as
if resolved to make up for lost time. As he drank, his pale
cheeks became paler; but he lifted his eyes : they were
such bad eyes, so full of evil, that Nettie understood now
why she hated the sight of the man. Yet she had never
before seen those eyes.
Then George, stimulated by the example before him,
began again.
When Nettie presently, trembling and terrified, came
forth from her hiding-place, both men were vulgarly anl
quite commonly drunk. No coal-heaver could be more
drunk, short of the comatose state. They were laughing
stupidly in each other's faces: they bawled snatches of
BUSINESS AT BOSTON
2 77
songs: but they were too drunk to remember more than
bits of the air or of the words : they banged each other on
the shoulders with their fists : they pawed each other : they
addressed each other in terms of endearment.
The sight was terrifying and humiliating. Nettie could
look on no longer. She went away. She walked through
the dark garden into the dark lane, and made her way to
the road where ran the trams. It was now, though she had
seen so much, no more than eleven o'clock.
As the tram-car rolled along, she heard not the talk of
the people round her, or the carts in the road, or anything.
Her ears were full of the drunken singing of the man whom
she had worshipped as the best and noblest of God's
creatures 1
CHAPTEE XIV,
he is found.
When one has discovered a great secret: when one has a
great burden laid on the unwilling shoulders : when there is
a great grief: when there is a great terror to face—needs
must that the trouble be imparted to some other person,
even if it cannot be shifted or shared. Only to tell it brings
relief.
The case was quite beyond her own people's power of
advice. That, Nettie understood very well. Besides, they
must not know. She was ashamed. They must never find
out, if the thing could be concealed.
She could think of no one to advise her except her old
friend, John Carew.
In the morning she went to his chambers, and fortunately
found him at home.
Then she sat down and told her whole story from the very
beginning. She had a patient listener, though it was a long
story, and contained, before the point was reached, as many
episodes, digressions, and explanations as an eighteenth-
century novel. Like most women—the thing is illustrated
by many lady novelists—she wanted the whole story to' be
told so that nothing could be left to the imagination. It
therefore lost in dramatic force what it gained in complete¬
ness, The narrator went right back to the days when sh©
278
THE DEMONIAC
was in the Post Office, and to the beginning of her acquaint¬
ance with her George. You know the story.
' You will tell me what follows presently, Nettie,' said
John Carew when she paused and burst into tears. ' Best a
little and recover yourself.'
' No, I must go on. You know that he has what he calls
business at Boston every two months. A man comes to
fetch him—it's always in the evening—and they go off
together. He's a horrid man : he looks on the ground : he's
got white and swollen cheeks : he dresses in black, like an
undertaker.'
' I have heard of the mysterious business at Boston.'
' It isn't mysterious any longer. Now I know all about
it. And this is what I've come to tell you about. And, oh,
John! I'm the most miserable woman in the world !'
' Don't say that, Nettie ! Tell me all, and we will see
what can be done. There isn't—there isn't another woman
in the case ?'
' John ! can you ask such a question ? As if my George
was capable '
' No—no—of course not. But go on : tell me all.'
' Last night the man came again. Well, we'd been ex¬
pecting his visit, and George, poor dear, was very low.
However, he went upstairs, put his things together, and
went off looking more miserable than ever I had seen him
before. When he was gone I ran up to tidy the room after
him, which he'd left in the most horrid mess. I found,
tumbled down behind the door, an old overcoat, which I
thought, as George never wears it, I would take away and
put up in the next parcel to be sold. Well, in the pocket I
found a letter '
' A letter. And the letter contained a secret ?'
' It was a letter—not addressed to George, but written to
some lady—in his handwriting. It was in an envelope,
gummed and stamped ready to be posted. And the envelope
was brown with age, so that I knew it must be a letter
written a long time ago and forgotten.'
' Well ?'
' I was jealous, John. I won't deny that I was jealous.
But I am not jealous any longer. Why shouldn't he be
engaged before he met me ? Why, I was engaged before he
met me; twice I was engaged, and broken off each time.
HE IS FOUND
2/9
That's nothing. I read the letter, and oh, John !—oh !—it
told the whole dreadful truth about the business in Boston.'
' Oh ! The dreadful truth—and not a woman in it, Nettie 1'
He became very serious—' Not—not crime ?'
' John ! Crime ? With my George—my husband ?'
' Oh !' he sighed with relief. ' Not crime—not another
woman ? Do you know, I think it cannot be so very ter¬
rible.'
' You think so—well! But you shall just read the letter.
It is addressed to a lady—a Miss Thanet—Elinor Thanet '
' What V John Carew bounded out of his chair. ' Elinor
Thanet ? Good Heavens ! Elinor Thanet! What a blind
idiot I have been—blind and deaf and stupid ! Why, I
ought to have guessed ! Nettie, I know who your husband
is. He is not George Humphrey at all! If Elinor had only
once described him to me—if she had told me that he was
big and blue-eyed, I should have guessed long ago. Good
Heavens ! Nettie, your husband is George Atheling, who
has disappeared for five years !'
' He is my George—my husband !' cried his wife jealously.
'Of course, your husband. And I remember, besides, he
must be the same Atheling who went down just before I
went up. I found his photograph. Now I remember why
his face was familiar to me. Stay ! I've got it somewhere.'
He began to search through some papers in a drawer. ' I
know I have it still. It is here somewhere. Ah! here it is
—before he grew that great beard. Is this your husband,
Nettie?'
' Yes, this is George. He is younger, and he has no beard;
but George, most certainly—George Humphrey, my hus¬
band.'
' George Atheling, I say !'
' Last night, when he was writing, he used that name ; I
did not understand, at the time, why. What does it mean,
John? Oh ! is this a new trouble?'
' I think not. Let me read the letter, however.'
He read the letter slowly, folded it up and laid it on the
table.
Just then a telegram arrived.
' It is from Miss Thanet herself,' said John. ' She has
heard from George. Why, I consulted him about finding
himself f He must have gone straight and written to her.
28o
THE DEMONIAC
She says : " I have heard from him : he is living and well.
Come to advise me." I actually consulted George Hum¬
phrey about finding George Atheling ! And he advised me
to stop the search after him. Therefore, he knew that we
were looking after him. He advised me not to advertise ;
but the advice came too late. Nettie, this is a terrible thing
for you to learn. You will want all your courage. You
believe that this business at Boston is nothing more than
what he indicates in this letter ?'
' I have not told you all.'
She told the whole story as you have heard it, sparing no
detail.
' And now, John, what am I to do ?' she concluded.
' Never mind about Miss Thanet. Think of me and my
poor children first.'
' Yes, Nettie; Elinor Thanet must come after you. There
is no doubt, first, that your husband is subject to these
attacks of drink-craving, as you say that he is always per¬
fectly and completely sober at other times. Probably the
sight of this man has something to do with the violence of
the attacks—the sight of the man and the presence of the
drink. The man, I should think, encourages his master for
his own purposes. You say that he gave him five thousand
pounds last night ? Why, two months ago he gave him the
same sum !'
' My husband hasn't got a hundred pounds in the
world.'
' Nettie, there is another discovery for you. Your husband
is not a poor journalist at all. He is a rich man—a very
rich man. I do not know how rich. He has several thou¬
sands a year.'
' Oh ! No—it can't be !'
' It certainly is so. He hasn't made away with his fortune.
The cheque of five thousand pounds is the only cheque that
he has drawn for three years.'
' Rich ! Then my boys—oh ! John—my boys '
'Will be rich as well. Nettie, you have found out a
terrible secret. But you have also found a secret which
may bring consolation, and even help.'
' What am I to do, John ? Oh ! what am I to do ? For
if he finds out that I know all, he will be shamed : he will
run away and desert me, And if he goes away again on
HE IS FOUND
business to Boston, I shall die of anxiety and pity for him.
Oh ! he thinks I should despise him ! I, who have never
found him anything but full of love ! Oh ! John, I am full
of pity for him. I was full of rage when I went after him—
but it was so dreadful to think of him as I saw him last
night—so fallen—so degraded—my George !'
' Let me try to do something for you. Leave him to me
—I have at least an idea. He can't run away this morning,
I am quite sure. Leave him to me.'
' But, John, don't tell him that I know.'
' I never will. Go now, Nettie. Go with some relief to
your poor heart. You know the worst. Now go, and let
me think.'
The cottage at Tottenham on this splendid summer
morning, surrounded by flowers and trees, covered with
creepers, looked like a bridal bower—a sweet, sacred spot
reserved for honeymoons, the rest of a newly-married pair.
It was perfectly quiet: except for a thrush or a blackbird,
there was hardly any sound in the air: you could hear the
hum of the countless insects about the flower-beds : and
though the lawn was neglected and the grass long and the
flowers were mixed with weeds, the place looked beautiful
and inviting. Bound the house was a brick wall of great
ancientness, the top covered with long grasses and wall¬
flowers. A policeman stood outside the gate, gazing upon
this scrap or remnant of Eden.
About eleven o'clock a carriage came down the lane, and
stopped before the gate. A gentleman got out, followed by
two commissionaires, stalwart, well set-up men. The
policeman watched him curiously.
' I want,' said the gentleman, who was John Carew, ' to
find a house tenanted by one Mr. Mavis.'
The policeman smiled mysteriously and pointed within.
' This is Mr. Mavis's house ?'
The policeman smiled again and pointed within.
' Well. Do you know if he's within—at this moment?'
' Oh ! Yes—he's within. You'll find him. The other
gentleman is there too.'
' The other gentleman who comes here to stay a day or
two. I have come, in fact, for him.'
' Well, you'll find them there—bufc^—
282
THE DEMONIAC
' You mean that it will be difficult to get speech of them.
Is that it? I know all about it, you see.'
' Last night,' said the policeman, ' I heard them. They're
a cheerful pair when they do get together ! I suspected
something, so I went in. The door was open, and a window
was wide open. I shut the door, but the window I left
open. As for making them understand anything—there!
You can let yourself in by getting through the window if
you like. You don't look like one who would steal any¬
thing, and there's nothing to steal except a bottle of whisky
or so.'
John Carew followed his guidance, and entered by that
method.
Lying on a sofa breathing stertorously, his cheeks swollen
and red, lay George Humphrey. He was evidently in a
deep sleep, from which he would not awaken for some
hours. On the floor lay the other man, Mavis, also sound
asleep, and in a similar condition.
John opened the front door to admit his commissionaires.
Then he looked round the house. Every room, except one
bedroom, was empty and unfurnished. If this man lived in
the house, it must have been a most uncomfortable way of
living. Then he returned to the first room. On the table
he saw a black letter-case. He remembered the story of
the letter and the cheque.
' At all events,' he said, ' if George wants to give him this
money, which I doubt, he shall give it when he is sober.'
He opened the case and took out the papers. ' When you
wake up, my honest fellow '—he addressed the sleeping
servant—' you will remember the cheque, and you will
search for it, and you will not find it. Then will your
heart sink like lead, and your amazement shall make your
knees to totter; and what with hot coppers and the dis¬
appointment, and the anxiety about the cheque and the
disappearance of your master, your condition will be very
bewildering and uncomfortable !
' Poor beast!' he turned to the contemplation of George.
' This is how we meet! This is the man whose face so
filled me with admiration six years ago ! I remember him
now. This is the reason why he took his name off the
books. Poor wretch! What an affliction! He is the
slave of the ex-gyp—the slave of this creature!'
THE MOUTH OF HELL.
283
He turned the prostrate body over with his foot. Then,
by the aid of the two stout commissionaires, he carried the
sleeping man—George Atheling—out of the cottage, placed
him in the carriage, and drove away.
CHAPTEE XV
the mouth of hell.
Geokge returned to consciousness in the afternoon, about
three o'clock. From long experience, he knew perfectly
well what had happened. It was, he remembered, the day
after the first orgie. He was in the cottage, lying on the
sofa : he knew this without opening his eyes. He had got
through the first of the two attacks : the second would seize
him presently, but not for a few hours ; not till he had
partly recovered from the first. The second attack was
always fiercer, but more easily and quickly subdued by him
who made haste to surrender. He knew that if he moved
his head it would be as heavy as lead : he knew also that if
he tried to get up he should stagger and fall. Therefore, he
lay quite still, his eyes closed. He grew more wakeful: he
heard voices—the voices of men talking somewhere—one
voice that he knew very well. The sound of voices, even
where there are no voices, does not greatly alarm a man in
this condition and with these experiences. Sometimes George
would see shapes—figures, whole regiments and armies of
creatures, with faces of the most frightful ugliness. Voices
are not half so bad as faces. Voices can shout and swear
and threaten, but they do not terrify like faces. Besides,
these voices were only murmurs—low and peaceful murmurs:
no harm in these voices at all. Better to listen to these
voices than to the hated voice of Mavis.
He became more wakeful still. Another illusion: it
seemed now as if his head were reposed on a soft pillow
and his limbs on a spring mattress : as if his hands were
lapped in soft sheets, and that blankets were laid upon
him : in a word, it seemed as if he was in bed. Everybody
knows exactly how it feels to be in bed. Strange mockery
of his senses ! Why, he was on the hard horsehair sofa at
the cottage, and most likely Mavis was lying drunk on the
284
THE DEMONIAC
floor; and it was probably the middle of the night. Then
a door opened, and the voices became audible. And then
he heard a footstep in the room itself, and he opened his eyes.
He was not at the cottage at all. He was in a bedroom,
a large bedroom, properly furnished : not his own bedroom
in Daffodil Eoad, which was of small dimensions, but a full-
sized bedroom.
What could this mean ? Christopher Sly himself was
not more surprised, nor that other honest toper whose head
was cut off by the benevolent Peter, also styled the Great,
so that he might awake from his drunken sleep to find him¬
self in Paradise. No death was ever devised more happy.
George half turned his head. The owner of the footstep he
observed was none other than John Carew, and he wondered
whether this also was an illusion.
' So,' he said, at the bedside, ' you are awake at last, are
you ?'
' Where am I ?'
' In my rooms.'
' Oh !' He closed his eyes again, in order to fix his mind
on this new phenomenon; then he opened them once more.
' How came I here ?'
' I brought you.'
'Oh !'
Once more he closed his eyes. This was all a dream—he
was in dream and ghostland. A more- complicated dream
than is commonly encountered, but still only a dream.
There could be no John Carew, no bed, no chamber at all—
only the sofa and the cMtage.
' I brought you here, man; I brought you in a carriage.
I found out where you were lying, and I went there on
purpose to bring you back. Don't think you are dreaming.
This part of your thoughts, at least, is not delirium tremens.
I found you lying on a sofa in your cottage, as drunk as a
log and as senseless. I had you carried to the carriage and
brought you away.'
' How did you find me ?'
' That is my secret. Weil, this is what you call going to
Boston on business ! Noble business !'
George shut his eyes again.
' Every man,' he said feebly, ' is master of his qwij
actions, I suppose,'
TI1E MOUTH OF HELL
285
' If you were master of yours, you would not be lying
here in this condition. Come, you know it!'
George made no reply.
' You your own master ?' repeated John Carew. 'Why,
you are a slave—a miserable slave ! You are a coward—■
you run away from a bogey——'
' I wish you had such a bogey after you !'
' I know exactly what happens to you. Every two
months you are assailed by a craving for drink. It is a
very well-known disease, in one form or the other. Thou-
rands of men have it. The only way to meet it is to fight
it. You don't fight it: you give in at once. You go away
with this wretched creature of yours, who encourages you
for purposes of his own, and you drink like a hog with him
till the fit passes away.'
' All this,' said George, ' is quite true. I assure you,
however, that it is not the smallest use to say it, unless for
the relief of your conscience.'
' Very well. Some day—perhaps when your boys have
arrived at a time of life which will enable them to feel the
degradation—you will be exposed : you will be caught and
detected. You are certain to be found out. Your servant
will grow tired of you. He i3 already devising a plan for
making himself independent of you. He has stolen five
thousand pounds of you. That you know already, because
you heard it from me. Last night he made another attempt.
He made you write an order on your agents for another five
thousand pounds.'
' No! no!' cried George. ' He had not the impudence '
' He had, indeed. I am only surprised, considering all
things, that he did not make it fifty thousand while he was
about it. But such a man cannot soar very high in robbery.
To him ten thousand pounds seems a vast sum of money.
My opinion is that in robbing you of these sums his inten¬
tion is to leave you and go away. He must have made a
good deal out of you in the five years. Have you any idea
what he has cost you ?'
' Is this a time for arithmetic ? Well, when I started
journalist I took a thousand pounds with me—something to
fall back upon. I haven't spent any of it on myself,'
' It is all gone, I suppose ?'
' I believe it is all gone in three years.'
2%
THE DEMONIAC
' Then, of course, he thinks that when he can get no more
money out of you, it will be time to leave you. Well then,
when he is gone, what will you do next ?'
' I don't know : make away with myself.'
' Oh ! No, you won't do that. You will look out for
another attendant. Then the thing will get whispered
about, and so will become known. Y/hy, I know it already:
other people know it. I have learned this secret of yours;
and, with it, the whole reason of your life—your flight and
your disappearance '
' What do you know about my life ?'
' I will tell you presently. For the moment, remember
that there is no Mavis here. I do not think you will ever
see the respectable Mavis any more. At least, I hope you
will not.'
George sat up in bed, resolution in his face.
' Will you go away? I am going to get up and dress.'
' What shall you do when you are dressed ?'
' I shall go back to the cottage.'
'Very well, then. You can't dress, you see, because I've
had all your clothes taken away. And you can't wear mine,
because you are six-feet-three and I am five-feet-nine. Eh ?'
To this George made no reply. He fell back on the
pillows. Besides, his head was heavy: he could not get up
and dress, even if he had the wherewithal.
' Is your fit gone for good ? I mean, for the present ?'
' No.'
' Will there be another attack ?'
'Yes/
He glared at his captor, looking about him as if for some
clothes—any clothes—in which he could get back to the
cottage.
' When do you expect it?'
'Not till this evening. It may come any moment; but,
as a rule, I do not expect it till the evening, when I have
partly recovered from the first attack.'
' Oh ! I am glad—I am very glad—that you are going to
have another attack, because I have made every preparation
for it. You shall see how hospitable I shall be.'
' If your preparations do not include whisky,' said George
calmly, ' there will be trouble. I warn you—I shall have
the strength of three men 1'
THE MOUTH OF HELL
287
1 So I have been told ; I have therefore laid in a stock of
strong men. There will be quite as many of them here as
we are at all likely to want. You may be perfectly easy on
that point. Whatever trouble may result from the absence
of whisky, be assured that you yourself '
' Oh, you don't know—you don't know !'
'My dear fellow, it is true that I don't know. Thank
God I do not know, but I can guess. No drink at all except
water, and for companion of your bedside—your own wife !'
' My wife? My wife ? No, Carew, not that! You have
not been so inhuman ?'
' Why not ? Since it depends wholly on yourself whether
you will conquer this weakness or not—since she is not sup¬
posed to know what is the matter '
' Oh! You have not told her?'
'No'—this was perfectly true—'I have not told her.
That, my friend, I leave to you. Nobody shall tell her but
you. She will sit at your bedside. When the attack begins
you will tell her what it is, if you cannot fight it. Then the
strong men will come in and your wife will go out. And in
the morning we shall know what to do next.'
George lay back groaning.
' This is sheer cruelty! It is torture! You do not
know!'
' Since torture is the only thing that will cure, let us apply
torture by all means. Suppose that torture had been applied
by yourself five years ago. It would have been like the
pricking of a pin compared with the pain you will feel this
night. Yet you must bear it. Think of it as the flames of
purgatory.'
He shook his head and groaned again.
' Gome, you shall have a cup of tea. Will you eat any¬
thing ?'
' Give me the tea.'
When he had taken the tea his eyes closed. He dropped
off to sleep again. He slept for two hours. It was half-
past five when he woke.
John Carew was at his bedside still.
' Come,' he said, ' you have had a refreshing sleep. I
have got some beef-tea and toast for you. Will you take
that?'
< go'—after awhile—' do you feel strong enough to go
288
THE DEMONIAC
on with our talk? I have got a great deal to say, and per¬
haps the fit will seize you again.'
' No, I think not—I feel no symptoms of it.'
' Partly because the scoundrel Mavis is not with you. to
suggest the craving and to pour out the drink. Now, then.
First of all, I know who you are. I have found that out.
You are George Atheling. You took your name off the books
of your College at the end of your second year and went
down without taking your degree. You were engaged to
Elinor Thanet, and you broke off the engagement: you
separated yourself from your old friends and lived alone:
you went on a voyage: you came home: you then dived
down into lower depths of society : you became a journalist:
you have deserted your fortune as well as your friends: you
live on your earnings: and you are married. All this
because you have never once had the courage to fight this
bogey.'
' I do not ask how you found out all this,' George replied..
' Of course it is all true. Yet do not tell my wife !'
' I think she may know something of this already. You
may find out, if you please, what she does know.'
' How long have you known all this ?'
' Only a few hours.'
George sat up in bed. ' Man, if I do not satisfy this
Devil, he will rend me limb from limb !'
' Bogey ! He threatens—he can do nothing. Stand up
to him—fight him. Now listen, Mr. George Atheling, be¬
cause I am going to speak very plainly with you. The time
has come when action must be taken.'
' Go on—I am listening. But it will all come to nothing.
This Devil is more crafty than you think.'
'Is he? That shall be seen. Your wife will presently
come to nurse you. I shall have a supply ready of lemons,
apollinaris-water, coffee, tea—anything you may want. We
shall keep watch—the strong men and I—by turns in the
next room. If you face the Devil like a man and fight him
till he flies, we shall do nothing—you will be alone with
your wife. If, on the other hand, you surrender and begin
to rave and to rage and to cry for the drink which you will
not get: if you jump out of bed and attempt to search for
drink, either in this room or the next, you will be seized by
the strong men and bound and tied with ropes such as even
THE MOUTH OF HELL
289
Samson could not snap. I assure you that my men are
very strong, and that they understand this kind of work.
So far you follow ?'
' Yes—I follow. You will drive me mad !'
' I am coming to that. Curious that you should anticipate
my thoughts. When you are tied down and helpless—
possibly, as you say, by that time raving mad—I shall send
for a doctor. It will then be time to interfere for the sake
of your own wife and children. I shall have you treated as
a madman in reality: you shall be removed to an asylum.'
' You cannot,' said George. ' No doctor would sign the
certificate. You can prove that I was drunk, not that I was
mad. It is very good bounce, however.'
' Do not deceive yourself. Come, you are a man of sense.
Let us consider the facts of the case.'
' No facts will make me out to be mad.'
' Let us see. You are a man of wealth and position: you
abandon both—why ? You have given up all your friends,
and have gone to live alone, among people of a lower class
—why? This you have done, not from philanthropy or
religion or poverty or disgrace, or any of the ordinary motives
that make men do such things. Not at all. Nor have you
done it in order to give a free rein to vicious inclinations.
Not in the least. Why, then?'
' Reason enough,' said George grimly.
' Not at all. Because, if there was a thing to be con¬
cealed from your old friends, there is the same thing to be
concealed from your new friends. Act of a madman. You
have gained nothing by the change. There was no motivt
at all for it. Next you become a journalist. Being a man
of learning and culture, you choose to live on the precarious
earnings of a local journalist reporter—penny-a-liner—while
you have waiting for you an income of seven thousand
pounds a year. Nay, you go farther. You marry a girl of
this class—not a disgraceful class, quite the reverse ; but
not a class in which gentlewomen are reared. You have
children whose rights are your own : they are the heirs to
this great property. Yet you prefer to bring them up as
the children of a man who is happy if he gets three hundred
a year.'
' Yet that does not make me mad.'
'We pass over the Australian fiction and the false name,
19
2-0
THE DEMONIAC
because they belong to the situation. Next, you can be
proved to be in the power of a man, formerly a gyp at Cam¬
bridge and afterwards your servant. He comes at certain
periods and drags you away with him to a cottage near
Tottenham, where, together, you conduct disgraceful orgies
not to be accounted for except under the supposition of
madness. And you reward this man with immense sums of
money. A week ago you sent him five thousand pounds,
and last night another five thousand, though it is not certain
whether he will secure that plunder. If it is necessary, in
order to show how mad you are, he shall have it. For what
consideration did you give that man ten thousand pounds in
one week ? For acting as a keeper or attendant ? But you
pay him for that; you give him his wages. And he has got
in three years a thousand pounds out of you for alleged
expenses. You knew that he cheated you, of course ?'
George groaned.
' I knew he was a thief; but I could do nothing !'
' Putting everything together, my dear boy,' said John
Carew cheerfully, ' I- have net the least doubt that we shall
prove you to be as mad as Nebuchadnezzar.
' Your wife,' he went on, ' has arrived here. She is in the
other room. I have told her you are very ill. She will come
and sit by you. She will talk to you. Presentlyyou will, per¬
haps, fall asleep : when you wake up, you will, perhaps, get
the next attack. Say to yourself, that whatever you do—
whether you rage and roar, whether you cry and beseech, or
whether you fight—it all comes to the same thing—you will
get no drink. You are thinking of flight. You cannot very well
get to Tottenham from South Kensington in a white night¬
dress, with no money and my strong men all running after
you. You must be frightfully mad to think of such a thing.
Don't glare at me, man ! You are now brought face to face
with your Devil. For the first time, you are obliged to
fight or to go mad. Because I- verily believe, George
Atheling, that if you give way to him this time : if you let
him clutch your throat this once, now that there is no drink
to satisfy him, you will truly go stark, staring, raving mad I
We will have this business settled once for all.'
The big man tossed his arms in a kind of despair. The
net was about him: there was no way out of it. He
thought of the voyage, and of that knob so carefully pre-
THE MOUTH OF HELL
291
pared for him by the best of servants. Had Mavis been
•within reach, he would have offered that last cheque of
five thousand pounds for drink. For he saw before him
such a time as Damien expected when he was taken forth
to have his flesh wrenched off with red-hot pincers and to
be torn to pieces by wild horses.
' Atheling,' John Carew added earnestly, ' this may be
the most fateful moment in your life. All depends now
upon your courage. Your wife will be with you to keep up
your resolution.'
George turned his face to the wall to hide the emotion
that filled his eyes.
' Your wife, who has believed you the strongest and best
man in the whole world! Think what is at stake! Her
life's happiness : your own self-respect: the whole future of
your children : all depend upon your courage this night.'
' You do not know—you do not know,' George repeated.
' The Thing is a Devil: he will take my life : he will tear
me to pieces!'
'Not he. You are as strong as a bull! Put forth your
strength. You are worth fifty such Devils. And, besides,
you won't have beside you the other Devil—the man who
chinks the glasses and pours out the drink, and eggs you
on '
' How do you know that he does ?'
' I know everything. Now, promise you will fight him.'
' I promise. Only, I have promised before; and the
Devil always wins.'
' Then, by the Lord Harry, George Atheling, if the Devil
wins this time, you shall be the prize show of the mad¬
house ! My men are waiting for you. And my doctor will
be ready with another doctor to sign the certificate. Heaven
or Hell—whichever you choose—with Purgatory between.
Odd that you can get into Hell as well as out of it, through
Purgatory. The church-people have forgotten that!'
John Carew went away. A minute later he returned,
bringing Nettie and the boy—the little George—the two-
year-old.
' He has had a bad night, Nettie,' said John, ' and he
fears another bad night. I think that nothing can be done
for him but to watch him and give him cooling things.'
Nettie bent over her husband and kissed him, weepiug.
292 THE DEMONIAC
' Here is your boy : sit up and play with him a little—it
won't hurt you. Nay,' said John, 'it should do you good.
Here is a fine little laddie for you ! Worth making a bit of
a fight, for the sake of such a lusty little chap as this-—
isn't it?' The boy ran laughing over the bed into his
father's arms. ' What a belief a child has in his father !'
said John, uttering the commonplace as if it was a perfectly
original remark never before heard of—a discovery newly
made. Yet, it had its effect. ' Now this boy,' he went on,
' believes that his father can do no wrong: that his father
is strong enough to conquer the whole world: that his
father is able to get anything or be anything that he wishes.
Fancy the disgust of such a boy as this, if he were to find
that his father was a coward, a sneaking poltroon, afraid to
face a bogey !'
' John,' said Nettie, ' please not to say such things !'
'I beg your pardon, Nettie. I was speaking generally.
Well, the next thing is, what we should give this man by
way of food ? It is now getting on for seven. I think he
will sleep if we give him food. Will you rest in the other
room, Nettie ? I will watch him till nightfall.'
' No, John; my place is here.'
She sat down and took George's hands.
John Carew went out, taking the child with him.
Husband and wife were left alone.
Nettie threw her arms round George's neck.
' My dear—my dear,' she said, ' I must not hide anything
from you. Last night I found a letter in your pocket
addressed to a girl, and I was jealous and opened it. The
letter was five years old, and it told me—oh ! George, it
told your secret. Then I thought I would follow and drag
you away from that man. And I took the tram and got to
the cottage, and stood outside the open window, and saw—
oh! George, God help us both ! I saw all—I saw all!
Oh! my husband—oh ! my dear—my poor dear—I saw
all!'
' If you saw what was done—if you saw and heard
Nettie, I have dreaded tbis discovery ever since I met you.
I need make no confession—now you know all that there is
to tell. You have found out all that there was to hide.'
He sighed heavily. Perhaps it was a relief that the thing
was known. ' Nettie,' he said, ' since you know so much,
THE MOUTH OF HELL
253
you had bettor know the whole. My name is not Hum¬
phrey at all.'
' I know that too. John Carew told me. And you are
rich. And now I know why you talked so much about
riches and poverty. But talk no more, dear. Try and
rest.'
' As for forgiveness ' said George.
' Oh ! forgiveness—me to forgive ? Why, dear, if you
had done these things at home even, there would be no
question of forgiveness. It is not the man I saw last night
that I love; but my George—my good and tender husband
—the father of my babes. Oh ! my dear, do not speak of
forgiveness ; you tear my heart!'
******
At midnight, George, who had fallen into a gentle sleep,
awoke with a violent start. He sat up in bed, catching his
breath with a gasp. He threw off the bedclothes. He
would have leaped out of bed, but that Nettie laid her hand
on him.
' My dear,' she said, ' patience. I am here. Courage
and patience. It is for the children's sake.'
She turned up the light. He looked round and remem¬
bered. He was not on the sofa of the cottage.
' Remember,' she said, ' you have sworn. We have prayed
together. Oh ! George, for the love of God, for the sake of
the children!'
' Take my hand. Take my hand. Speak to me. Let me
not lose myself. The Devil is here—his fingers are at my
throat—his burning fingers. Ah !'
There followed a conflict more determined, more terrible,
than the historic duello of Christian and Apollyon. It was
as if Christian had been so often beaten, and so cowed by
continual defeat, that his heart was taken out of him. Man
against Devil—man with no other weapon than the shield
of endurance—Devil armed with all the weapons, sword to
strike, lance to pierce, red-hot pincers to burn and tear.
Beside the bed stood or knelt the wife, holding fast her
husband's hand ; cooling his burning forehead with a wet
sponge; soothing, consoling, encouraging him; praying
aloud for him, that the Lord would strengthen him in this
hour of agony; torn with the anguish of witnessing the
tortures of one fighting against the most dreadful of all ills
294
THE DEMONIAC
which beset body and soul—the maddened craving for
drink. It was such torture as caused this great man to roll
about and writhe : it made his eyes start and stare wildly :
it made him gasp and fight for breath : but he would not
give in. It seemed the last chance for him—it was really
only one of the last chances. He would not cry for drink.
From time to time his mind wandered, and he talked in¬
coherently.
'"Then,"' he said, quoting from some old voyager,
' " they sailed their craft for two days along the coast; and
the heat of the place was such that they called it Pernam-
buco, or the Mouth of Hell—so that some of the men went
mad and jumped overboard, crying for the cool water, and
so perished miserably. But those who held on presently
came to a pleasant haven, where there were fruits and
springs of water and cool breezes; and so were refreshed
and comforted." '
And so on—talk strange—talk of a man in the intervals
of torture. When they racked the victims of the Holy
Inquisition, between the rackings the wretches would
murmur of sweet streams and soft banks and love, and all
kinds of pleasant things. Then the screw was turned, and
they came back to agony.
For two hours, while the agony brought out the beads
upon his forehead, and swelled the veins of his neck and
face, and cramped his limbs. For two hours. Every moment
of yielding, during the last five years, lengthened the torture :
every moment of surrender made that torture worse.
' Oh ! my dear !—my dear !—my brave, dear George !—■
my poor, dear George !' murmured his wife.
In the room outside, John Carew paced up and down,
listening. He heard the prayers of the wife : he heard her
words of comfort and of encouragement. He looked to
hear the cry of surrender and despair, when he must take
away the wife and send in the strong men—his garrison,
who were asleep on the kitchen chairs, ready for action.
But that cry came not. And he marvelled; for still the
wife prayed, and still she encouraged her husband, and
still there was silence, save for such murmured words as
you have heard when his mind wandered.
In all great suffering, in all times of great trouble, there
gomes a supreme moment when jt seems if po more
THE MOUTH OF HELL
295
could be borne, but that madness must follow. At this
moment death comes, or the suffering ceases, and the
patient lives.
_ To George there came such a moment. He fell back:
his face was ghastly : he gasped : his hands were clenched:
his eyes stared : his limbs were contorted : he seemed to be
dying. His wife bent over him, breathless.
Then a change. The ghastliness left his cheeks. He
closed his eyes : he sighed : he composed his limbs. Was
he dying? No. He breathed softly: he lay at rest. The
battle was over. He had beaten the Devil!
Presently he opened his eyes.
' It is over, Nettie. It is all over. The Devil has gone.
He will not come again for two months. When next he
comes, we will fight him again. Kiss me, dear. Have no
longer any fear. Lie down now and rest. Or, one service
more. Pull back the curtains: let me see the day again.'
The sky was now splendid with the rising sun. ' Oh! my
dear—my dear—the new day begins—the new day. Lie
down and sleep, and let me think of the new day—and of
the children—and of you. Lie down and sleep, and take
your rest. Nettie—Nettie—do not cry. It is over. I am
a free man at last! I am a free man ! That is'—and
here his voice dropped to a whisper, which his wife,
thanking God upon her knees, heard not—' that is, I think
I may be a free man. But I doubt—I doubt. It is a
cunning Devil I'
CHAPTER XVI.
the ee ward.
The political views of the Patager family are divided. Thus,
the elder Patager takes in the Echo, his son Horatio the
Star (but, perhaps, more for its sporting tips than for its
politics), and Victoria's husband takes the Evening News.
They generally read the whole paper through slowly : it is
the chief, sometimes the only, literature of these people : it
is their sole method of communication with the outer world.
Many of the lower creatures communicate by means of
tentacles, filaments, and so forth, with the things around
296
THE DEMONIAC
them. It is man's privilege to communicate with the world
around him by means of the newspapers. They administer
to him, when he can learn it, a daily lesson in humanity.
They also provide for him his principal means of taking
pleasure. How else, or where, can one get a whole evening's
amusement for the ridiculous sum of one halfpenny ?
Mr. Patager, senior, industriously and regularly reads all
the advertisements right through. He keeps this part of
the paper, indeed, for the last: it is his bonne bouche : it
gives him more satisfaction even than the correspondence
columns. The announcement of houses to be let or sold, cf
lodgings offered to young men, of situations vacant or wanted,
of profitable exchanges, of things to be sold, of great bar¬
gains—all alike, if not equally, interest him—I know not
why, except as a love story may, for the memories it awakens,
interest an ancient dame. Mostly, of course, he delights in
the personal advertisements. He reads with pleasure the
reminder to H. B. that his wife awaits him with forgive¬
ness : the hint from Queenie that she expects Tom at the
next appointment, or she must seek advice : the thieves' tip
conveyed in a piece of information concerning A. B., of
Bradford: the recall of the prodigal son, with the promise
of a fatted calf: all these things may be turned by an ima¬
ginative mind into romance, comedy, and tragedy. We
know that if H. B. does return to his wife, he will probably
meet with reproaches harder to bear than the oaken cudgel:
we are quite sure that Queenie has already deposited all
Tom's letters with a solicitor, and that she awaits with
cheerfulness either the wedding-ring or substantial damages;
and if we have any experience at all of prodigal sons, this
one most certainly will not come back so long as a single
shilling remains, because, you see, the domestic fatted calf
is insipid compared with the same dish served up hot and
hot, with the ladies and gentlemen in the flowery path.
This evening, Mr. Patager, senior, read in its turn an
advertisement which at first he nearly passed by. Then
something in it caught his eye, and he read it again, with
attention.
' My dear,' he said, looking up slowly, ' there is some*
thing very strange about this.'
' About what ?'
* About this advertisement, Listen;
THE REWARD
297
1 a pIFTY Pounds Rewabd.—The above reward will be
paid to anyone who will give information as to the present
residence of Geoege Atheling, gentleman, of Atheling
Court, Bucks, if he is living ; or as to the time and place of
his death, if he is dead. He was last heard of in January,
1887. The said George Atheling is about twenty-eight years
of age : he is six feet three inches in height: he has blue
eyes and dark-brown hair : he is broad-shouldered and
strong : his voice is low and musical. He has, perhaps,
assumed some other name. Address Messrs. Mansfield and
Westbury, solicitors, 109, New Square, Lincoln's Inn."'
'Why—good gracious, my dear!' The wife jumped out
of her chair. 'Let me read it! "Six feet three," "blue
eyes," "dark-brown hair," "broad-shouldered," "twenty-
eight," "his voice " Why—why—who—who'—she
gasped—' who should it be but our Nettie's George?'
' Our Nettie's George ! No other !' Mr. Patager echoed
solemnly. ' They have advertised for him. Now, what does
that mean ? " Gentleman, of Atheling Court "—of Atheling
Court—it can't be; yet the description, my dear, tallies in
every particular.'
' Let me read it again,' said the wife. ' My dear, all I've
prophesied has come true.' She returned the paper and sat
down with a smile of triumph. • Often and often have I
said, " That man's done something. Some day he'll be
found out," and now you see.'
' It certainly does look like it. But the name is different,
and " gentleman," you see, not journalist.'
' We're all gentlemen, I suppose,' said his wife.
' In the City, yes. But we draw the line ad journalists.'
' Fifty Pounds Reward !' said the wife, looking at her
husband with meaning.
'I wonder what he's done?' said the husband. 'Em¬
bezzlement, perhaps—forgery, perhaps——'
' Fifty Pounds Reward!' the wife repeated. ' Fifty
Pounds Reward ! My dear, why shouldn't we have that
money ?'
'What! And give up my own son-in-law to justice?
Shame! Shame !'
' If you come to that, somebody else will very soon give
him up. Better you than a stranger. Why, you might
29?
THE DEMONIAC
make terms for him, and still put the money in your pocket.
Go yourself and see these lawyers.'
Mr. Patager stared at his wife. Tc betray his daughter's
husband was one thing. To ask what the lawyers meant,
and, if there was no betraying, to put fifty pounds in his
pocket, was quite another thing.
' My poor Nettie !' sighed the mother. ' What in the
world will she do now ? Her husband found out, clapped
in prison, brought before the judge, found guilty, condemned
to penal servitude. Well! it's one comfort that the head¬
strong girl got no consent from us. She went into it of her
own stubborn will. You remember she would have the
man.'
' She would have him. That's one comfort. But it's a
dreadful disgrace, think of that! My dear,' he got up
slowly, ' the least we can do is to warn him : I will step
round. He may be able to get off in time '
' I'll come too,' said his wife. 1 In her time of trouble,
Nettie shan't say we've deserted her. Besides, we may find
out what he's done.'
They walked down the road together. The house was in
darkness, and shut up. No one answered the bell: it was
deserted.
What had happened ?
The pair looked at each other.
11 know,' said the wife. ' He's been warned. He's taken
Nettie and the babies and the gal, and he's run for it. He
will get over to America, where they'll never catch him, and
we shall never see Nettie any more.'
' I hope it may be so. I hope he'll get away. I do hope
he'll get away!'
' And to-morrow you'll go and see those lawyers and find .
out what he's wanted for, and you may claim that reward.
Fifty pounds ! it'll come in handy ; and since Nettie's gone
out of the way, and the babies and all, and no more harm
can come to her, and somebody else'll get that money, you
go first thing to-morrow morning to the lawyers.'
' Well, my dear, it does seem like betraying of your own
flesh and blood, doesn't it? I don't altogether like it.'
' Nonsense ! How are you ever going to get on if vou won't
even pick up what lies at your feet? Now, my dear,' she
turned upon her husband with a kind of fierceness, ' what
THE REWARD
299
did I always say ? "What did I tell you ? A man forced to
go into hiding! Now, I hope I shall be believed another
time !'
They went home together, but apart: the woman full of
a fierce joy—the son-in-law whom she hated had come to
grief; the man full of shame and pity.
In a certain billiard-room Horatio Patager sat watching
the game of pool. He never played pool at all, nor billiards
unless he could find a player worse than himself, because
his stroke was uncertain and his play flukey, He sat and
looked on, he smoked cigarettes all the time, he laid a shilling
now and then, and when he could afford it he drank a
whisky-and-soda.
This evening he held in his hand a copy of the Star, at
which he glanced from time to time, but lazily, because this
evening the journal was mostly political. Suddenly he
started: he changed colour : he dropped his cigarette. You
have heard already what he read.
' Why,' he murmured, ' it's his very description. It's his
likeness to the life. Every point of it is his likeness. Six
feet three high, blue eyes, dark-brown hair, broad-shoul¬
dered, low voice—there can't be two like him. " Gentle¬
man " they call him ! We're all gentlemen, if you come to
that. " Of Atheling Court." Name of the place where he
comes from. Changed his name. Fifty Pounds Eeward !
I wonder what he's done ? I wonder what he'll get? Well,
I'm sorry for Nettie. But it serves her right. Fifty Pounds
Eeward! Ha! I always knew he'd done something.
Changed his name. Fifty Pounds Eeward !'
He left the billiard-room and strolled in the direction of
his sister's house. He would look in, perhaps, casually,
just to see the man for whose capture they were going to
give Fifty Pounds Eeward. This was the man who ordered
Nettie not to lend him anything. Ha! The time had
come. Vengeance!
He could not gaze upon the man at so interesting a crisis
of his fortunes, because the house was dark and shut up.
' He must have bolted,' said Horatio, ' and has taken
Nettie and the kids with him. Never mind, they can easily
be followed, and—and—and—I'll get that reward, or I'll
know the reason why.'
300
THE DEMONIAC
Victoria's husband, we have seen, read the Evening News.
He read it after supper, when there was nothing left of the
day except an hour of tobacco and rest.
He, too, chanced presently upon the advertisement.
' Vic,' he said, changing colour, ' what was George
Humphrey before he came here ?'
' I don't know. Nobody knows, not even Nettie. She pre¬
tends to know, but she doesn't really know. He won't tell.'
' He wasn't always a penny-a-liner, Vic.'
' Very likely not.'
' It's my opinion that he was formerly a gentleman. I
mean—of course, we are all gentlemen, but I mean a swell
with money. There's swell written all over him ; and as
for money, he buys things wuthout asking their price.
Nobody but a born swell ever does that. And he spends
sixpence as if he was made of sixpences.'
' What are you driving at, Charlie ? There's something
on your mind.'
' Well, I told you what the chap from Melbourne said.
" No such name in the place," he said. Now let me go on.
George was once a swell—I'm sure of it. George is down
in his luck—why ? George has got through his money :
George has done something——-'
' Ah!' cried Vic, waking up, and now thoroughly in¬
terested.
' They always do something when there is no more money.
It's the regular rule. They cheat at cards, generally ; they
welsh at races; they run races on the cross ; they forge
their fathers' names; they've no principle at all. That is
because the swells are not brought up moral, like us. They
can't resist temptation, you see, like us, when it comes.'
' What do you think he's done, Charlie ?' Vic whispered.
' Forgery, most likely. Very well, suppose it was found
out, and they wanted him, how would they set about it?'
' Why, they would advertise for him, I suppose.'
' Just so, just so, Vic. You've exactly hit it, my dear.
They would advertise for him. And now listen to this.'
He read the advertisement aloud.
' Good gracious me !' cried his wife. ' It can't be meant
for any other man. It can't be. There are surely not two
men in the world like that. Oh, my poor Nettie! What¬
ever in the world will she do ?'
THE REWARD
301
' The Very first lime I saw him,' Charlie continued, ' I
said to myself, 44 This man's a real swell—none of your
common mashers." Ever since I've been looking for this.
Well, he's had a long rope.'
4 Whatever in the world will Nettie do?' asked Yic.
' Charlie, I shall go and see her this minute Perhaps she
hasn't even been warned.'
4 Fifty Pounds Eeward, Yic ! Fifty Pounds Reward ! I
say, what couldn't we do with fifty pounds ?' ..
Nettie was not at home, nor anybody. The house was
quite dark, and no one answered the bell.
4 Good gracious !' said Yictoria. 4 Something's happened
already. Do you think he's caught, and sent to prison
already? Would they let Nettie and the children into the
gaol with him ?'
' Fifty Pounds Reward ! Yic. If we don't touch that
money, someone else will; and we can't do Nettie any
harm, because he's certain to be caught. A big man like
that has no chance. Shows what a blessed thing it is to be
short,' said Charlie, who stood five feet three in his boots.
41 dare say you've often envied Nettie for having such a big
husband. Now, you see, he's so big that he can't get
away.'
At half-past nine next morning, when the clerks of
Mansfield and Westbury's began to arrive, they found a
young fellow "waiting outside the door, which is on the first
iioor. He explained that he had come about an advertise¬
ment, and he produced the Star of the day before. He was
told that he could come in and wait till the arrival of Mr.
Westbury. That event generally happened a little before
ten.
It happened this morning as usual. The young man was
asked his name. He said—but nobody believed the state¬
ment—that it was 4 Concerning-an-advertisement.'
Being shown to Mr. Westbury's private room, he opened
the paper and pointed to the advertisement.
4 Well, sir?' asked the lawyer.
41 know the house where he lives and the place where he
works. Give me the money, and I will give you the infor¬
mation. '
4 Not so fast. Who are you, pray ?'
4 My name is Horatio Patager. I am a clerk in the City.
302
THE DEMONIAC
He married my sister. That will show you that I ought to
know.'
4 Well, sir, I am sorry to inform you- '
4 Ah! well, I'd rather not learn—don'tcher know ?'
Horatio interrupted with a blush, which shows that the
young man had still left in him a spark of grace. 4 I'd
rather not have that information. Keep it to yourself. I
dessay I shall hear all about it some time or another.
Give me the money, and I'll tell you where to find him.
It's only a matter of business. I want a few words with a
certain gentleman, says you, whose address I happen to
have lost. I'll reward anyone who'll take me to that gentle¬
man, says you. Fifty Pounds is the figure, says you. If
that's all you want, says I, why, the gentleman is my own
brother-in-law. Come along, give me the money, and I'll
show you where he lives.'
•Oh!'
4 You see, in the City we are all business men. There's
no friendship in business. Everybody knows that. A
bargain's a bargain. I don't ask what you mean to do with
your information.'
4 Do you know anything about the previous life of your
brother-in-law ?'
'No, I don't; but I can pretty well guess,' the young
man replied, with a look of so much meaning that the lawyer
felt inclined to knock him down off hand. ' Come, sir, I
don't ask what you want him for. No doubt,' he grinned,
' it's to give him a little fortune. That's what generally
happens when a man is wanted, isn't it ?'
' In a word, sir, you have come here with the intention of
betraying your own sister's husband ! Well, you'll be sorry
to learn that you are too late. We know that Mr. George
Atheling, otherwise George Humphrey, lives in the Daffodil
Koad, and we know where that road is. You can go, sir !'
Horatio turned white. Ever since the reading of the
advertisement, all through the dark watches of the night,
he had been thinking of this glorious windfall. It was
already in his grasp : he had his hands upon it. Heavens !
What a-fling he might have with fifty pounds ! And now it
was gone !
' You can go,' the lawyer repeated.
41 don't believe you know 1' cried the disappointed clerk.
THE REWARD
3° 2
' You won't give the money to mo. Yet I'm the first. ItV
mine by right—you've advertised it—I'll have it too, if
there's law in the land !'
' Plenty of law. Plenty of law. Go and look for it.
Now, sir.'
The lawyer looked big and threatening. Horatio retired.
About eleven there arrived an elderly gentleman, who
requested to see one of the principals, and said he had
called about an advertisement.
' Sir,' he said, ' I have many reasons to believe that the
person advertised,forinlast night'sHcAo is my own son-in-law.'
' Indeed. Then you could tell, me his place of residence,
no doubt.'
' I certainly could. But I should like, first of all, to
know what he has done. If it's anything very bad—any¬
thing that brings him within the law—you might be merci¬
ful enough to let me know, on account of my daughter,
poor girl! Her mother has always been of opinion that
George has done something, and that he is in hiding. For
my own part, I cannot believe otherwise than that he is an
honest man.'
' Well, sir ?'
' My wife thinks that I ought to give this information,
and to claim the reward, because fifty pounds doesn't come
in our way every day. But I say—No, not if it is to bring
trouble upon my daughter's head. Therefore, sir, if it is
trouble, I will withhold the information and go away.'
' Upon my word, sir, I am very sorry that we cannot give
you the reward under the circumstances. Unfortunately,
you are too late. We know where to find our man.'
' Oh !' Mr. Patager sighed. ' I am glad that the reward
will not come to me—though my wife—but you are your¬
self, perhaps, a married man, sir—and she would have—to
me it did seem like selling my daughter's husband.'
' Be easy, sir. You shall not sell your son-in-law.'
' Then, sir, if I may ask the—the reason for the advertise¬
ment—what my unhappy son-in-law has done——'
' I fear, Mr. Patager, that I cannot, for the moment, in¬
form you. Let it suffice that we know where to find him.'
' Shall you send him up for trial ? He has a wife and
children : consider—it will be my daughter's ruin 1'
304
THE DEMONIAC
' Bless tho man !' cried the lawyer. ' Why will you
assume that he has done anything? You shall learn—if it
is thought fit to tell you—all in good time. Go home, sir,
and be easy.'
At half-past one—in the dinner-hour—there appeared a
third person, again a young man. He said he called about
an advertisement.
' Well, sir,' said Mr. Westbury. ' You know where to lay
your hand upon the gentleman for whom we are adver¬
tising, I suppose ?'
' I do, sir.'
' And you are come to draw the reward ?'
' I certainly am—as soon as you have received and proved
my intelligence. Not before. I am a man of business. In
a IBank.'
' Mr. Atheling's brother, or cousin, or father, I suppose?'
' I married his wife's sister. That is how I know. Well,
sir, you want his address. I can give it. I don't ask what
he has done, or why you want him.'
' Just so. You are a purely disinterested person, anxious
only that justice shall be done, even on your nearest rela¬
tives ?'
' As for that,' said the virtuous Charles, ' I've got nothing
i»:> do with justice. I answer an advertisement.'
' Quite so. Well, sir, your truly honourable purpose is
defeated. You can tell your brother-in-law that you wished
to sell him, but that you were anticipated.'
' Is it Horatio ?' Charles asked anxiously. ' He is quite
capable of it. I hope that you will consider, sir. I came
hero as soon as I could. I submit that half of the reward
should be mine—half—things are very tight. My screw is
only a hundred and fifty.'
The lawyer pointed to the door.
In the course of the day a great many people came ' about
an advertisement.' In fact, it was so easy to spot the man
from the description, that everyone who saw the advertise¬
ment, and knew George Humphrey by appearance, imme¬
diately rushed to the solicitors, in hopes of getting that
reward. Thus, the family butcher, the family baker, the
family grocer, the family milkman, the family shoemaker,
THE REWARD
the policeman, the pew-opener, the proprietor of the Clerk-
land Observer, the printers of that paper, the office boy—all
came and said they wanted fifty pounds for their informa¬
tion^ They all said they knew the gentleman, aud where
he lived. They mostly added that they could guide any¬
body to the house, so that he could be ' Luken up' without
trouble. This shows what inferences are drawn when a
man is advertised for. And they went away in great sadness
when they found they were too late. How seldom comes
such a chance!
One has watched the people who stand in front of the
proclamation outside police-stations : ' Murder ! One Hun¬
dred Pounds Reward !' How eagerly they read the notice !
How they yearn and long and pray for the opportunity of
betraying some poor wretch to his doom ! There are cases
on record, I have been told, in which a man, having once
gained such a reward, has given up honest work for ever
after, and now lives in the hope of getting another; nay, it
is said that he will even endeavour to play the part of
' Jonathan Wild,' though in these days of suspicion it is a
difficult mitier. However this may be, there certainly are
men who dream continually cf getting such a prize, just as
there are men who dream of winning a prize in an Austrian
Lottery.
Next day there were more applicants—and the day after
—and for many days—belated unfortunates who only saw
the paper the day after—miserable ! thus to miss a chance
so rare ! As the years roll on and the chance never comes
again, many little romances will grow up: it will be told
how the fifty-pound prize was missed by an hour, by half an
hour, by a quarter of an hour, by ten minutes—five—three
—one. By a couple of yards, after a race all the way—by
a foot—a neck—a nose ! It will be a distinction even to
have been beaten by a whole day.
Mr. and Mrs. Patager were in low spirits. Their son-in-
law had been advertised for : everybody knew, by this time,
the disgraceful fact. There would be but one opinion—he
had done something, the nature of which could not be as¬
certained. He had fled. His wife had gone with him.
The advice of the lawyer to keep his mind easy failed to
comfort Mr. Patager. How to face the neighbours ? How
3o6
THE DEMONIAC
to stand up in the family-pew with all eyes turned in their
direction ? How to carry round the plate after the service,
conscious that everybody was whispering : ' And his son-in-
law has been obliged to fly the country !'
They were alone. Horatio was out, as usual, seeking
consolation in his own way.
' We are disgraced,' said the father. ' I suppose it will
soon become known in the City. I shall never get over the
shame of it.' Mr. Patager is not the only man who thinks
that the eyes of the whole City are always watching him
with envy and respect. Indeed, it is a wholesome belief:
it has led to the foundation of many chantries, chapels, and
almshouses and schools, and it keeps many young men
straight.
' I always said it. I always said it,' the wife repeated.
The confirmation or proof, so to speak, of the prophetic gift
is the commonest form of consolation.
"' You always did, my dear. We shall remember that. It
does your penetration the highest credit. You always said
that he'd done something.'
' Something disgraceful, I said.'
' Something disgraceful. Yes, of course, something dis¬
graceful.'
Here the door opened and Victoria appeared.
' Oh ! my dear,' her mother groaned. ' Here's an awful
thing! However in the world shall we ever get over
it? Well, I always said — you remember, Victoria — I
always said that he must have committed some dreadful
crime.'
' Stuff and rubbish !' replied her daughter unexpectedly.
' Crime, indeed!'
' Why—he's been advertised for !'
'Yes, and I wish they'd advertise for Charlie on the same
terms. He went round at dinner-time to inquire about the
reward, you know, but of course Horatio had been before
him. That boy is capable of any meanness. I suppose he's
out now spending the Eeward at the music-halls !'
' The disgrace of it!' moaned the elder lady, wringing her
hands.
' You and your disgrace !' Vic replied shortly. ' Why, it's
money—that's what it is. There's no crime in it—and no
shame in it—and no disgrace. You ought to be ashamed to
THE REWARD 307
be so ready with your crimes. I suppose you'll say that
Charlie has disgraced himself next ?'
' Money ?' asked the father, because the lady was too
astonished to reply.
'They're back again. Now, look, George was at John
Carew's last night and he' was taken very bad—awful
bad. Nettie hurried round there with the children, because
he thought he might die. She nursed him all night. He's
better this morning, and the lawyers saw him. That's all
the story. Now they've come back.'
' Money ? How much ?'
' I don't know how much. You know Nettie—how close
she's always been about her husband. She won't tell me
how much. He'd changed his name, and they wanted to
know whether he was dead or alive. Disgrace ! As if
George—our George—could disgrace himself! Mother, I'm
ashamed of you—such a suspicion !'
Here was a volte-face. It was worthy of a political
leader.
' Come, Vie, you've said yourself—a hundred times '
' No, mother—not that, if you please. I may have heard
you say it, and I know my duty, and perhaps I shall have
children of my own—but disgrace—with George—George
Atheling, gentleman, of Atheling Court — our Nettie's
George ? And him with money ! Mother, I'm ashamed of
you, I ami'
CHAPTEB XVII.
the last.
' Tell Elinor,' said George, ' that I have taken her at her
word. I shall see her again when I can go back to her as I
once thought myself—master of myself. And not till then.'
' You are already master of yourself. You proved so much
last night,' said the Professor.
' It is not enough to prove it once. I have to prove it
again. Yet two months more, and the time will have come
round for the next attack.'
' You need have no fear now.'
' Perhaps not. I am partly convinced that the fury of
last night's attack, and of every second night, is due to the
308
THE DEMONIAC
yielding of the first night. No. I have little fear. But we
shall see. Meantime, Nettie knows all. I have concealed
nothing from her. She agrees with me that until I can feel
myself really a free man, I have no right to resume my old
place. "When I can do so, I will return, and bring her with
me and the children.'
' Yes. To your old place—your own place—and the old
ambitions.'
George shook his head.
' Not the old ambitions. They are gone. They are im¬
possible, henceforth. My career was ruined that first night
at Cambridge when, half mad and half asleep, I seized the
whisky-bottle. The man who has once been a slave can
never afterwards command. The spirit of authority is gone
from him. He may become a free man, but never with the
old mastership. You know the old galley-slave by the
dragging leg. All the rest of my life you will see the dragging
leg of the man who has been a slave. Henceforth, the best
thing I can hope for is to live retired, and to do no harm to
anybody.'
They returned to Daffodil Road.
George repaired as usual to the office of his paper next
morning. He was received with universal astonishment.
Everybody stared at him. They thought, you see, that he
was already arrested and lodged in prison. Except for the
actual details of the crime, everything was certain. Yet
here he was turning up again as if nothing had happened !
The proprietor beckoned him into his private room. Here
he showed him the advertisement.
' Well ?' asked George, reading it. ' The advertisement is
meant for me. Do you mean that ? I have already seen
the solicitors about the business. What is the meaning of
all this mystery ?'
' Why—I thought—it's no use bouncing about it—there's
time yet, if you like ' He jerked his left thumb over
his left shoulder.
' Oh ! you think I was—what is called—wanted.'
' I'm sure you were. Can't think anything else.'
' I suppose not. Fortunately, however, it was not the
police who wanted me, you see, but my friends.'
' Oh !' The proprietor's face dropped. ' You are goiim
to sta}7, after all ?' 9
THE LAST
' For a time—yes.'
The Proprietor's expressive countenance showed the
greatest disappointment.
' Ah!' he said. ' It's a dreadful pity. It would have
made a splendid bill. Look here. I've had it set up
already.' He unrolled a poster, all in red, and all the
words in separate lines and big capitals : ' " Arrest of the
Sub-Editor! Fifty pounds Reward ! Attempted Flight! Too
late ! The Crime 1 The Perpetrator ! The Motive 1 Alleged
Confession ! The Euined Home ! The Desolate Hearth !
Where is Father? A Weeping Wife !" '
' Dear me !' said George, looking at this work of Art
critically. ' What a pity that such a splendid bill should
be wasted 1'
' A pity, truly. And you look on as if you didn't care two¬
pence !'
' Well, I don't, if you come to that. Do you want me to
stop outside and commit a crime or two for the sake of your
poster ?'
' You may laugh, sir, as much as you like.' The Pro¬
prietor turned red. His temper, like his person, was short.
' But let me tell you, sir, that no one in my employ laughs
at me. No one, sir. No one 1'
' Very well. Then I leave your employment at once.'
George put on his hat in token of emancipation. ' Now
that I have left it, I suppose you will allow me to laugh at
you ?'
The Proprietor, fat and pursy, looked up at this great
giant and trembled. He remembered that he had never
had a Sub-Editor half or quarter so good, and never should
get another like him. So he made haste to excuse himself.
' You might make a little allowance, Mr. Humphrey, for
my little disappointment. No one knows better than you
what a fillip it would have given the paper.'
' So it would—so it would. Well, let us go on again for
a bit.' George was placable. He took off his hat, and
resumed his usual seat. ' Hand me the scissors and the
paste,' he said. ' Pass me the pen and ink. I remain the
Sub-Editor.'
In the months of August and September, when even the
residents of this quarter manage something of a holiday,
except when things are at their very tightest, George con-
3io
THE DEMONIAC
tinued at his desk working as before. By tacit consent, the
night of the great Conflict was seldom spoken of between
his wife and himself. They were to wait for the next battle
and its result. After a second decisive victory the future
would be considered. Great changes cast their shadows
before. Nettie was already conscious that the little house
was too little. New wants were already budding in her
brain : a higher standard of household expenditure was
attained and duly practised.
' Four weeks from to-day, dear,' said George, on the first
of September. He referred to the coming struggle.
' You are looking stronger than ever, George. I can see a
change in you: your very eyes are stronger.'
' Three weeks from to-day,' he said on the eighth of
September.
'If you fought well that night, dear,' she said, 'you will
fight ten times as well in' three weeks from to-day.'
' Only a fortnight,' he said on the fifteenth.
' The sooner it comes the better, dear. I shall be with
you, as I was before, all night long.'
' Only a week now,' he said on the twenty-second.
' That is all, dear. We shall soon have it over now.'
' This evening, dear.' It was the twenty-ninth.
' Go for a walk, George. Take a good long walk. Tire
yourself, if you can ; and think of nothing but of victory and
strength. These great arms—these broad shoulders—what
a man you are, George! Never was such a strong man.
You were born to be a fighting man, George.'
' You are a flattering Siren. Well, I am a little nervous
and a little excited. I will go for that walk, and make it
last all day. We will have dinner at half-past seven. After
that, we will gird.on the armour and wait.'
' Do you think that man will come ?'
' I don't know. He has made no sign since July. Let
him come, if he likes.'
He went out, and stayed out, walking along the gritty
road fifteen measured miles out, and fifteen back again. He
came home a little tired, but looking in splendid condition.
They talked of other things : the children—trivial things of
THE LAST
the household. But from time to time Nettie glanced at her
husband. He grew silent and thoughtful; his face was set;
She had seen it so, but harder, more determined, on that
night when he made her hold his hands, as if her very touch
could give him strength. I verily believe that no act of his
had so much endeared him to his wife as that little prayer
that she would hold his hand while he went down into the
Mouth of Hell.
The evening was dark and cold. The lamp had long been
lit: a fire was burning on the hearth : the children were in
bed. The pair sat opposite each other—neither speaking.
Suddenly, without any prelitninary ringing of the bell or
monitory knocker, the door opened noiselessly, and the man
Mavis stood before them.
He stood with down-dropped eyes, holding his hat in his
two hands, his cheeks paler than ever. He said nothing,
not a word.
' George !'—Nettie sprang to her feet, and threw her arms
round his neck,' you shall not go with this man! You shall
not!'
' Don't be afraid, my dear. Why do you come here
to-night, Mavis ?'
' You forget. It is the usual time : I am not here before
my time. Business at Boston !'
' Oh, I thought you understood, at the end of last July,
that I had given up that job. No more business at Boston
for me, Mavis—and no more business with you I'
Mavis took one step into the room.
' I don't think, sir,' he said, becoming the man-servant
again, ' that I rightly understand. You are never going to
give up that business in Boston! You can't do it, sir.
Excuse my speaking before your good lady ; but you can't
do it. To night the job must be begun. Think of that
night aboard ship. Think of last July only. There was a
job I'
' It was, Mavis, a devil of a job I Well—I now speak
quite plainly. The cottage is held by a yearly tenancy : I
shall not renew it. Your service can be determined at a
month's notice. Take that notice. There will then be
three months' wages due to you.' He got up, took his
cheque-book from a drawer and wrote a cheque. ' There
they are. You can go. I dismiss you.'
THE DEMONIAC
'After five years' faithful service? It's hard!' MaviS
began.
' Don't whimper, Mavis. You've had out of me during
the last three years the best part of a thousand pounds. I
drew a thousand pounds when I came to live here. I have
kept myself and my house on my earnings. You've had that
thousand pounds. Come now, it's three hundred a year.
You must have saved a hundred and fifty a year, at least,
out of that. And then there's that cheque of £5,000—a
good lump-sum that, Mavis—does you credit—that you got
out of me at a certain critical moment, when I did not know
what I was doing, yet could do what I was told to do.
That was a great stroke, Mavis. That does you great
credit, infinite credit. Equalled only by the wise conduct
of the voyage.'
' You gave it to me of your own free-will: I'll swear you did 1'
' You may swear if you please. I suppose I gave you
that second cheque of £5,000 as well: the one you lost, I
mean. Now, Mavis, there was a third person present on
that occasion, who looked on and overheard everything—a
person in the garden, and the window was open. Well 1
have you got anything more to say ?'
Mavis turned to go. He had nothing more to say.
' Stay, Mavis. I am curious to know what you propose
to do. You have got, I take it, during these five years,
something like six or seven thousand pounds quietly put
by.' Mavis smiled. 'You can retire from service. What
are you going to do ?'
' I shall go back to Cambridge.'
' Not to be a gyp again ?'
' No, sir. I did intend going back before, but I was
anxious about that second cheque, which you really did give
me, but took it away again, I suppose, when I was asleep.
I shall go back to Cambridge, and I shall do a little money-
lending. The gentlemen are not what they were, neither
for drink nor for betting and gambling. But there's still
money to be made, and I'm a prudent man, sir, as you
could testify.'
' I could, indeed. Farewell, Mavis !'
' I would only wish to say, sir, that if on any future
occasion, say to-night or to-morrow night, you want me
you have only to send for me. I bear no grudge, sir, for
THE LAST
3'3
your changing your mind about the second cheque; and it
really was a good lump for gratitude, wasn't it? I can
come whenever you send for me; and I can stay as long as
you like. On the old terms.'
He was gone. The wife breathed again.
George filled and lit a pipe, v h;ch he worked through
without a word. Then he spoke.
' There were once, my dear,' he began, ' two boys at
school; one was a bully and the other a coward. The bully
licked the coward once a week. After a year or two the
coward began to feel ashamed. One day he stood up to the
bully, and licked him. A week later the bully came back
and offered battle once more. I shall now, my dear, go
upstairs and have it out with that bully.'
At two o'clock in the morning he started from his sleep,
panting, gasping, rolling his shoulders.
His wife, who watched beside him, caught his hand.
' George !' she cried. ' George ! I am here. Rouse your¬
self. Remember!'
He opened his eyes and saw her.
' Take my hand,' he murmured. ' The Devil has come
again !'
Why—this battle was over in a quarter of an hour. It
was nothing compared with the long and doubtful combat
of that second night.
' It is gone, my dear,' he said. ' Give me a glass of water.
Thank God ! I have got the mastery at last!'
He lay back and fell asleep instantly.
There remained the second attack. Again George went
out for a long walk—again he came home tired.
' I ought to sleep well to-night,' he said cheerfully. He
was in the best of spirits and full of courage. He expected
no further trouble at all.
At nine o'clock he took a pipe. Nettie, exhausted with
yesterday's watching, began to fall asleep in her chair. He
persuaded her to go to bed, promising to awaken her if he
was roused by the old symptoms. Alas ! she obeyed. She
left him alone. Many mistakes had been committed in the
management of this case. None so fatal as the last. He
presently laid down his pipe. His eyes dropped. He, too,
fell asleep. It was then only nine. He slept peacefully in
his chair till past eleven.
3M
THE DEMONIAC
Then he awoke with a start and sprang to his feet. Once
more the old overwhelming wave of a longing, yearning,
irresistible thirst seized him. As of old he resisted no
longer.
He reeled out of the room, panting—there was no drink :
he seized his hat, threw open the door, and ran down the
steps. At the garden-gate stood Mavis—faithful creature—■
waiting. Was he, then, a prophet ?
' I expected you,' he said. ' Come, it will take us a
quarter of an hour or more. Why didn't you come yester¬
day ?'
' You are the Devil himself,' said George.
They reached the cottage. On the table stood the bottles
and the glasses. George fell upon them as he had fallen
on them that first night of all. He attempted no resist¬
ance. He thought of no resistance. He wras once more
wholly possessed of that Devil. The man Mavis looked on
in silence watching, as a good servant ought to do, without
the least emotion.
Ten minutes later the first force of the attack was spent.
George sat in the old place, in the arm-chair at the head of
the table. He looked around him.
Suddenly he remembered. He thought of Nettie and the
children. He leaned his head on his hands. He was as
yet only at the beginning of the great surrender. He was
still sober, even though he had surrendered. At such a
time a simple half-bottle of ardent spirit counts for little.
He was sober, and he could think.
' I have half an hour to spare,' he said, ' before it comes
again. Perhaps less. Well, I must be quick.'
He drew out his pocket-book and found a post-card. He
wrote a few lines on it and addressed it. Then he rose and
put on his hat.
' I am going to post this note,' he said.
' Let me post it for you, sir,' said Mavis respectfully.
'■ No ; go on mixing the drinks.
He went out. At the head of the lane he knew there
was a pillar-post. He walked up the lane and dropped in
his post-card.
' There,' he murmured, ' the thing is as good as done.'
He turned and walked back. But when he reached the
gate he stopped.
THE LAST
' Devil!' he said, ' I am going to cheat you at last.'
_ The lane continues eastward a little when it reaches ths
liver Lea, which is here crossed by one of the many bridges
which span it on its southward course.
He leaned over the bridge and looked at the dark water
below.
' I knew all along,' he said, ' that the Devil would be too
cunning. For Nettie's sake—for the children's sake.' He
put one leg over the wall leisurely, and looked down into
the dark water. ' The Doctor said that I might kill myself
for the sake of someone whom She will be broken¬
hearted for a bit. Then she will come round. Besides,
there are the boys to look after. And she'll have all that
money, if that can console her.' He put the other leg over
and sat upon the wall, dangling his feet. His throat began
to make itself felt. ' Life,' he said,' has become impossible.
I can no longer surrender, and I cannot fight. Both are
impossible. Yet if I had Nettie's hand in mine. . . . No—
no—it is impossible.' His throat began to scorch and burn.
' Devil!' he said, 1 cold water for you this time!' He
leaned forward and rolled over into the river, and sank be¬
neath the waters.
When John Carew came out of his bedroom in the morn¬
ing, he found on the top of his letters a post-card, with a note
in pencil:
' The Cottage. Midnight. The Devil has proved too
strong, after all. I always thought he would. For Nettie's
sake I am going to put an end to the whole business im¬
mediately. I am on my way to drop off the High Bridge
into the river Lea, where you will find me to-morrow, I dare
say, if you look for me. Ask Elinor, for my sake, to be
kind to Nettie and the children.
' Geokge.'
Nettie was wandering about the house. She could not
sit still—she could not settle to anything. She was filled
with the presentiment of coming evil.
She had slept all through the night until eight in the
morning. Then she awoke to find that George was already
up and dressed. That did not alarm her much at first.
But she discovered that his night things were still lying in
3 '6
THE DEMONIAC
their place, neatly folded up, and that his pillow showed no
marks of pressure. She hurried downstairs. George was
not there. He had not gone to bed at all, then. He was
gone out.
Strange! Perhaps he had had a hard night—but he
promised faithfully to wake her up—perhaps he had only
gone out for a walk. He would come home to breakfast.
But he did not. Then her mind began to be filled with
vague misgivings—and then with anxieties—and then with
terrors.
About twelve o'clock a carriage drew up before the door,
and Nettie saw John Carew and a lady get out of it, and
observed that John's face was grave and that the lady was
weeping. Then her face became white and her heart stood
still.
' John Carew !' she cried, springing to meet him, ' where
is George? Where is George?'
John Carew took her by both hands.
'Nettie,' he said, 'Nettie, my dear old friend ' but
here he broke down. His voice turned into a sob, his eyes
overflowed. ' Tell her, Elinor,' he said : ' I cannot.'
He left the room and shut the door.
In the evening the Patager family were gathered together,
solemn, awed, and yet important.
' There will be an inquest,' said the Head of it. ' No one
knows how he fell in the water. He will be buried—John
Carew tells me—in his own church near the family mansion
—in his own church—the family mansion '—he repeated.
' It will be in all the papers, of course. They will talk
about us in the City.'
' Miss Thanet has carried off Nettie and the children,' said
Victoria. ' Poor Nettie ! She doesn't even seem to know
what is said to her. But,' she sighed, ' seven thousand
pounds a year, it is. Oh ! seven thousand pounds a year !
At such a time one cannot think of money—all our thoughts
must be of mourning : we must have it becoming. Mother,
you shall have a black velveteen and I'll have silk—Nettie
will pay—Charlie shall have a new suit of black. Poor
Nettie ! But, oh ! seven thousand—oh !—seven thousand
pounds a year 1'
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
Said Norah Helmer, in that last scene which moved and
surprised us all so much, ' We have been married eight
years, and we are strangers. I have borne three children—
to a stranger. I cannot remain any longer under the roof
of a strange man. I will not see these children any more.
I give you, Torvald, wThat I take for myself—perfect free¬
dom. Live as you please—I shall live as I please. We
are free. Stranger, keep your children !'
It was twenty years ago when these words were uttered,
though we seem to have heard them only yesterday.t
I.
It was an upper chamber of a house in one of the, poorest
parts of the town; a room poorly and scantily furnished.
Before the open window stood a table which had certainly
once kept richer, if not better, company ; there was a cup¬
board, the half-open door of which showed cups and saucers,
and certain household stores; there was no carpet on the
floor, the window had no curtain, only a blind ; there were
no book-shelves, books, pictures, ornaments, or anything
pretty at all—nothing but chairs and a table and a stove.
One of the chairs was an arm-chair. There was no fire in
the stove, because the season was summer. At the table
sat a girl at work; and it- was the evening, but at nine
o'clock ; and for that matter at midnight, in Norway, there
is still plenty of daylight. From the hot street below came
up cries of children at play ; puffs and waftings of smells,
puch varied smells as belong to a poor street where work
313 THE DOLUS HOUSE—AND AFTER
of all kinds is carried on in the houses as well as cookery of
the kind which appeals as strongly to the nose as to the
palate. Overhead, a pure and brilliant sky ; an evening
when one might long for the pleasant noise of streams
leaping over cascades and might dream of the placid waters
of the fiord. But the girl went on working.
It was quite fine work that she was doing; work that is
generally done in the rooms belonging to the shop where it
is sold; but Emmy Helmer liked best to work alone in her
own room, and not with other girls; and she was so good
a hand that she was allowed to do so. She sat in a chair
beside the open window, her skilful needle flying in and out
while she made the beautiful embroidered work which the
foreign ladies came to buy; so good a hand she was, that
the ladies always chose her work and took it home with
them and exhibited it as proudly as if they themselves had
made it; and so contented a maiden was she that she
never asked or cared to know what her employer charged
for the work which he got so cheaply. She was a pretty
girl—not tall, and yet shapely ; the curve of her head and
neck, as she sat over the work—nay, every curve in her
figure—was lovely to look upon. Her blue eyes, if she
lifted them, were soft and limpid; her fair hair was
abundant; her hands were small and white; her features
were delicate ; her cheek soft, though too pale, for the
Norwegian winter is long and the Norwegian stove is hot;
besides which, a more generous diet and a life of more open
air and less hard work might have brought more fulness
and a deeper colour to the cheek as well as more roundness
to the arm ; but in every other respect she was a pretty
girl.
On the table there lay an open letter, placed as the
London clerk likes to place his newspaper while he takes
his dinner, convenient for reading. It was a letter of two
pages only, and those not quite filled. It began, ' My
dearest, and sweetest and best,' and it ended with, ' Your
faithful and constant lover ;' and there was hardly anything
in it but' I love you—oh, my love, I love you !' Some girls
would have found a letter monotonous with but one idea
in it, and that repeated so many times. Not so Emmy
Helmer ; she thought it beautiful. She knew it by heart,
but she read it over and over again; nay, while she sat and
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER 319
worked, turning her eyes fondly to this letter, looking at
each word as if she loved its shape and admired its curves,
her cheek began to glow and her eyes grew brighter, and
her lips trembled with a dream that came to her—a dream
of love and happiness ineffable, far from the place where she
was living, far from all the troubles which surrounded her,
with this young man who loved her so—who loved her so.
Why did he love her so ? What was she that such a brave
and gallant lover should stoop to love her. Only a work-
girl, with a terrible trouble in her family history. But
And he minded nothing—nothing. No, though his father
was now a great gentleman in the town, and the mayor,
and she was only a work-girl! He minded nothing, not
even She turned pale, and shuddered, and then red,
and trembled. He minded nothing, not even — she
looked at a door which opened, not to the staircase, but
to another room—not even what was behind that door.
Behind that door ! Her lover knew everything. The poor
girl could not conceal anything if she tried : he knew even
worse things than any hidden behind that door.
Alas, the most miserable thing that can happen to any
one in the world had befallen this poor girl! She was
shamed and disgraced; by no misconduct of her own, but
by that of other people. She was one of those by whom
the fifth commandment, which by some is held to include
brothers and sisters, nay, cousins and nephews, nieces,
uncles and aunts, cannot possibly be observed—not by the
most straight-walking Puritan that ever lived. It cannot:
in no way can it be observed. This kind of shame is so
horrible because it is, for the most part, self-inflicted.
People say behind a girl's back, ' She is the daughter of
this, that, or the other shameful person.' They do not say
it to her face. If she is a girl of ill-conditions, they say it
is the bad blood breaking out. If she is a good girl, they
pity her out .of the goodness of their hearts. In neither
case do they taunt her with her misfortune; she takes the
shame herself; with her own hand she dies her cheek a
perpetual red ; she need not, but yet she cannot choose.
This, as you will understand, was Emmy Helmer's sad
case. Then, since in every kind of misery there are some
forms more wretched than others, this poor girl had
endured the worst kjnd pf all, which comes with the gradual
320
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
degradation of those whom she ought to have respected,
and the gradual loss of everything which makes this life
tolerable. Now, there' was nothing left to lose, except
those who had wrought the ruin; nay, though this must
not be said in extremis, when things are at their most
shameful point, the extinction of these shameful persons
would have been her gain. At least they would no longer
be in evidence; they would speedily be forgotten—she
would be left alone, a wreck perhaps, but no longer encum¬
bered by the cordage and floating spars, and the crazy
hulk of foundering ships around her. But this, again, must
not be said even when things are at their worst.
A church-clock struck nine. Emmy threw down her
work and sprang to her feet. Then she remembered that
she had eaten nothing since mid-day. She searched in the
cupboard and found the loaf and some jam. Five minutes'
struggle of youth with bread-and-jam may represent a light
and wholesome supper. Then she put her work together,
and carried it into her own room, and shut the door. When
she came out, ten minutes later—not more, fair reader—
she had on her other frock—a greatly superior article to
that in which she worked. She wore a pretty hat, with
pink ribbons tied in a lovely bow at her throat; and with a
smile on her lips and a light in her eyes, she ran out of the
door which opened on the landing, and so downstairs.
II.
Behind the door—that other door—if Emmy had stayed
any longer she would have heard steps as of one staggering
about the floor. Then she would have jumped from her
chair and run into her own room, there to remain until she
was called. It was in this way that she did her best to
honour her parent.
The door was opened roughly, as by one who uses violence,
and Torvald Helmer, her father, stood in the doorway, look¬
ing about him stupidly, as one not yet more than half awake.
He had changed a little, certainly, since that day when
Norah, his wife, amazed him by telling him he was a
stranger just before she left him. Then he was three-and-
THE DOLUS HOUSE-AND AFTER
321
thirty years of age, well set up, stiff in his carriage, precise
in his dress, clean-shaven, of personal dignity beyond his
years, and careful of his words. Everybody remembers
how Torvald Helmer looked twenty years ago, before—well,
twenty years bring a man of thirty-three to the age of fifty -
three. This seems incredible to those still at the former
desirable age, but it is really quite true. Now, at fifty-three
most men show signs of advancing years, as in growing gray
or bald, and, perhaps, in being not quite so ready to stoop
as in the old days. And at fifty-three men who have lived
a certain kind of life are rewarded by possessing a historical
face. Their eyes, for instance, swell out for fatness; their
throats are swollen and their cheeks are puffed; their lips
tremble, as well as their hands; round the mouth the years
(and that habit of life) have carved a circular moat or ditch.
There are faces truly historical: all the world can read
them. There are many other faces which at fifty-three pro¬
claim the habit of life, though not so plainly. This one will
do for our purpose, because it was the face which Torvald
Helmer showed when he awoke that evening from a sleep,
untimely, unwholesome, and, in any other man, disgraceful.
In his it was too common to bring disgrace. And at the
sight of him, so shabby, so shaky, his gray hairs so dis¬
reputable, you would have asked where was the Torvald
you remembered twenty years ago. No greater misery for
such a man than, In some sober moment, to remember
what he once was. How—oh! how—shall such a man
climb back again? How, at fifty-three, shall he regain
the old look of dignity and self - reliance ? He never
tries; he groans and curses; and he still wallows in his
habit.
Torvald came out blearing and blinking; he looked all
round the room; it was empty; he drew the armchair to
the window, and sat, leaning his head upon his hands,
waiting for the moment of full recovery. To such as drink
continuously this moment soon comes; it is part of the
habit of their life to wait and expect this moment; they
know when it is coming; then they begin to straighten
themselves; the immediate effect of the strong drink has
gone away, and they become thirsty again. This man had
slept for four hours; he was awake now and growing sober
rapidly; he sat at the window and suffered the air to play
322
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
on his bare head, while his eyes blinked and his shoulders
rolled as a ship in waters troubled by a recent storm.
Presently he lifted his head, completely steadied—he was
as sober as he ever was ; in this kind of life there is reached
a certain level on which the pilgrim is never sober. Every
day he is drunk, but he is never quite sober. Torvald
Helmer was on this level. It is pretty low down among
levels, but there is one below it, and then—the final
plunge.
He got up and looked round the room, conscious that it
was growing late in the evening, and that he was alone.
He knocked at his daughter's door, calling her, but there
was no reply. Then he sat down again at the open window;
the night was warm; but the children's voices had ceased—
they were in bed; and there were no longer smells of work
and cookery. He sat a while thinking in the disconnected,
jumbled way which was left to him—to him, who had once
governed and trained his thoughts to obedience and orderly
sequence.
Then, as if stung by some noisome creature, he sprang
from the chair and began to walk about the room.
' Curse her !' he murmured, ' curse her! She is back
again. I saw her this afternoon, and she saw me. I was
coming out of the Black Eagle, and she was in her carriage
—in her carriage—looking sleek and wealthy. And she
laughed—oh, Devil!—she laughed 1'
He opened the cupboard; there was a bottle in it, but he
knew it was empty. He felt in his pockets, but he knew
there was no money in them; and he was fain to sit down
again and groan while his unruly thoughts went their own
way and took him back again for a space of twenty years.
' I have borne three children—to a strange man; I can
no longer remain under the roof—of a strange man. Take
your freedom, Torvald, as I take mine.'
These words came back clear and strong across the gulf
of twenty years. Then he saw how the household, which
had been his joy and pride, so full of comfort, order and
sweetness, fell to pieces ; how there ceased to be any order;
how his servants robbed him; how his children were neg¬
lected ; and how he himself came home at night to gloom
and discomfort. He remembered how the people talked,
and many looked askance at him, saying that no woman
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER 523
would leave husband and children who was treated with
kindness and love—the thing was impossible on the face of
it. How at the hank the customers who were wont to
consult him freely and with confidence now confined them¬
selves to their business and went away. How he fell out of
society ; people recognise a bachelor and a widower, but one
who is neither, what can they do for him? All the misery
of this early time came back to him. He remembered what
he suffered in his loneliness, he who had been accustomed
for eight years to the company of a sweet and loving wife—
sweet and loving until the very moment before she left him.
And at this point he cursed the woman again.
Then he remembered how he would sit alone in his study
all the evening, caring no more for work, though still from
habit he brought home his papers. And now, beside him,
close at his elbow, a bottle.
He remembered, next, how one day the chairman of the
bank called with a very serious face, and communicated to
him the resolution of the directors to dismiss him from the
post of manager in consequence of work neglected and
business falling off. Well, he was still a lawyer ; he would
practise. He had continued to practise, to such as would
come, but who were they ? And what was he now ? And
again he cursed the woman.
He was so sober now that he was beginning to recover an
unwonted command of his brain. He was beginning to
understand how low he had fallen; a man can fall no lower
than from honour to contempt, from self-respect and self-
rule to slavery and loss of will. Happily for such as Torvald
they seldom quite understand what they have been and
what they are. He shed tears; he wept; he groaned
aloud; the tears rolled down his cheeks. Such as Torvald
weep easily, yet they continue in the bonds of habit. We
all weep when the man brings along the whip. Those, how¬
ever, who resemble the unfortunate Torvald Helmer are
more than commonly open to the soft emotions of sorrows.
Therefore this poor man shed abundant tears.
He was still weeping over the past and growing thirstier
every moment, when he heard steps upon the stairs. He
knew those steps; he lifted his head, he opened his mouth,
and gasped as one who in the desert sees the palm-trees
that grow beside the spring. They were the steps of his
324
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
son Einar, if he guessed aright. Then the door was opened
and Einar came in.
Twenty years ago, when you saw Einar last, he was a
lovely boy of seven, the image of his mother, with all her
winning ways and sweet confidences. He was now a man
of seven-and-twenty, past the first spring of manhood, at an
age when the face and manner of the man begin to show
something of his past. He was handsome, but there was a
look of recklessness in his face, and just now his cheek was
flushed and his eyes glistened. He was dressed like a clerk,
but he lacked the air of sobriety which should adorn that
calling. A clerk who looks as if the costume of a cavalry
officer would become him better than his black coat and
gray trousers does not inspire confidence. In fact, Einar
had already gone through several situations, and was now
employed in keeping the books—without access to the cash
—of a beer garden.
' All alone, dad?' he said, drawing a large flat bottle out
of the paper in which it was wrapped. ' Here is something
to cheer you up'—it was not the first time he had found his
parent in tears. ' Have a glass, and look cheerful.'
He filled and lit his pipe, put glasses on the table, and sat
down opposite his father, who drank glass after glass of raw
spirit with the greediness of the toper who has let himself
run down.
' Dad,' said the son presently, ' she's back in town again.'
' I know ; I saw her this afternoon.'
'I saw her too, driving through the streets. She's
dressed in silks and satins. The people looked at me. If
anyone had dared to speak to me I'd have killed him.'
His father said nothing.
' I'd have killed him,' the young man repeated.
Torvald swallowed another glass. Einar puffed at his
pipe, They exchanged no. more words.
III.
Outside the town, where a swift stream ran babbling over
the stones, two lovers walked hand-in-hand. The young
man was Nils Krogsrad—Nils the younger.
' Oh, my dear,' he said, ' I am torn to pieces thinking of
the dolus house—and after. 323
you. But patience—patience—we will go away, far away,
where you shall see and hear no more.'
' If I could do anything for them, Nils—hut I cannot.
Einar loses every place through his tempers and his drink¬
ing, and Eobert terrifies me with his extravagance. Where
does he get his money ? Is it by gambling? I cannot bear
to think of him—and—there is—my poor father !'
' Yes,' said Nils decidedly.
' He who stood so high, and was respected so much.
Why, Nils, all the world knows what Torvald Helmer was
—and all know what he is,' she added bitterly.
' My dear, there is no help for us but to fly. We must go
away—I have thought of everything. We will go to America
—not to the place where the Norwegians congregate—there
we should find nothing but this town over again, with all
the old stories—no, no—we must go to some place by our¬
selves, and quickly learn to talk English, and bring up our
children—our children, dear'—he repeated the words, so
strange to lovers young—' as if their parents were of the
English race—not Norwegians.'
' Oh, Nils ! will your father let you go ?'
1 He must, if I refuse to stay,' replied the young man firmly.
' I shall speak to him to-morrow.'
' But if he should not ?'
' My dear, I shall ask him for nothing more than his con¬
sent, and the money for our passage and our start. That
done, we shall find between us all the rest.'
' Yes, dear Nils—I am not afraid of work. And if only
I have you, I care not how hardly we live.'
He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again.
It was eleven o'clock when they walked home together.
There were still many people in the streets, for why should
one want to go to bed when the air is warm and sweet, and
the night is like the day? They looked after the lovers,
and one said to the other that it would be a good thing for
the girl to be taken from her father and her brothers ; and
the other (who was a moralist) remarked to the one, That
from brambles one does not gather grapes, and that the
daughter of such a father, and such a mother, is not likely
to advance the coming of the kingdom of Heaven
At the door they kissed again and parted.
The girl ran upstairs. She found her father sitting in the
326 THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
armchair, his head against the wall, breathing heavily.
Alas ! How often had she seen him so ! Her brother, not
so far gone, turned his head and tried to speak, but only
grunted.
Emmy went quickly into her own room.
There she fell upon her knees and burst into tears of
gratitude because God would permit her to be taken away
from this house of shame—far away from the town of shame¬
ful memories.
There was still another member of the family. This was
the youngest—Robert. He came home at midnight. He,
too, was a clerk, and he had not yet lost his situation,
which was in the bank of which his father had once been
manager. He was dressed as one who desires to be thought
a young gentleman of fashion and means; he wore the latest
cut of collar and necktie, carried a gold chain, and had a
ring on his finger. His face, however, was anxious. He
glanced at his father and his brother and hurried through,
like Emmy, to his own room. Here he did not, like her,
fall on his knees in prayer, and then lie down to sleep. On
the contrary, he was full of restlessness. He half undressed,
and then started, gasped, and dressed himself again. Then
he wrote something on a paper and looked at it. Then he
tore it up, undressed for the second time and lay down.
But he could not sleep. And so the household of Torvald
Helmer passed the night. Two of them in the dreamless
sleep of drunkenness, one tossing on his bed in terror of
something, the last sleeping in happy hope of being taken
speedily away. Alas! Torvald Helmer—how hast thou
fallen!
IV.
Norah sat alone in her salon. Twenty years had changed
the young wife of twenty-seven to the woman of forty-seven.
At that age few women preserve their attractions. Norah
was one of the few. She was now a handsome woman, who
had been in her youth only pretty. Her form had filled out,
her face was still pleasing, her eyes, once so vivacious and
sparkling, though a little dulled by the years, were still full
of light. She was dressed in black silk, with plenty of lace;
she lay back in her easy-chair; in her lap was a book which
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
327
she was not reading. As she sat there alone—thinking—
her face grew hard, and even defiant.
Well, she had had her way. She gave up her husband
and home; she abandoned her children; she went forth
to find—Herself. She found something, and she called it
Herself. This something, which she readily believed, told
her that religion was sheer imposture and pretence; that
the ordinary laws of life were designed for no other purpose
than to keep women in slavery ; that the first duty of every
woman was owed to that something—Herself; that she
must make the most of her life for the sake of that some¬
thing, before whom every other consideration "must give
place. She threw aside, therefore, all the conventions, and
openly, not secretly, in the sight of all, she began to live the
life of perfect freedom. She wrote novels also, which the
old-fashioned regarded with horror. In them she advocated
the great principle of abolishing the family, and making love
the sole rule of conduct. She even related in these works
her own adventures, insomuch that the worthy Norwegians
thought the curse of Paris was about to fall also upon fair
Norway.
It is rumoured that this advanced thinker has found many
disciples, most of whom, for the sake of their business con¬
nections, worship in secret. It is certain that a few ladies
—English or German—have been found in her salon on her
evenings, as well as the men who, partly out of curiosity,
and partly from the freedom and the piquancy of the con¬
versation, frequented her receptions. Indeed, Norah Helmer
commanded the hand of respect which belongs to one who
has the courage to act upon her convictions. Perhaps it
would have been kinder to her own children—but what had
children to do with the discovery and the development of
Herself ?—had she practised her convictions in some other
place, say in St. Petersburg, where everything is permitted ;
or in Paris, where everything is done ; or in London, where
everything maybe done and nothing need be known. Women,
however, who are brilliant in the society of men, who permit
themselves to say things which would be risky in a club
smoking-room, and who hold views which prevent the poor
conventional lady from calling upon them, are apt to run
down and feel low when they have the whole evening in
solitude. Norah was feeling low; she was alone ; her book
328 THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
was stupid; she wanted excitement; she was sorry now
that she had refused a box at the theatre.
' A lady, madame.'
' A lady ! What lady ?—What name ?'
' Only a lady, madame. The lady wishes to give you her
name herself.'
Norah hesitated. ' I am at home,' she said,
The lady who came in was dressed in a long cloak with a
thick veil. She put up the veil and threw off her cloak.
' You do not remember me,' she said.
Norah looked at her curiously. ' You are Christine,' she
said. ' I remember you now. Why do you come here,' she
asked coldly, ' after twenty years' absence ?'
' I come to see you, Norah. It is your own fault that
now I only dare to come secretly.'
' I am a leper, I suppose.'
' You know what people say and think of you. You know
what things you have written and published.'
' Well, in the world's own way of thinking—if I am what
I am, you are the wife of Nils Krogsrad.'
' My husband is long since a most respectable man. It is
known that for a short period he was slandered and mis¬
understood. When I married him it was my intention to
restore him to society—nay, to place society at his feet.
He is now honoured : the mayor of the town, the manager
of the hank, the leader in every religious and philanthropic
effort.
Norah laughed derisively. 'Yes, indeed; but why do
you come here ?'
' I come, I say, to see you. I heard that you had
returned, after five years' absence. We are growing old,
Norah. I have followed the course common to the world
we live in; you have chosen another path. Which is now
the happier ?'
' Certainly, I am the happier, because I am not a slave.
I am not concerned to defend my life, Christine. It is
enough for me to have found myself, and to have followed
logically and fearlessly the full development of my nature.'
' Do you never regret the past ?'
' Do you mean that chapter which I closed twenty years
ago ?—Never.'
' Do you never think of your husband ?'
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND ALTER
3-9
' The owner of the Doll's House ?—Never !'
' Nor of your children ?'
' I never so much as inquire if they are living or dead.'
' They are living. Your husband, Torvald Helmer, has
sunk very low.'
' So much I have heard. But, indeed, I care not.'
' That is not well said, Norah, that you care not. For it
is your doing—all your doing. When you left him suddenly
with the helpless children you destroyed his life. Did you
never ask yourself what it meant for such a man to be
deserted by his wife, and without a cause ?'
' Cause there was—and enough.'
' Without a cause,' Christine repeated. ' You told me
why you left him. There was no cause. Did you never
think what construction would be put upon your act ?
People look coldly on a man whose wife sudderfly leaves
him and returns to him no more.'
' I cannot help that.'
1 You have not only destroyed his life, Norah, but you
have destroyed the lives of your own children. You re¬
member their names, at least. There was Einar, the
eldest. You must remember that lovely boy. He is now
a drunken profligate. He has been made reckless by the
example of his father and the things said of his mother.
There was little Emmy—you must remember her. She is
a good girl, I am told, who lives apart and alone, con¬
demned to loneliness, because a girl with such sad parents
can have no friends. There is the youngest, Bobert, whose
way of life is well known, and whose end is certain. It
will be—the prison. Does this move you ?'
' Not in the least,' she replied coldly. ' You speak of
unknown people—strangers. The sins of strange people
are only interesting as forming data in the general problems
of humanity. I have told you that a certain chapter of
my life is closed for ever.'
Madame Krogsrad put on her cloak and lowered her
veil.
' I leave you,' she said. ' You say in your books that
you have found perfect happiness in the development of
yourself in your own way. Sometimes in your happiness
and your pleasures, think of the ruined home and the lost
children. Norah, no woman ever did a more cruel, a more
33°
THE DOLUS HOUSE—AND AFTER
wicked, or a more selfish thing than you, when you deserted
your husband and your children.'
Nor ah laughed scornfully.
When the door closed upon her visitor her laughter
ceased, her face changed, she sank upon a chair—a long-
forgotten yearning seized her and held her. She had been
reminded of her children. For twenty years she had for¬
gotten them; now she remembered them all again—the
sturdy Einar, the laughing Emmy, the little year-old boy.
Her heart went out to them. What was it that woman
said ? They were grown up ; and one was a drunken pro¬
fligate, and one was friendless for no sins of her own, and
one was fast nearing the gates of the gaol.
'I am sorry,' she said, ' that I came back to the place.
Five years ago I said I would never come back. I will go
away to-morrow, out of their way. They are no children
of mine ;"they are the children of the man, the man—the
strange man 1'
Y.
Emmy Helmer sat at her work next day. She was sing-*
ing as she worked; not a song, but a piece of this song and
of that, without thinking what she sang; singing out of the
happiness of her heart, because her lover was going to take
her away, far away, where the shamefulness that now
wrapped her, as with a garment, would drop from her and
be no more seen. A girl situated like Emmy Helmer may
be allowed, I suppose, to think that the best thing possible
for her would be to go right away from home and never to
see again her father or her brothers, and never again to
hear of her mother. As for her father, he had gone as
usual to the office, where he sometimes received the few
who still came to him; simple folk who had known him
and consulted him so long, and could not understand that
his brain was muddled with strong drink. Her elder
brother was also gone—in search of a new place, I dare say ;
and the younger brother was at his desk in the bank. She
knew not how soon it would be before Nils, her lover,
•would take her away, but very soon now—oh, very soon 1
Therefore she sang at her work. In the hot forenoon the
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
33i
house was quiet: nobody ever disturbed her—nobody ever
visited her; and she worked on, singing as she worked in a
low sweet voice, thinking nothing of her words, but dream¬
ing of her handsome lover, Nils Krogsrad's youngest son.
Oh, it was too great, fortune—and so grand a family ! One
of the sons was a professor in the university, another was a
lawyer, a third was an officer of engineers; but Nils, the
youngest, her lover, would not stay at home ; he would go
to America and become a farmer, and she would go with
him and become a farmer's wife; and, what was it he said?
—their children, oh, their children! would be brought up
to talk English, and so never learn the truth about their
mother's family.
Suddenly—she never noticed steps going up and down
stairs ; people in flats regard them no more than steps in
the street—her door-bell rang. She rose, astonished. At
the door stood a lady whom she knew not—a lady beauti¬
fully dressed in silk, with a thick veil.
' Are you Emmy Helmer ?' asked her visitor. ' Yes ?
You are alone ? Then I will come in.' She stepped inside,
and looked around curiously. Then she looked at the girl.
' You are Emmy Helmer,' she said again, with a strange
constraint in her voice. ' You are a work-girl. Your father,
where is he? And your brothers?' She lifted her veil.
' Do you know who I am ?'
' My father is at his office.' Emmy answered all the
questions. ' My brothers are at their work. I do not know
you, madame. Have you business with me?'
'Your father drinks, I believe; and your elder brother,
Einar, follows his example.'
The girl hung her head.
' Alas, madame !' she said, ' these things are too well
known ; I cannot deny them. Are you come only to tell
me this ?'
'No—no — you—Emmy Helmer—tell me — are you
happy ? Do you want anything ?'
' Not now. At last I have all that I want.'
' Here ? In this poor place ? "With your father and your
brothers always in your sight ?'
' I have all that I want, madame.'
' In Heaven's name what do you want ?'
The girl looked round, and made answer slowly:
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
' I want to be taken away from a town where I am
shamed by my mother, and pitied for my father. That is
all I want. But God has given me more.'
' Your mother—shamed by your mother! Do you re¬
member her? Have you seen her ?'
' No, madame ; I pray that I may never know her. She
is the cause of all our troubles. It is a shameful thing to
be ashamed of your own mother. It is a most miserable
thing not to be able even to think of her for fear of bad and
revengeful thoughts.'
' If your mother were to seek you out, child, what would
you say to her ?'
' I should run away lest I should say something wicked.
But who are you, madame, and why do you come here?'
' I was sent, child—sent by your mother—none other—
to see you. Since you have all that you want, and since
you—think about her—in this way—I will not stay—I will
go away—I will go away.' She turned and seemed as if
she were going—yet she lingered. ' Nay,' she said, with a
strange look in her eyes ; ' of course you speak as you are
told to speak. You do not know the truth. Your mother
is a great leader. Future ages will speak of her as among
the first of those who liberated woman from the yoke laid
upon her by all the ages. You cannot know. Child, your
mother makes you an offer. Come to her. I will take you.
Live with her; be her daughter and her pupil. She will
teach you to become even as she is herself—free in thought
and free in life.'
' Oh!' The girl shuddered and trembled. ' If Nils
should hear! Live with her? Give up my lover and my
hopes ? Oh ! you are a vile and wicked woman ! You are
as vile and wicked as my unhappy mother herself! Go—
quickly. Leave me—lest I say something worse.'
Her mysterious visitor obeyed. She turned and walked
away.
VI.
The girl sat down to her work again. But her hands
trembled, the work went slowly, and she sang no more.
The joy had gone out of her heart. Her mother ! Her
mother who had shamed her! Oh! unto the third and
THE DOLL'S HOUSE-AND AFTER
333
fourth generation ! Never, since she began to understand
at all, had she ceased to feel those dreadful words—' unto
the third and fourth generation.' She tried to think of her
lover—brave, and strong, and true. But she could not.
She was in the ruined home cursed by the sins of her parents !
The work went more slowly; the tears gathered in her eyes
and rolled down her cheeks—' unto the third and fourth
generation.' Alas! As yet she knew not the trouble that
was to fall upon her.
Presently she recovered a little, and went on more steadily
with her work. But another step came up the stairs—a
step that she knew—and stopped before the door.
It was her younger brother. He was perfectly white; he
trembled and shook; he looked about the room. ' Emmy,'
he cried, ' help me—I must run away. Give me all the
money you have. Oh ! they may be after me now.'
' Robert! what have you done ? What is the matter ?'
He went into his own room and began putting his things
together as fast as he could.
' There's a row at the bank,' he said. ' I knew it would
be found out. Oh, I was a fool not to run away yesterday
—the day before ! Emmy, how much money have you got?'
She gave him her purse. It was light, but it held all she
had.
' Where will you go ? Oh, Robert, what have you
done ?'
' I will get across to Copenhagen; I will go on to Bremen
and so to New York.'
' What have you done ?' she asked again.
' You'll find out quick enough. Give me those boots, and
my great-coat. Hush ! There's someone at the door. Don't
let him in ! No—no—that would make him suspect. Let
him in.' There was a ring at the bell. ' Let him in. I
will lock my door; if he tries to get in I will escape by the
roof.'
He pushed his sister out of his room and locked the door.
Emmy opened the door trembling. It was not, however,
a policeman who stood there, but Mr. Nils Krogsrad, the
great banker, the mayor of the town, the father of her lover.
' You are Emmy Helmer ?' he said. ' I thought so. I
have something to say; something important—deeply im¬
portant.'
334
THE DOLUS HOUSE-AND AFTER
He came in and sat down. He was a tall man, of grave
and dignified bearing. The period during which he suffered
under the misunderstanding of the town had, perhaps,
saddened him.
1 My child,' he said, ' I desire you to understand, first of
all, that in what I have to say I mean no blame against
yourself. I am happy to learn that you bear a character
irreproachable. I am, therefore, assured that you will re¬
ceive my—my communication in a proper spirit.' He
paused. The girl said nothing. ' It is,' he continued, ' a
law of humanity that we suffer together. In every family
the deeds of the parents act upon the lives and fortunes of
the children. We who are virtuous bequeath an inheritance
of honour to our children. Those who are—the opposite—
bequeath an inheritance of shame. Is this true ?'
Emmy Helmer bowed her head. She could not speak;
and her brother was in the next room, hiding from the pur¬
suit of the law : an inheritance of shame, truly.
'I have four sons, Emmy Helmer. The eldest is a pro¬
fessor at the university, in great esteem ; the second is a
lawyer, in good practice; the third is an officer of engineers,
honourably considered; the fourth, Nils, it is my intention
to keep in the bank, in order to follow my footsteps. I am
aware that he has wild ideas about America, but they are
not my ideas. I am also aware that he has permitted him¬
self to fall in love with a girl. She is virtuous and respect¬
able, it is true; but for family reasons—for family reasons,
I say ' Again he paused, but the girl remained silent.
' Emmy Helmer, I ask you, could I permit my son to marry
that girl ? Think of it. Must I remind you of her family ?
You are a good and sensible girl—think of it. Is it possible
that I could suffer my son to load his back with such a
family ?—father, mother, brothers—good heavens ! Is it
possible ? You know my reputation in the town—my
honourable position; as magistrate I might have to con¬
demn ' He paused again.
Emmy Helmer covered her face with her hands, sobbing.
Nils Krogsrad rose : ' I have said enough for a sensible
girl. I have sent my son away for a year or more to learn
his business. Now, there is another thing. Your brother
Robert, .whom I took ioto the bank as a junior clerk—
weakly, as knowing his father's character—has, I find, com-
THE DOLL'S HOUSE—AND AFTER
335
mitted an act which brings him within the arm of the law.
He has forged my name. The amount is small, but the
crime is great. I would not willingly press the charge ; but,
can my son marry thQ sister of a forger, the daughter of—
nay, nay, let us spare the rest. Think of it, Emmy Helmer.
You are greatly to be pitied, but this affliction is your in¬
heritance. Think, I say. Give me an assurance that this
foolish engagement is broken, and, as a first mark of my
gratitude, your brother shall be suffered to escape.'
The girl rose, and brushed back her tears. ' You are '
right,' she said. ' Nils shall not marry me. Give him his
ring.' She drew from her finger the ring her lover had given
her. ' Are you satisfied, Mr. Krogsrad ?'
' I am quite satisfied. You are a good and brave
girl. In heaven, Emmy Helmer, you will have your
reward.'
He went away. The girl called her brother.
' You can come out, Eobert,' she said calmly—' you can
come out without fear. Mr. Krogsrad has been here. He
has told me that you are a forger, but he will suffer you to
escape. Go quickly. Oh, Eobert!'—she laid her hands
upon his shoulders—' go away to some foreign country,
where no one knows you. And, Eobert, for fear it should
be found out—never, never, never marry ! Eor GOD'S
sake, never marry. Let your sins die with you. Spare the
children—oh, my brother, spare the children!'
VII.
That evening, about eight o'clock, Norah drove to the rail¬
way station. -She was leaving her native town for ever;
she would return to it no more. Of old, she had been
pleased to come and go, scornful of the hostile looks of the
women and the side-glances of the men. She delighted in
her isolation; it was that of one in advance of her genera¬
tion ; one who is wiser than the recognised leaders is natu¬
rally stoned. She showed an example of perfect freedom
and fearless development, without any prejudice left at all.
Now she was going away for the last time, she would never
come back. Besides, she was humiliated; she thought her-
33'>
THE DOLUS HOUSE—AND AFTER
self so strong that nothing connected with the closed chapter
could touch her any more ; and she had seen her daughter ;
the old, buried, long-forgotten yearnings seized her; the old,
long-forgotten prejudices made her as ashamed as Eve her¬
self ; and horrible doubts held her sleepless and wretched all
the night. She would go away at once—she would go to
Paris, to London—anywhere.
On the way to the station, where the street leads up from
the port, the driver stopped. Blocking her way there was
passing slowly a little procession.
' They are carrying something, madame,' said the driver.
' We shall be able to go on directly.'
Norah leaned forward with natural curiosity. Four men
were carrying something. What ? They were surrounded
by twenty or thirty people pressing in to see. All were
talking eagerly. Then she heard the name of her hasband
mentioned.
' Torvald Helmer. Go and call Torvald Helmer. He
must be told. Go, someone, and tell Torvald Helmer. He
is drinking at the Black Eagle.'
They put down their burden in front of the carriage,
them ?'
' Drive on,' said Norah. ' Cannot you get round
' There is no hurry, madame,' said the driver. ' They
will go on directly. I think it is someone who is
drowned.'
Norah lay back. A dreadful presentiment of evil seized
her; she was afraid. For twenty years she had not felt the
least touch of repentance or fear ; now, she was afraid, and
she knew not why.
She heard them talking. ' Here comes Torvald Helmer.
Here is Einar. Oh, shameful! They are both drunk!
And at such a moment!'
She sat up again and saw her husband, and he was
staggering along—drunk. Behind him, also drunk, a young
man, tall and handsome. Was this her eldest boy ? Was
this Einar ?
A lady in the crowd saw her and came out quickly to
speak with her. It was Christine Krogsrad.
' Norah,' she said, ' for God's sake, drive on quickly !'
' What does it mean?' she asked. ' Why are they calling
Torvald Helmer ?' °
THE DOLUS HOUSE—AND AFTER
337
' Do not ask. Do not seek to know. Drive on quickly.'
Christine was deeply moved. ' A dreadful thing has hap¬
pened.'
' I shall not move until I learn what it is.'
' Then—oh ! wretched woman—know that the ruin is
complete.'
' What ruin ?'
' The ruin wrought by your own hand. They are bearing
home the body of your daughter. She has drowned her¬
self. For her mother's sake—for her father's sake—she
has been robbed of her lover. She is dead.'
' Ah!' Norah sank back in her carriage; but she re¬
covered herself with an effort.
Just then her husband, who was stupidly gazing at his
daughter's corpse, looked up, and, drunk as he was, recog¬
nised her. He bellowed an execration, and would have run
at her, waving his arms, and cursing her, but the others
held him back. They knew by this time who was in the
carriage, and the crowd parted right and left, as if to suffer
the woman who had deserted her children and her husband
to gaze upon the dead face of her daughter. But no one
reproached her, save with looks. Emmy lay upon a bier
formed by the coats of the fishermen who had found her;
someone had arranged her long fair hair across her bosom ;
her hands were joined as if in prayer; her cheek was white
and waxen, in no way injured by the water ; her eyes were
closed, the long lashes lying on the cheek; her face was at
rest, and for ever.
As the mother looked, her colour came and went; the
tears rose in her eyes, but she repressed them ; she reeled
and trembled, but she steadied herself; she parted her lips
twice to speak, but twice she refrained. In a word, Norah
Helmer, the apostle of the new and better creed, was
threatened with some of the weakness of the ordinary
woman; for a moment she was almost capable of weeping
over her daughter ; but she was mistress of herself; she
rose to the occasion; she became perfectly cold and in¬
different.
' What have I to do,' she asked, ' with a strange man and
his dead child ?'
'Norah.' said Christine, ' you will neve?—• never—never—
OQ
333
THE DOLUS HOUSE—AND AFTER
forget this scene. Go! you will be haunted fox ever with
the destruction of your own children by your own hand.'
_' They are going on, madame,' said the driver, turning in
his seat. ' It seems that it is a poor girl who has drowned
herself for shame. She had a bad mother and a bad father.
It is sad. Madame will be in time to catch her train.'
THE END,
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
This awn of Light between hep last
Moments and Eternity.
"As clouds of adversity gathered around, Marie Antoinette displayed a Patience and Courage
in Unparalleled Sufferings such as few Saints and Martyrs have equalled The 1'ure Ore. of
her nature was but hidden under the cross of worldhness, and the scorching lire of suffering
revealed one of the tenderest hearts, and one of the Bravest Natures that history records,
(Which, will haunt all who have studied that tremendous or una,
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.)"
. . . . " When one reflects that
a century which considered itself
enlightened, of the most refined
civilization, ends with public acts
of such barbarity, one begins to
doubt of Human Nature itself,
and fear that the brute which is
f always in Human Nature, has
the ascendancy 1"—Gower.
"Power itself hath not one-
half the Might of Gentleness."
"She who Kocks the Cradle
Rules the World."
"Extinguish all emotions of
heart and what differences will
remain? I do not say between
man and brute, but between Man
and mere inanimate Clod I"
—Cicero.
The Unspeakable
Grandeur of the Human
Heart.
The Drying up of a single
tear ha s more Honest Fame
than Shedding SEAS OF
GORE!! I
aii trope or succour but from TTiee Ts T'aslT
What is Ten Thousand Times more Horrible than Revolution or War?
^OUTRAGED NATURE!"^
" O World! O men ! what are we, and our best designs, that we must work by crime to
punish crime, and slay, as if death had but this one gate?"—Byron.
"What is Ten Thousand Times more Terrible than Revolution or War? Outraged Nature!
She kills and kills, and is never tired of killing, till she has taught man the terrible lesson he
is so slow to learn—that Nature is only conquered by obeying her .... Man has his courtesies
in Revolution and War: he spares the woman and child. But Nature is tierce when she is
offended; she spares neither woman nor child. She has no pity, for some awful but most good
reason. She is not allowed to have any pity. Silently she strikes the sleeping child with as little
remorse as she would strike the strong man with musket or the pickaxe in his hand. Oh ! would
to God that some man had the pictorial eloquence to put before the mothers of England the mass
of preventible suffering, the mass of preventible agony of mind which exists in England year after
year."—Kingsley.
MORAL.—Life Is a Battle, not a Victory. Disobey ye who will, but
ye who disobey must suffer.
[Seb Over.
LIGHT yersus DARKNESS,
"It is very characteristic of the late Prince Consort—a man himself of the purest
mind,, who powerfully impressed and influenced others by sheer force of his own benevolent
nature—when drawing up the conditions of the annual prize to be given by Her Majesty
at Wellington College, to determine that it should be awarded Not to the Cleverest
Boy, nor the most Bookish Boy, nor to the most Precise, Diligent, and
Prudent Boy, but to the Noblest Boy, to the Boy who should show the
most promise of becoming a Large-Hearted, High-Motived Man."—Smiles.
" How noble in reason ! how infinite in faculty ! in action how like an Angel! in
apprehension how like a God."
"SHAKESPEARE, the Greatest Genius who has ever yet lived," taught the
Divineness ot Forgiveness, of Perpetual Mercy, of Constant Patience, of
Endless Peace, of Perpetual Gentleness. If you can show me one who knew thing9
better than this man, show him 1! I know him not!! If he had appeared as a Divine,
they would have Burned Him; as a Politician, they would have Beheaded Him.
" He Taught that Kindness is Nobler than Revenge!!
The Rev. George Dawson, M.A.
"Earthly power doth then show likest And that same prayer doth teach us all to
God's render
When mercy seasons justice, The Deeds of Mercy."—Shakespeare.
" And such is Human Life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone 1"
What higher aim can man attain than conquest over human pain ?
JEOPARDY OF LIFE, THE GREAT DANGER OF DELAY.
You can change the trickling stream, but not the Raging Torrent.
WHAT EVERYBODY SHOULD READ.—How important it is to every individual to
have at hand some simple, effective, and palatable remedy, such sis ENO'S " FRUIT
SALT," to check disease at the onset! 11 For this is the time. With very little trouble
you can change the course of the trickling mountain stream, but not the rolling river. It will
defy all your tiny efforts. I feel I cannot sufficiently impress this important information upon
all householders, ship captains, or Europeans generally, who are visiting cr residing in any hot or
foreign climate. Whenever a change is contemplated likely to disturb the condition of health, let
ENO'S " FRUIT SALT " be your companion, for under any circumstances its use is beneficial,
and never can do harm. When you feel out of sorts, restless, sleepless, yet unable to say why,
frequently without any warning you are suddenly seized with lassitude, disinclination for bodily
or mental exertion, loss of appetite, sickness, pain in the forehead, dull aching of back and limbs,
coldness of the surface, and often shivering, &c., &c., then your whole body is out of order, the
spirit of danger has been kindled, but you do not know where it may end; it is a real necessity to
have a simple remedy at hand. The pilot can so steer and direct as to bring the ship into safety,
but he cannot quell the raging storm. The common idea when not feeling well is : "I will waitand
see, perhaps I shall be better to-morrow," whereas had a supply of ENO'S "FRUIT SALT "
been at hand, and use made of it at the onset, ail calamitous results might have been avoided.
What dashes to the earth so many hopes, breaks so many sweet alliances, blasts so many auspicious
enterprises, as untimely Death?
"I used my 'FRUIT SALT' In my last severe attack of fever, and I
have every reason to say I believe it saved my life."—J. C. ENO.
ENO'S " FRUIT SALT " prevents any over-acid state of the blood. It should be kept in every
bedroom, in readiness for any emergency. Be careful to avoid rash acidulated salines, and
use ENO'S '' FRUIT SALT " to prevent the bile becoming too thick and (impure) producing a
gummy, viscous, clammy stickiness or adhesiveness in the mucous membrane of the intestinal
canal, frequently the pivot of diarrhoea and disease. ENO'S "FRUIT SALT" prevents aud
removes diarrhoea in the early stages.
CAUTION. — Examine each Pottle and see the CAPSULE is marked ENO'S
"FRUIT SxlLT." Without it you have been imposed on by a worthless imitation. Prepared
only at
ENO'S "FRUIT SALT" WORKS, LONDON, S.E., by J. C. ENO'S Patent.
CHATTO & WINDUS'S
LIST OF CHEAP POPULAR NOVELS
BY THE BEST AUTHORS.
Picture Covers, TWO SHILLINGS each.
BY EDMOMO ABOUT.
The Fellah.
BY HAMILTON AIDE.
Carr of Carrlyon.
Confidences.
BY MARY ALBERT.
Brooke Finchley's Daughter.
BY MRS. ALEXANDER.
Maid, "Wife, or Widow ?
Valerie's Fate.
BY GRANT ALLEN.
Strange Stories.
Philistia.
Babylon.
The Beckoning Hand.
In All Shades.
For Maimie's Sake.
The Devil's Die.
This Mortal Coil.
The Tents of Shem.
The Great Taboo.
Dumaresq's Daughter.
The Duchess of Powysland.
Blood-Royal.
BY EDWIN LESTER ARNOLD.
Phra the Phoenician.
BY FRANK BARRETT.
A Recoiling Vengeance.
For Dove and Honour.
John Ford ; & His Helpmate.
Honest Davie.
A Prodigal's Progress.
Folly Morrison.
Lieutenant Barnabas.
Found Guilty.
Fettered for Life.
Between Life and Death.
The Sin of Olga Zassoulich.
Little Lady Linton.
BY SHELSLEY BFAUCHAKP.
Grantley Grange.
BY BESANT AND RICE.
Ready-Money Mortiboy.
With Harp and Crown.
This Son of Vulcan.
My Little Girl.
The Case of Mr. Lucraft.
The Golden Butterfly.
By Celia's Arbour.
Tlie Monks of Thelema.
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay.
The Seamy Side.
Tne Ten Years' Tenant.
The Chaplain of the Fleet.
BY WALTER BESANT.
All Sorts and Conditions of
Men.
The Captains' Room.
All in a Garden Fair.
Dorothy Forster.
Uncle Jack.
Children of Gibeon.
World went very well then.
Herr Paulus.
For Faith and Freedom.
To Call her Mine.
The Bell of St. Paul's.
The Holy Rose.
Armorel of Lyonesse.
St. Katherine's by the Tower.
The Ivory Gate.
Verbena Camellia Stephanotis
BY AMBROSE BiERCE.
In tlie HiiLt ot Lite.
BY FREDERICK BOYLE.
Camp Notes.
Savage Life.
Chronicles of No-Man's Land.
BY HAROLD BftYQGES.
Uncle Sam at dome.
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
The Shadow of tlie Sword.
A Child of Nature.
God and the Man.
Annan Water.
The New Abeiard.
The Martyrdom of Madeline.
Love Me for Ever.
Matt: a Story of a Caravan.
Foxglove Manor.
The Master of the Mine.
The Heir of Linne.
BY HALL CAINE,
The Shadow of a Crime.
A Son of Hagar.
The Deemster.
BY COMMANDER CAMERON.
Cruise of the • RlaeK Prince.'
BY MRS. LOVETT CAMERON.
Deceivers Ever.
J uliet's Guardian.
BY EX-CHIEF INSPECTOR
CAVANAtH.
Scotland Yard, Past and Pre¬
sent.
BY AUSTIN GLARE.
For the Love of a Lass.
BY MRS. ARCHER CLIVE.
Paul Ferroll.
Why Paul Ferroll Killed Wife.
BY MACLAREN C03BAN.
The Cure of Souls.
BY C. AILST0N COLLI S.
The Bar Sinister.
BY W1LKIE COLLINS.
Armadale.
After Dark.
No Name.
A Rogue's Lifa
Antonina.
Basil.
Hide and Seek.
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
My Miscellanies.
The Woman in White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
Miss or Mrs. ?
The New Magdalen. -
The Frozen Deep.
The Law and the Lady.
The Two Destinies.
The Haunted Ho el.
The Fallen Le r\ es.
Jezebel's Daughter.
The Black Robe.
Heart and Science.
' I say No.'
The Evil Genius.
Little Novels.
The Legacy of Cain.
Blind Love.
BY MORTIMER COLL'HS.
Sweet Anne Page.
Transmigration.
From Midnight to Midn-'ght.
A Fight with Fortune.
MORT. AND FRANCES COLLINS.
Sweet and Twenty.
Frances.
The Village Comedy,
You Play Me False.
Blacksmith and Scholar.
BY M. J. CDLQUHOUM. .
Every Inch a Soldier.
BY BUTTON COOK,
Leo.
Paul Foster's Daughter.
BY C. EGBERT CRAQDOCK,
The Prophet of the Great'
Smoky Mountains.
fnvJnn • HTTATTO £ WTNDUS. 214 Piccadilly, W,
2
BY MATT CRI.M,
Adventures of a Fair Rebel
n M BY B. M. CROKER,
Pretty Miss Neville.
Proper Pride.
A Bird of Passage.
Diana Barrington.
' To Let.'
A Family Likeness.
Tr BY WILLIAM CYPLES,
Hearts of Q-old.
BY ALPHONSE DAUDET,
The Evangelist.
BY ERASMUS DAY/SOS
The Fountain of Youth.
, „ BY JAMES DE MILLE,
A Castle in Spain.
BY J, LEITH DERWENT,
Our Lady of Tears,
Oirce's Lovers.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Sketches by Boz.
The Pickwick Papers.
Oliver Twist.
Nicholas Nicklcby.
BY DICK DONOVAN.
The Man-hunter.
Caught at Last I
Tracked and Taken.
PWO-SETLLING POPULAR NDI/W.T.Q
TT fiBIM i ™
ft, by r. e. frakcillgn.
Olympta.
One by One.
Queen Cophetua.
A Heal Queen.
King or Knave.
Romances of the Law.
by harold frederic.
Seth s Brother's Wife.
The Lawton Girl
On, JVl" ™«EtL,
TtaBJwEeB,aE»B"ETT.
. c. BY gilbert gaul.
A Strange Manuscript Found
m a Copper Cylinder.
_ BY charles gibbon.
Robin Gray.
For Lack of Gold.
What will the World Say ?
In Honour Bound.
In Love and War.
For the King.
Queen of the Meadow.
In Pastures Green.
The Flower of the Forest.
A Heart's Problem.
j-idcKeu ana laken. A Heart's Problem.
Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan ? The Braes of Yarrow,
J he Man from Manchester, The Golden Shaft;
A Detective's Triumphs ~
In the Grip of the Law.
wanted J
Prom Information Received.
I racked to Doom,
Link by Link.
Suspicion Aroused.
BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES,
A Point of Honour,
Archie Lovell.
Fete 8ETH«M-EDMBI>S,
Kitty.
BY EDWARD EGGLESTON.
__ BY G. MANVILLE FENN,
The New Mistress.
BY PERCY FITZGERALD,
Bella Donna.
Polly.
The Second Mrs. Tillotson.
beventy.five Brooke Street.
Never Forgotten.
The Lady of Brantome.
Fatal Zero.
BY PERCY FITZGERALD
Strange Secrets.
&0.
Of High Degree.
The Dead Heart"..
By Mead and Stream.
Heart's Delight.
Fancy Free.
Loving a Dream,
A Hard Xnot.
Blood-Money.
_ BY WILLIAM GILBERT.
James Duke.
Dr. Austin's Guests.
The Wizard of the Mountain.
Th 8t E?iES-T GLWV!UE,
-The Lost Heiress,
i The Fossicker.
EBY REV. S. BARING gfluid,
Bed Spider.
AN.M1»EVIL1E.
Nikanor.
n . BY CECIL GRIFFITH.
Oorinthia Marazion.
BY JOHN HABBERTON.
Brueton s Bayou,
Country Luck.
IriWW/MF I
— "— ( colonial Faots
London: OSZlvo dt WINDUS. 214 PinrTSiT],
I BY THOMAS HARDY.
Under the Greenwood Tree.
BY BRET HARTE.
An Heiress of Bed Dog,
The Luck of Roaring Camp.
Cahfornian Stories.
Gabriel Conrov.
Flip. *
Maruja.
A Phyllis of the Sierras.
BY J. BERWICK HARWOOD.
The Tenth Earl.
„ BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth.
EUice Quentin.
Sebastian Stroma.
Dust.
. Fortune's Fool.
Beatrix Randolph.
Miss Cadogna.
Love—or a Name.
David Poindexter'g Disan.
pearance.
The Spectre of the Camera.
T BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS.
Ivan de Biron.
at BY HENRY HERMAN.
A Leading Lady.
BY HEADO.Y fill.
Zambra the Detective.
BY JOHN HILL
Treason-Felony.
L BY MRS.- CASHFL h'OEY.
I he Lover's Creed.
BY MRS. CEORCE HOOPER.
The House of Baby.
)rn . BY TIEHE HOPKINS.
Twixt Love and Duty.
BY MRS. HUNGERFORD.
In Durance Vile.
A Maiden all Forlorn.
I A Mental Struggle,
Marvel.
A Modern Circe.
BY MRS, ALFRED HUNT.
Thornicroft's Model.
The Leaden Casket.
Self-Condemned.
That Other Person.
m BY JEAN JNGELOW,
Fated to be Free.
„ BY WILLIAM JAMESON.
My Dead Self.
^ BY HARRIETT JAY.
The Dark Colleen.
Tie Queen of Ccnnaught,
„ , BY MARK KERSHAW.
Colonial Faots and Fictions.
T17
TWO-SHILLING PQPULAB NOVELS.
3
BY R. ASHE KING,
A Drawn Game.
• The Wearing of the Green.'
Passion's Slave.
Bell Barry.
BY JOHN LEYS,
The Lindsays.
BY E. LYNN LINTON.
Patricia Kemball.
Atonement of Learn Dundas.
The World Well Lost.
Under which Lord ?
With a Silken Thread.
The Rebel of the Family.
' My Love I'
lone.
Paston Carew.
Sowing the Wind,
BY HENRY W, LUCY.
Gideon, Fleyce.
BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY,
Dear Lady Disdain.
The Waterdale Neighbours.
My Enemy's Daughter.
A Fair Saxon.
Linley Rochford.
Miss Misanthrope.
Donna Quixote.
The Comet of a Season.
Maid of Athens.
Camiola: a Girl with Fortune.
BY HUGH MacCOLL,
Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet.
BY MRS. MACDONELL.
Quaker Cousins.
' BY KATHARINE S, MACQ'JOID.
The Evil Eye.
Lost Rose.
BY W. H. MALLOCK.
The New Republic.
A Romance of the Nineteenth
Century.
BY FLORENCE MARRYAT,
Fighting the Air.
Written in Fire.
A Harvest of Wild Oats.
Open! Sesame!
BY J. MASTERMAN.
Half-a-dozen Daughters.
BY BRANDER MATTHEWS.
A Secret of the Sea.
BY LEONARD MERRICK,
The Man who was Good.
BY JEAN MIDOLEMASS.
Touch and Go.
Mr. Dorillion.
BY MRS. MOLESWORTH.
Hatherccurt Rectory.
i BY J. E. MUDDOCK.
Stories Weird and Wonderful.
The Dead Man's Secret.
From the Bosom of the Deep.
BY 0, CHRISTIE MURRAY,
A Life's Atonement.
Joseph's Coat.
Yal Strange.
A Model Father.
Coals of Fire.
Hearts.
By the Gate of the Sea.
The Way of the World.
A Bit of Human Nature.
First Person Singular.
Cynic Fortune.
Old Blazer's Hero.
Bob Martin's Little Girl.
BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY AND
HENRY HERMAN.
One Traveller Returns.
Paul Jones's Alias.
The Bishops' Bible.
BY HENRY MURRAY.
A Game of Bluff.
A Song of Sixpence.
BY HUME NISBET.
' Bail Hp 1'
Dr. Bernard St. Vincent.
BY ALICE O'HANLON.
The Unforeseen.
Chance ? or Fate ?
BY GEORGES OHNET.
Doctor Rameau.
A Last Love.
A Weird Gift.
BY MRS, OLIPHANT,
Whiteladies.
The Primrose Path.
Greatest Heiress in England.
BY MRS, ROBERT O'REILLY,
Phcebe's Fortunes.
BY OUIDA,
Held in Bondage.
Strathmore.
Chasdos.
Under Two Flags.
Idalia.
Cecil Castlemaine's Gags.
Tricotrin.
Puck.
FolLe Farine.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel.
In a Winter City.
AriadnS.
Moths.
Friendship.
Pipistrello.
Bimbi.
In Maremma.
BY OUIDA —continued.
Wanda.
Frescoes.
Princess Napraxine.
Two Little Wooden Shoes.
A Village Commune.
Othmar.
Guiideroy.
Ruffmo.
Syrlin.
Santa Barbara.
Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos.
BY MARGARET AGNES PAUL.
Gentle and Simple.
BY JAMES PAYN.
Lost Sir Massingberd.
A Perfect Treasure.
Bentinck's Tutor.
Murphy's Master.
A County Family.
At Her Mercy.
A Woman's Vengeance.
Cecil's Tryst.
The Clyfiards of Clyffe.
The Family Scapegrace.
The Foster Brothers.
The Best of Husbands.
Found Dead.
Walter's Word.
Halves.
Fallen Fortunes.
What He Cost Her.
Humorous Stories.
Gwendoline's Harvest.
Like Father, Like Son.
A Marine Residence.
Married Beneath Him.
Mirk Abbey.
Not Wooed, but Won.
£200 Reward.
Less Black than Painted.
By Proxy.
High Spirits.
Under One Roof.
Carlyon's Year.
A Confidential Agent.
Some Private Views.
A Grape from a Thorn.
From Exile.
Kit: a Memory.
For Cash Only.
The Canon's Ward.
The Talk of the Town.
Holiday Tasks.
Glow-worm Tales.
The Mystery of Mirbridge.
The Burnt Million.
The Word and the Will.
A Prince of the Blood.
Sunny Stories.
BY C. L. PIRKIS.
Lady Lovelace.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
The Mystery of Marie Rogei
London: CHATTO & WIND US. 214 Piccadilly, TF,
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS.
BY MRS. CAMPBELL PRAED,
Trie Romance of a Station.
The Soul of Countess Adrian.
EY E. C. PRICE,
v alentina.
Gerald.
Mrs. Lancaster's Rival.
The Foreigners.
BY RICHARD PRYCE.
Miss Maxwell's Affections.
BY CHARLES READE.
It is Never Too Late to Mend.
Hard Cash.
Peg Woffington.
Christie Johnstone.
Griffith Gaunt.
Put Yourself in His Place.
The Double Marriage.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long.
Foul Play.
The Cloister and the Hearth.
The Course of True Love.
The Autobiography of a Thief.
A Terrible Temptation.
Tne Wandering Heir.
A Simpleton.
A Woman-Hater.
Bingleheart and Doubleface,
Good Stories of Men, Ac.
The Jilt.
A Perilous Secret.
Readiana.
BY MRS, J. H, RIDDZLL.
Her Mother's Darling.
The Uninhabited House.
Weird Stories.
Fairy Wafer.
Prince Wales's Garden Party.
Mystery in Palace Ordeng.
The Nun's Curse.
Idle Tales.
BY A5/IELIE RIVES.
Barbara Dering.
BY F. W. ROBINSON,
Women are Strange.
The Hands of Justice.
BY JAMES RUNCIMAN,
Skippers and Shellbacks.
G race Balmaign's Sweetheart.
Schools and Scholars.
BY W, CLARX RUSSELL,
Bound the Galley Fire.
On the Fo'k'sle Head.
In the Middle Watch.
A Voyage to the Cape.
A Book for the Hammock.
Mystery of the ' Ocean Star.'
Romance of Jenny Harlowe.
An Ocean Tragedy.
My Shipmate Louise.
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea.
BY ALAN ST. AUBYN.
A Fellow of Trinity.
The Junior Dean.
The Master of St. Benedict's.
BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
Gaslight and Daylight.
BY JOHN SAUNDERS,
Guy Waterman.
The Lion in the Path.
The Two Dreamers.
T BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS,
Joan Merryweather.
The High Mills.
Margaret and Elizabeth.
Sebastian.
Heart Salvage.
BY GEORGE R. SIMS.
Rogues and Vagabonds.
The Ring o' Bells.
Mary Jane's Memoirs.
Mary Jane Married.
Tales of To-day.
Dramas of Life.
Tinkletop's Crime.
Zeph : a Circus Story.
My Two Wives.
BY ARTHUR SKETCHLEY.
A Match in the Dark.
BY HAWLEY SMART,
Without Love or Licence.
BY T. W, SPEIGHT.
The Mysteries of Heron Dyke.
The Golden Hoop.
By Devious Ways.
Hoodwinked.
Back to Life.
The Loudwater Tragedy.
Burgo's Romance.
BY R. A, STERNDALE,
The Afghan Knife.
BY R, LOUIS STEVENSON,
New Arabian Nights.
Prince Otto.
BY BERTHA THOMAS.
Proud Maisie.
The Violin-player.
Cressida.
BY WALTER THORNBURY.
Tales for the Marines.
Old Stories Re-told.
BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE,
The Way We Live Now.
Mr. Scarborough's Family.
The Golden Lion of Granpire.
The American Senator.
Frau Frohmann.
Marion Fay.
Kept in the Dark.
The Land-Leaguers.
John Caldigate.
BY FRANCES E, TROLLOPE.
Anne Furness.
Mabel's Progress.
Like Ships upon the Sea.
BY T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
Diamond Cut Diamond.
BY J, T, TROWBRIDGE,
Farnell s Folly.
BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c,
Stories from Foreign Novels.
BY MARK TWAIN,
Tom Sawyer.
A Tramp Abroad.
The Stolen White Elephant.
Pleasure Trip on Continent.
The Gilded Age.
Huckleoerry Finn.
Life on the Mississippi.
The Prince and the Pauper.
Mark Twain's Sketches.
A Yankee at the Court of
King Arthur.
BY SARAH TYTLER,
Noblesse Oblige.
Citoyenne Jacqueline.
The Huguenot Family.
What She Came Through.
Beauty and the Beast.
The Bride's Pass.
Saint Mungo's City.
Disappeared.
Lady Bell.
Buried Diamonds.
The Blackball Ghosts.
BY C. C, FRASER-TYTLER.
Mistress Judith.
BY ARTEMUS WARD.
Artemus Ward Complete.
BY AARON WATSON AND
LILLIAS WASSERMANN.'
The Marquis of Carabas.
BY WILLIAM WESTALL.
Trust-Money.
BY MRS. F, H. WILLIAMSON.
A Child Widow.
BY J. S. WINTER.
Cavalry Life,
regimental Legends.
BY H. F, WOOD,
Passenger from Scotland Yard,
Englishman of the Rue Cain.
BY LADY WOOD,
Sabina.
BY CELIA PARKER W03LLEY,
Raobel Armstrong.
BY EDMUND YATES,
Castaway.
The Forlorn Hope.
Land at Last.
London: CHATTO d WIND US, 214 Piccadilly, W,
% Hist of iSoofts
CHATTO & WINDUS
214, Piccadilly, London, W.
ABOUT.-THE FELLAH: An Egyptian Novel. By Edmond About.
Translated by Sir Randal Roberts. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
ADAMS (W. DAVENPORT), WORKS BY. ~~
A DICTIONARY OP THE DRAMA: The Plays, Playwrights, Players, and Playhouses
of the United Kingdom and America. Cr. Svo, half-bound, 12s. (id. [Preparing
QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. D. Adams. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. (id.
AGONY COLUMN (THE) OF "THE'TTMEST1" from 1800 to 1870.
Edited, with an Introduction, by Alice Clay. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. (id.
AIDE (HAMILTON), WORKSFZT Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
CARR OF CARRLYON. | CONFIDENCES.
ALBERT.—BROOKE FINCHLEY'S DAUGHTER. By Mary Albert.
Post 8vo, picture boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. (id.
ALDEN.—A LOST SOUL. By W. L. Alden. Fcap. 8vo, cl. bds., is. (id.
ALEXANDER (MRS.), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
MAID, WIFE, OR WIDOW? | VALERIE'S FATE.
ALLEN (F. M.).—GREEN AS GRASS. By F. M. Allen, Author of
"Through Green Glasses." Frontispiece by J. Smyth. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3s. (id.
ALLEN (GRANT), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, (is. each,
THE EVOLUTIONIST AT LARGE. | COLIN CLOUT'S CALENDAR.
POST-PRANDIAL PHILOSOPHY. Crown 8vo, linen, 3s. (id.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
PHILISTIA.
BABYLON.
STRANGE STORIES.
BECKONING HAND.
FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE.
IN ALL SHADES.
THE DEVIL'S DIE.
THIS MORTAL COIL.
THE TENTS OF SHEM.
THE GREAT TABOO.
DUMARESQ'S DAUGHTER.
THE DUCHESS OF
POWYSLAND.
BLOOD ROYAL.
Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each.
IYAN GREET'S MASTERPIECE, &c. With a Frontispiece by Stanley L. Wood.
THE SCALLYWAG. With a Frontispiece.
DR. PALLISER'S PATIENT. F cap. 8vo, cloth extra, Is. (id.
ARCHITECTURAL STYLES, A HANDBOOK OF. By A. Rosengar-
ten. Translated by W. Collett-Sandars. With 639 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 7*. (it?.
ART (THE) OF AMUSING: A Collection of Graceful Arts, Games,
Tricks, Puzzles, and Charades. By Frank Bellew. ^oolllusts. Cr. Svo. cl. ex.. 4s.(id.
ARNOLD (EDWIN LESTER), WORKS BY.
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF PHRA THE PHCENICIAN. With 12 Illusts
by H. M. Paget. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id.; post Svo, illust. boards, 2s.
THE CONSTABLE OF ST. NICHOLAS. With a Frontispiece by Stanley Wood.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. (id.
BIRD LIFE IN ENGLAND. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
ARTEMUS WARD'S WORKS. With Portrait and Facsimile. Crown
8vo, cloth extra. 7s. (id.—Also a Popular Edition, post Svo, picture boards, 2s.
THE GENIAL SHOWMAN: Life and Adventures of Artemus Ward. By Edwakc
P. Hingston. With 3 Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id.
2
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
ASHTON (JOHN), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. fid. each.
HISTORY OP THE CHAP-BOOKS OP THE 18th CENTURY. With 334 Illusts.
SOCIAL LIFE IN THE REIGN OP QUEEN ANNE. With 85 Illustrations.
HUMOUR, WIT, AND SATIRE OP SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. With 82 Illusts.
ENGLISH CARICATURE AND SATIRE ON NAPOLEON THE FIRST. 115 Illusts.
MODERN STREET BALLADS. With 57 Illustrations.
PACTERIA, YEAST FUNGI, AND ALLIED SPECIES, A SYNOPSIS
OP. By W. B. Grove, B.A With 87 Illustrations, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid.
BARDSLEY (REV. C. W.), WORKS BY^
ENGLISH SURNAMES: Their Sources and Significations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 7s. fid.
CURIOSITIES OF PURITAN NOMENCLATURE. Crown Bvo. cloth extra, «».
BARING GOULD (S., Author of "John Herring," &c.), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
RED SPIDER. I EVE.
BARR (ROBERT: LUKE SHARP), STORIES BY. cr. 8v0, ci„ 3s. fid. eu
IN A STEAMER CHAIR. With Frontispiece and Vignette by Demain Hammond.
PROM WHOSE BOURNE, &c. Willi 47 Illustrations.
BARRETT (FRANK, Author of " Lady Biddy Fane,") NOVELS BY.
Post Bvo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth, 2s. fid. each.
FETTERED FOR LIFE. I A PRODIGAL'S PROGRESS.
THE SIN OF OLGA ZASSOULICH. JOHN FORD; and HIS HELPMATE.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. A RECOILING VENGEANCE.
FOLLY MORRISON. | HONEST DAVIE. LIEUT.BARNABAS. I FOUND GUILTY.
LITTLE LADY LINTON. FOR LOVE AND HONOUR.
the WOMAN OF THE irojn iseaceuets. Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. [Shoit'y.
EEAGONSFIELD, LORD. By T. P. O'Connor, M.P. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 5s,
BE AU CHAM P.—GRANT LEY GRANGE: A Novel. By Shelsley
Beauchamp. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
BEAUTIFUL PICTURES~BY BRITISH ARTISTS : A Gathering from
the Picture Galleries, engraved on Steel. Imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 21s.
BECHSTEiN.— AS PRETTY AS SEVEN, and other German Stories.
Collected by Ludwig Bechstein. With Additional Tales by the Brothers Grimm,
and 98 Illustrations by Richter. Square 8vo, cloth extra, fis. fid.; gilt edges, 7s. fid.
BEERBOHM.—WANDERINGS IN PATAGONIA ; or, Life among the
Ostrich Hunters. By Junius Bbkrbohm. With Illusts. Cr. 8vo. cl. extra, 3s. fid.
BENNETT (W. C., LL.D.), WORKS~BY. Post 8vo, cloth limp. 2s. each."
A BALLAD HISTORY OF ENGLAND. | SONGS FOR SAILORS.
BESANT (WALTER), NOVELS BY.
Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. fid. each ; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. each; cl. limp, 2s. fid. each
ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. With Illustrations by Fred. Barnard.
THE CAPTAINS' ROOM, &c. With Frontispiece by E. J. Wheeler.
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by Harry Furniss.
DOROTHY FORSTER. With Frontispiece by Charles Green.
UNCLE JACK, and other Stories. | CHILDREN OF GIBEON.
THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. With 12 Illustrations by A. Forestier.
HERR PAULUS: His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. With Illustrations by A. Forestier and F. Waddy,
TO CALL HER MINE, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A. Forestier.
THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S.
THE HOLY ROSE,&c. With Frontispiece by F. Barnard.
ARMOREL OF LYONESSE: A Romance of To-day. With 12 Illusts. by F. Barnard,
ST. KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER. With 12 page Illustrations bv C. Green.
YERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS, &c. J THE IVORY GATE: A Novel.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3a. fid. each.
THE REBEL QUEEN. | IN DEACON'S ORDERS. [Shortl".
FIFTY YEARS AGO. With 144 Plates and Woodcuts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5*.
THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. With Portrait. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, Os.
THE ART OF FICTION. Demy 8vo, Is.
LONDON. With 124 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra J8s.
SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON. Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, Irish Linen, 3s. fid.
GASPARD DE COLIGNY. With a Portrait. Crown 8vo, Irish linen, 3s. fid.
W&WER 8E5&NT; A Study. "By IohnUn^ERHt'lt.. Cr. Svn. linen, fia. [Shortly,
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PlCCADiLLY.
BESANT (WALTER) AND JAMES RICE, NOVELS BY,
Ci. 8vo, cl. ex.. Ms. Gil. each ; post 8vo, illust. bds., Sis. each: cl limp Us. G'l each
READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. BY CELIA'S ARBOUR.'
MY LITTLE GIRL.
WITH HARP AND CROWN.
THIS SON OP VULCAN.
THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY.
THE MONKS OP THELEMA.
THE CHAPLAIN OP THE FLEET.
THE SEAMY SIDE.
THE CASE OP MR. LUCRAFT, &c
'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY, &c.
THE TEN YEARS' TENANT, &r
*** There is also a LIBRARY EDITION of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomo'y
let in new type, on a large crown 8vo page, and bound in cloth extra G«. each.
BEWICK (THOMAS) AND HIS PUPILS. By Austin Dobson. With
95 Illustrations. Square 8vo, cloth extra, Gs.
BlERCE.—IN THE MIDST OF LIFE: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians,
By Ambrose Bierce. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Gs.; post 8vo, illustrated boards,
BLACKBURN'S (HENRY) ART HANDBOOKS]
ACADEMY NOTES, separate years, from 1873-1887, 1881-1892, each Is.
ACADEMY NOTES, 1833. With Illustrations. Is.
ACADEMY NOTES, 1873-79. Complete in One Vol., with Goo lilusts. Cloth limp, Gs.
ACADEMY NOTES, 1880-84. Complete in One Vol. with 7ooIllusts Cloth limp Gs.
GROSVENOR NOTES, 1877. Gil.
GROSYENOR NOTES, separate years, from 1878 to 1890, each 1 s.
GROSVENOR NOTES, Vol. I., 1877-82. With 300 Illusts. Demy 8vo, cloth Iimp,Gs.
GROSYENOR NOTES, Vol. II.,1883-87. With 300 Illusts. Demy 8vo, cloth limp, Gs.
GROSYENOR NOTES, Vol. III., 1888-90. With 230 Illusts. Demy 8vo, cloth, 3s Gil.
THE NEW GALLERY, 1888-1892. With numerous Illustrations, each Is.
• THE NEW GALLERY, 1893. With Illustrations. Is.
THE NEW GALLERY, Vol. I., 1888-1892. With 250 Illusts. Demy 8vo, cloth, Gs.
ENGLISH PICTURES AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 114 Illustrations. Is.
OLD MASTERS AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 128 Illustrations. Is. Gil.
ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE TO THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 242 Illusts. cl., lis.
THE PARIS SALON, 1893. With Facsimile Sketches. 3s.
THE PARIS SOCIETY OF PINE ARTS, 1893. With Sketches. 3s. Gil.
BLAKE (WILLIAM): India-proof Etchings from his Works by William
Bell Scott. With descriptive Text. Folio, half-bound boards, UBs.
BLIND (MATHILDE), Poems by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. each.
THE ASCENT OF MAN.
DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. With a Frontispiece by Ford Madox Brown.
SONGS AND SONNETS. Fcap. 8vo, vellum and gold.
BOURNE (H. R. FOX), WORKS BY.
ENGLISH MERCHANTS: Memoirs in Illustration of the Progress of British Com¬
merce. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth exlra, Vs. Gil.
ENGLISH NEWSPAPERS: The History of Journalism. Two Vols., demy Svo, cl., '4 5s.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE EMIN PASHA RELIEF EXPEDITION. C.r. 8vo. Gs.
BOWERS:—LEAVES FROM A HUNTING JOURNAL. By George
Bowers. Oblong folio, half-bound, 21*.
BOYLE (FREDERICK), ^WORKS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, tis. each.
CHRONICLES OF NO-MAN'S LAND. | CAMP NOTES. | SAVAGE LIFE.
BRANDkS^OBSERVATIONS ON POPULAR ANTIQUITIES; chieiiy
illustrating the Origin of our Vulgar Customs, Ceremonies, and Superstitions. With
the Additions of Sir Hf.nrv Ellis, and Illustrations. Cr, 8vo. cloth extra, Vs. Gil.
BREWER (REV. DR.), WORKS BY.
THE READER'S HANDBOOK OF ALLUSIONS, REFERENCES, PLOTS, AND
stories Fifteenth Thousand. Crown ><vo, cloth extra, Vs. Gil.
AUTHORS AND THEIR WORKS, WITH THE DATES: Being the Appendices to
" The Reader's Handbook," separately printed. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, !is.
A dictionary of miracles. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Vs. Gil.
BREWSTER (SIR DAVID), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cl. ex., 4s. Gil. each.
more worlds than one: Creed of Philosopher and Hope of Christian. Plates.
the martyrs of science: Galileo.Tycho Brake, and Kepler. With Portraits.
letters on natural magic. With numerous Illustrations.
BRTLLAT-SAVARIN.—GASTRONOMY AS A FINE ART. By Brillat-
Savarjn, Translated by R. E. Anderson, M.A. Post 8vo, half-bound, 9a.
4
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
BRET HARTE, WORKS BY.
LIBRARY EDITION. In Seven Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth extra, (is. each.
BRET HARTE'S COLLECTED WORKS. Arranged and Revised by the Author.
Vol. I. Complete Poetical and Dramatic Works. With Steel Portrait.
Vol. II. Luck of Roaring Camp—Bohemian Papers—American Legends.
Vol. III. Tales of the Argonauts—Eastern Sketches.
Vol. IV. Gabriel Conroy. | Vol. V. Stories—Condensed Novels, &c.
Vol. VI. Tales op the Pacific Slope,
Vol.VII. Tales of the Pacific Slope—II. With Portrait by John Pettie, R.A.
THE SELECT WORKS OF BRET HARTE, in Prose and Poetry With Introductory
Essay by J. M. Bellew, Portrait of Author, and 50 Illusts. Cr.8vo, cl. ex.. Cs. (id.
BRET HARTE'S POETICAL WORKS. Hand-made paper & buckram. Cr.8vo, 4s.(id.
THE QUEEN OF THE PIRATE ISLE. With 28 original Drawings by Kate
Greenaway, reproduced in Colours by Edmund Evans. Small 4to, cloth, 5s.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each.
A WAIF OF THE PLAINS. With 60 Illustrations by Stanley L. Wood.
A WARD OF THE GOLDEN GATE. With 59 Illustrations by Stanley L Wood.
A SAPPHO OF GREEN SPRINGS, &c. With Two Illustrations by Hume Nisbet.
COLONEL STARBOTTLE'S CLIENT, AND SOME OTHER PEOPLE. With a
Frontispiece by Fred. Barnard.
SUSY: A Novel. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. A. Christie.
SALLY DOWS, &c. With 47 Illustrations by W. D. Almond, &c.
A PROTEGEE OF JACK HAMLIN'S. With 26 Illustrations by W. Small, &c.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
GABRIEL CONROY. I THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, &c,
AN HEIRESS OF RED DOG, &c. | CALIFORNIAN STORIES.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. Gd. each.
FLIP. | MARUJA. | A PHYLLIS OF THE SIERRAS.
Fcap. 8vo. picture cover, Is. each.
THE TWINS OF TABLE MOUNTAIN. I JEFF BRIGGS'S LOYE STORY.
SNOW-BOUND AT EAGLE'S. I
BRYDGES.-UNCLE SAM AT HOME. By Harold Brydges. Post
8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. Gd.
BUCHANAN'S (ROBERT) WORKS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Gs. each.
SELECTED POEMS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. With Frontispiece by T. Dalziel.
THE EARTHQUAKE; or, Six Days and a Sabbath.
THE CITY OF DREAM: An Epic Poem. With Two Illustrations by P. Macnab,
THE WANDERING JEW: A Christmas Carol. Second Edition.
THE OUTOAST: A Rhyme for the Time. With 15 Illustrations by Rudolf Blind,
Peter Macnab, and Hume Nisbet. Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, Ss.
ROBERT BUCHANAN'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. With Steel-plate Por¬
trait. Crown 8vo, clotli extra/J^Gd.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.
A CHILD OF NATURE. Frontispiece.
GOD AND THE MAN. With 11 Illus¬
trations by Fred. Barnard.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.
With Frontispiece by A. W. Cooper.
LOYE ME FOR EYER. Frontispiece.
ANNAN WATER. | FOXGLOVE MANOR.
THE NEW ABELARD.
MATT : A Story of a Caravan. Front.
THE MASTER OF THE MINE. Front.
THE HEIR OF LINNE.
WOMAN AND THE MAN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. [Shortly.
RACHEL DENE. 2 vols., crown 8vo. [Shortly.
BORTON (CAPTAIN).--THE BOOK OF THE SWORD. By Richard
F. Burton. With over 400 Illustrations. Demy ^to, cloth extra, 32s.
BURTON (ROBERT):
THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY: A New Edition, with translations of the
Classical Extracts. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, '/s. Gd.
MELANCHOLY ANATOMISED Being an Abridgment, for popular use, of Burton's
Anatomy of Melancholy. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. (id.
rAINE (T. HALL), NOVELS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd. each;
post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. Gd. each.
SHADOW OF A CRIME. | A SON OF HAGAR. | THE DEEMSTER.
CAMERON (COMMANDER).—THE CRUISE OF THE "BLACK
PRINCE" PRIVATEER. By V. Lovett Cameron, R.N. Post8vo, boards, 2s.
CAMEROTT(MRS7H. LOVETT), N0VELS BYrPo7t8™,illust.bds„2s.each.
JULIET'S GUARDIAN. | DECEIVERS EYER.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 5
CARLYLE (THOMAS) ON THE CHOICE OF BOOKS. With "Ufl
by R. H. Shepherd, and Three Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth extra, Is. 6«1.
CORRESPONDENCE OF THOMAS CARLYLE ANDR. W. EMERSON, 1834 to 1872.
Edited by C. E. Norton. With Portraits. Two Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 24s.
CARLYLE (JANE WELSH), LIFE OF. By Mrs. Alexander Ireland.
With Portrait ana Facsimile Letter. Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
CHAPMAN'S (GEORGETWORKS. Vol. I. contains the Plays complete,
including the doubtful ones. Vol. II., the Poems and Minor Translations, with an
Introductory Essay by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Vol. III., the Translations
of the Iliad and Odyssey. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, lis. each.
CHATTO ANDTACKSON.-A TREATISE ON WOOD ENGRAVING.
By W. A. Chatto and J. Jackson. With 450 fine Illusts. Large 4to, hf.-bd., 2Ss.
CHAUCER FORrCHrLDREN: A Golden Key. By Mrs. H. R. Ha^
With 8 Coloured Plates and 30 Woodcuts. Small 4to, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
CHAUCER FOR SCHOOLS. By Mrs. H. R. Haweis. Demy8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
CLARE^FOR THE LOVE OF A LASS: A Tale of Tynedale.. By
Austin Clare. Post 8vo, picture boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6(1.
CLIVE (MRS. ARCHER), N0VELS"BY7 Post 8vo, illust. boards 2s. each.
PAUL FERROLL. | WHY PAUL FERROLL KILLED HIS WIFE.
CLODD.—MYTHS AND DREAMS. By Edward Clodd, F.R.A.S.
Second Edition, Revised. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od.
COBBAN (JTMACLAREN), NOVELS BY:
THE CURE OF SOULS. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
THE RED SULTAN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. <
THE BURDEN OF ISABEL. Three Vols, crown 8vo.
COLEMAN (JOHN), WORKS BY.
PLAYERS AND PLAYWRIGHTS I HAVE KNOWN. Two Vols., 8vo, cloth, 24s.
CURLY: An Actor's Story. With 21 Illusts. by J. C. Dollman. Cr. 8vo, cl., Is. 6d.
COLERIDGE.—THE SEVEN SLEEPERS OF EPHESUS. By M. e:
Coleridge. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, Is. 6d.
COLLINS (C. ALLSTON).-THE BAR SINISTER. Post 8vo, 2s.
COLLINS (MORTIMER AND FRANCES), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
FROM MIDNIGHT TO MIDNIGHT. | BLACKSMITH AND SCHOLAR.
TRANSMIGRATION. | YOU PLAY ME FALSE. | A YILLAGE COMEDY.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
SWEET ANNE PAGE. | FIGHT WITH FORTUNE. | SWEET & TWENTY. | FRANCES.
COLLINS "(WILKIE), NOVELS BY.
Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. 6<t. each ; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. each; cl. limp, 2s. 6d, each.,
ANTONINA. With a Frontispiece by Sir John Gilbert, R.A.
BASIL. Illustrated by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., and J. Mahoney. ;
HIDE AND SEEK. Illustrated by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., and J. Mahoney.
AFTER DARK. Illustrations by A. B. Houghton. | THE TWO DESTINIES.
THE DEAD SECRET. With a Frontispiece by Sir John Gilbert, R.A.
QUEEN OF HEARTS. With a Frontispiece by Sir John Gilbert, R.A.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE. With Illusts. by Sir J. Gilbert, R.A., and F. A. Fraser.
NO NAME. With Illustrations by Sir J. E. Millais, R.A., and A. W. Cooper.
MY MISCELLANIES. With a Steel-plate Portrait of Wilkie Collins.
ARMADALE. With Illustrations by G. H. Thomas.
THE MOONSTONE. With Illustrations by G. Du MAURiERand F. A. Fraser.
MAN AND WIFE. With Illustrations by William Small.
POOR MISS FINCH. Illustrated by G. Du Maurier and Edward Hughes.
MISS OR MRS.7 With Illusts. by S. L. Fildes, R.A., and Henry Woods, A.R.A.
THE NEW MAGDALEN. Illustrated by G. Du Maurier and C. S. Reinhardt.
THE FROZEN DEEP. Illustrated by G. Du Maurier and J. Mahoney,
THE LAW AND THE LADY. Illusts. by S. L. Fildes, R.A., and Sydney Hall.
THE HAUNTED HOTEL. Illustrated by Arthur Hopkins.
THE FALLEN LEAYES. I HEART AND SCIENCE. I THE EYIL GENIUS.
JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER. "I SAY NO." LITTLE NOVELS.
THE BLACK ROBE. | A ROGUE'S LIFE. | THE LEGACY OF CAIN.
BLIND LOVE. With Preface by Walter Besant, and Illusts. by A. Forestier.
CGIXlNSlJOHN CHURTON, M.A.), BOOKS~BY.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF TENNYSON. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
JONATHAN SWIFT t A Biographical tmd-Gritifltd Study. Crown 8vo, cloth extra 8».
0
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
colman's (george) humorous works: "Broad Grins," "My
Nigjitgown and Slippers," &c. With Life and Fronds. Cr. 8vo, el. extra, 7s. Gd.
colquhoun.—every inch T^SOLDIerT: A NoveL b7~NlT
Colquhqun. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
convalescent cookery: a Family" Handbook. By Catherine
Kyan. Crown 8vo, Is.; cloth limp, Is. Oil.
colfway (moncure d.), works by.
DEMONOLOGY AND DEYIL-LORE. 65 Illustrations. Two Vols., 8vo, cloth 2Ss.
A NECKLACE OF STORIES. 25 lllusts. by W. ]. Hennessy. Sq. 8vo, cloth, Gs.
GEORGE WASHINGTON'S RULES OF CIVILITY. Fcap. 8vo, Jap, vellum, as. Oil.
cook (dutton), novels by.
PAUL FOSTER'S DAUGHTER. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. Od.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 3s.
LEO. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
cooper (edward h )—geoffory hamilton. Cr. 8vo, 3s76d.
cornwall.—popular romances of the west of eng¬
LAND; or, The Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of Old Cornwall. Collected
by Robert Hunt, F.R.S. Two Steel-plates by Geo.Cruikshank. Cr. 8vo, cl., 7s. Od.
cotes.—two girls on a barge. By V. Cecil Cotes. With
44 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od.
craddock.—the prophet of the great smoky moun¬
TAINS. By Charles Egbert Craddock. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 3s.; cl. limp, 3s. Od.
crell1n (H. n.)—'THE NAZARENEST a Drama. Crown 8vo, Is.
crim.—ADVENTURES OF A FAIR REBEL. By Matt Crim. With
a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
CROKER (B.M.), novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd, each: post
8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each ; cloth limp, 3s. Od. each.
PRETTY MISS NEVILLE. I DIANA BARRINGTON.
A BIRD OF PASSAGE. PROPER PRIDE.
A FAMILY LIKENESS. | "TO LET."
CRUIKSHANK'S COMIC ALMANACK. Complete in Two Series :
The First from 1835 to 1843 ; the Second from 1844 to 1853. A Gathering ot
the Best Humour of Thackeray, Hood, Mayhew, Albert Smith, A'Beckktt,
Robert Brough, &c. With numerous Steel Engravings and Woodcuts by Cruik-
shank, Hine, Landells, &c. Two Vols., crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. Od. each.
THE LIFE OF GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. By Blanchard Jerrold. With 84
Illustrations and a Bibliography. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Od.
CUMMING7C. f. g0rd0n), works by. Demy 8vo, cl. ex., 8s. Od. each.
IN THE HEBRIDES. With Autotype Facsimile and 23 Illustrations.
IN THE HIMALAYAS AND ON THE INDIAN PLAINS. With 42 Illustrations.
TWO HAPPY YEARS IN CEYLON. With 28 Illustrations.
YIA CORNWALL TO EGYPT. With Photogravure Frontis. Demy 8vo, cl., 7s. Gd.
cu'ssans.—a~handbook of heraldry; with Instructions for
Tracing Pedigrees and Deciphering Ancient MSS., &c. By John E. Cussans. With
408 Woodcuts and 2 Coloured Plates. Fourth edition, revised, crown 8vo, cloth. Gs.
cyples(w.)—-hearts of gold. Cr.8vo~d. ,3s.6d.; Post8vo,bds.,2^
naniel.—merrie england in the olden time. By George
Daniel. With Illustrations by Robert Cruikshank. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. Od.
daudet.—the evangelist; or, Port Salvation. By Alphonse
Daudet. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. Od.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
davidson.—mr. sadler's daughters. w Hugh coleman
Davidson. With a Fiontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. [Shortly
davies cdr. n. e. yorke-), works b y. Cr.777s7e7; ci„ is. Od. ea
ONE THOUSAND MEDICAL MAXIMS AND SURGICAL HINTS.
NURSERY HINTS: A Mother's Guide in Health and Disease.
FOODS FOR THE FAT: ATrea tise on Corpulency, and a Dietary for its Cnra
Alps TO LONG LIFE.
CjHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
DAVENANT.—HINTS FOR PARENTS ON THE CHOICE OF A PRO¬
FESSION FOR THEIR SONS. By F. Davenant, M.A. Post 8vo, Is.; cl., Is. 6«l.
DAVIES' (SIR JOHN) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS.loFthe"first
time Collected and Edited, with Memorial-Introduction and Notes, by the Rev. A. B.
Grosart, P.P. Two Vols., crown 8vo. cloth boards, 12s.
DAWSON.—THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. By Erasmus Dawson,
M B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3*. 6<1. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
DE GUER1N.—THE JOURNAL OF MAURICE DE GUERIN. Edited
by G. S. Trebutien. With a Memoir by Sainte-Beuve. Translated from the
?oth French Edition by Jessie P. Frothingham. Fcap, 8vo, half-bound, 2». 6il.
DE MAISTRE.-A JOURNEY ROUND MY^ ROOM. By Xavier de
Maistre. Translated by Henry Attwf.ll. Post 8vo. cloth limp. 22m. 6«I.
DE MILLE.—A CASTLE IN SPAIN. ]>y James De Mille. With a
Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. 6<l.; post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s.
DERBY (THE).—THE BLUE RIBBON OF THE TURF : A Chronicle
of the Race for The Derby, from Diomed to Donovan. With Brief Accounts of
The Oaks. By Louis Henry Curzon. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6«l.
DERV/ENT (LEITH), N0VELSBY:Cr.8vo.cl., 3^«^e^p^r^o,bds.,2S.ea.
OUR LftDY OF TEARS. | CIRCE'S LOVERS.
DICKENS (CHARLES), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2a. each.
SKETCHES BY BOZ. I NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
THE PICKWICK PAPERS. | OLIVER TWIST.
THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES DICKENS, 1841-1870. With a New Bibliography.
Edited by Richard Herne Shepherd. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.—Also a
Smalt.er Edition, in the Mavfair Library, post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6«1.
ABOUT ENGLAND WITH DICKENS. By Alfred Rimmer. With 57 Illustrations
by C. A. Vanderhoof, Alfred Rimmer, and others. Sq. 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. 0«l.
DICTIONARIES^ ~ ———
A DICTIONARY OF MIRACLES: Imitative, Realistic, and Dogmatic. By the Rev.
15. C. Brewer, LL.D. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6jI.
THE READER'S HANDBOOK OF ALLUSIONS, REFERENCES, PLOTS, AND
STORIES. By the Rev. E. C. Brewer, LL.D. With an English Bibliography.
Fifteenth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. 6<l.
AUTHORS AND THEIR WORKS, WITH THE DATES. Cr. 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
FAMILIAR SHORT SAYINGS OF GREAT MEN. With Historical and Explana¬
tory Notes. By Samuel A. Bent, A.M. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. 6«1.
SLANG DICTIONARY : Etymological, Historical, and Anecdotal. Cr. 8vo, cl., 6s. 6«l.
WOMEN OF THE DAY: A Biographical Dictionary. By F.Hays. Cr. 8vo, cl., 5s.
WORDS, FACTS, AND PHRASES: A Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out-ot-
the-Way Matters. By Eliezer Edwards. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6<l.
DIDEROT.—THE PARADOX OF ACTING. Translated, with Annota¬
tions, from Diderot's " Le ParadoxesurleCoinedien,"by Walter Herries Pollock.
With a Preface by Henry Irving. Crown 8vo, parchment, 4s. 6d.
DOBSON (AUSTIN), WORKS BY.
THOMAS BEWICK & HIS PUPILS. With 95 Illustrations. Square 8vo. cloth. 6s.
FOUR FRENCHWOMEN. With 4 Portraits. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6s.
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY VIGNETTES. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6s,—A
Second Series, uniform in size and price, is now in preparation.
D0BS5lT(W. T.)—POETICAL INGENUITIES ANITECCENTRICI-
TIES. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6<_l.
DONOVAN (DICK), DETECTIVE STORIES BY.
Post Kvo. illustrated bonds, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.
THE MAN-HUNTER. | WANTED I
CAUGHT AT LAST!
TRACKED AND TAKEN
WHO POISONED HETTY IJUNCAN?
A DETECTIVE'S TRIUMPHS.
IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW.
FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED,
LINK BY LINK,
SUSPICION AROUSED.
Crown f!vn, cloth, lis. 6e). ou<>li ; post 8vo. boards, 2s. each ; cloth, 2$s. 6«l> eech,
IHE MAN FROM MANCHESTER. With at Illustrations,
TRACKED TO DOOM. With n tuli-p-ee Illustrations bv Cordon Ero'.vni;.
DOVLE (CONAN?. "TKH FfMf OF'C1IU)TEST0NE."
8
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
DRAMATISTS, THE OLD. With Vignette Portraits. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 6s. per Vol.
BEN JONSON'S WORKS. With Notes Critical and Explanatory, and a Bio¬
graphical Memoir by Wm, Gifford. Edited by Col. Cunningham. Three Vols.
CHAPMAN'S WORKS. Complete in Three Vols. Vol. I. contains the Plays
complete; Vol. II., Poems and Minor Translations, with an Introductory Essay
by A. C. Swinburne ; Vol. III., Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey.
MARLOWE'S WORKS. Edited, with Notes, by Col. Cunningham. One Vol.
MASSINGER'S PLAYS. From Giffqrd's Text, Edit by CoI.Cunningham. OneVol.
DUNCAN (SARA JEANNETTE), WORKS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6tt. each.
A SOCIAL DEPARTURE: How Orthodocia and I Went round the World by Our¬
selves. With hi Illustrations by F. H. Townsend.
AN AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON. With 8o Illustrations by F. H. Townsend.
THE SIMPLE ADYENTURES OF A MEMSAHIB. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend.
A DAUGHTER OP TO-DAY. Two Vols., crown 8vo. [Shortly.
DYER.—THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS. By Rev. T. F. Thiselton
Over, M.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
17ARLY ENGLISH' POETS. Edited, with Introductions and Annota-
tions, bv Rev. A. B. Grosart, D.D. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 6s. per Volume.
FLETCHER'S (GILES) COMPLETE POEMS. One Vol.
DAYIES' (SIR JOHN) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Two Vols.
HERRICK'S (ROBERT) COMPLETE COLLECTED POEMS. Three Vols.
SIDNEY'S (SIR PHILIP) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Three Vols.
EDGCUMBE.—ZEPHYRUS I A Holiday in Brazil and on the River Plate.
By E. R. Pearce Edgcumbe. With 41 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
EDWARDES (MRS. ANNIE), NOVELS BY:
A POINT OF HONOUR. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
ARCHIE LOYELL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6j1. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s.
EDWARDS (ELIEZER).—WORDS, FACTS, AND PHRASES: A
Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out-of-tbe-Way Matters. By Eliezer Edwards.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6<1.
EDWARDS (M. BETHAM-), NOVELS BY.
KITTY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
FELICIA. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. .
EGERTON.—SUSSEX FOLK & SUSSEX WAYS. By Rev.J. C.Egerton.
With Introduction by Rev. Dr. H. Wace, and 4 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 5s.
EGGLESTON (EDWARD).—ROXY : A Novel. Post 8vo, illust. bds,,2s.
ENGLISHMAN'S HOUSE, THE: A Practical Guide to all interested in
Selecting or Building a House; with Estimates of Cost, Quantities, &c. By C. J.
Richardson. With Coloured Frontispiece and 600 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6u.
EWALD (ALEX. CHARLES, F.S.A.), WORKS BY.
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PRINCE CHARLES STUART, Count of Albany
(The Young Pretender). With a Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
_ STORIES FROM THE STATE PAPERS. With an Autotype. Crown 8vo, cloth,6s.
EYES, OUR : How to Preserve Them from Infancy to Old Age. By
John Browning, F.R.A.S. With 70 Illusts. Eighteenth Thousand. Crown 8vo, Is.
FAMILIAR SHORT SAYINGS OF GREAT MEN. By Samuel Arthur
Bent, A.M. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
FARADAY (MICHAEL), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 4s. 6d. each.
THE CHEMICAL HISTORY OF A CANDLE: Lectures delivered before a Juvenile
Audience. Edited by William Crookes. F.C.S. With numerous Illustrations.
ON THE YARIOUS FORCES OF NATURE, AND THEIR RELATIONS TO
EACH OTHER. Edited by William Crookes, F.C.S. With Illustrations.
FARRER (J. ANSON), WORKS WT.
MILITARY MANNERS AND CUSTOMS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
WAR : Th-ee Essays, reprinted from " Military Manners." Cr. 8vo, Is.; cl., Is. 6d.
TENN (G. MANVILLE), NOVELS BY.
THE NEW MISTRESS. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s,
■ .WITNESS TO THE DEED. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. Od.
IKE TIGER LILY? A Tale of Two Passions, Two Vols.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
9
FIN-BEC.—THE CUPBOARD PAPERS : Observations on the Art of
Living and Dining. By Fin-Bec. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
FIREWORKS, THE COMPLETE ART OF MAKING; or, The Pyro¬
technist's Treasury. By Thomas Kentish. With 267 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cl., 5s.
FITZGERALD (PERCY, M.A., F.S.A.), WORKS~BYr
THE WORLD BEHIND THE SCENES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
LITTLE ESSAYS: Passages from Letters of Charles Lamb. Post 8vo, cl., 2s. 6d.
A DAY'S TOUR: Journey through France and Belgium. With Sketches. Cr. 4to, Is.
FATAL ZERO. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fi«l,: post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Post 8vo, illustrrted boards, 2s. each.
BELLA DONNA. I LADY OF BRANTOME. I THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON.
POLLY. | NEVER FORGOTTEN. I SEVENTY-FIVE BROOKE STREET.
LIFE OF JAMES BOSWEtL (of Auchinleck). With an Account of his Sayings,
Doings, and Writings; and Four Portraits. Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 24s.
THE SAVOY OPERA. Illustrations and Portraits. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. [Shortly.
FLAMMARION (CAMILLE), WORKS BY.
POPULAR ASTRONOMY : A General Description of the Heavens. By Camille
Flammarion. Translated by J. Ellard Gore, F.R.A.S. With nearly 300 Illus¬
trations. Medium 8vo, cloth extra, 16s. [Preparing.
URANIA : A Romance. Translated by A. R. Stetson. With 87 Illustrations
by De Bieler, Myrbach, &c. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
FLETCHER'S (GILES, B.D.) C0MPLETE~P0EMS7 Christ's Victorie
in Heaven, Christ's Victorie on Earth, Christ's Triumph over Death, and Minor
Poems. With Notes by Rev. A. B. Grosart, D.D. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 6s.
FONBLANQUE (ALBANY).—FILTHY LUCRE. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s.
FRANCILLON (R. E.), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
ONE BY ONE. | QUEEN COPHETUA. | A REAL QUEEN. | KING OR KNAVE?
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
ROPES OF SAND. Illustrated. | A DOG AND HIS SHADOW;
OLYMPIA. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. | ESTHER'S GLOVE. Fcap. 8vo, pict. cover, Is.
ROMANCES OF THE LAW. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
JACK DOYLE'S DAUGHTER. Three Vols., crown 8vo.
FREDERIC (HAROLD), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. each.
SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. | THE LAWTON GIRL.
FRENCH LITERATURE, A HISTORY OF. By Henry Van Laun.
Three Vols., demy 8vo, cloth boards, 7s. 6d. each.
FRERE.—PANDURANG HARI; or, Memoirs of a Hindoo. With Pre¬
face by Sir Bartle Frere. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. .
FRISWELL (HAIN).—ONE OF TWO: A Novel. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s.
FROST (THOMAS), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
CIRCUS LIFE AND CIRCUS CELEBRITIES. | LIVES OF THE CONJURERS.
THE OLD SHOWMEN AND THE OLD LONDON FAIRS.
FRY'S (HERBERT) ROYAL GUIDE TO THE LONDON CHARITIES.
Showing their Name, Date of Foundation, Objects, Income, Officials, &c. Edited
• by John Lane. Published Annually. Crown 8vo, cloth, Is. 6«I.
HARDENING BOOKS. Post 8vo, Is. each ; cloth limp, Is. 6<1. each.
" A YEAR'S WORK IN GARDEN AND GREENHOUSE. By George Glenny, . ..
HOUSEHOLD HORTICULTURE. By Tom and Jane Jerrold. Illustrated.
THE GARDEN THAT PAID THE RENT. By Tom Jerrold.
OUR KITCHEN GARDEN. By Tom Jerrold. Crown 8vo, cloth, Is. 6d.
MY GARDEN WILD. >y Francis G. Heath. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
GARRETT.—THE CAPEL GIRLS: A Novel. By Edward Garrett.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
GAULOT.—THE RED SHIRTS : A Story of the Revolution. By Paul
Gaulot. Translated by J. A. J. de Villiers. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Shbrtly,
GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, THE. Is. Monthly. In addition ,td
Articles upon subjects in Literature, Science, and Art, "TABLE TALK" by Syl-
vanus Urban, and " PAGES ON PLAYS " by Justin H. McCarthy, appear monthly.
Bound Volumes for recent years kept in stock, 8s. Gd. each. Cases for binding, lis.
GENTLEMAN'S ANNUAL THE^ublished Annually in November, is.
IO
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
GERMAN POPULAR STORIES. Collected by the Brothers GrimM
and Translated by Edgar Taylor. With Introduction by John Roskin, and 2? Sit el
Plates after George Cruikshank. Square 8vo. cloth, (is. did.; gilt edges. ">*. <b«l.
GIBBON (CHARLES), ^NOVELS" BY\
Crown Bvo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
ROBIN GRAY. | LOVING A DREAM. I THE GOLDEN SHAFT.
THE FLOWER OF THE FOREST. | OF HIGH DEGREE.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE DEAD HEART.
FOR LACK OF GOLD.
WHAT WILL THE WORLD SAY?
FOR THE KING. | A HARD KNOT.
QUEEN OF THE MEADOW.
IN PASTURES GREEN.
IN LOVE AND WAR.
A HEART'S PROBLEM.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
THE BRAES OF YARROW.
FANCY FREE. | IN HONOUR BOUND.
HEART'S DELIGHT. | BLOOD-MONEY.
GIBNEY (SOMERVILLE).—SENTENCED ! Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cl., Is. 6d.
GILBERT (WILLIAM), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2s. each.
DR. AUSTIN'S GUESTS. I JAMES DUKE, COSTERMONGER.
THE WIZARD OF THE MOUNTAIN. |
GILBERT (W. S.), ORIGINAL PLAYS BY. Two Series, 2s. 6d. each.
The First Series contains: The WCked World—Pygmalion and Galatea—
Charity—The Princess—The Palace of Truth—Trial by Jury.
The Second Series: Broken Hearts—Engaged—Sweethearts—Gretchen—Dati'l
Druce—Tom Cobb—H.M.S. " Pinafore"—The Sorcerer—Pirates of Penzance.
EIGHT ORIGINAL COMIC"OPERAS" written by W. S. Gildert. Containing:
The Sorcerer—H. M.S. "Pinafore"—Pirates of Penzance—iolanthe—Patience-
Princess Ida—The Mikado—Trial by Jury. Demy 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. (id.
THE "GILBERT AND SULLIVAN" BIRTHDAY BOOK: Quotations for Eve: y
Day in the Year, Selected from Plays by W. S. Gilbert set to Music by Sir A.
Sullivan. Compiled by Alex. Watson. Royal iGmo, Jap. leather, 2*. (id.
GLANVILLE (ERNEST), NOVELS BY. ~
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3m. 6«l. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE LOST HEIRESS: A Tale of Love, Battle, and Adveniure. With 2 Blasts.
THE FOSSICKER: A Romance of Mashonaland, With 2 Illusts. by Hume Nisbet.
A FAIR COLONIST. With a Frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. (id.
GLENNY.—A YEAR'S WORK IN GARDEN AND GREENHOUSE:
Practical Advice to Amateur Gardeners as to the Management of the Flower, Fruit,
and Frame Garden. By George Glenny. Post 8vo, Is.; cloth limp, Is. (id.
GODWIN.—LIVES OF THE NECROMANCERS. By William God¬
win. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
GOLDEN TREASURY OF THOUGHT, THE: An Kncycl^dTiTuf
Quotations. Edited by Theodore Taylor. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. (id.
GOODMAN.—THE FATE OF HERBERT WAYNE, by ETJ. Good-
man, Author of "Too Curious." Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. Or!.
GOWiNG^FlVE THOUSAND MILES IN A SLEDGE : A Midwinter
Journey Across Siberia. By Lionel F. Gowing. With 30 Illustrations by C. J.
Uken, and a Map by E. Wf.ller. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, Ss.
GRAHAM. —THE PROFESSOR'S WIFE: A Story By Leonard
Graham. Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, Is.
GREEKS AND ROMANS, THE LIFE OF THET described from
Antique Monuments. By Ernst Guhl and W. Koner. Edited by Dr. F. Hueffer.
With 545 Illustrations. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6«I.
GREENWOOD (JAMES)TWORKS^YT Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each.
THE WILDS OF LONDON. | LOW-LIFE DEEPS.
GREVILLE (HENRY), NOVELS BY:
NIKANOR. Translated by Eliza E. Chase. With 8 Illustrations. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, (is.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
A NOBLE WOMAN. Crown 8vo, cloih extra, 5s. ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s.
GRIFFITH.—CORINTH! AM ARAZION : A Novel. By Cecil Grif¬
fith. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
GRUNDY.—THE DAYS OF HIS VANITY : A Passage in the Life of
a YouDg Man. By Sydney Grundy. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (><l.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. ir
trABBERTON (JOHN, Author of " Helen's Babies"), NOVELS BY.
1 Post 8vo, illustrated boards 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. 6(1. each.
BRUETON'S BAYOU. I COUNTRY LUCK.
HAIR, THE: Its Treatment in Health, Weakness, and Disease. Trans¬
lated from the German of Dr. J. Pincus. Crown 8vo. Is.; cloth, Is. 6d.
HAKE (DR. THOMAS GORDON), POEMS BY. Cr. Svo, cl. ex., 6s. each.
NEW SYMBOLS. | LEGENDS OF THE MORROW. 1 THE SERPENT PLAY.
MAIDEN ECSTASY. Small 4to, cloth extra. 8s.
HALL.—SKETCHES OF IRISH CHARACTER. By Mrs. S. C. HalL:
With numerous Illustrations on Steel and Wood by Maclise, Gilbert, Harvey, and
George Cruikshank. Medium 8vo, cloth extra, ys. 6d.
HALLri)AY~(ANDR.).—EVERY-DAY PAPERS." Post Svo, bds., 2s.~
HANDWRITING, THE PHILOSOPHY OF. With over ioo Facsimiles
and Explanatory Text. By Don Felix de Salamanca. Post 8vo, c.loth limp, 2s. 6(1.
HXNKY-PANKY : Easy Tricks, White Magic, Sleight of Hand, &c.
Edited by W. H. Cremer. With 200 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra. 4*. .
HARDY (LADY DUFFUS). - PAUL WYNTER'S SACRIFICE. 2s.
HARDY (THOMAS). —UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. By
Thomas Hardy, Author of'Tess." With Portrait and 15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo.
cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
HARPER (CHARLES G.), WORKS BY. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 16s. each.
THE BRIGHTON ROAD. With Photogravure Frontispiece and 90 Illustrations.
FROM PADDINGTON TO PENZANCE: The Record of a Summer Tramp. 105 Illusts.
HARWOOD.—THE TENTH EARL. By J. Berwick Harwood. Post
8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
HA WEI S (MRS. H. R.), WORKS BY. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each.
THE ART OF BEAUTY. With Coloured Frontispiece and 91 Illustrations.
THE ART OF DECORATION. With Coloured Frontispiece and 74 Illustrations.
THE ART OF DRESS. With 32 Illustrations. Post 8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d.
CHAUCER FOR SCHOOLS. Demy 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6(1.
CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN. 38 Illusts. (8 Coloured). Sm. 4to, cl. extra, 3s. 6(1.
HAWEIS (Rev. H. R.,M.A.).-AMERICAN HUMORISTS : Washington
Irving, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Artemus Ward,
Mark Twain, and Bret Harte. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 6s.
HAWLEY SMART.—WITHOUT LOVE OR LICENCE: A Novel. By
Hawley Smart. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2*.
HAWTHORNE.—OUR OLD HOME. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Annotated with Passages from the Author's Note-book, and Illustrated with 31
Photogravures. Two Vols., crown 8vo. buckram, gilt top, 15s.
HAWTHORNE (JULIAN); NOVELS BY. ~
Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
GARTH. | ELLIGE QUENTIN. | BEATRIX RANDOLPH. | DUST.
SEBASTIAN STROME. DAVID POINDEXTER.
FORTUNE'S FOOL. | THE SPECTRE OF THE CAMERA.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
MISS CADOGNA. | LOYE-OR A NAME.
MRS. GAINSBOROUGH'S DIAMONDS; Fcap. 8vo. illustrated cover, Is.
HEATH.-MY GARDEN WILD, AND WHAT I GREW THERE.
By Francis George Heath. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 6s.
HELPS (SIR ARTHUR), WORKS BYT Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.
ANIMALS AND THEIR MASTERS. |__ SOCIAL PRESSURE.
IVAN DE BIRON : a Novel. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra. 3«. 6(1,; post 8vo, illust, bds., 2«.
HENDERSON .-AGATHA PAGET A Novel. By Isaac Henderson.
Crown 8vn, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1.
HENTYTG. A.), NOVELS BY.
PUJUBTHE JUGGLER. 8 Illusts. by Stanley L. Wood. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s.
DOROTHY'S DOUBLE. Three Vols., crown 8vo.
HERMAN.—A LEADING LADY. By Henry Herman, joint-Author
of "The , .Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2*.; cloth extra, 2s. 6<l.
t2 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
HERRICK'S (ROBERT) HESPERIDES, NOBLE NUMBERS, AND
COMPLETE COLLECTED POEMS. With Memorial-Introduction and Notes by the
Rev. A. B, Grosart, P.P.; Steel Portrait, &c. Three Vols,, crown 8vo, cl. bds., 18a.
HERTZKA.—FREELAND : A Social Anticipation. By Dr. Theodor
Hertzka. Translated by Arthur Ransom. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6a.
HESSE-WARTEGG.—TUNIS : The Land and the People. By Chevalier
Ernst von Hesse-Wartegg. With 22 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3a. 6d.
HILL (HEADON).—ZAMBRA THE DETECTIVE. By Headon Hill.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2a.; cloth, 2a. 6tl.
HILL (JOHN, M.A.), WORKS BY;
TREASON-FELONY, Post 8vo,2a. | THE COMMON ANCESTOR. Three Vols.
HINDLEY (CHARLES), WORKS BY.
TAVERN ANECDOTES AND SAYINGS: Including Reminiscences connected with
Coffee Houses, Clubs, &c. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3a. 6d.
tHE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A CHEAP JACK. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3a. 6d.
HOEY.—THE LOVER'S CREED. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey. Post 8vo, 2s.
HOLLINGSHEAD (JOHN).—NIAGARA SPRAY. Crown 8vo, Is.
HOLMES.—THE SCIENCE OF VOICE PRODUCTION AND VOICE
PRESERVATION. By Gordon Holmes, M.P. Crown 8vo, la.; cloth, la. 6d.
HOLMES (OLIVER WENDELL), WORKS BY.
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. Illustrated by J. Gordon
Thomson. Post 8vo, cloth limp 2a. 6d.—Another Edition, post 8vo, cloth, 2a.
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE and THE PROFESSOR AT THE
BREAKFAST-TABLE. In One Vol. Post 8vo, half-bound, 2a.
HOOD'S (THOMAS) CHOICE WORKS, in Prose and Verse. With Life
of the Author, Portrait, and 200 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7a. 6d.
HOOD'S WHIMS AND ODDITIES. With 85 Illusts. Post 8vo, half-bound, 2a.
HOOD (TOM).-FROM NOWHERE TO THE NORTH POLE: A
JNoah's Arkasological Narrative. ByToM Hood. With 25 Illustrations by W. Brunton
and E. C. Barnes. Square 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 6s.
HOOK'S (THEODORE) CHOICE HUMOROUS WORKS; including his
Ludicrous Adventures, Bons Mots, Puns, and Hoaxes. With Life of the Author,
Portraits, Facsimiles, and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
HOOPER.—THE HOUSE OF RABY : A Novel. By Mrs. George
Hooper. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
HOPKINS.—"'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY:" A Novel. By Tighe
Hopkins. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
HORNE.—ORION: An Epic Poem. By Richard Hengist Horne.
With Photographic Portrait by Summers. Tenth Edition. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s.
HUNGERFORD (MRS.), Author of "Molly Bawn," NOVELS BY^
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2a. each ; cloth limp, 2a. 6d. each.
A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN. | IN DURANCE YILE. | A MENTAL STRUGGLE.
MARVEL. | A MODERN CIRCE.
LADY YERNER'S FLIGHT. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3a. 6d.
THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY. Two Vols,, crown 8vo.
HUNT.—ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUF[T: A Tale for a Chimney Corner,
&c. Edited by Edmund Ollier. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bd., 2a.
HUNT (MRS. ALFRED), NOVELS BY. T
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2a. each.
THE LEADEN CASKET. \ SELF-CONDEMNED. | THAT OTHER PERSON.
. THORNICROFT'S MODEL. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2a,
MRS. JULIET. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3a. 6d.
HUTCHISON.—HINTSUN COLT-BREAKING. By W. M. Hutchison.
With 25 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3a. 6d.
HYDROPHOBIA: An Account of M. Pasteur's System ; Technique of
his Method, and Statistics. By Renaud Suzor, M.B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6g.
IDLER (THE): A Monthly Magazine. Edited by Jerome K. Jerome
and Robert e. Barr. Profusely IPustrated. Sixpence Monthly. The first Four
- Volumes are now ready( cloth extra, 5a, each 5 Cases for Binding, la, 6d,
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 13
INGELOW (JEAN).—FATED TO BE FREE. Post 8vo, illustrated bds., 2a.
INDOOR PAUPERS. By One of Thfm. Crown8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d.
INNKEEPERS HANDBOOK (THE) AND LICENSED VICTUALLER'S
MANUAL. By [, Trevor-Davies. Crown 8vo, "Is.; cloth, Is. Od.
IRISH WIT AND HUMOUR, SONGS OF. Collected and Edited by
A. Perceval Graves. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Gd.
JAMES.-A ROMANCE OF THE QUEEN'S HOUNDS. By Charles
James. Post 8vo, picture cover, Is.; cloth limp, Is. Gd. «
jameson.—my dead self. By William Jameson. Post 8vo,
illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d.
janvier.—practical keramics for students. By Catherine
A. Janvier. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
JAPP.—DRAMATIC PICTURES, SONNETST&c. ByA.H.jApp, LL.d:
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
jay (harriett), novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE DARK COLLEEN. | THE QUEEN OF CONNAUGHT.
JEFFERIES (RICHARD), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Gd. each.
NATURE NEAR LONDON. | THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. J THE OPEN AIR.
*** Also the Hand-made Paper Edition, crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6s. each.
THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. By Walter Besant. Second Edi¬
tion With a Photograph Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Gs.
jennings (h. j.), works by.
CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Gd.
LORD TENNYSON : A Biographical Sketch. With a Photograph, Cr. 8vo, cl., Gs,
jerome.—stageland. By Jerome K. Jerome. With 64 Illustra¬
tions by J. Bernard Partridge. Square 8vo, picture cover. Is.; cloth limp, 2s.
JERROLD.—THE BARBER'S CHAIR; & THEHEDGEHOG LETTERS.
By Douglas Jerrqld. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and halt-bound, 2s,
jerrold (tom), works by. Post 8vo, Is. each; cloth limp, Is. Gd. each.
THE GARDEN THAT PAID THE RENT.
HOUSEHOLD HORTICULTURE: A Gossip about Flowers. Illustrated,
OUR KITCHEN GARDEN: The Plants, and How we Cook Them. Cr, 8vo,cl.,ls.6d.
jesse.—scenes and occupations of a country life. By
Edward Jesse. Post 8vo, clotn limp, 2s.
Jones (willIam, f.s.a.), works by. Cr,8vo, cl. extra, 7s. Gd. each.
FINGER-RING LORE: Historical, Legendary, and Anecdotal. With nearly 300
Illustrations. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged.
CREDULITIES, PAST AND PRESENT. . Including the Sea and Seamen, Miners,
Talismans, Word and Letter Divination, Exorcising and Blessing of Animals,
Birds, Eggs, Luck, &c. With an Etched Frontispiece,
CROWNS AND CORONATIONS: A History of Regalia. With 100 Illustrations.
jonson's (ben) works. With Notes Critical and Explanatory,
and a Biographical Memoir by William Gifford. Edited by Colonel Cunning¬
ham. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, Gs. each.
Joseph us, the complete works of. Translated by Whiston.
Containing "The Antiquities of the Jews" and "The Wars 01 the Jews." With 53
Illustrations and Maps. Two Vols., demy 8vo, half-bound. 12*. Gd.
on Art and Artists. By
TTEMPT.—PENCIL AND PALETTE : Chapters
Robert Kempt. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
KERSHAW. — COLONIAL FACTS AND FICTIONS : Humorous
Sketches. By Mark Kershaw. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d.
KEYSER. — CUT BY THE MESS: A Novel. By Arthur Kkysek.
Crown 8vo, picture coven Is.; cloth limp, Is. Gd.
KING (R ASHE), NOVELS BY. Cr.8vo.cl., 3s. Gd.ea.; post8vo, bds.. 2». ea.
A DRAWN GAME. | "THE WEARING OF THE GREEN."
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
PASSION'S SLAVE, I BELL BARRY.
14
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
KNIGHT. —THE PATIENT'S VADE MECUM : How to Get Most
Benefit from Medical Advice. By William Knight, M.R.C.S., and Edward
Knight, L.R.C.P. Crown 8vo, Is.; cloth limp, Is. 6(1.
KNfGHTSlTHE) OF THE LI0N7 A Romance of the Thirteenth Century.
Edited, with an Introduction, by the Marquess ot Lorne, K.T. Cr Svo. cl. ex. 6s.
TAMFS (CHARLES) COMPLETE WORKS, in Prose and Verse,
including " Poetry for Children " and " Prince Dorus." Edited, with Notes and
Introduction, by R. H. Shepherd. With Two Portraits and Facsimile of a page
of the " Efssay on Roast Pig.'' Crown 8vo, half-bound, 7s. 6d.
THE ESSAYS OF ELIA. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bound, 2s.
LIfTLE ESSAYS: Sketches and Characters by Charles'Lamb, selected from his
Letters by Percy Fitzgerald. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6(1.
THE DRAMATIC ESSAYS OF CHARLES LAMB. With Introduction and Notes
bv Brander Matthews, and Steel-plate Poi trait. Fcap. 8vo, hf.-bd., 2s. 6(1.
KANUuK.—CiTATlpFAND EXAMINATION OF WILLIAM SHAKS-
PEAFE, &c., belore Sir Thomas Lucy, touching Deer-stealing, igth September, 1582.
To winch is added, A CONFERENCE OF MASTER EDMUND SPENSER with the
Earl oi Essex, touching the State of Ireland, 1595. By Walter Savage Landor.
Fcap. 8vo, half-Roxburghe, 2s. 6(1.
LANE.—THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS, commonly called in
England THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS. Translated from the
Arabic, with Notes, by Edward William Lane. Illustrated by many hundred
Engravings from Designs by Harvey. Edited by Edward Stanley Poole. With a
Preface by Stanley Lane-Poole. Three Vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6(1. each.
LARWOOD (JACOB), WORKS BY:
THE STORY OF THE LONDON PARKS. With Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6d.
ANECDOTES OF THE CLERGY. Post 8vo, laid paper, half-bound, 2s.
Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6(1. each.
FORENSIC ANECDOTES. | THEATRICAL ANECDOTES.
LtHMANN.—HARRY FLUDYER AT CAMBRIDGE. By R. C. Leh¬
man n Post 8vo, 3s.; cloth, Is. 6(1.
LEIGH (HENRY S.), WORKS BY.
CAROLS OF COCKAYNE. Printed on hand-made paper, bound in buckram, 5s.
JEUX D'ESPRIT. Edited by Henry S. Leigh. Post 8vo, clotli limp, 2s. 6(1,
LEYS (JOHN).—THE LINDSAYS : A Romance. Post 8vo,illust. bds., 2s.
LINTON (E. LYNN), WORKS BY. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6(1. each.
WITCH STORIES. I OURSELVES: Essays on Women.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; posi 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each,
PATRICIA KEMBALL. | IONE. I UNDER WHICH LORD?
ATONEMENT OF LEAM DUNDAS. "MY LOYE!" | SOWING THE WIND.
THE WORLD WELL LOST. I PASTON CAREW, Millionaire & Miser.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE REBEL OF THE FAMILY. I WITH A SILKEN THREAD.
THE ONE TOO MANY. Three Vols., crown Svo.
FREESHOOTING : Extracts from Works of Mrs. L. Linton. Post 8vo, ch, 2s. 6(1.
L 0 N GFEL LOW' STPO ETIC A LW 0 R K S7 With numerous Illustrations
on Steel and Wood. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s, 6(1.
lucy.-gideoiTfleyceTa Novel. By Henry W. Lucy. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6(1.: post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s.
mac Alpine(Avery), n ove lsb y.
TERESA ITASCA. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s.
BROKEN WINGS. With 6 Illusts. by W. J. Hknnessy. Crnwn 8vo. cloth extra, 6».
maccoll (hugh),novelsby~ ~ ~
MR. STRANGER'S SEALED PACKET, Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
EONOR WHITLOCK. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
1YIA CDONELL.—QUAKER COUSINS ; A Novel. By Agnes Macdonell.
Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2s.
MACGREGOR. — P ASTlM ES AND PLAY ERST" Notes on Popular
Gaines By Robert Macgrkgor. Post 8vo. clotli limp, 2s. 6(1.
MACKAY.—INTERLUDES ANDUNDERTQNESlor, Music at Twilight,'
By C'takt-ms Maukav, LL,I>. Crtuyji Svo, cloth gxtrili C'-fi .
CHATTO & WiNDUS, 214, PICCADILLY
15
McCarthy (Justin, m.p.), works by.
A HISTORY OF OUR OWN TIMES, from the Accession of Queen Victoria to the
General Election of 1880. Four Vols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 13s. each.—Also
a Popular Edition, in Four Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, Cs. each.—And a
Jubilee Edition, with an Appendix of Events to the end of 1886, in Two Vols.,
large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. till. each.
A SHORT HISTORY OF OUR OWN TIMES. One Vol., crown 8vo, cloth extra, Os.
—Also a Cheap Popular Edition, post 8vo, cloth liinp, 3s. till.
A HISTORY OF THE FOUR GEORGES. Four Vo's. demy 8vo, cloth extra,
13s. each. [Vols. I. & 11. mid v.
Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3«. Oil. each ; post 8vo, illust. bds., 3«. each ; cl, limp, 3s. till.each.
THE WATERDALE NEIGHBOURS.
MY ENEMY'S DAUGHTER.
A FAIR SAXON.
LINLEY ROCHFORD.
DEAR LADY DISDAIN.
MISS MISANTHROPE.
DONNA OUIXOTE.
THE COMET OF A SEASON.
MAID OF ATHENS.
CAMIOLA: A Girl with a Fortune.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 61I. each.
THE DICTATOR. | BED DIAMONDS.
"THE RIGHT HONOURABLE." "By Justin McCarthy, M.P.,and Mrs.campbbi.l-
Praed. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, tis.
McCarthy (Justin h.), works by.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Four Vols., 8vo, 13s. each. [Vols. I. & II. readv,
AN OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF IRELAND. Crown 8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. till.
IRELAND SINCE THE UNION : Irish History, 1798-1886. Crown 8vo, cloth, tis.
HAFIZ IN LONDON: Poems. Small 8vo, gold cloth, 3s. till.
HARLEQUINADE : Poems. Small 4to, Japanese vellum, 8s.
OUR SENSATION NOVEL. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. 5 cloth limp, Is. till.
DOOM! An Atlantic Episode. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Ss.
DOLLY: A Sketch. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is.; cloth limp, Is. Oil.
LILY LASS: A Romance. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is.; cloth limp, H". till.
THE THOUSAND AND ONE DAYS: Persian Tales. With a Photogravures by
Stanley L. Wood. Two Vols., crown 8vo, half-bound, 13s.
MACDONALD (george.TL.d.), worksby.
WORKS OF FANCY AND IMAGINATION. Ten Vols., cl. extra, gilt edges, in cloth
case, 31s. Or the Vols, may be had separately, in grolier cl., at 3s. till, each.
Vol. I. Within and Without.—The Hidden Life.
,, II, The Disciple.—The Gospel Women.—Book of Sonnf.ts.—Organ Songs.
„ III. Violin Songs.—Songs of the Days and Nights.—A Book of Dreams.—
Roadside Poems.—Poems for Children.
„ IV. Parables.—Ballads.—Scotch Songs.
,, V. & VI. Phantastes: A Faerie Romance. | Vol. VII. The Portent.
„VIII. The Light Princess.—The Giant's Heart.—Shadows.
„ IX. Cross Purposes.—The Golden Key.—The Carasoyn.—Little Daylight
„ X. The Cruel Painter.—The Wow o' Riwen.—The Castle.—The Broken
Swords.—The Gray Wolf.—Uncle Cornelius.
POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD. Collected and arranged by the
Author. 2 vols., crown 8vo, buckram, 13s.
A THREEFOLD CORD. Edited by George MacDonald. Post 8vo, cloth, 5«.
HEATHER AND SNOW: A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. till.
maclise portrait gallery (the) of illustrious liter¬
ARY CHARACTERS: 8S PORTRAITS; with Memoirs — Biographical, Critical,
Bibliographical, and Anecdotal—illustrative of the Literature of the former hall ol
the Present Century, by William Bates, B.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. tid.
macquoid (mrs.), works^yt Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. till. each.
IN THE ARDENNES. With so Illustrations by Thomas R. Macquoid.
PICTURES AND LEGENDS FROM NORMANDY AND BRITTANY. 34 Illustrations.
THROUGH NORMANDY. With 92 Illustrations by T. R. Macquoid, and a Map.
THROUGH BRITTANY. With 35 Illustrations by T. R. Macquoid, and a Map.
ABOUT YORKSHIRE. With 67 Illustrations by T. R. Macquoid,
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
THE EVIL EYE, and other Stories. | LOST ROSE.
magic lantern, the, and its Management: including full Practical
Directions. By T. C. Hepworth. 10 Illustrations Cr, 8vo. Is.; cloth. Is. Oil.
magiciantown book, the : Pe rlormances with Cups and Balls,
Eggs, Hats, Handkerchiefs, &c. All Irom actual Experience. Edited by W. H.
Cbemer. With 200 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4s. till.
i6
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
MAGNA CHARTA: An Exact Facsimile of the Original in the British
Museum, 3 feet by 2 feet, with Arms and Seals emblazoned in Gold and Colours, 5s.
MALLOCK (W7 H.), WORKS BY.
THE NEW REPUBLIC. Post 8vo, picture cover, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6<1.
THE NEW PAUL & VIRGINIA: Positivism on an Island. Post 8vo, clotb, 2s. 6«t.
POEMS. Small 4to, parchment, 8s.
IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? Crown 8vo. cloth extra, Cs.
A ROMANCE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.; post Svo,
ihustrated boards, 2s.
MALLORY'S (SIR THOMAS) MORT D'ARTHUR: The Stories of
King Arthur and of the Knights of the Round Table. (A Selection.) Edited by B.
Montgomerie Ranking. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s.
MARK TWAIN, WORKS"byT Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6<I. each.
THE CHOICE WORKS OF MARK TWAIN. Revised and Corrected throughout
by the Author. With Life, Portrait, and numerous Illustrations.
ROUGHING IT, and INNOCENTS AT HOME. With 200 Ulusts. by F. A. Fraser.
MARK TWAIN'S LIBRARY OF HUMOUR. With 197 Illustrations.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra (illustrated), 7s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each.
THE INNOCENTS ABROAD; or, New Pilgrim's Progress. With 234 Illustrations.
(The Two-Shilling Edition is entitled MARK TWAIN'S PLEASURE TRIP.)
THE GILDED AGE. By Mark Twain and C. D. Warner. With 212 Illustrations.
THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER. With 111 Illustrations.
A TRAMP ABROAD. With 314 Illustrations.
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER. With 190 Illustrations.
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. With 300 Illustrations.
ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN. With 174 Illusts. by E. V/. Kemble.
A YANKEE AT THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR. With 220 Illusts. by Beard.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT. | MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6«1. each.
THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT. With 81 Illustrations by Hal Hurst, &c.
THE £1,000,000 BANK-NOTE, and other New Stories.
TOM SAWYER ABROAD. Illustrated by Dan Beard. [Shortly.
PUDD'NHEAD WILSON. Illustrated by Louis Lqeb. [Shortly.
MARKS (H. S., R.A.), THE RECOLLECTIONS OF. With numerous
Photogravure and other Illustrations. Two Vols,, demy 8vo, cloth, 32s. [Shortly.
MARLOWE'S WORKS. Including his Translations. Edited, with Notes
and Introductions, by Col. Cunningham. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
MARRYAT (FLORENCE), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each.
A HARVEST OF WILD OATS. I FIGHTING THE AIR.
OPEN ! SESAME ! | WRITTEN IN FIRE.
MASSINGER'S PLAYS. From the Text of William Gifford. Edited
by Col. Cunningham. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
MASTERMAN. HALF-A-DOZEN DAUGHTERS : A Novel. By J,
Masterman. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
MATTHEWS.—A SECRET OF THE SEA, &c. bybrander Matthews.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6<t.
MAYHEW.—LONDON CHARACTERS AND THE HUMOROUS SIDE
OF LONDON LIFE. Bv Henry Mayhew. With Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d
MEADETLTT.).—A SOLDIER OF F0RTUNE7~Three Vols.
MENKEN.—INFELICIA: Poems by Adah Isaacs Menken. With
Illustrations by F. E. Lummis and F. O. C. Darley. Small 4to, cloth extra, 7s. 6d
MERRICK.—THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD. By Leonard Merrick,
Author of "Violet Moses," &c. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
MEXICAN MUSTANG (ON A), through Texas to the Rio Grande. By
A. E. Sweet and J. Armoy Knox. With 265 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
MIDDLEMASS (JEAN), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each.
TOUCH AND GO. I MR. DORILLION.
MILLER.—PHYSIOLOGY FOR THE YOUNG; or, The House of Life.
By Mrs, F. Fenwick Miller, With Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
CHATTO 8c WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 17
MILTON (J. L.), WORKS BY. PostSvo, Is. each ; cloth, Is. (id,each.
THE HYGIENE OP THE SKIN. With Directions for Diet, Soaps. Baths, &c.
THE BATH IN DISEASES OP THE SKIN.
THE LAWS OP LIFE, AND THEIR RELATION TO DISEASES OF THE SKIN.
THE SUCCESSFUL TREATMENT OF LEPROSY. Demy 8vo, Is. ■
MINTO (WM.) WAS SHE GOOD OR BAD? Cr, 8vo,Is.; cloth, Is,6d.
MITFORD (BERTRAM), NOVELS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each.
THE GUN-RUNNER: A Romance of Zululand. With Frontispiece by S. L.Wood.
THE LUCK OF GERARD RIDGELEY. With a Frontispiece by Stanley L. Wood.
THE KING'S ASSEGAI. With Six full-page Illustrations.
MOLESWORTH (MRS.), NOVELS BY.
HATHERCOURT RECTORY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. Crown 8vo, cloth, Is. 6d.
MOORE (THOMAS), WORKS BY.
THE EPICUREAN; and ALCIPHRON. Post 8vo, half-bound, 3s.
PROSE AND VERSE. With Suppressed Passages from the Memoirs or Lord
Byron. Edited by R. H. Shepherd. With Portrait. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., Jts. (id.
MUDDOCK (J. E.), STORIES BY.
STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 3s.; cloth, 3s. Gd.
THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET; or, The Valley of Gold. With Frontispiece by
F. Barnard. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 5s.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
FROM THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
MAID MARIAN AND ROBIN HOOD: A Romance of Old Sherwood Forest. With
12 Illustrations by Stanley L. Wood. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
MURRAY (D. CHRISTIE), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards. 3s. each.
WAY OF THE WORLD
A MODEL FATHER.
OLD BLAZER'S HERO.
CYNIC FORTUNE.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each. [GIRL.
TIME'S REVENGES. j A WASTED CRIME. [Shortly.
IN DIREST PERIL. Three Vols., crown 8vo.
THE MAKING OF A NOVELIST : An Experiment in Autobiography. With a
Collotype Portrait and Vignette. Crown 8vo, Irish linen, 6s.
MURRAY (D. CHRISTIE) & HENRY HERMAN, WORKS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra 3s. (id. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
ONE TRAVELLER RETURNS. | PAUL JONES'S ALIAS. | THE BISHOPS' BIBLE.
MURRAY (HENRY), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 3s. ea.; cl., 3s. Gd. ea.
A GAME OF BLUFF. | A SONG OF SIXPENCE.
"MEWBOLT.—TAKEN FROM THE ENEMY. By Henry Newbolt.
Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, 1 s. (id.
NTSBETlHUME), BOOKS BY.
"BAIL UP!" Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
DR. BERNARD ST. VINCENT. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
LESSONS IN ART. With 21 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd.
WHERE ART BEGINS. With 27 Illusts. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7s, Gd.
NORRIS^STANN'S : A Novel. By W. E. Norris. Two Vols.
'HANLON (ALICE), NOVELS BYT Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
THE UNFORESEEN. I CHANCE? OR FATE?
0"HNET~(GEORGES), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
DOCTOR RAMEAU. I A LAST LOVE.
A WEIRD GIFT. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. Gd., post 8vo, picture boards, 3s.
mTPHANtTTMRS. ), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
THE PRIMROSE PATH. | WHITELADIES.
THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND.
Cr'REILLY (HARRINGTON).—LIFE AMONG THE AMERICAN IN-
DIANS: Fifty Years on the Trail. 100 Illusts. by P. Frenzeny. Crown 8vo, 3s. Gd.
(VRFTLLY CMRS.).—PH(EBE'S FORTUNES. Post 8vo, illust. bds7T2s.
A LIFE'S ATONEMENT.
JOSEPH'S COAT.
COALS OF FIRE.
VAL STRANGE. 1 HEARTS.
BY THE GATE OF THE SEA.
A BIT OF HUMAN NATURE.
FIRST PERSON SINGULAR.
BOB MARTIN'S LITTLE
i8
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
OUIDA, NOVELS BY.
HELD IN BONDAGE.
TRICOTRIN.
STRATHMORE.
CHAN DOS.
CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S
GAGE.
UNDER TWO FLAGS.
PUCK. I IDALIA.
Cr. 8vo, cl., Us. (id. each ; post 8vo. illust. bds., 2
FOLLE-FAR1NE.
A DOG OF FLANDERS.
PASCAREL. | SIGNA.
TWO LITTLE WOODEN
SHOES.
IN A WINTER CITY.
ARIADNE.
FRIENDSHIP.
MOTHS. | PIP1STRELLO.
A VILLAGE COMMUNE.
IN MAREMMA.
BIMBI. | SYRLIN.
WANDA.
FRESCOES. | OTHMAR.
PRINCESS NAPRAXINE.
GUILDEROY. | RUFFINQ.
Square 8v.o, cloth extra, 5s. each.
BIMBI. With Nine Illustrations by Edmund H. Garrett.
A DOG OF FLANDERS, &c. With Six Illustrations by Edmund H, Garrf.tt.
SANTA BARBARA. &c. Square 8vo, cloth, (is.; crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. (id.; post
8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
TWO OFFENDERS. Square 8vo, cloth extra, (is.
WISDOM, WIT, AND PATHOS, selected from the Works of Ouida by F. Sydney
Morris. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. Cheap Edition, illustrated boards, 2w.
PAGE (H. A.), WORKS BY.
THOREAU : His Life and Aims. With Portrait. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s, (id.
ANIMAL ANECDOTES. Arranged on a New Principle. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
PARLIAMENTARY ELECT! ONS AN D ELECT 10 NE ERIN G, "AHIS-
TORY OF, from the Stuarts to Queen Victoria. By Joseph Grego. A New Edition,
wi'h Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. «<I.
PASCAL'S PROVINCIAL LETTERS. A New Translation, with H>V
torical Introduction and Notes by T. M'Crte, D.D. Post 8vo, cloth limn. 2s.
PAUL.—GENTLE AND SIMPLE. By Margaret A. Paul. With Frontis¬
piece by Hei.f.n Patf.rson Crown 8vo. cloth, 3s. (id.; post 8vo, illnsr. boards. 2-..
PAYN (JAMES), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2». each.
LOST SIR MASSINGBERD.
WALTER'S WORD.
LESS BLACK THAN WE'RE
PAINTED.
BY PROXY. | FOR CASH ONLY.
HIGH SPIRITS.
UNDER ONE ROOF.
A CONFIDENTIAL AGENT.
A GRAPE FROM A THORN.
FROM EXILE.
THE CANON'S WARD.
THE TALK OF THE TOWN.
HOLIDAY TASKS.
GLOW-WORM TALES.
THE MYSTERY OF MIRBRIDGE.
THE WORD AND THE WILL.
HUMOROUS STORIES.
THE FOSTER BROTHERS.
THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE.
MARRIED BENEATH HIM.
BENTINCK'S TUTOR.
A PERFECT TREASURE.
A COUNTY FAMILY.
LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.
A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE.
CARLYON'S YEAR. CECIL'S TRYST.
MURPHY'S MASTER.
AT HER MERCY.
THE CLYFFARDS OF CLYFFE.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
FOUND DEAD.
GWENDOLINE'S HARVEST.
A MARINE RESIDENCE.
MIRK ABBEY.I SOME PRIVATE VIEWS.
NOT WOOED, BUT WON.
TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.
THE BEST OF HUSBANDS.
HALVES. I THE BURNT MILLION.
FALLEN FORTUNES.
WHAT HE COST HER.
KIT: A MEMORY.
A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD.
SUNNY STORIES.
Crown fcvo, cloih extra, 3s. (id. each.
A TRYING PATIENT, &c. With a Frontispiece by Stanley L. Wood.
IN PERIL AND PRIVATION: Stories of Marine Adventure. With 17 Illtuts.
NOTES FROM THE "NEWS." Crown 8vo, portrait cover. Is.; cloth. Is. (id.
PENNELL (H.^CHOLMONDELEY), WORKSBY. Post 8vo, cl., 2s. (id. each.
PUCK ON PEGASUS. With Illustrations.
PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. With Ten full-page Illustrations by G. Du Maurier.
THE MUSES OF MAYFAIR. Vers de Societe, Selected by H. C. Pennell.
PHELPS (E. STUART), WORKS BY. PostSvo Is. each; cloth Is. (id.each.
BEYOND THE GATES. | OLD MAID'S PARADISE. | BURGLARS IN PARADISE.
JACK THE FISHERMAN. Illustrated by C. W. Reed. Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. (i.l,
PIRK1S (C. L.), NOVELS BY.
TROOPING WITH CROWS. Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, Is.
LADY LOVELACE, Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 19
PLANCHE (J. R.), WORKS BY.
THE PURSUIVANT OF ARMS. With Six Plates, and 209Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. 7s. 6d.
SONGS AND POEMS, 1819-1879. Introduction by Mrs. Mackarness. Cr. 8vo, cl.,6s.
PLUTARCH'S LIVES 0F ILLUSTRT0US7MEN._ With Notes and Life
of Plutarch by J. and Wm. Langhorne. Portraits. Two Vols., demy 8vo, JOs. 6d.
POE'S (EDGAR ALLAN) CHOICE WQRKSTTn Prose and Poetry. Intro¬
duction by Chas. Baudelaire, Portrait, and Facsimiles. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d.
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET, &c. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s.
POPE'S POETICAL~WORKS. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
PRAED (MRS. CAMPBELL), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. bds.. 2s. ea.
THE ROMANCE OF A STATION. | THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN.
OUTLAW AND LAWMAKER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Shortly.
CHRISTINA CHARD. Three Vols., crown 8vo.
PRICE (E. C.),HOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3«. Od. each ; post 8vO, illustrated boards. 2s. each.
YALENTINA. | THE FOREIGNERS. | MRS. LANCASTER'S RIVAL.
GERALD. Post 8vo, illustra'ed boards, 2s.
PRINCESS OLGA.—RADNAT By Princess Olga. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 0*.
PROCTOR (RICHARD A., B.A.), WORKS BY.
FLOWERS OF THE SKY. With 55 Illusts. Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id.
EASY STAR LESSONS. With Star Maps for Every Night in the Year. Cr. 8vo, Os.
FAMILIAR SCIENCE STUDIES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, «s.
SATURN AND ITS SYSTEM. With 13 Steel Plates. Demy 8vo, cloth ex., lOs. 6d.
MYSTERIES OF TIME AND SPACE. With Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
THE UNIVERSE OF SUNS. With numerous Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 6s.
WAGES AND WANTS OF SCIENCE WORKERS. Crown 8vo, Is. 6d.
PRYCE.—MISS MAXWELL'S AFFECTIONS. By Richard Pryce.
Frontispiece by Hal Ludlow. Cr. 8vo, cl., 3s. Od. ; post 8vo, illust. boards., 2«.
PAMBOSSON.—POPULAR ASTRONOMY. By J. Rambosson, Laureate
of the Institute of France. With numerous Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
RANDOLPH.—AUNT ABIGAIL DYKEST A Novel. By Lt.-Colonel
George Randolph, U.S.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. <id.
READETCHARLES), NOVELS BY:
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, illustrated, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2«. each.
PEG WOFFINGTON. Illustrated by S. L. Fildes, R.A.—Also a Pocket Edition,
set in New Type, in Elzevir style, fcap. 8vo, half-leather, 2s. 6d.—And a Cheap
Popular Edition of Peg Woffington and Christie Johnstone, the two
Stories in One Volume, medium 8vo. 6d.; cloth, Is.
CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. Illustrated by William Small.—Also a Pocket Edition,
set in New Type, in Elzevir style, fcap. 8vo, half-leather, 2s. Od.
IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. Illustrated by G. J. Pin well.—Also a Cheap
Popular Edition, medium 8vo, portrait cover, Od. ; cloth, Is.
COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Illust. Helen Paterson.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A THIEF, &c. Illustrated by Matt Stretch.
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Illustrated by M. Ellen Edwards.
THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE. Illusts. by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., and C. Keene.
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. Illustrated by Charles Keene.—Also a
Cheap Popular Edition, medium Svo, Od.; cloth, Is.
HARD CASH. Illustrated by F. W. Lawson.
GRIFFITH GAUNT. Illustrated by S. L. Fildf.s, R.A., and William Small.
FOUL PLAY. Illustrated by George Du Maurier.
PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLAGE. Illustrated by Robert Barnes.
A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. Illustrated by Edward Hughes and A. W. Cooper.
A SIMPLETON. Illustrated by Kate Craufukd.
THE WANDERING HEIR. Illust. by H. Paterson, S. L. Fildes, C. Green, &c.
A WOMAN-HATER. Illustrated by Thomas Couldery.
SINGLEHEART AND DOUBLEFACE. Illustrated by P. Macnab,
GOOD STORIES OF MEN AND OTHER ANIMALS. Illust. by E. A, Abbey, &c.
THE JILT, and other Stories. Illustrated by Joseph Nasii.
A PERILOUS SECRET. Illustrated by Fred. Barnard.
READIANA. With a Steel-plate Portrait of Charles Reade.
BIBLE CHARACTERS: Studies of David, Paul, &c. Fcap. 8vo, leatherette. Is.
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. With an Introduction by Walter Besant.
Elzevir Edition. 4 vols., post 8vo, each with_Front„ cl. ex., gilt top, 34s. the set.
SELECTIONS FROM THE W0RK50FCHARLES READE Cr. 8vo, buckram ti<.
20
BOOKS PUBLISHED BV
RIDDELL (MRS. J. H.), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE PRINCE OF WALES'S GARDEN PARTY. | WEIRD STORIES.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
THE UNINHABITED HOUSE. | HER MOTHER'S DARLING.
MYSTERY IN PALACE GARDENS. THE NUN'S CURSE.
FAIRY WATER. | IDLE TALES.
RIMMER (ALFRED), WORKS BY. Square 8vo, cloth gilt, 7 s. lid. each.
OUR OLD COUNTRY TOWNS. With 55 Illustrations.
RAMBLES ROUND ETON AND HARROW. With 50 Illustrations.
ABOUT ENGLAND WITH DICKENS. With 58 Illusts. by C. A. Vanderhoof, &c.
RlVES.—BARBARA DERING. By Amelie_ Rives, Author of " The
Quick or the Dead ? " Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Oil.; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s.
ROBINSON CRUSOE. By Daniel Defoe. (Major's Edition.) With
37 Illustrations by George Cruikshank. Post 8vo, half-bound, 2s.
ROBINSON (FT W.), NOVELS BY. ~
WOMEN ARE STRANGE. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
THE HANDS OF JUSTICE. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3s. Od.; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s.
ROBINSON (PHIL), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each.
THE POETS' BIRDS. | THE POETS' BEASTS.
THE POETS AND NATURE: REPTILES, FISHES, AND INSECTS.
ROCHEFOUCAULD'S MAXIMS AND MORAL REFLECTIONS. With
Notes, and an Introductory Essay by Sainte- Beuve. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
ROLL OF BATTLE ABBEY, THET A List of the Principal Warriors
who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror. Handsomely printed, 5s.
ROWLEY (HON. HUGH), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. Od. each.-"
PUNIANA: RIDDLES AND JOKES. With numerous Illustrations.
MORE PUNIANA. Profusely Illustrated.
RUNCIMAN (JAMES), STORIES BY. Post 8vo, bds., 2s. ea.; cl„ 2s. Od. ea.
SKIPPERS AND SHELLBACKS. I GRACE BALMAIGN'S SWEETHEART.
SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS. |
RUSSELL (W. CLARK), BOOKS AND NOVELS BY:
Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. ea.
ROUND THE GALLEY-FIRE. I A BOOK FOR THE HAMMOCK.
IN THE MIDDLE WATCH. MYSTERY OF THE "OCEAN STAR."
A VOYAGE TO THE CAPEL I THE ROMANCE OF JENNY HARLOWE
Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6«I. ea.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. ea. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. ea.
AN OCEAN TRAGEDY. | MY SHIPMATE LOUISE.
ALONE ON A WIDE WIDE SEA.
ON THE FO'K'SLE HEAD. Post 8vo, illust. boards. 2s.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
CA1NT AUBYN (ALAN), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each.
A FELLOW OF TRINITY. Note by Oliver Wendell Holmes and Frontispiece.
THE JUNIOR DEAN. | THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S.
Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, Is, Od. each.
THE OLD MAID'S SWEETHEART. | MODEST LITTLE SARA.
TO HIS OWN MASTER. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. [Shortly.
IN THE FACE OF THE WORLD. Three Vols. [Shortly.
SALA (G. A.).—GASLIGHT AND DAYLIGHT. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
SANSON.—SEVEN GENERATIONS OF EXECUTIONERS : loir's
of the Sanson Family (1688 to 1847). Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. Od.
SAUNDERS (JOHN), NOVELS Wf.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
GUY WATERMAN. | THE LION IN THE PATH. | THE TWO DREAMERS.
BOUND TO THE WHEEL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od.
SAUNDERS (KATHARINE), NOVELS^BY: ~~~
Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. Od. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
MARGARET AND ELIZABETH. I HEART SALVAGE.
THE HIGH MILLS. | SEBASTIAN.
JOAN MERRYWEATHER. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
GIDEON'S ROCK. Crown 8vg, cloth extra. 3s. Od.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
SCOTLAND YARD, Past and Present: Experiences of 37 Years. By
Ex-Chief-Inspector Cavanagh. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.; cloth, 3s. 6d.
SECRET OUT, THE: One Thousand Tricks with Cards; with Enter¬
taining Experiments in Drawing-room or "Whits Magic." By W. H. Cremer.
With 300 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4a. 6d.
SEGUIN (L. G.), WORKS BY.
THE COUNTRY OF THE PASSION PLAY (OBERAMMERGAU) and the Highlands
of Bavaria. With Map and 37 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. ©d.
WALKS IN ALGIERS. With 2 Maps and 16 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
SENIOR (WM.).—BY STREAM AND SEA. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
SHAKESPEARE FOR CHILDREN: LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKE-
SPEARE. With Illusts., coloured and plain, by J. Moyr Smith. Cr. 4to, 3s. 6d.
SHARP.—CHILDREN OF TO-MORROW: A Novel. By William
Sharp. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ©s.
SHELLEY.—THE COMPLETE WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Edited, Prefaced, and Annotated by R, Herne
Shepherd. Five Vols., crown 8vo, cloth boards, 3s. ©d. each.
POETICAL WORKS, in Three Vols.:
Vol. 1. Introduction by the Editor; Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson; Shelley's Corre¬
spondence with.Stockdale; The Wandering Jew; Queen Mab, with the Notes; Alastor,
and other Poems ; Rosalind and Helen : Prometheus Unbound; Adonais, &c.
Vol. II. Laon and Cythna ; The Cenci; Julian and Maddalo; Sweilfoot the Tyrant; The Witch of
Atlas; Epipsychidion: Hellas.
Vol. III. Posthumous Poems; The Masque of Anarchy; and other Pieces.
PROSE WORKS, in Two Vols.:
Vol. I. The Two Romances of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne; the Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets ; A Refuta¬
tion of Deism ; Lettersto Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments.
VoL II. The Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Fragments, Edited by Mrs. SHELLEY.
With a Bibliography of Shelley, and an Index of the Prose Works.
SHERARD (R. H.).—ROGUES : A Novel, crown 8vo, is.; cloth, is. ©d.
SHERIDAN (GENERAL). — PERSONAL MEMOIRS OF GENERAL
P. H. SHERIDAN. With Portraits and Facsimiles. Two Vols.,demy 8vo, cloth, 34s.
SHERIDAN'S (RICHARD BRINSLEY) COMPLETE WORKS. With
Life and Anecdotes. Including his Dramatic Writings, his Works in Prose and
Poetry, Translations, Speeches and Tokes. 10 Illusts. Cr.8vo, hf.-bound, 7s. ©d.
THE RIYALS, THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, and other Plays. Post 8vo, printed
on laid paper and half-bound, 3s.
SHERIDAN'S COMEDIES! THE RIYALS and THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.
Edited, with an Introduction and Notes to each Play, and a Biographical Sketch, by
Brander Matthews. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo, half-parchment, 13s. 6d.
SIDNEY'S (SIR PHILIP) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS, includ¬
ing all those in "Arcadia." With Portrait, Memorial-Introduction, Notes, &c. by the
Rev. A. B. Grosart, P.P. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth boards, ISs.
SIGNBOARDS : Their History. With Anecdotes of Famous Taverns
and Remarkable Characters. By Jacob Larwood and John Camden Hotten,
With Coloured Frontispiece and 94 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. 6d.
SIMS (GEORGE R.), WORKS BY.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each; cloth limp,3s. od. eaca.
ROGUES AND VAGABONDS. I MARY JANE MARRIED.
THE RING 0' BELLS. TALES OF TO-DAY.
MARY JANE'S MEMOIRS. I DRAMAS OF LIFE. With 60 Illustratiors.
TTNKLF.TOP'S GRIME. With a Frontispiece by Maurice Greiffenhagen.
ZEPH:A Circus Story, Sc. I MY TWO WIVES.
Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. each; cloth. Is. ttd. each.
HOW THE POOR LIVE; and HORRIBLE LONDON.
THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitations ia
Prose and Verse, selected from his own Works by George R. Sims.
THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS. | DAGONET DITTIES.
SISTER DORA : a Biography. By Margaret Lonsdale. With Four
Illustrations. Demy 8vo, picture cover. 4d.; cloth, 6d.
SKETCHLEY.-A MATCH IN^THE DARK. By Arthur Sketciiley,
, Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
22
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
SLANG DICTIONARY (THE): Etymological, Historical, and Anec¬
dotal. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, fis. fill.
SMiraT^I^YR^rWORKS^BY.
THE PRINCE OF ARGOLIS. With no Illusts. Post 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. fid.
THE •WOOING OF-THE WATER WITCH. Illustrated. Post 8vo, cloth, fis,
SOCIETY IN LONDON. By A Foreign Resident. Crown 8vo,
Us. ; cloth, lis. fid.
SOCIETY IN PARIS: The Upper Ten Thousand. A Series of Betters
from Count Paul Vasii.i to a Young French Diplomat. Crown 8vo. cloth, fis.
SOMERSET. — SONGS OF ADIEU. By Lord Henry Somerset.
Small 4to, Japanese vellum,
SPALDING.—ELIZABETHAN DEMONOLOGY : An Essay on the Belief
in the Existence of Devils. By T. A. Spalding, LL.B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
SPEIGHT (T. W.), NOVELS BY.
Post 8vo, illustrated Boards, 2s. each.
THE MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE. I THE GOLDEN HOOP.
BY DEVIOUS WAYS, &c. | BACK TO LIFE.
HOODWINKED; and THE SANDY-I THE LOUD WATER TRAGEDY.
CROFT MYSTERY. | BURGO'S ROMANCE.
Post 8vo, cloth limp, Is. fid. each.
A BARREN TITLE. | WIFE OR NO WIFE?
THE SANDYCROFT MYSTERY. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is.
SPENSER FORM:HILDREN. By M. H. Towry. With Illustrations
by Walter J. Morgan. Crown 4to, cloth extra, 3s. fid.
STARRY HEAVENS (THE): A Poetical Birthday Book. Royal
ifimo, cloth extra, 2s. fid.
STAUNTON.—THE LAWS AND PRACTICE OF CHESS. With an
Analysis of the Openings. By Howard Staunton. Edited by Robert B. Wormald.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.
STEDMAN (E. C.), WORKS BY.
VICTORIAN POETS. Thirteenth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9s.
THE POETS OF AMERICA. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 9s.
STERNDALE. — THE AFGHAN KNIFE : A Novel. By Robert
Armitage Sterndale. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid.; post 8vo, illust. boards. 2s.
STEVENSON (R. LOUIS), WORKS BY. Post 8vo,Cl.limp. 3s. fid. each.
TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY. Seventh Edit. With a Frontis. by Walter Crane.
AN INLAND VOYAGE. Fourth Edition. With a Frontispiece by Walter Crane.
Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, fis. each.
FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS. Sixth Edition.
THE MERRY MEN. Third Edition. | UNDERWOODS: Poems. Fifth Edition.
MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS. Third Edition.
VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE, and other Papers. Seventh Edition. | BALLADS.
ACROSS THE PLAINS, with other Memories and Essays.
NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS. Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, fis.;
post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
THE SUICIDE CLUB; and THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND. (From New Arabian
Nights.) With Six Illustrations by J. Bernard Partridge. Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, 5s. [Shortly.
PRINCE OTTO. Sixth Edition. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
FATHER DAMIEN: An Open Letter to the Rev. Dr. Hyde. Second Edition.
Crown 8vo, hand-made and brown paper. Is.
ST0DDARD; - SUMMER CRUISING IN THE SOUTH SEAS. By
C. Warren Stoddard. Illustrated by Wallis Mackay. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. fid.
STORIES FROM FOREIGN NOVELISTS. "wTrh NoTices by HETEN a!7d
Alice Zimmkrn. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fill.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
STRANGE MANUSCRIPT (A) FOUND IN A COPPER CYLINDER.
With ig Illustrations by Gilbert Gaul. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s.; post 8vo,
il'us'ratc-d boards, 2s.
STRANGE SECRETS. Told by Conan Doyle, Percy Fitzgerald, Flor
ence Marrvat, &c, Po§t 8yp, illustrated boards, 3s»
CHATTO Sc WiNDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
23
STRUTT'S SPORTS AND PASTIMES OF THE PEOPLE OF
ENGLAND; including the Rural and Domestic Recreations, May Gaines, Mum¬
meries, Shows, &c., from the Earliest Period to the Present Time. Edited by
William Hone. With 140 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. lid.
SWIFT'S (DEAN) CHOICTWORKS^ in Prose and Verse. With Memoir,
Pot trait, and Eacsimiles of the Maps in " Gulliver's Travels." Cr. 8vo, cl., 7s. fid.
GULLIVER'S TRAVELS, and A TALE OP A TUB. Post 8vo, half-bound, -is.
JONATHAN SWIFT: A Study. Bv J. Churton Collins. Crown 8vo. cloth extra.
SWINBURNE (ALGERNON C.)~ WORKS BY.
SELECTIONS FROM POETICAL WORKS OF A. 0.
SWINLURNE. I"cap. Svo, Cs.
A'i'ALANTA IN CALYDON. Crown Svo, 63.
CIIASTELARD : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, Is.
POEMS AND BALLADS. First Series. Crown
Svo or fcap. Svo, 93.
POEMS AND BALLADS. second series.
Crown 8vo or fcap. 8vo, 9s.
POEMS & BALLADS. THIRD SERIES. Cr. 8vo, 7a.
SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE. Crown 8vo, 10s. 6(1.
BOTHWELL : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 12s. 6cL
SONGS OF TWO NATIONS. Crown Svo, 6s.
GEORGE CHAPMAN. Vol. II. of G. CHAP¬
man's Works.) Crown 8vo, 6s.
ESSAYS AND STUDIES. Crown 8vo, 12s.
ERECRTIIEUS : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6i.
A NOTE ON CHARLOTTE BRONTE. Cr. itvo, Cs.
SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES. Crown Svo, Cs.
STUDIES IN SONG. Crown Svo, 7s.
MARY STUART: A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 8s.
TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. Crown Svo, Ss.
A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS. Small 410, 8s.
A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY. Crown Svo, Vs.
MARINO FALIERO : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6s.
A STUDY OF VICTOR HUGO. Crown Svo, G.<
MISCELLANIES. Crown 8vo, 12s.
LOCRtNE : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 63.
A STUDY OF BEN JONSON. C row 11 8vo, 73.
TH£ SISTERS: A Tragedy. Crown Svo, cs
ASTROPHEL, &c. Crown Svo, 7s. [S/iorf'y.
SYNTAX'S (DR.) THREE TOURS: In Search of the Picturesque, in
Search of Consolation, and in Search of a Wife. With Rowlandson's Coloured Illus¬
trations, and Lite of the Author by J. C. Hotten. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. lid.
TAINE'S~HIST0RY~0F ENGLISH LITERATURE^ Translated!^
Henry Van Laun. Four Vols., small demy 8vo, cl. bds., UOs.—Popular Edition,
Two Vols., large crown 8vo, cloth extra, I 5s.
TAYLOR'S (BAYARD) DIVERSIONS OF THE ECHO CLUB:~Bur-
lesques of Modern Writers. Post 8vo, cloth limp, Us.
TAYLOR (DR. J. E., F.L.S.), WORKS BYT Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s. each.
THE SAGACITY AND MORALITY OP PLANTS: A Sketch of the Life and Conduct
of the Vegetable Kingdom. With a Coloured Frontispiece and 100 Illustrations.
OUR COMMON BRITISH FOSSILS, and Where to Find Them. 331 Illustrations.
THE PLAYTIME NATURALIST. With 361 Illustrations.
TAYLOR'S (TOM) HISTORICAL DRAMAS. Containing " Clancarty,"
"Jeanne Dare," "'Twixt Axe and Crown," "The Fool's Revenge," " Arkwright's
Wife," "Anne Boleyn,1' " Plot and Passion.'* Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
*** The Plays may also be had separately, at Is. each,
TENNYSON (LORD): A Biographical Sketch. By H. J. Jennings.
With a Photograph-Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, lis.—Cheap Edition, post 8vo,
portrait cover, Is.; cloth, Is. G(l.
THACKERAYANA: Notes and Anecdotes. Illustrated by Hundreds of
Sketches by William Makepeace Thackeray. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. (id.
THAMES.—A NEW PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE THAMES^
By A. S. Krausse. With 340 Illustrations Post 8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. lid.
THIERS.—HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE & EMPIRE OF FRANCE
UNDER NAPOLEON. By A. Thiers. Translated by D. Fop.ees Campbell and
John Stebbing. New Edition, reset in a specially-cast type, with 36 Steel Piatt-:.
12 vols., demy 8vo, cl. ex., 12s. each. (Monthly Volumes, beginning September, iKq
THOMAS (BERTHA), NOVELS BY. Cr. 8vo, cl., Us. lid. ea. ; post 8vo, Us. ea.
THE VIOLIN-PLAYER. | PROUD MAISIE.
CRESSIDA. Post 8vo, illustrated boards. Us.
THOMSON'S SEASONS, and CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. With Intro-
duction by Allan Cunningham, and 48 Illustrations. Post 8vo, half-bound, Us.
THORNBURY (WALTER), WORKS BY.
THE LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE OF J. M. W. TURNER.
lions in Colours. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. fid.
With Ulustra-
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, Us. each.
OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. | TALES FOR THE MARINES.
24
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
TIMBS (JOHN), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6«1. each.
THE HISTORY OP CLUBS AND CLUB LIFE IN LONDON: Anecdotes of its
Famous Coffee-houses, Hostelries, and Taverns. With 42 Illustrations.
ENGLISH ECCENTRICS AND ECCENTRICITIES: Stories of Delusions, Impos-
tures, Sporting Scenes, Eccentric Artists, Theatrical Folk, &c. 48 Illustrations.
TUOLLOPE (ANTHONY), NOVELS BY. .
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, :4s. 6«1. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. I MR. SCARBOROUGH'S FAMILY.
FRAU FROHMANN. | MARION FAY. | THE LAND-LEAGUERS.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
KEPT IN THE DARK I AMERICAN SENATOR.
GOLDEN LION OF CRA^PERE. | JOHN CALDIGATE.
TROLLOPE (FRANCE!: E.), NOVELS BY. '
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Ss. 6»l. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA. | MABEL'S PROGRESS. | ANNE FURNESS.
TROLLOPE (T. A.).—DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 3s.
TROWBRIDGE.—FARNELL'S FOLLY: A NoveL By J. T. Trow-
bridge. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s.
TYTLER (C.~CTFRASER-).-MISTRESS JUDITH: A Novel. By
C. C, Fraser.Tytler. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 3s.
TYTLER (SARAH), NOVELS BY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards,3s. each.
THE BRIDE'S PASS. I BURIED DIAMONDS.
LADY BELL. I THE BLACKHALL GHOSTS.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 3s. each.
WHAT SHE CAME THROUGH. I BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.
CITOYENNE JACQUELINE DISAPPEARED. | NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
SAINT MUNGO'S CITY. | THE HUGUENOT FAMILY.
TJNDERHILL.—WALTER BESANT : A Study. By John Underhill.
With Portraits. Crown 8vo, Irish linen, 6s. [Shortly.
UPWARD.—THE QUEEN AGAINST OWEN. By Allen Upward.
With Frontispiece by J. S. Crompton. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d,
VASHTI AND ESTHER. By the Writer of "Belle's" Letters in The
World. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. [Shortly.
VILLARI.—A DOUBLE BOND. By Linda Villari. Fcap. 8vo, Is.
WALFORD (EDWARD, M.A.). WORKS BY.
* * WALFORD'S COUNTY FAMILIES OF THE UNITED KINGDOM (1894). Containing the Descent,
Birth, Marriage, Education, &c„ of 12,000 Heads of Families, their Heirs, Offices, Addresses,
Clubs, &c. Royal Bvo, cloth gilt, 50s.
WALFORD'S WINDSOR PEERAGE, BARONETAGE, AND KNIGHTAGE (1894). Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, 12s. 6d.
WALFORD'S SHILLING PEERAGE (1394). Containing a List of the House of Lords, Scotch and
Irish Peers, &c. 32mo, cloth, Is.
WALFORD'S SHILLING BARONETAGE (1894). Containing a List of the Baronets of the United
Kingdom, Biographical Notices. Addresses, &c. 32100, cloth, Is.
WALFORD'S SHILLING KNIGHTAGE (1894). Containing a List of the Knights of the United
Kingdom, Biographical Notices, Addresses, &c. 32mo, cloth, Is.
WALFORD'S SHILLING HOUSE OF COMMONS (18&4). Containing a List of all the Members of the
New Parliament, their Addresses, Clubs, &c. 32mo, cloth, Is.
WALFORD S COMPLETE PEERAGE, BARONETAGE, KNIGHTAGE, AND HOUSE OF COMMONS
(1894). Royal 32mo, cloth, gilt edges, 5s.
TALES OF OUR GREAT FAMILIES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d»
WALT-WHITMAN, POEMS BY. Edited, with Introduction, by
William M.Rossetti, With Portrait. Cr.8vo, hand-made paper and buckram, 6s.
WALTON AND COTTON'S COMPLETE ANGLER; or, The Con-
templative Man's Recreation, by Izaak Walton ; and Instructions how to Angle for a
Trout or Grayling in a clear Stream, by Charles Cotton. With Memoirs and Notes
by Sir Harris Nicolas, and 61 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, 7s. 6«1.
WARD (HERBERT), WORKS BY.
FIVE YEARS WITH THE CONGO CANNIBALS. With 92 Illustrations by the
Author, Victor Perard, and W. B. Davis. Third ed. Roy. 8vo, cloth ex., 14s.
MY LIFE WITH STANLEY'S REAR GUARD. With a Map by F, S. Weller,
F.R.G.S. Post 8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. 6«1.
WARNER.—A ROUNDABOUT JOURNEY. By Charles minify
Warner. Crown 8vo clo'h pvtra
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
25
WARRANT TO EXECUTE CHARLES I. A Facsimile, with the 59
Signatures and Seals. Printed on paper 22 in. by T4 in. 2s.
WARRANT TO EXECUTE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. A Facsimile, including
Queen Elizabeth's Signature and the Great Seal. 2s.
WASSERMANN (LILLIAS), NOVELS BY.
THE DAFFODILS. Crown 8vo, Is.; cloth, is. Gd.
THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. By Aaron Watson and Lillias Wassermann.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
WEATHER, HOW TO FORETELL THE, WITH POCKET SPEC-
TROSCOPE. By F. W. Cory. With ro Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, Is.; cloth, Is. Gd.
WESTALL (William).—TRUST-MONEY. Post Sv^Ulust. bds.,~2s7
WHIST.- HOW TO PLAY SOLO WHIST. By Abraham S. Wilks
and Charles F. Pardon. New Edition. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
WHITE.—THE NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE. By Gilbert
White, M.A. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bound, 2s.
WlLLJAMS~(WriilATTIEU7^R^A^)7^W^RKSnBY\
SCIENCE IN SHORT CHAPTERS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Gd.
A SIMPLE TREATISE ON HEAT. With Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Oil.
THE CHEMISTRY OF COOKERY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
THE CHEMISTRY OF IRON AND STEEL MAKING, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9s.
A VINDICATION OF PHRENOLOGY. With over 40 Illustrations. Demy 8vo,
cloth extra, 12s. 6d. [Shortly.
WILLIAMSON (MRS. F. H.).—A CHILD WIDOW. Post 8vo, bds , 2S.
WILSON (DR. ANDREW, F.R.S.E.), WORKS BY.
CHAPTERS ON EVOLUTION. With 2*,g Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Gd.
LEAYES FROM A NATURALIST'S NOTE-BOOK. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Gd.
LEISURE-TIME STUDIES. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
STUDIED IN LIFE AND SENSE. With numerous Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., Gs.
COMMON ACCIDENTS: HOW TO TREAT THEM. Illusts. Cr. 8vo, Is.; cl., ls.Gd.
GLIMPSES OF NATURE. With 35 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd.
WINTER (J. S.), STORIES BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each;
cloth limp, 2s. Gd. each.
CAYALRY LIFE. 1 REGIMENTAL LEGENDS.
A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN. With 34 Illustrations by E. G. Thomson and E. Stuart
Hardy. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd.
WISSMANN.—MY SECOND JOURNEY THROUGH EQUATORIAL
AFRICA. By Hermann von Wissmann. With 92 Illusts. Demy 8vo, lGs.
WOOD.—SABINA: A Novel. By Lady Wood. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
WOOD (H. F.), DETECTIVE STORIES BY. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. each.
PASSENGER FROM SCOTLAND YARD. | ENGLISHMAN OF THE RUE CAIN.
WOOLLEY.—RACHEL ARMSTRONG ; or, Love and Theology. By
Celia Parker Woolley. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. Gd.
WRIGHT (THOMAS), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6«1. each.
CARICATURE HISTORY OF THE GEORGES. With 400 Caricatures, Squibs, &c.
HISTORY OF CARICATURE AND OF THE GROTESQUE IN ART, LITERA¬
TURE, SCULPTURE, AND PAINTING. Illustrated by F. W. Fairholt, F.s.A.
WYNMAN.—MY FLIRTATIONS. By Margaret Wynman. With 13
Illustrations by J. Bernard Partridge. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Gd.
VATES (EDMUND), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
x LAND AT LAST. | THE FORLORN HOPE. | CASTAWAY.
70LA (EMILE), NOVELS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
THE DOWNFALL. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. Fourth Edition, Revised.
THE DREAM. Translated by Eliza Chase. With 8 Illustrations by Jicanniot.
DOCTOR PASCAL. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. With Portrait of the Author.
MONEY. Translated by Ernest A. Vizetelly. [Shortly
EMILE ZOLA: A Biography! ByR. HTSherard. With Portraits, Illustrations
end Facsimile Letter. Demy 8vp, cloth extra, l2s(.
2 6
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
LISTS OF BOOKS CLASSIFIED IN SERIES.
*** For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetical arrangement, pp. 1-25.
THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, !2s. Oil. per Volume
A Journey Round My Room. By Xavier
de Maistre.
Quips and Quiddities. By W. D. Adams.
The Agony Column of "The Times."
Melancholy Anatomised: Abridgment of
"Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy."
The Speeches of Charles Dickens.
Poetical Ingenuities. By W. T. Dobson.
The Cupboard Papers. By Fin-Bec,
W. S. Gilbert's Plays. First Series.
W. S. Gilbert's Plays. Second Series.
Songs of Irish Wit and Humour.
Animals and Masters. By Sir A. Helps.
Social Pressure. By Sir A. Helps.
Curiosities of Criticism. H. I.Jennings.
Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast-Table.
Pencil and Palette. By R. Kempt.
Little Essays: irom Lamb's Letie's.
THE GOLDEN LIBRARY.-
Bayard Taylor's Diversions of the Echo
Club.
Bennett's Ballad History of England.
Bennett's Songs for Sailors.
Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers.
Pope's Poetical Works.
Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast Table.
Forensic Anecdotes. By Jacob Laravood.
Theatrical Anecdotes. Jacob Larwood.
Jeux d'Esprit. Edited by Henry S. Leigh.
Witch Stories. By E. Lynn Linton.
Ourselves. By E. Lynn Linton.
Pastimes & Players. By R. Macgregor.
New Paul and Virginia. W.H.Mallock.
New Republic. By W. H. Mallock.
Puck on Pegasus. By PI. C. Pennell.
Pegasus Re-Saddled. By H. C. Pennell.
Muses of Mayfalr. Ed. H. C. Pennell.
Thoreau: His Life & Aims. By H. A. Page.
Puniana. By Hon. Hugh Rowley.
More Puniana. By Hon. Hugh Rowley
The Philosophy of Handwriting.
By Stream and Sea. By Wm. Senior.
Leaves from a Naturalist's Note-Book.
By Dr. Andrew Wilson.
Post 8vo, cloth limp, lis. per Volume.
Jesse's Scenes of Country Life.
Leigh Hunt's Tale for a Chimney
Corner.
Mallory's Mort d'Ai'thur: Selections.
Pascal's Provincial Letters.
Rochefoucauld's Maxims it Reflections.
THE WANDERER'S LIBRARY
Wanderings in Patagonia. By Julius
Beerrohm. Illustrated.
Camp Notes. By Frederick Boyle.
Savage Life. By Frederick Boyle.
Mevrio England in the Olden Time. By
G. Daniel. Illustrated by Cruikshank.
Circus Life. By Thomas Frost.
Lives of the Conjurers. Thomas Frost.
The Old Showmen and the Old London
Fairs. By Thomas Frost.
Low-Life Deeps. By James Greenwood.
. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
Wilds of London. James Greenwood.
Tunis. Cltcv. Hesse-Wartegg. 22llhists.
Life and Adventures of a Cheap Jack,
World Behind the Scenes. P.Fitzgerald.
Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings.
The Genial Showman. By E.P. Kingston
Story of London Parks. Jacob I.arwood.
London Characters. By Henry Mayhp.w.
Seven Generations of Executioners.
Summer Cruising in the South Seas.
By C, Warren Stoddard. Illustrated.
POPULAR SHI
Harry Fludyer at Cambridge.
Jeff Briggs's Love Story. Bret Harte.
Twins of Table Mountain. Bret Harte.
Snow-bound at Eagle's. By Bret Harte.
A Day's Tour. By Percy Fitzgerald.
Esther's Glove. By R. E. Francillon.
Sentenced! By Somerville Gibney.
The Professor's Wife. By L.Graham.
Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By
Julian Hawthorne.
Niagara Spray. By J. Hollingshead,
A Romance of the Queen's Hounds. By
Charles James.
Garden that Paid Rent. Tom Jerrold.
Cut by the Mess. By Arthur Keyser.
Teresa Itasca. By A. MacAlpine.
Our Sensation Novel. J. II. McCarthy,
Doom! By Justin II. McCarthy.
Doily, By Justin II. McCarthy.
_____________
1 Its Old Maiil'g Sweetheart. A.Sr.Aunrt*
Modest LHtic Isat'ii, AlA3 St, Apuvt-',
f§¥SJl §is-9£9flt?ri$$«§Ui», M, K, Ct'Lt.'t'.ic
LING BOOKS.
Lily Lass. Justin H. McCarthy.
Was She Good or Bad? By W. Minto.
Notes from the "News." By Ias. Payn.
Beyond the Gates. By E. S. Phelps.
Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. Phflps,
Burglars in Paradise, By E. S. Phelps.
Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. Phelps.
Trooping with Crows. By C. L. Pirkis.
Bible Characters. By Charles Reade.
Rogues. By R. H. Sherard.
The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. Sims.
How the Poor Live. By G. R. Sims.
Case of George Candlemas, G. R. Sims
Sandycroft Mystery. T. \v. Speight.
Hoodwinked. By T. W. Speh iit.
Father Damian. By R. L. Stevenson.
A Double Bond. By Linda Villari.
My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard, By
Herbert Ward.
Svo, cloth boards, Hs« Oil. each.
Taken from the Enemy, H. Njjwsoct.
h Lost Seui. B>" W, L, Ai.pe.v.
j Bp. Paliia^r'w!■'.*:■t Ahl-SM,
CHATTO 8i WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
27
MY LIBRARY. Printed on laid paper, post 8vo, half-Roxburgbe, 2s. fid. each.
Four Frenchwomen. By Austin Dobson.
Citation and Examination of William
Shakspeare. By W. S. Landor.
The Journal of Maurice de Guei'in.
Christie Johnstone. By Charles Reade.
With a Photogravure Frontispiece.
Peg Wofflngton. By Charles Reade.
The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb.
THE POCKET LIBRARY. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and hf.-bd., 2s. each.
The Essays of Elia. By Charles Lamb.
Robinson Crusoe. Illust. G. Cruikshank.
Whims and Oddities. By Thomas Hood.
With 8s Illustrations.
The Barber's Chair, &c. By D. Jerrold.
Gastronomy. By Brillat-Savarin.
The Epicurean, &c. By Thomas Moore.
Leigh Hunt's Essays. Ed. E. Ollier.
White's Natural History of Selborne.
Gulliver's Travels, &c. By Dean Swift.
Plays. By Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
Anecdotes of the Clergy. J. Larwood.
Thomson's Seasons. Illustrated.
The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table
and The Professor at the Breakfast-
Table. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.
THE PICCADILLY NOVELS.
Library Editions of Novels, many Illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. each.
By F. JM. AliEEN.
Green as Grass.
By GRANT ALLEN.
Philistia.
Babylon
Strange Stories.
Beckoning Hand.
In all Shades.
TheTents of Shem.
For Maimie's Sake.
The Devil's Die.
This Mortal Coil.
The Great Taboo.
Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal.
The Duchess of Powysland.
Ivan Greet's Masterpiece. | Scallywag.
By EDWIN 1L. AKNOLM.
Phra the Phoenician.
The Constable of St. Nicholas.
By ALAN ST. AUBVN.
A Fellow of Trinity. | The Junior Dean.
The Master of St. Benedict's.
To his Own Master.
By Rev. S. BARINO GOULD.
Red Spider. I Eve.
By KOBEKT BARB.
In Steamer Chair | From Whose Bourne
By FRANBi BAKKETT.
The Woman of the Iron Bracelets.
" BEEIjE,"—Yashti and Esther.
By W. BESANT & J. RICE.
My Little Girl. By Celia's Arbour.
Caseof Mr.Lucraft. Monks of Tlielema.
This Son of Vulcan. The Seamy Side.
Golden Butterfly. Ten Years' Tenant.
Ready-Money Mortiboy.
With Harp and Crown.
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay.
The Chaplain of the Fleet.
By WALTER HE8ANT,
All Sorts and Conditions of Men.
The Captains' Room. I Herr Paul us.
All in a Garden Fair | The Ivory Gate.
The World Went Very Well Then.
For Faith and Freedom. | Rebel Queen.
Dorothy Forster.
Uncle Jack.
Children of Gibeon.
Bell of St. Paul's.
To Call Her Mine.
Verbena Camellia
By ROBERT lUJCIlANAN.
The Shadow of the Sword. | Matt.
A Child of Nature. I Heir of Linne.
The Martyrdom of Madeline.
God and the Man. I The New Abelard.
Love Me for Ever. Foxglove Manor.
Annan Water. | Master of the Mine.
Woman and the Man.
The Holy Rose.
Armorel of Ljon-
esse.
St. Katlierine's by
the Tower.
Stcphanotis.
By aiAS.I, < LINE.
The Shadow of a Crime.
A Son of Hagar. I The Deemster.
By MAELAREN COBBAN.
The Red Sultan.
MOIST. & B-'RA.NT'ES COE.UNM.
Transmigration. | Blacksmith&SchoIar,
From Midnight to Midnight.
Village Comedy. | You Play Me False.
By AVSIiSCIE «JOA,a,HfV*.
The Frozen Deep.
The Two Destinies.
Lav/ and the Lady.
Haunted Hotel.
The Fallen Loaves.
Jezebel's Daughter.
The Black Robe.
Heart and Science.
"I Say No."
Little Novels.
The Evil Genius.
The Legacy of Cain
A Rogue's Life.
Blind Love.
Armadale.
After Dark.
No Name.
Antonina. | Basil.
Hide ancl Seek.
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
My Miscellanies.
Woman in White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch,
Miss or Mrs?
New Magdalen.
By BUTTON LOOM.
Paul Foster's Daughter.
F. 19. U© OB* E it.—Geoff. Hamilton.
Ry V. CECMIL COTE8.
Two Girls on a Barge.
Ry MATT CRIM.
Adventuros of a Fair Rebel.
Ry R. M. CRBHER.
Diana Barrington. I PrettyMiss Neville.
Proper Pride. A Bird of Passage.
A FamilyLikeness | "To Let."
Ry WILLSA.U CVI'LEX.
Hearts of Gold.
JSy ALPHON8E DA I.'MSGS'.
The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation.
Sty S9. COLEMAN 9> A V 3 SSsiO.N.
Mr. Sadler's Daughters.
88v ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth.
By JAMES DE MILLE.
A Castle in Spain.
By J. LE1TII DEBAVENI'.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers.
By DICK DONOVAN.
Tracked to Doom.
Man from Manchester.
By A. CONTAIN DOYLE.
The Firm of Girdlestone.
By Mrs. AIVIVIE EDWAUDES.
Archie Loyell,
28
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY
The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels—continued.
By G. .UA»VII,I,K EENN.
5 he New Mistress. I Witness to the Deed.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.
Fatal Zero.
By R. E. FRANCILLON.
Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen.
One by One. King or Knave.
Dog & his Shadow. | Ropes of Sand.
P «•<•!. by Sir KARTI.E ERE RE.
Pandurang Hari.
ED. GARRETT.-The Capel Girls.
By PACE GAl'LOT.
The Red Shirts.
By CIL1RLES GIBBON.
Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft.
Loving a Dream. | Of High Degree.
The Flower of the Forest.
By E. GLAMILLE.
The Lost Heiress. I The Fossicker.
A Fair Colonist. |
By E. J". G«OD.RA\.
The Fate of Herbert Wayne.
By CECIL GRIFFITH.
Corinthia Marazion.
By SV1» E Y GRUNDY.
The Days of his Vanity.
By THOHAS hardy
Under the Greenwood Tree.
By BRET IB ARTE.
A Waif of the Plains. | Sally Dows.
A Ward of the Golden Gate.
A Sappho of Green Springs.
Colonel Starbottle's Client. | Susy.
A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's.
By JU1.IAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth. . I Dust.
Ellice Quentin. Fortune's Fool.
Sebastian Strome. | Beatrix Randolph.
David Poindexter's Disappearance.
The Spectre of the Camera.
By Sir A. IIELPS.-Ivan de Biron.
1, HENDERSON—Agatha Page.
By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.
Lady Verner's Flight.
By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT.
The Leaden Casket. I Self-Condemned.
That Other Person. | Mrs. Juliet.
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game.
"The Wearing of the Green."
By E. EYNN LINTON.
Patricia Kemball. I lone.
Under which Lord? Paston Carew.
"My Love!" I Sowing the Wind1
The Atonement of Leam Dundas.
The World Well Lost.
By H. W. LUCY Gideon Fleyce.
By justin McCarthy.
A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote.
Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens.
Miss Misanthrope. I Camiola.
The Waterdale Neighbours.
My Enemy's Daughter. I Red Diamonds
Dear Lady Disdain. | The Dictator.
The Comet of a Season.
By GEORGE MACDONALD.
Heather and Snow.
By AGNES MACDONEJLU.
Quaker Cousins.
By BERTRAM MITFORD.
The Gun-Runner. | The King's Assegai.
The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley.
The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels—continued.
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
Life's Atonement. I Yal Strange.
Joseph's Coat. Hearts.
Coals of Fire. I A Model Father.
Old Blazer's Hero. | Time's Revenges.
By the Gate of the Sea.
A Bit of Human Nature.
First Person Singular. I Cynic Fortune.
The Way of the World. I A Wasted
Bob Martin's Little Girl. | Crime.
By MURRAY & HERMAN.
The Bishops' Bible. | Paul Jones's Alias.
One Traveller Returns.
By HUME NISBET "Bail Up!"
By G. OMNET.—A Weird Gift.
By OUIDA.
Held in Bondage.
Strathmore.
Chandos.
Under Two Flags.
Idalia.
Cecilflastlemaine's
Gage.
Tricotrin. | Puck.
Folle Farine.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel. I Signa.
Princess Naprax-
ine.
By MARGARET A
Gentle and Simple.
By JAMES PAYN.
Lost Sir Massingberd.
Less Black than We're Painted.
A Confidential Agent.
A Grape from a Thorn.
In Peril and Privation.
The Mystery of Mirbridge
The Canon's Ward.
Two Little Wooden
Shoes.
In a Winter City,
Ariadne.
Friendship.
Moths. I Ruffino.
Pipistrelio.
AYillage Commune
Bimbi. | Wanda.
Frescoes. | Othmar.
In Maremma.
Syrlin.l Guilderoy.
Santa Barbara.
PAUL.
Walter's Word.
By Proxy.
High Spirits.
Under One Roof.
From Exile.
Glow-worm Tales.
Talk of the Town.
Holiday Tasks.
For Cash Only.
The Burnt Million.
The Word and the
Will.
Sunny Stories.
A Trying Patient.
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
Outlaw and Lawmaker.
By E. C. PRICE.
Valentina. I The Foreigners.
Mrs. Lancaster's Rival.
By RICHARD PRYCE.
Miss Maxwell's Affections.
By CHARGES READE.
It is Never Too Late to Mend.
The Double Marriage.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long.
The Cloister and the Hearth.
The Course of True Love.
The Autobiography of a Thief.
Put Yourself in his Place.
A Terrible Temptation. | The Jilt.
Singleheart and Doubleface.
Good Stories of Men and other Animals.
Hard Cash. I Wandering Heir.
Peg Woffington. | A Woman-Hater.
Christie Johnstone. | A Simpleton.
Readiana.
A Perilous Secret.
Griffith Gaunt
Foul Play.
By Mrs. J. II. RIDDELL.
The Prince of Wales's Garden Party.
Weird Stories.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY.
2g
The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels—continued.
Ky AM ELBE RIVES.
Barbara Dering.
By F. XV. ROBINSON.
The Hands of Justice.
By W. CLARK RIJSMELL.
Ocean Tragedy. | My Shipmate Louise.
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea.
By ,IOIB IV SAWDERS.
Guy Waterman. I Two Dreamers.
Bound to Wheel. | Lion in the Path.
By KATIIAKIIVE SAUNDERS.
Margaret and Elizabeth.
Gideon's Bock. j Heart-Salvage.
The High Mills. | Sebastian.
By IS A AVE EY SMART.
Without Love or Licence.
By R. A. STEKNDALE.
The Afghan Knife.
By BERTHA. THOMAS.
Proud Maisie. I The Violin-player.
By FRANCES E. TROLLOl'E.
Like Ships upon the Sea.
Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress.
The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels—continued.
By IVAN TURGEN1EFF, At.
Stories from Foreign Novelists.
By ANTHONY TROEEOFE.
Frau Frohmann. I Land-Leaguers.
Marion Fay. | The Way We Live Now,
Mr. Scarborough's Family.
By C. C. ERASER-T YTLE B.
Mistress Judith.
By SARAH TYTEER.
The Bride's Pass. I Lady Bell.
Buried Diamonds. | Blackhall Ghosts.
By MARIA TWA IN.
The American Claimant.
The £1,000,000 Bank-note.
Tom Sawyer Abroad.
Pudd'nhead Wilson.
By ALLEN UPWARD.
The Queen against Owen.
By J. S. WINTER.
A Soldier's Children.
By MARGARET WYNMAN,
My Flirtations.
By E. KOLA.
The Downfall. I Dr. Pascal.
The Dream. | Money.
CHEAP EDITIONS OF
Post 8vo, illustrated
By ARTEM US WARD.
Artemus Ward Complete.
By ED1UOND ABOUT.
The Fellah.
By HAMILTON AIDE.
Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences.
By MARY ALBERT.
Brooke Finchley's Daughter.
By Mrs. ALEXANDER.
Maid, Wife, or Widow ? | Valerie' Fate.
By GRANT ALEE IV.
Strange Stories. | The Devil's Die.
Phiiistia. This Mortal Coil.
Babylon. I In all Shades.
The Beckoning Hand. | Blood Royal.
For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shorn.
Great Taboo. | Dumaresq's Daughter.
The Duchess of Powysland.
Sty E. LESTER ARNOLD.
Phra the Phoenician.
By A LAN ST.AURVN.
A Fellow of Trinity. | The Junior Dean.
The Master of St. Benedict's.
By Rev. S. BARING GOULD.
Red Spider. I Eve.
By FRANK BARRETT.
Fettered for Life. | Little Lady Linton.
Between Life and Death.
The Sin of Olga Zassouiich.
Follv Morrison. IHonest Davie.
Lieut. Barnabas.[A Prodigal's Progress.
Found Guilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance.
For Love and Honour.
John Ford; and His Helpmate.
By W. BESANT & J. RILE.
- .... . D.. K „1,^
By Celia's Arbour.
Monks of Thelema,
The Seamy Side.
Ten Years' Tenant.
This Son of Vulcan
My Little Girl.
Case of Mr.Lucraft
Golden Butterfly.
Ready-Money Mortiboy.
With Harp and Crown.
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay.
The Chaplain ofjUttJElSftfc,,
POPULAR NOVELS.
boards, 2s. each.
By WALTER BESANT.
Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack.
Children of Gibeon. [ Herr Paulus.
All Sorts and Conditions of Men.
The Captains' Room.
All in a Garden Fair.
The World Went Very Well Then.
For Faith and Freedom.
To Call Her Mine.
The Bell of St. Paul's. I The Holv Rose.
Armorel of Lyonesse. | The Ivory Gate.
St. Katherine's by the Tower.
Verbena Camellia Stephanotis.
KySHELSLE Y BEAUCI1AMP,
Grantley Grange.
By AMBROSE BIEKCE.
In the Midst of Life.
By FREDERICK BOYLE.
Camp Notes. | Savage Life.
Chronicles of No-man's Land.
By BRET HARTE.
Californian Stories. | Gabriel Conroy.
An Heiress of Red Dog. I Flip.
The Luck of Roaring Camp. | Maruja.
A Phyllis of the Sierras.
By HAROLD BR YJDGrE S.
Uncle Sam at Home.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
The Martyrdom of
Madeline.
Annan Water.
The New Abelard,
Matt.
The Heir of Linne.
The Shadow of the
Sword.
A Child of Nature.
God ana the Man.
Love Me for Ever.
Foxglove Manor.
The Master of the Mine.
By HALL CAINE.
The Shadow of a Crime.
A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster.
By Commander CAMERON.
The Cruise of the "Black Prince."
By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON.
B»er. | Juliet's Guardian.
30
Two-Shilling Novels—continued.
By AJJST1N CEARE.
For the Love of a Lass.
By IIIin. Alt(Tii:it CL1TF. •
Paul Ferroll.
Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.
By UIACEAREN COBBAN.
The Care of Souls.
By C. AI,I,ST»N' COLLINS.
The Bar Sinister.
AIOBT. & FRANCES COGS,INS.
Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration.
From Midnight to Midnight.
Fight with Fortune. | Village Comedy.
Sweet and Twenty. | You Play me False.
Blacksmith and Scholar. | Frances.
By WIEK1E COLLINS,
My Miscellanies.
Woman In White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
The Fallen Leaves.
Jezebel's Daughter
The Black Robe.
Heart and Science.
"I Say No."
The Evil Genius.
Little Novels.
Legacy of Cain.
Blind Love.
Armadale.
After Dark.
No Name.
Antonina. | Basil.
Hide and Seek.
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
Miss or Mrs ?
New Magdalen.
The Frozen Deep.
Law and the Lady.
The Two Destinies.
Haunted Hotel.
A Rogue's Life.
By 1H. J. COEQUIIOSJN.
Every Inch a Soldier.
By DIITTON COOK.
Leo. | Paul Foster's Daughter.
By C. EGBERT CR AD DOCK.
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
By 1TIATT CRETE
Adventures of a Fair Rebel.
By B. AG CROKER.
Pretty Miss Neville. I Bird of Passage.
Diana Barrington. I Proper Pride.
"To Let." | A Family Likeness.
By YV. CYPLES.—Hearts of Gold.
By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation.
By E RASMUS DAW WON.
The Fountain of Youth.
By JAMES DE JIILLE.
A Castle in Spain.
By J. EE IT It DEBS WE NT.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers.
By CHARGES DICKENS.
Sketches by Boz. I Oliver Twist.
Pickwick Papers. | Nicholas Nickleby.
By DICK DONOVAN.
The Man-Hunter. | Caught at LastI
Tracked and Taken. | Wanted !
Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan?
The Man from Manchester.
A Detective's Triumphs.
In the Grip of the Law.
From Information Received.
Tracked to Doom. | Link by Link.
Suspicion Aroused.
By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES.
A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell.
By 1TI. BETHAlTa-EDWARDS.
Felicia. I Kitty.
By EDW. EGGLESTON.—Roxy.
By G. iTlANVI 1.1,E EENN.
The New Mistress.
Two-Shilling Novels—continue:!.
By PERU Y.FI'l'/G K B A ED.
Bella Donna. I Polly.
Never Forgotten. | Fatal Zero.
The Second Mrs. Tillotson.
Seventy-five Brooke Street.
The Lady of Brantome.
By P. FITZGERALD and others.
Strange Secrets.
ACBSANV DE FONI!G A NOIJE.
Filthy Lucre.
By K. E. FRANCS I,EON.
Olympia. | Queen Cophetua.
One by One. King or Knave?
A Real Queen. | Romances of Law.
By IEAROED FREDERICK.
Seth's Brother's Wife. [ Lawton Giri.
Pi-cf. 5»y Sir RAKTLE FBEBSi.
Pandurang Hari.
BSAIN FRISYVEEG.-One of Two.
By EDWARD GARRETT.
The Capel Girls.
By RSI.BERT GATE.
A Strange Manuscript.
By CHARLES GIBBON.
Robin Gray. i In Honour Bound.
Fancy Free. Flower of Forest.
For Lack of Gold. Braes of Yarrow.
The Golden Shaft.
Of High Degree.
Mead and Stream.
Loving a Dream.
A Hard Knot.
Heart's Delight.
Blood-Money.
What will the
World Say ?
In Love and War.
For the King.
In Pastures Green.
Queen of Meadow.
A Heart's Problem.
The Dead Heart.
Ry YVIEEIAM GILBERT.
Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke.
The Wizard of the Mountain.
By ERNEST GEAIVV1LLE.
The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker.
By HENRY GBEV1EEE.
A Noble Woman. | Nikanor.
By CECIE GRIFFITH.
Corinthia Marazion.
By JOHN MABBERTON.
Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck.
Ry ANDREW HAEGSDAV.
Every-Day Papers.
Ry Ga«iy DEFECTS HARDY.
Paul Wynter's Sacrifice.
Ry THORNS HARDY.
Under the Greenwood Tree.
By .8. BERWICK HARYVOOD.
The Tenth Earl.
By J I I.IAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth. Sebastian Stromc.
Ellice Quentin. Dust.
Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph.
Miss Cadogna. Love—or a Name.
David Poindexter's Disappearance.
The Spectre of the Camera.
Ry Sir ARTHUR HELPS.
Ivan de Biron.
Ry HENRY HERMAN.
A Leading Lady.
By HEY DON IIILE.
Zambra the Detective.
By JOHN HI EE.—Treason-Felony.
By Mrs CASHEE IIOEY.
31
Tivo-Shillino Novels—continued.
By itlw. GEOKGE UOO^EU.
The House of Raby.
ISy TIGBBE IBOJPKINS.
'Twixt Love and Duty.
15v Hi-,. BSU.VGEBI-49«a>.
A Maiden all Forlorn.
In Durance Yile. I A Mental Struggle.
Marvel. | A Modern Circe.
By Mix. AliEKEW M5JIVT.
Thornicroft's Model. I Self-Condemned.
That Other Person. I Leaden Casket.
ISy ,1 JO AIV AIVGEJLOW.
Fated to be Free.
WM. J AM BO MO IV My Dead Self.
ISy HABiilRT'T .JAV.
Dark Colleen. | Queen of Connaught.
BBy MAKK KKUNUAW.
Colonial Facts and Fictions.
ISy IS. ASSBE MIIVG.
A Drawn Game. | Passion's Slave.
" The Wearing of the Green."
Bell Barry.
ISy J49iaiV I.ltVM.—The Lindsays.
By E. I.VIVIV EBIVTOIY.
Patricia Kemball. I Paston Carew.
World Well Lost. "My Love!"
Under which Lord? I lone.
Tho Atonement of Learn Dundas.
With a Silken Thread.
The Rebel of the Family.
Sowing the Wind.
By IftEIVKY W. B.UUY.
Gideon Fleyce.
BSy .IliS'l'ii* McUAKTIBY.
A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote.
Linley Rochford. i Maid of Athens.
Miss Misanthrope. | Camiola.
Dear Lady Disdain.
The Watcrdale Neighbours.
My Enemy's Daughter.
The Comet of a Season.
BSy DBBJGBB M A 4:<M9 EE.
Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet.
ISy AIrlIVES MAUI9491VEEE.
Quaker Cousins.
lAVSTJABBIVE S. MA f J> I OJW.
The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose.
By W. 61. MAEEOUIt.
The New Republic.
A Romance of the Nineteenth Century.
By Bi'EOKEIVUE M A BS a 5 VAT.
Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air.
A Harvest of Wild Oats.
Written in Fire.
ISy .B. M AST E ISM AN.
Haifa-dozen Daughters.
By BKANDEK MATTII1STVS.
A Secret of the Sea.
By EEOIVAKB MEKBSUJ&.
The Man who was Good.
ISy .B Hi A IV HllI»D»IiEi?!ASS.
Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion.
ISy Mr*. MOI.ESVVOKTJli.
Hatliercourt Rectory.
ISy .9. E. M UIJIXK'K.
Stories Weird and Wonderful,
The Dead Man's Secret.
From the Besom of the Deep.
set .51 US5 K.% V mill JlEBMAiV.
One Ti-avoller Returns.
Paul Jones's iHfas, 1 TJ'T Ebltovo' Elblo,
Two-Shilling Novels—continued.
By 19. USBKISTIE M UK KAY.
Old Blazer's Hero.
Hearts.
Way of the World.
Cynic Fortune.
A Model Father.
Joseph's Coat.
Goals of Fire.
Yal Strange.
A Life's Atonement.
By the Gate of the Sea.
A Bit of Human Nature.
First Person Singular.
Bob Martin's Little Girl.
ISy HEiVRY MUKUAV.
A Game of Bluff. | A Song of Sixpence.
By MSJME KJWKET.
"Bail Up!" | Dr. Bernard St. Vincent.
ISy ALICE OTIANrJLOIV.
The Unforeseen. | Chance? or Fate?
By GE49KGES OXEIVET.
Dr. Rameau. | Last Love. | Weird Gift.
By Mrs. 49B,BHMAANT.
Whitcladies. | The Primrose Path.
The Greatest Heiress in England.
By Mr*. KOBEKT O'liLlLLl'.
Phcebe's Fortunes.
By 49UIS9A.
Held in Bondage
Strathmore.
Ghandos. j Id alia.
Under Two Flags.
CecilCastlemaine's
Gage.
Tricotrin. | Puck.
Folic Farine.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel.
Signa. [ine.
Princess Naprax-
In a Winter City.
Ariadne.
MA Si4A A BET AG-IVES PAIL.
Gentle and Simple.
By . I AMES I»AYIV,
Two Little Wooden
ShOCS.
Friendship.
Moths. | Biinbl.
Plpistrollo. [mune.
A Village Com-
Wanda. | Othmar.
Frescoes.
In Maremma.
Guilderoy.
Ruffino. | Syrlln.
Santa, Barbara,.
Ouida's Wisdom,
Wit, and Pathos.
Bentinck's Tuto
Murphy's Master.
A County Family.
At Her Mercy.
Cecil's Tryst.
Clyffards of Clyffe.
Foster Brothers.
Found Dead.
Best of Husbands.
Walter's Word.
Halves.
Fallen Fortunes.
Humorous Stories.
£200 Reward.
Marine Residence.
Mirk Abbey.
By Proxy.|
Under One Roor.
High Spirits.
Carlyon's Year.
From Exile.
For Cash Only.
Kit.
The Canon's Ward
Talk of the Town.
Holiday Tasks.
A Perfect Treasure.
What He Cost Her,
Confidential Agen e.
Glow-worm Tales.
The Burnt Million,
I Sunny Stories.
Lost Sir Mass'ngberd.
A Woman's Vengeance.
The Family Scapegrace.
Gwendoline's Harvest.
Like Father, Like Son.
Married Beneath Him.
Not Wooed, but Won.
Less Black than We're Painted,
Some Private Views.
A Grape from a Thorn.
The Mystery of Mirbridgc,
The Word and the Will,
& Tiiuce of the Blood,
32
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS.
Two-Shilling Novels—continued.
. JBy C. L. PlKKli«.
Lady Lovelace.
By EDGAR A. FOR.
The Mystery of Mario Foget.
By Mrs, CAiUPBELL PSAED,
The Romance of a Station.
The Soul of Countess Adi'ian.
By E. €'. PR1EE.
Yalentina. I The Foreigners.
Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. | Gerald.
By KICHAPW PRICE.
Miss Maxwell's Affections.
By CHARLES READE.
It is Fever Too Late to Mend.
Christie Johnstone. | Double Marriage.
Put Yourself in His Place.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long.
The Cloister and the Hearth.
The Course of True Love. | The Jilt.
Autobiography of a Thief.
A Terrible Temptation. | Foul Play.
The Wandering Heir. | Hard Cash.
Singleheart and Doubleface.
Good Stories of Men and other Animals.
Peg Wofflngton. I A Simpleton.
Griffith Gaunt. I'Readiana.
A Perilous Secret. | A Woman-Hater.
By Mrs. .0. Iff. RIUt$ELL.
Weird Stories. | Fairy Water.
Her Mother's Darling.
Prince of Wales's Garden Party.
The Uninhabited House.
The Mystery in Palace Gardens.
The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tal'es.
By AlilELIE RIVES.
Barbara Dering.
By F. W. ROBINSON.
Women are Strange.
The Hands of Justice.
By JAMES BlWCffiTIAlY.
Skippers and Shellbacks.
Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart.
Schools and Scholars.
By TV. CLARK KffJSSEffiffi.
Round the Galley Fire.
On the Fo'k'sle Head.
In the Middle Watch.
A Voyage to the Cape.
A Book for the Hammock.
The Mystery of the "Ocean Star."
The Romance of Jenny Harlowe.
An Ocean Tragedy.
My Shipmate Louise.
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea.
GEORGE AEGUSTCS SAJEA.
Gaslight and Daylight.
By JOHN SA ffJIVBEBS.
Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers.
The Lion in the Path.
By KATHARINE SAfiJi\0>ERSi.
Joan Merryweather. I Heart Salvage.
The High Mills. | Sebastian.
Margaret and Elizabeth.
By GEOHGE B. SIMS.
Rogues and Vagabonds.
The Ring o' Bells.
Mary Jane's Memoirs.
Mary Jane Married.
Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life.
Tinkletop's Crime.
Zeph. | My Two Wives.
CGDEN, SMALE AND CO. *
Two-Shilling Novels—(ontinmd.
By ABXIIEB. SMLE'l'dlffEE V.
A Match in the Dark.
By Iff A AVE EV SMART.
Without Love or Licence.
By T. XV. Sl»Ei«!IXl.
The Mysteries of Heron Dyke.
The Golden Hoop. I By Devious Ways.
Hoodwinked, &c. | Back to Life.
The Loudwatcr Tragedy.
Burgo's Romance.
By JK. A. STERNDALE,
The Afghan Knife.
By R. LOOS STEVENSON.
New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto.
BV BERTHA THOMA.«.
Cressida. [ Proud Maisie. | Violin-player.
By WALTER 'J'ffffOBlVBffJKY.
Tales for Marines. | Old Stories Re-told.
T. ADOLPIIIJS TBOL.EOJPE.
Diamond Cut Diamond.
By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE.
Like Ships upon the Sea.
Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress.
By ANTHONY TROLi.OPE.
Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark.
Marion Fay. | John Caidigate.
Way We Live Now. | Land-Leaguers.
The American Senator.
Mr. Scarborough's Family.
The Golden Lion of Granpere.
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Farnell's Folly.
By IVAN TffJKGENSEFF, &c.
Stories from Foreign Novelists.
By MARK TWAIN.
A Pleasure Trip on the Continent.
The Gilded Age. | Huckleberry Finn.
Mark Twain's Sketches.
Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad.
The Stolen White Elephant.
Life on the Mississippi.
The Prince and the Pauper.
A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur.
By C. C. ERASEK TYi'LER.
Mistress Judith.
By SARAH TYTLER.
The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige.
Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared.
SaintMungo'sCity. I Huguenot Family.
Lady Bell. | Blackhall Ghosts.
What She Came Through.
Beauty and the Beast.
Citoyenne Jaqueiine.
Sty AARON WATSOIY nml
LILLIAS VVASSEBillANN.
The Marquis of Carabas.
By WILLIAM AVE ST A I.E.
Trust-Money.
By Airs. F. II. WILLIAMSON.
A Child Widow.
By J. S. WfflYTEK.
Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends.
By Iff. E. WOOD.
The Passenger from Scotland Yard.
The Englishman of the Rue Cain.
By Lady WOOD.—Sabina.
GEL IA PARKER WOOLLEY,
Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology
Sty EDMI ND YATES.
The Forlorn Hope. | Land at Last.
Castaway.
'EES, GREAT SAFFRON BJLIu. E.Ca
ESTABLISHED 1851.
BIRKBECK BANK,
Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, London.
TWO-AND-A-HALF per CENT. INTEREST allowed on DEPOSITS,
repayable on demand.
TWO per CENT, on CURRENT ACCOUNTS, on the minimum
monthly balances, when not drawn below £100.
STOCKS SHARES, and ANNUITIES purchased and sold.
SAVINGS DEPARTMENT.
For the encouragement of Thrift, the Bank receives small sums on
deposit, and allows Interest monthly on each completed £1.
BIRKBECK BUILDING SOCIETY.
HOW TO PURCHASE A HOUSE for Two Guineas per Month.
BIRKBECK FREEHOLD LAND SOCIETY.
HOW TO PURCHASE A PLOT OF LAND for Five Shillings
per Month.
The BIRKBECK ALMANACK, with full particulars, post free.
FRANCIS RAVENSCROFT, Manager.
"BABY'S
SOAP."
(The Original
Registered Tide.)
A Superior, Mild, Pure REMELTED (not " MILLED">
Soap, prepared specially for the INFANT'S FIRST SKIN.
Delicately perfumed and imparts the fragrance of VIOLETS.
Generally useful for
CHILDREN OR ADULTS WITH TENDER SKIN
Price 6d. By Post for Stamps.
" BAUER'S HEAD (AND BATH) SOAP."
A Pu^e REMELTED fnot " MILLED "J Refined and
Perfumed Soap.
Cleanses, Strengthens and promotes the GROWTH of
HAIR, removing scurf and producing Healthy Action of
the SKIN.
A Luxury for Bath and Toilet.
An Excellent. Sharing Soap.
Price Cd. By Post for Stamps.
" This Soap mill be welcomed and extensively used as a pre¬
ferable substitute for the numerous irritating Shampoo
Washes, as it not only imparts a most.pleasanUand refreshing
sensation to the Skin, but a peculiar Softne3S and Brilliancy
to the Hair."—The Court Circular.
"HEAD
SOAP."
(Registered Title.}
Sold by all Chemists, Perfumers and Stores. Prepared only by
OSBORNE, BAUER & CHEESEMAN, Perfumers to the Queen,
Proprietors of " Incomparable Smelling Salts " (as supplied to the Queen),
" Glycerine and Honey Jellv " " Ruby Lip Balm '' " Chilliline," or
Chilblain Jelly, "Pure Oatmeal Soap " &c., &c.
19, GOLDEN SQUARE, REGENT STRFCT, LONDON, W.
****** *■ ■»■ ■»■ * A A A A
SPECIALITIES
•SVw*1 Abroad by Parcels Post at Current Rates,
FROM THE LABORATORY OF
THOMAS JACKSON,
8£] Strangeways, MANCHESTER. [ibm.
JACKSON'S BENZINE RECT.
^ At 6d., Is. and 2s. 6d.; by Parcels Post, 3d., extra.
For taking out Grease, Oil, Paint, &c., from all absorbent fabrics. Dress or
Drapery, Kids, Books, and Manuscript it cleans with equal success.
HIGHEST AWARD
AT THE
WORLD'S FAIR, CHICAGO, 1893.
H.R.H.
PRINCE
ALBERT'S
CACHOUX
Price
SIXPENCE.
i
Inland,
by Post,
. SEVENPENCE.
Dainty Morsels in the form of Tiny Silver Bullets, which
dissolve in the mouth and surrender to the breath their
hidden fragrance. y
JACKSON'S Chinese Diamond CEMENT
^ At 6d. and Is.; by Inland Post for Is. 2d.
For Mending every article of Ornament or Furniture, Glass, China,
Earthenware and What Not.
JACKSON'S RUSMA.
At. la - hv TnlflnH Pn<
At Is.; by Inland Post for Is. 2d.
For Removal of Ilair from the Arms, Neck or Face, without the use of the razor,
as well as Sunburn or Tan from the Skin.
Sold by the Principal Druggists at Home and Abroad.
i'ENTY HIGHEST AWARDS.
4^
SOAP MAKERS
By Special ^Appointment
0 .HER
JL
SB /)/.1 ™
A Nu
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THL
r nYED BY EDMUND EVANS, RACQUHT COURT, L ' >TR ,« i , l OJON, M