; - illiaiTit t< ^ gu m > ■ - ^# f :jS r * -SpK ~* !£■ "' , nvj^ ftftfi cScXlBRlS SCRIBES AND PHARISEES Scribes and Pharisees A Story of Literary London BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX AUTHOR OF 1 Whoso Findeth a Wife,' * Zoraida,' ' The Great War in England, 1 ' Devil's Dice,' * A Madonna of the Music Halls,' Etc. 1 NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1898 Copyright, 1898, By William Le Queux. John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. Amants, guerriers, Durs justiciers, Gros financiers : Paillasses ! Amour, fierte, Gloire, equite Et loyaute : Grimaces ! O O T ~ r O TO MY BROTHER 'VAGABONDS' THOSE MERRY BOHEMIANS WHO WRITE AND PAINT I INSCRIBE THIS STORY OF LITERARY AND JOURNALISTIC LONDON IN THE HOPE THAT THEY WILL FORGIVE ANY CRITICISM AND NOT SEEK TO DISCOVER THE ORIGINALS OF CERTAIN CHARACTERS I HAVE HEREIN ATTEMPTED TO DRAW VIALE REGINA MARGHERITA, LlVORNO February, 1898 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Sign of the Dead Rat i II. Behind Notre Dame 12 III. The Trail of the Unknown 24 IV. Fosca 3 5 V. Ik a London Suburb 49 VI. One Face 6o VII. The Student and the Subject 7 + VIII. Grey Days 86 IX. The Millstone 97 X. A World of 'Tape' and 'Flimsy'. . . . 107 XI. 'To Love and to Cherish' 122 XII. The Boom "3° XIII. Bohemia and Belgravia H5 XIV. 'In the Swim' «5 6 XV. The Secret of a Day 169 XVI. Friends l8 3 XVII. The Cup of Pleasure 19 XVIII. 'That Woman's Lover' 203 XIX. Among the 'Vagabonds' 212 XX. A 'Par' in the Papers 225 XXI. The Pharisee 2 3 5 XXII. The Lily City 248 XXIII. Life's Flotsam z61 XXIV. A Revelation 272 XXV. At the Grey House 284 XXVI. The Truth 2 93 Conclusion 3°4 Scribes and Pharisees CHAPTER I THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT c She's a mystery.' ' Well, at any rate, Teddy is infatuated — terribly in- fatuated.' c And he knows absolutely nothing of her — of her right name, of where she lives, or of who she really is. He says he does ; but I know better, my dear fellow. I've got my suspicions.' * Suspicions of what ? ' Bertram Rosmead, the indolent student, who had thus expressed doubt, smiled mysteriously. He had flung him- self upon the frayed and faded couch at the open window of the airy, high-up old room on the Quai Montebello, and was lying with his hands lazily clasped behind his head and a caporal in his mouth, in an attitude of idle contentment. The rose and orange of the afterglow had faded. The roar of Paris came up from the streets below, and as he gazed dreamily across the placid river where beyond showed against the clear evening sky the twin time-worn towers of Notre Dame, the thin gilt spire of the Hotel de Ville, and the ancient gothic tower of St. Jacques, he pondered deeply. The day was over ; the Paris of Pleasure was lighting up, beginning its night of wild delight. i ' I t t 2 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 4 You'd better not express any such doubts in Teddy's hearing. He'd be furious,' observed Jean Potin, his fellow- student, who, together with the man they were discussing, shared equally that shabby room, half study, half studio, in which they sat. The place was silent and gloomy in the dusk, its three easels standing in line together, the lay-figure looking ghostly in the half-light, while the human skull perched on the top of the smoke-begrimed cupboard grinned grimly down upon them. Rosmead laughed. He was about twenty-two, slim, dark- haired, dark-eyed, with features somewhat aquiline, square jaws denoting considerable determination, a refined, sensi- tive mouth, and brows well arched — a decidedly clever face, regular, expressive, and beaming with good humour. ' Teddy's an Irishman — all Irishmen are apt to be im- petuous,' he said, without removing his cigarette. c His impetuousness nearly brought him into trouble when he knocked down the gendarme outside the Chat Noir the other night,' the young Frenchman laughed. 1 That hirondelle de grive owed Teddy a grudge ever since the night during the July fetes when he kissed a girl on the Boulevard, and she complained of his conduct. There was a row, I believe, and the O' Donovan squared up to the ele- gant official, and would have chawed him up if the Mar- quis, Antoine, and some of the boys had not been present and succeeded in carrying him off by sheer force of num- bers/ Rosmead spoke French and used Parisian slang — the slang of the Quartier Latin — in a manner few Eng- lishmen could. c I've noticed he's been a little triste these last few days,' the young Frenchman said, speaking with a strong Breton accent. ' Teddy is not his usual self.' 1 The girl, my dear Jean — the girl,' answered the care- lessly-dressed Bohemian, with the air of a philosopher. THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT 3 c Poor old Teddy is in love. He hasn't shouted M Hurrah for Countv Cork," these ten days, and he never goes down to Mother Gery's now. Where's he gone this evening in such a devil of a hurry, I wonder ? ' 1 To meet her,' his fellow-student said. l He meets her at eight ever^ night in the little garden in the Rue du Cloitre.' 1 At eight,' Rosmead repeated reflectively. ' Then, after all, she may be out of one of the magasins.* 1 From the Louvre, or Bon Marche, I've thought.' c No, I can't believe that,' said the young Englishman. 4 From her manner she's evidently a lady.' Jean raised his shoulders to his ears with expressive gesture, but uttered no word. He was thin-faced, rather tall and slim, of sallow complexion, and a trifle sad-looking, with a pair of deep-set, penetrating black eyes. His clothes were shabbv, and paint-besmirched, and, like Rosmead, his fingers were stained vellow by the caporals he eternally con- sumed, while the black silk cravat knotted around his neck did dual dutv as collar and tie. But in that gay, careless set to which thev belonged a man was never judged by the cut of his coat, the glossiness of his hat, or the manner in which his cravat was tied. Theirs was a merry life, spells of spasmodic work at home or at Julien's being invariably followed bv wild outbursts of pleasure. Bertram Rosmead, Jean Potin, and Teddv O'Donovan formed a trio of students as merry, as reckless, and as impecunious as any in the quaint old Quartier Latin. Through three whole years they had lived a life of feast one day and fast the next in that bare, ill-furnished sky- attic, sharing each other's joys and sorrows, alternately idling and working, smoking their long rank cigars pur- chased in the c Boul. Mich.' at five centimes apiece, and quenching their insatiable thirst with an exceedingly inex- pensive wine possessed of a better colour than taste. Little 4 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES they knew and less they cared for the worries of life, exist- ing as they did in Bohemia, their world apart. In those days the old Quartier still existed, dirty, bizarre, and filled with men many of whose names have since be- come household words throughout Europe ; men now dis- tinguished in the worlds of art, literature, medicine, and diplomacy ; men who, fifteen years ago, were glad enough to dine at Mother Gery's for half-a-franc, and even to eat a handful of roasted marrons on a winter's night to keep out the cold and stave off the pangs of hunger. Those were days of empty stomachs and full brains ; of cheerful yester- days and confident to-morrows, of wild practical joking, of shifts and debts, of good humour, of rollicking merriment and genuine good-fellowship. The man who knew the beloved old Quartier in those well-remembered days, and now revisits it, will sigh to note everywhere a change. If he forsakes the present, leaves the busy Rue de Rivoli, crosses the Pont Neuf, and plunges for a brief hour into the past, he will soon discern that Bohemia no longer exists there. Its old-world charm has passed away, because it has become modernised, and has assumed a sorry air of mock gentility. Let him glance up at the four well-remembered top windows of that dingy- looking house on the Quai Montebello, the grey front of which faces the Seine, and he will actually discover lace curtains there ! Alas ! that the grisette died with Murger and Musset. But in the days when that high-up room was tenanted by these three happy, indolent revellers the Quartier was still Bohemia, and of all those who used to dine so frugally at the little cremerie with the red blinds in the Rue Galande there was not one more popular among his fellows than Bertram Rosmead. As an artist he was sadly wanting in talent. Everybody knew it; he himself was too painfully THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT 5 aware of it. But he was a born vagabond, a thorough- going Bohemian, who would lounge into the Grand Cafe in his threadbare clothes, collarless, with his rusty black cravat secured in a big bow, and order his refreshment with the air of a prince, and even go to the opera and rub shoulders with the daintiest Parisienncs in the same paint-bespattered jacket and with several days' growth of beard upon his chin. He spoke with all the argot of the seamy side of Paris life, and held in esteem and respect by his fellow-students, he was perfectly content, caring absolutely nothing for the opinion of the world. To the true Bohemian the Seine separated his own world from that outside, forming a distinct division between the quartier he loved and the quartier he held in contempt. These three led a reckless life. In those idle davs the quips of Droz convulsed them, the romances of Sue held them breathless, and the pathos of Murger caused lumps to rise in their throats. In those days time was counted bv the dates of remittances from home, and at that period, in their youthful enthusiasm, they all of them believed their works would one day be hung in the Luxembourg for the admiration of the crowds of gaping tourists who daily flock there. They were indeed as light-hearted, cosmopolitan, and open-hearted a trio as ever trod the Pont Neuf or handled a stick in a student's scrimmage. 4 If she's really a lady,' Jean observed, after a lono; pause, during which, perched on the high painting-stool, he pensively sketched in crayon an imaginarv caricature of Teddy kissing his mvsterious divinity, c if she reallv is a lady,' he repeated with emphasis, holding his head on one side as he contemplated his sketch, l it's certainly strange that she should have taken up with the O'Donovan. All along he's said he hated women.' 4 Yes, it is strange,' acquiesced Rosmead. l I alwavs 6 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES thought that he was proof against love-looks.' Then, reflecting upon one or two of his own minor affairs of the heart, he added, with a sigh, ( All of us have our spells of foolishness now and then, I suppose.' c Ah ! you speak from experience. Have you seen Fosca lately ? ' 1 Fosca ? What do you mean ? ' the young Englishman asked, raising his eyebrows with well-feigned astonishment. ' Fosca has fascinated you, my dear Bertie,' his friend said, with a tantalising laugh. 'You can't deny it — come.' Rosmead smiled. ' I suppose it's useless,' he laughed. c I didn't think you'd notice it. Do any of the other fellows know ? ' ' Everybody knows,' was Jean's prompt reply. c When a man as popular at Julien's as Bertram Rosmead falls in love, the Quartier very soon knows all about it.' 'But I'm not avec un jaune d'ceufj Rosmead protested, involuntarily dropping into slang. c I think it's devilish hard on a fellow to spread such unfounded reports. When I bought a new hat — two years ago now — everybody knew about it within half an hour, and the word went forth that I'd joined the gommeaux. And with what re- sult ? That hat was not on my head an hour before two fellows came along, snatched it off, and pitched it into the Seine ; while a dozen other of the boys stood laughing at me as I watched it bobbing merrily away beneath the bridge. I haven't bought a silk hat since, and I shall never have another. It's too respectable.' c But what about La Fosca ? ' Jean demanded. c Did you see her when you were out this morning ? ' c No; but I met the Marquis.' 1 And he wanted to borrow, I suppose ? ' c I lent him the usual thirty centimes,' responded the man on the couch, stretching himself and yawning. ' Poor THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT 7 Marquis! he's always absolutely stony — brouill'e avec le directeur de la Monnaie* and he laughed. 'Yes, but with him borrowing has become an involun- tary act,* Jean exclaimed quickly. c A fortnight ago, when mv last remittance came, he took me into a corner and confided to me that he hadn't a sou in his pocket, and wanted five francs to buy some nourishment for his ailing wife. I lent him it — five single francs. Ten minutes later, when we were parting, he took me to have a drink in at Chauvel's, and he actually had the impudent audacity to pay for it with a ten-franc piece ! ' c Rough on you, old fellow,' Rosmead laughed. c He's reduced borrowing to a fine art. I believe he's had loans from the fellows sufficient by this time to pay off the mort- gage on his chateau? 1 His chateau in Spain ? ' observed Jean, smiling. Rosmead made no reply. Giuseppe Farini, the grev- bearded old Italian who sat as model for the head of St. Peter, was a well-known figure in Bohemia. Where he lived nobody knew. He was of that type which the lower class Parisian would term a galapiat. He existed chieflv on charity and by loans extracted from artists to whom he had sat, and was inclined to frequent the lowest wine-shops whenever the generosity of his friends allowed him to dis- sipate. For many years he had lived in the Ouartier, and his handsome furrowed face had been perpetuated many and many a time by men who had since made their mark, and whose portraits of him now hung in various galleries in Europe. Like those who emploved him, or gave him alms, Giuseppe was a Bohemian, although given to boast- ing when in his cups. Legend had it that once, long ago, he had staggered into Mother Gery's, and having created a disturbance, was ordered by a man, now a member of the Academy, to leave the place. Whereupon the model with 8 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES the apostolic face struck an attitude, and announced that in his own country he was a marquis, the holder of a title as ancient as Notre Dame itself. From that moment the students bestowed upon him the title of ' the Marquis,' and as such he was ever afterwards known. His daughter Fosca, too, was a familiar figure, universally admired by the students, for she was a handsome girl with black eyes and features of the true Tuscan type, who was engaged as assistant in the lace department of the Grand Magasins de Louvre, the great building in the Rue de Rivoli, the tricol- our on the roof of which Rosmead could plainly see from where he had lazily stretched himself. Jean had spoken the truth — he loved Fosca. In the Quartier, where there were dozens of other men who had endeavoured in vain to win smiles from her, he alone had been able to induce her to take walks with him, to extract from her an acknowledgment of love. They did not meet often, for the hours at the Louvre were long, and the female assistants were not allowed to roam the Paris streets at night, as those of similar establishments in London. Sometimes he would cross the Pont d'Arcole and enter the gigantic magasin where all Paris shopped, and, making his way among mazes of counters presided over by neatly- dressed girls in black, would pause at that devoted to the sale of Valenciennes, Maltese, Spanish, and Torchon, and under the pretence of making a purchase would make an appointment. But the keen eye of the head saleswoman was always upon them, therefore on such occasions their conversation was always brief and to the point, and only on Sunday evenings under the trees in the Tuileries Gar- dens or in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, could he press her hand and pour forth his declarations of fervent devo- tion. The Marquis had, however, quickly discovered the attachment, and with an instinct of thrift had at once made THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT 9 it a source of income. Many were the thirty-centime loans he obtained from the easy-going, improvident student, be- cause the latter could not refuse a favour to Fosca's father. Bertram Rosmead was as light in pocket as in heart. The son of a struggling London barrister who had died ten years before, the cost of his education had been de- frayed by a wealthy and somewhat eccentric uncle, who had subsequently allowed him to choose a profession, and he had chosen that of artist. The allowance the old man made him in order that he might study at Julien's was not large; indeed, it only just sufficed to keep body and soul together ; but on completion of his studies he knew that this must cease, therefore, although convinced that he had but little artistic talent, he hesitated to confess the ap- palling fact to his uncle. When he had first come to Paris he was eager, enthusiastic, and fired with ambition ; but soon, like every other student, the easy, lazv life sapped his energies until he found himself caring nothing whatever about art, preferring to spend the summer days in idleness, reading the cheap romances purchased from the stalls along the quays. He was no longer ambitious, born Bohemian that he was. So long as he had a franc or two to jingle in his pocket, the society of Jean and Teddy, and Fosca's eyes with their genuine love-light shining upon him, he wanted nothing else, and was careless of all the world beside. He glanced from the open window back into the gloomy room. On the three easels were canvases nearly finished, two of them being very mediocre productions, while the third, a head of Bacchus, showed talent of no mean order. The fact was that neither Rosmead nor his companion were brilliant ; the absent Irishman alone possessed genius. Jean, having finished his cigarette and tossed the end out of the window, descended from his perch to obtain another, and as he did so, remarked : io SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 1 Teddy is going to bring Mademoiselle up here to-night.' 1 Teddy going to bring her here ? ' echoed Rosmead, in- credulously, raising himself upon his elbow and looking towards his fellow-student. ' He said nothing to me about it.' 4 He told me in confidence,' the young Frenchman ex- plained. ' He said he shouldn't tell you, because he believed you didn't like her.' 4 He guessed aright. I don't like her,' the other an- swered promptly. c You seem to entertain some rather absurd prejudice,' Jean observed, standing in the half-light with both hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets. ' Why ? ' 4 I'm afraid Teddy will make a fool of himself over her. He's never loved before, and he's capable of any mad folly.' c But she's charming, and she speaks English,' observed the young Breton. l When we met them in the Rue Casti- glione the other day I thought her extremely pretty.' c Yes, pretty, and that's all,' growled Rosmead, with un- usual asperity. ' He's becoming a dandy. He brushes his clothes every day now, and rubs his hands with pumice- stone to get the colours out of them. And all through her.' c You've taken a violent dislike to her.' 1 Yes, I have,' Bertram Rosmead admitted. c Teddy's one of us, and I'm hanged if I'll stand by and see him im- posed upon by a worthless, good-for-nothing hussy who won't even give her name or address — an adventuress, or a woman who frequents the Rat Mort, for aught we know.' 1 But you've just expressed the opinion that she's a lady,' Potin protested. ' And don't ladies go there ? Don't some of the most wealthy and notable women in Paris put on their maids' dresses and go there to dine at those two long tables off THE SIGN OF THE DEAD RAT il plates ornamented by dead rats ? Have nut you and I wit- nessed it with our own eyes ? ' The Breton nodded. ' And you believe that of her ? ' he asked, after a mo- ment's pause. 1 Yes,' Rosmead answered, l I do.' Potin looked at him for a few seconds mysteriously. l A modern Sappho — a belle-petite ? " he observed in- quiringly. ' Exactly.' 1 Then if such is reallv the case,' Potin said, l I can well understand your indignation that your compatriot should have fallen in love with her. Such women are worse than the lowest daughter of the pavement.' And both smoked on in silence, while the great bell of Notre Dame slowly boomed forth the hour. Then, as Potin went out to get his dinner at Mother Gery's, Ros- mead, gay and light-hearted as always, sighed, raised himself into a sitting posture, and beating time with his cigarette-stained finger, commenced to sing in a fair tenor voice the waltz refrain of that old song so popular in the Quartier : Mimi, Musette, Ninon, Suzette, Las ! qui n' implore Votre retour Comme une aurore D'amour ! Car vous aviez la fantaisie Qui manque a la stupide fin De ce siecle de bourgeoisie ; Car vous etiez la poesie Des pays boheme et latin. CHAPTER II BEHIND NOTRE DAME While Rosmead and the young Breton were thus dis- cussing Teddy O'Donovan's love affair, the man whose infatuation had awakened such severe criticism was loung- ing in Father Gros's little wine-shop in the Rue St. Severin, a low-ceilinged, smoke-begrimed place much fre- quented by students, its specialty being the wine at four sous. At one of the little tables sat the big, round-faced, fair-haired, merry Irishman known to all in the Quartier as c The Bouchon,' the French equivalent for Cork. The nicknames in Bohemia were frequently derived from the native town of the student, and in this instance, as Teddy was eternally referring to the city in the south of Ireland whence he hailed, some wit or other at once translated it into French, and ever afterwards he bore the appellation. As he sat with his worn-out, baggy-kneed trousers turned up over cracked boots, a coat which had once been dark blue, but was now rapidly assuming a shade of stone grey, a soft, round felt hat stuck on the back of his head, a handkerchief knotted around his throat, and a long, thin, and terribly rank cigar between his teeth, he looked the very picture of laziness and carelessness. At Julien's he had already been singled out as a coming man. That he could paint well, and was an adept at foreshortening the figure, was acknowledged everywhere, and even Glenat, BEHIND NOTRE DAME 13 the great critic of the Figaro, who had seen some of his work, had bestowed upon it a word of commendation. Praise from Glenat was praise indeed, as every artist in Paris knows. Many men after this would have given themselves airs ; but not so with Teddy. He was essentially an idler, essentially a merrv, good-hearted, open-handed Bohemian. His friends were wealthy ; he belonged to one of the county families in Ireland, and his father had represented Galway in the House for ten years. He, however, pre- ferred life in the Quartier to that in an English cavalry regiment, for which he had originally been intended, and having taken up art as a profession, no one was more sur- prised than himself at his own success. Wild and reck- less, he was regarded as a leader in anv pranks which the students played upon the representatives of law and order, for his burly form and great physical strength placed him far above his puny fellow-students, and in a street scrim- mage his c Hurrah for County Cork ! ' was as a well-known war-cry. Many times he had been within an ace of arrest. Of the many droll stories told of his resourcefulness, one was how one night, after climbing a street lamp and lighting his long Virginia, first breaking the glass, he slipped down to the pavement, and there found a policeman awaiting him. In an instant he rushed awav, and was hotly pursued. His long legs, however, soon outdistanced his pursuer, when sud- denly he dashed into a doorway, entered the concierge's little den, flung aside his hat, and assuming the peaked and greasy headgear of the absent porter, sank into a chair. When the policeman entered he was poring over the Soir in the dimly-lit little room. l Did you see a student enter a mo- ment ago ? ' demanded the breathless policeman. c Yes,' answered the O'Donovan gruffly, c Pierre Manuel, fourth 14 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES floor, just gone up.' The officer dashed upstairs two steps at a time, while Teddy, picking up his hat, resumed it, and calmly walked home. Opposite him, at the little table that evening in Father Gros's, sat the old grey-bearded, furrow-faced Italian known as the Marquis. The latter had extracted the usual loan of thirty centimes, and was now consuming a momi- nette at the lender's expense. His thin, bony hands, every line of which all students at Julien's knew, so often had they sketched them, shook nervously as he deftlv manu- factured a fresh cigarette from the screw of tobacco he had taken from his pocket, and his face had relaxed into a smile owing to some observation of the witty Irishman. His hair and beard remained untrimmed, for professional purposes \ his deep-sunken eyes had a wonderful pious expression, even when he was too intoxicated to stagger to his unknown home ; he smelt eternally of garlic, and his clothes were so antique and greasy as to be almost too unwholesome even for Bohemia. And this was the father of the pretty Fosca, the slim- waisted little shop assistant over in the Rue de Rivoli, whose daintv figure and smiling face were so familiar to every student in the Quartier. His applications for loans of thirtv centimes had appa- rently been successful that dav, for as he sat there he was in a maudlin, half-intoxicated condition. 1 I tell you there's no art in Paris nowadavs,' he was saying emphatically to Teddv, bending forward unevenly after lighting his cigarette. ' Look at all the duffers in this year's Salon — Lapaine, Ondet, Trombert, Lepelletier, Laurens, and all that crowd. Not one of them can paint a good picture. All this impressionist craze is ruining art ; yet the critics are fostering it, well knowing that in five years the vogue will have gone by.' BEHIND NOTRE DAME 15 There was a good deal of truth in the old Italian's words, and Teddy inclined his head in acquiescence. 1 Look at Ondet's " Queen of the Night," about which there's such a confounded fuss ! The thing's perfectly absurd, both in colouring and treatment. The head's out of drawing,' the old man continued. ' No, no,' protested Teddy, ' a bad picture certainly, but not quite so bad as all that, Marquis. They've bought it for the Luxembourg, at any rate, and Ondet has arrived.' ' I know he has,' growled the Italian. c And only a year ago Glenat, when he saw a head he did from my model, told him to go back to Blois and grow roses — his father's a florist who supplies the Madeleine.' c He'll paint them now, instead, and find it more profit- able than raking manure,' Teddy laughed. c Yes, ves,' said the Marquis, impatiently, ' but alas ! how art is degenerating nowadays! Dieu ! half the men in this year's Salon wouldn't have been allowed to enter any of the schools fifteen or twenty years ago. These modern men can design advertisement posters, or draw in black and white for the so-called comic journals, but it's a sheer waste of good material to allow them to spoil canvases. Three-quarters of the men at present at Julien's would earn more at selling tape than in attempting to produce the miserable sketches they call pictures. For example, there's your friend and countryman Rosmead. He'll never be- come an artist ; he ' 1 He's well aware of that,' Teddy snapped, quickly in- terrupting. The Marquis was on dangerous ground, for to utter a word detrimental to either of his two friends was to the O'Donovan like the holding up of a red rag to a bull. His quick Irish blood rose in a moment. 1 Then why the devil doesn't he leave Paris ? ' ' Because he has an attraction here in the person of your i6 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES daughter Fosca,' answered Teddy, mischievously, well know- ing that any mention of the attachment displeased him. The Marquis had set his mind upon his daughter marrying a man of means, and not a wild, penniless student. 1 Pere la Tuile ! ' Farini exclaimed, with an angry gesture, using students' argot. c The girl's an idiot. I've told her so over and over again. With her face she can marry a man who can afford to keep her properly. She's not the kind of wife for Rosmead.' c What have you to say against him ? ' inquired Teddy, eyeing the Marquis with severity. c He's in a chronic state of hard-up ; but isn't that the state of all of us ? Surely things have not so degenerated that here, in the Quartier, poverty is to be flung into a man's face ? If so, then the first man to suffer is yourself, my dear Marquis.' The Italian, thus snubbed, mumbled some vague, indis- tinct explanation, but his shifty eyes told the young Irish- man that his companion was scarcely aware of what he was saying, therefore, pleading an urgent appointment, he rose, and having paid the rough-headed, unkempt waiter, strolled airily out, shouting a merry farewell to his noisy fellow-stu- dents seated in little groups around. c The poor old threepenny Marquis is becoming an im- possible person,' Teddy exclaimed aloud in his rich Irish brogue, as he crossed the Place St. Michel towards the bridge. c The idea of criticising Bertie's work ! It's too bad. Nobody does that, because its defects are so painfully plain. There's one blessing, the merry Rosmead is fully aware that he'd earn more at painting shop-fronts than at painting pictures, and he certainly hasn't turned amateur critic, like most other failures. I'll be hanged, however, before Bertie shall be poked fun at, even by the Apostle.' On the bridge he paused to light a fresh cigar, and as he did so the cathedral clock struck eight. BEHIND NOTRE DAME 17 4 Still a quarter of a hour before meeting Violette,' he said, and leaning upon the iron balustrade, he gazed into the dark, swirling waters of the Seine. The dusk was fast deepening into night, and from where he stood the lie de la Cite and the quays were already ablaze with lights. c Strange,' he murmured aloud. c Very strange that Violette is so myste- rious, and will tell me absolutely nothing. Whence she comes, or whither she goes, I know not. We meet over in the little garden there, behind Notre Dame, for one brief hour each evening; yet I know nothing of her — absolutely nothing.' Teddy's acquaintance with his divinity was certainly a romantic one. Two months before, while taking a walk one evening along the exterior boulevards, he saw her being molested by a ruffianly-looking beggar, and he, having warned the fellow off, walked beside her and commenced to chat. She thanked him with sweet dignity, and appar- ently not averse to his company, he succeeded in extract- ing from her a promise to meet him again. She kept the appointment, and from that evening thev had become close friends. Who or what she was had remained a mystery. She was very handsome, fair, and aquiline of feature, with haughty, almond-shaped eves of a curious light blue, very arching dark brows, and a mouth like a full crimson rose. Not quite Teddy's ideal, to be sure ; but then he had only seen his ideal in his dreams. So fascinated had he been on the first night he had met her that he was not absolutely certain what she was really like, except that there was a vestal lily-whiteness about her, and that she had pure, shy eves and a face framed bv a mys- tical halo of red-brown hair. But when they met the next evening in the quiet little garden between the grey old cathedral and the Morgue, he was not disappointed. There, in the fading sunlight, he saw she was undeniably beautiful. 18 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES As they sat together on the seat beneath the crumbling wall of Notre Dame, he told her of himself, that he was an art student, one of a luckless, careless crowd, and pointed across the river to the dingy old house which was his abode. On her part, however, she vouchsafed no confidences. She was affable, pleasant, light-hearted, and laughed merrily at his witticisms ; but beyond telling him that her name was Violette she would reveal nothing as to her identity. She was evidently a girl of strong character, and by her inde- pendence was no doubt used to going about alone. Some- times he inclined to the belief that she was a music-teacher or governess, because of her knowledge of subjects of which most women are ignorant ; but one evening he had noticed on her wrist a bracelet of fine diamonds, and reflected that such a costly ornament could scarcely be possessed by one who earned her living bv tuition. In manner and in speech she was refined ; she was always dressed quietly, but her gowns betrayed the cut and fit of the fashionable dressmaker, and she had all the dignity and bearing of a lady. Yet the mystery surrounding her was certainly curious. It puzzled, perplexed, and tantalised him. As his eyes fixed themselves upon the whirling flood rush- ing away beneath the bridge, he pondered, as he had pon- dered many times during those past two months. He, gay, happy, irresponsible, and irrepressible, loved her. That she was a ladv he felt confident, although her determination to conceal her identity was remarkable, even suspicious. Many times when he had walked at her side along the quays he had tried by ingenious devices to ascertain some- thing of her past, but she studiously avoided all reference to it. She spoke with a polished Parisian accent, and was dainty and chic from her pretty hat, which suited her so admirably, to the point of her high-heeled many-buttoned boots. There was nothing loud or coquettish in her dress, BEHIND NOTRE DAME 19 no inharmonious colours ; in everything she exhibited that taste and refinement which is the very essence of good breeding. A few evenings before, when he had been speaking of his own life, of his struggles and ambitions, she had turned to him, and said quietlv : ' I know. I had been told all about you before we met/ 1 Who told you ? ' he inquired in quick surprise. ' Who is our mutual friend ? ' c No,' she answered, smiling. c The identity of my informant is a secret. I heard of your success at the painting-school, of your happv menage, and of the love affair of vour English compatriot.' 'You mean Bertram Rosmead,' he answered. 'He ad- mires Fosca Farini, a prettv, black-eved Italian girl, who's emploved at the Louvre. He's a good fellow, Rosmead — the very best of good fellows.' She did not reply, but had he been watching her face narrowly, he would have noticed that a strangely super- cilious expression played about her lips. ' You will remember we met him with Jean Potin in the Rue Castiglione the other day ? ' Teddy went on. ' Ah, yes,' she said mechanically, ' I recollect,' and she allowed the subject to drop without further comment. She was not enthusiastic over his fellow-students, and he attributed it to her natural dignity. She, the daughter of a wealthy house, had no doubt been taught from child- hood to look down upon those who were careless in dress, and whose habits were loose. She was a patrician, while he was a Bohemian. Yet he loved her with all the full force of his passion. Towards him she was sweet and tender, allowing her tiny, well-gloved hand to rest in his, even though their lips had never once met. 20 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES On one occasion, when sitting together beneath the trees on the Quai d'Orsay, he had seriously imperilled his position in her good graces by placing his arm around her slim waist and bending towards her, but with a dexterous movement she had slipped from his embrace and held up her hand in expressive silence, with a look of annoyance upon her fair face. Thus it was that, although he adored her, no declaration of love had yet passed his lips. To-night, as he stood watching the dark current shim- mering in the lamplight, he made a firm resolve to tell her the truth. No longer could he bear the suspense which for the past two months had been daily torturing him ; no longer could he endure this tantalising mystery which sur- rounded his well-beloved. His every thought in his waking hours was of her, of who and what she was, of her beauty, of her present life, and of her past. What was it, he won- dered, that she hid so carefully from his knowledge ? If they became lovers, then no doubt she would be induced to confess to him. It was the only way. Yes, he would tell her plainly and honestly that night that he loved her, and would afterwards take her over to the Quai Monte- bello and show her his abode. At that instant somebody clapped him heartily on the back, and a cheery voice cried in French : c Contemplating making a splash, Bouchon, eh ? We'll all come and have a look at you when you're in the Morgue. Hurrah for County Cork ! ' The Bouchon turned quickly, and realised that the grim humour proceeded from one of his reckless companions, who, walking arm-in-arm with half-a-dozen others, was evidently going forth into the Grand Boulevards for an evening's diversion. Teddy laughed, and with his quick Irish wit shouted after them : BEHIND NOTRE DAME 21 c See that they ticket me sixty-nine ; it's my lucky number.' Thus aroused from his meditations, he strolled on across the bridge light and airily, laughing gaily to himself, his hands stuck in the pockets of his shabby jacket, his long cigar still in his mouth, his hat set a trifle rakishlv on his head, for was he not going to keep the appointment with Violette ? Was he not about to tell her plainly how well he loved her ? He still had plenty of time, for she was usually ten min- utes or so late in keeping her appointments, and nearly al- ways came in an open cab, springing out in breathless haste, laughing merrily, and apologising for keeping him waiting. When she left him she always took a conveyance, giving the driver the same address each time, namely, the Place de l'Opera, in order that he should not follow and see whither she went. Once or twice he had been sorely tempted to take another cab and drive after her, but she had once asked him not to endeavour to follow her, and he had given his promise. His dress, he thought, was not such as might commend itself to her friends, and, loving her as devoutly as he did, he had perfect confidence in her. She had a reason, no doubt, in all this caprice — a reason which would be made plain some day. As he turned from the Boulevard du Palais, sauntering slowly along the quay, he encountered his friend Dechaume, a long-haired, pallid young man, whose mission in life was to write lyrics for the lower music halls of the exterior boulevards, and who was a notable personage at the now- defunct Chat Noir. Thev stood for some ten minutes gossiping, then he strode on again. The quarter boomed forth before he reached the foot of the Petit Pont, and he had still a good five minutes' walk before him. Therefore, knowing that he must be late, he hurried forward at a good 22 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES pace, crossing the wide Place before the dark, gloomy facade of Notre Dame, and proceeding up the narrow, dingy Rue du Cloitre which skirts the cathedral, he at length entered the little railed-in garden lying immediately behind the historic old pile. In the daytime this leafy en- closure is alive with children, the children of morbid-minded persons who delight in the inspection of the bodies behind those dingy glass cases in the Morgue, and who leave their progeny to play while they feast their eyes upon the ghastly dead in the long low building opposite. In the evening, however, the garden is quiet, peaceful, and deserted. Night had fallen now, a hot and breathless night after the stifling August day, and as he entered the enclosure, walking with swinging gait along the asphalt path beneath the trees, the statuary looked ghostly and mysterious in the deep shadow. But airily he strode along, humming to him- self a popular march, and eager to meet her, until turning at last to a path at right angles, he came suddenly within sight of the low stone seat against the cathedral wall which was their nightly trysting-place. Yes, she was already awaiting him. He could discern her well-known figure in the dim light cast by the lamps of the cabs on the rank beyond the railings, and he hastened towards her with a glad greeting on his lips. She was sitting at the further end of the seat, her head sunk as if in deep meditation, so deep, indeed, that even his voice did not arouse her. c Violette ! ' he cried, l forgive me for keeping you wait- ing so long. It shall not occur again. Forgive me/ But she answered not. Surely he could not be mistaken. He took her gloved hand in frantic eagerness, and bent towards her, glancing into her countenance. Her eyes, wide open, were fixed BEHIND NOTRE DAME 23 and staring, her face was blanched to the lips, her white glove was wet and sticky. He raised her hand close to his gaze, then stood speech- less in terror. There was a dark, ugly stain upon it — the stain of blood. c Good God ! ' he shrieked in wild alarm. ' Violette ! Speak to me, Violette ! ' Her head fell back inert and helpless upon his arm, and as he peered into her wild, glaring eyes, they sldwly assumed a look of inexpressible agony. In that instant a strange glance of eager recognition overspread her hag- gard countenance, and quickly he clasped his strong arms tenderly about her. The muscles of her face slowly re- laxed, and she shuddered in his embrace. Next instant he detected the terrible truth. Her cool lace-trimmed blouse of pale heliotrope silk was soaked with blood issuing; from her breast. There was a wound there, just above the heart. Her white lips moved in a frantic, desperate effort to speak, but her tongue refused to articulate. Her slight frame was again shaken by the convulsive shivering, a sudden paralysis seized her, then, with a long, deep-drawn sigh, the light faded from her blanched face, her heart ceased its feeble beating, and next second her body lay in his arms chilly, rigid, still. He cried aloud to her in his agonised despair, but she was silent, her great blue eyes, those wondrous eyes that had held him beneath their spell, gazing into space, fixed and fast glazing. Violette, his dainty, mysterious, unknown love, was dead. CHAPTER III THE TRAIL OF THE UNKNOWN O'Donovan's shouts attracted the cabman beyond the iron railings, and very quickly a couple of policemen appeared upon the scene. For a few minutes there was a scene of wild excitement within the quiet little garden ; then, after a cursory examination, a stretcher was brought from the Morgue over the way, the body of the unknown girl placed upon it and conveyed away to the House of the Dead, while Teddy was arrested and escorted to the police office attached to the mortuary, where, after some little delay, he was searched and closely questioned. The blood upon his hands was regarded with consider- able suspicion by the police commissary, or the quart cTaeil as he is known to the students, but owing to the fortu- nate circumstances of a workman having seen him enter the garden, and a cabman swearing that he had heard the report like that of a revolver fully a quarter of an hour before, he experienced little difficulty in establishing his innocence of the crime. News rapidly spreading that the body of a murdered woman had been brought there, and that the assassin had been caught, quickly caused a great crowd to assemble around the Morgue, awaiting the exposure of the corpse, and eager to catch a glimpse of the murderer when he came forth in custody. Meanwhile, however, the body of poor Violette had been searched, and absolutely nothing THE TRAIL OF THE UNKNOWN 25 v the hour of the shortcomings of the Floquet Ministry, the machinations of Gambetta, and the Rovalist movement, knew nothing whatever of English politics. He was actually unaware whether the Govern- ment in power was Radical or Conservative, until he looked it up in that journalistic vade-mecum, l Whitaker.' The idea of writing from an impartial standpoint had sorely puzzled him, therefore he had taken the two can- didates for the seat, criticised their election addresses with equal asperity, and concluded by advising the electors to vote for both ! The amount of ridicule heaped upon the Hoiinslotu Stand- ard that week by its Radical contemporaries may easily be conjectured. The proprietor was furious, and poor Ros- mead, extremely penitent, for the next three weeks existed in deadly fear of being discharged at the end of his month of approbation. At the conclusion of the fourth week, when he received from the proprietor's wife his usual thirty shillings in silver, screwed up in a piece of newspaper, nothing was said about his dismissal; he therefore continued the duties of editor- ship, gradually obtaining knowledge of the technicalities of reporting, proof-reading, and printing, not without making a good many friends. From the first his keen-eyed colleagues on the opposi- tion journals in the district, whom he met daily at the vari- ous meetings he attended, saw that he could not write shorthand, and was evidently a beginner, on account of the 56 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES huge note-book and half-a-dozen carefully-sharpened pencils which he carried. There is, however, always a commend- able esprit de corps among pressmen, and many a time one or other of the reporters of the journals which were his bitterest political opponents would send him a proof of the verbatim speech of some local notable on a subject of unusual interest, or exchange with him a carbon copy of the report of some meeting which he could not attend. Very soon, among the little coterie of a dozen reporters who daily scoured West Middlesex l picking up para- graphs,' Bertram Rosmead was acknowledged to be a good fellow, and there was not one who would not lend him a helping hand. But at night, when he returned home from the soul-killing dreariness of those Dissenting tea-meetings, juvenile dissolving-view entertainments, or amateur con- certs, which were nightly held in one or other of the small towns or villages which constituted his district, he sat beneath his lamp, trying to write his leading article for the coming issue. With an amateur's lack of discretion, he chose hackneyed subjects, and struggled desperately to be original. They were lame, sorry attempts, these first steps in literature, even though he was profuse in his use of adjectives, and had his second-hand copy of the i Thesaurus ' ever at his elbow. They were a species of essay savoured with one or two incongruous expressions quoted, but not acknowledged, from the Morning Post, with a varied and wonderful punctuation, more remarkable for commas than for semicolons. He acknowledged long afterwards that for a year or two he did not know where to place a semi- colon. Still, he strove desperately for hours and hours, often until the paraffin gave out, and the grey morning showed through the chinks of the closed shutters. Then he would go out into the little front garden, and smell the roses, IN A LONDON SUBURB 57 fresh and delicious with the dew upon them, and allow the cool air of sunrise to fan his heated temples. He worked for that little, obscure journal night and day, for journalism was the profession he had chosen, and with dogged deter- mination he was intent upon success. Even there, in that little town, the most dismal perhaps of any within the twelve-mile radius, where whole rows of new houses were gaunt, windowless, and decaying, because no one had ever been found to live in them, the offer of a free season-ticket to the City being insufficient to induce persons to take up residence there, he found life full of variety. Hounslow is a mean and meagre town, notable for three things, — its barracks, its great gunpowder factory, and the number and variety of its lower-class public-houses ; but to Bertram Rosmead, who had often to attend a local wedding or an inquest in the same morning, or in the same evening report a sermon at the parish church and criticise a nigger entertainment at the Town Hall, life in those early, enthusiastic days was never dull. Local feeling was always at fever-heat in Hounslow, and the representatives of the Press were always courteously entertained. At certain sittings of the Board of Guardians over at Isleworth, that quaint, old-world riverside village, untouched as yet by the hand of the vandal, there was provided a fine cold collation, washed down with a good brand of champagne, with cigars and Benedictine to follow ; while again, at the meeting of the Hounslow Burial Board, held at night in a tiny room on the first floor of an uncleanly pot-house, both the members of that body and ' the Press ' smoked long clays and partook of a hearty supper of boiled leg of mutton and onions. This last- mentioned enlightened body were conspicuous for the inordinate length and asperity of their discussions, and were always a source of amusement to the editor-reporter 58 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES of the local Standard. It consisted of eight small trades- men, who controlled the bare, miserable cemetery, and met once a month to look after the mortal remains of their departed fellow-townsmen. On such occasions they as- sembled around a beer-stained table in the upstairs room, the chair being taken by a retired carpenter, whose c h's ' were faulty, one of the representatives of the Press being chosen as clerk, the minutes being kept in a penny account- book. Then gin and hot water would be brought in by the beaming, red-faced host, and after the sugar had been judiciously added, and the long clays filled with shag and lighted, the business of the evening invariably commenced by the sexton, who had stood trembling on the mat outside, being called in and roundly abused for his inattention to duty. When this remarkable body did not quarrel with their one single employe, who dug graves and grew mush- rooms, they quarrelled among themselves about the dis- position of the corpses, or the form and manner of the tombstones, the discussion growing so heated that, on one occasion, the chairman, with an oath, collared one of his fellow-members, who had dared to dispute his ruling, and pitched him headlong downstairs into the bar below. At command of the irate chairman, the sexton, who acted as ' the Board's ' factotum and beadle, followed the expelled member into the street, and offered to fight him on the spot. The unfortunate tailor, who had been badly shaken by his sudden descent, declined this invitation, and limped off, consigning the whole of the enlightened body to the regions of eternal warmth, and threatening that on the morrow he would l go and wreck the whole bally cemetery.' Local politics in Hounslow at that period were fiercely contested. Indeed, a few days later, one of the members of the Local Board — the body that controlled the drains, IN A LONDON SUBURB 59 now happily superseded by the District Council — a retired collector of rabbit-skins, who posed as the people's cham- pion, differed so seriously with the chairman, a birthday knight, upon the appointment of a new inspector of nuis- ances — whom, bv the way, he irreverently termed a l stink inspector' — that in order to prevent him doing mischief he had to be removed by the police, his books, papers, and rusty tall hat being flung out after him into the road. Meanwhile, the ill-printed Hounslow Standard became locally popular by reason of the brilliance of its descrip- tions of these exciting events, and thus gradually, by dint of slaving day after day, week after week, only retiring to rest when his aching brain refused longer to bear the strain, and his head fell in sleep upon his blotting-pad, Bertram Rosmead, lonely, pensive, and self-absorbed, began to acquire a knowledge of the first elements of journalism. CHAPTER VI ONE FACE To the journalist, in his youthful enthusiasm, armed with ponderous note-book, generally ready to take an absolutely verbatim note of the merest trivial discussion, and fully believing that any ' original matter' he writes will influ- ence the world's opinion, life is full of variety and pleasure. If his colleagues are good fellows, as Rosmead's were at Hounslow, there is considerable amusement, and work is often reduced to a minimum bv one reporter attending a small meeting and furnishing duplicate reports to all his confreres. The one idea of the local reporter is to make the greatest amount of ' copy ' with the least possible amount of exertion ; and after Bertram had occupied the editorial chair of his journal for a year, he found that these carbon duplicates, on oiled tissue paper, known in jour- nalism as c flimsies,' circulated so freely, that he had plenty of time on his hands. Reporting without labour had been brought to a fine art in that district. Usually, the whole of his afternoons were free ; therefore, with a resolve to endeavour to contribute to other periodicals, he one day sat down and wrote some verses which had been running in his head all day. Thev were in French, for he found he could write French with better rhythm, and he headed them ' Mirette ' : — ONE FACE 6 1 Mirette a des yeux couleur de printemps Qui font s'entr'ouvrir les boutons de rose, Et Ton dit qiTil nait des lis eclatants A la place emue ou son pied se pose. Le front de Mirette est si gracieux, Que lorsqu'ils y voient un sourire eclore Les oiseaux distraits chantent dans les cieux Comme s'ils voyaient resplendir Taurore. In this strain he wrote eight verses, all decidedly above the average, as those quoted plainly show, the final one being : — Puis, quand elle part, sous les bois joyeux Qui couvrent de fleurs sa nuque doree, Le prince va boire, en fermant les yeux, L'eau pure oil brilla V image adoree. When he had finished them, with many final touches, he took some ruled paper, made a good copy, and enclosed them in an envelope to the editor of Temple Bar. Three days later, he received from the office of that magazine an intimation that his contribution was accepted, and would appear in an early number, while the editor added that he was ready to consider anv other similar verses in French. At this, Rosmead's joy knew no bounds. He had taken his first step on the thorny path of litera- ture, and was now determined to press forward to his goal. Neglecting his journalistic work somewhat — for from the first he looked upon it as a mere stepping-stone to literary life — he sat dav after dav, night after night, writing poem after poem, but all to no purpose. None that he wrote were of sufficient merit to send in response to the editor's invitation. Therefore, in sheer desperation, he had to fall back upon the madrigal, l Belle, vous croyez que fignorej he had read to his fellow-students and to Fosca on that well- remembered Sunday afternoon long ago. 62 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES This was accepted, as were others in the months that succeeded, and although published anonymously, the cul- tured readers of Temple Bar did not fail to recognise in them a high standard of attainment. But Bertram Rosmead was ambitious. The paragraphs he read in every paper about the sayings and doings of prominent novelists — who, in these days, obtain almost as much advertisement as a prince of the royal blood — had aroused within him a determination to take the advice of his old and lost friend Teddy, and try romance. So, through those dreary winter months, when the even- ings were long, he managed to snatch time from his journalistic duties, and toiling ever at his table, strove to write short stories. As is usual with the tyro, he sent them in various directions, alwavs to the editors of the higher-class magazines, the illustrations of which com- mended themselves to him ; but, without exception, they all came back, with a printed form enclosed, expressing the editor's regret. The various forms of refusal are too well known to every author, and there is not one success- ful writer to-day who does not vividly recollect those disappointing leaflets of the past, or perhaps has some of them still preserved in the locked drawer of his writing- table. But Rosmead's attempts at fiction were very crude, and, although never devoid of literary merit, they lacked that dramatic treatment and delicate touch necessary to render the feuilleton attractive. His plots were generally good, but his utter ignorance of technique rendered his pro- ductions quite useless from an editorial point of view. Months passed in that manner. Every week he sent out one or more short stories ; but the postman brought them back with a regularity that was disheartening. Of his meagre thirty shillings a week, he had not much to spare for postages after he had paid the ascetic widow for ONE FACE 6$ his board and lodging ; therefore, many times he sat in his quiet, lonely room, crushed and despairing, the bitter truth forced upon him that he had no talent, and that the money spent in sending his wretched attempts about was money thrown away. He admitted to none of his colleagues that he was liv- ing to become a novelist, fearing their derision ; but one dav, when one of them, an elderly man, who had spent his life as a pressman, and had risen no higher than local jour- nalism, called at his lodgings to exchange a report, and sat beside his fire smoking a cigarette, he approached the subject of fiction. 1 It's slow, deadly slow, in this place,' Rosmead said with a sigh. 'Life here seems absolutely petrified.' ' Tired of it — eh r ' asked the dark-bearded, grave-eyed man, who habitually wore a soft black felt hat and a grev woollen muffler. The local reporter is fond of a literary appearance. 'No, not tired,' Rosmead answered. 'Only I should like to contribute stories to other papers. I believe thev pay well for them — don't they ? ' ' Yes, but it's few men who can write them,' his com- panion answered. ' I tried myself years ago, and failed. Not a single one was taken, so I gave it up.' ' Don't you think that the average man, if he perseveres, can get his stuff taken : ' Rosmead asked, standing with his back to the fire, his hands in the pockets of his old house- jacket, easv and reminiscent of the Quai Montebello. ' No,' answered the journalistic failure, with some bitter- ness, ' not unless you know the editors. It's all by favour nowadays.' Rosmead was silent, wondering whether this man, who had spent thirty years in and about newspaper offices, spoke the truth. He knew no editor, and, in common with 64 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES amateur writers, regarded them with awe, as a sort of superior and distinct species. These emphatic words were terribly disappointing. But his friend was one of those flabby-hearted, steady plodders with no soul above local journalism, whose ideas are as antiquated as the tvpe from which their journals are printed, and the height of whose ambition is to ' do a bit of lineage,' namely, to supply to the great London morn- ing papers short paragraphs of events of general interest occurring in their locality, the reward for which varies from half-a-crown to five shillings. Every local journalist, from junior reporter to editor, is ready to expound his views on literature in general, and novel-writing in par- ticular, but few know anything at all about it, and their criticisms are mainly adverse, because, though hopelessly devoid of literary talent, they consider themselves quite equal to the men whose names they see appended to the various classes of current fiction. ' Then you think there's no chance for the unknown man ? ' Rosmead observed, gravely contemplating his cigarette. c None, my dear fellow, none,' the elder man answered. ' The fiction market is overcrowded. Amateurs write, and write well sometimes, without thought of payment ; others are ready to pay for the satisfaction of seeing them- selves in print, and in this cascade of fiction pouring into the office of every magazine or paper which publishes stories, editors can fill their columns for nothing if they choose. But why do you ask ? Are you thinking of trying the experiment?' he inquired, smiling. Rosmead hesitated. c Well, yes,' he admitted. ' But of course you needn't tell anyone. The fellows will onlv poke fun at me. I've already written one or two things for Temple Bar. 3 ONE FACE 65 'For Temple Bar? ' cried the other, in surprise, for the fact that the reporter of c the rag,' as the Hounslow Stand- ard was usually known among the representatives of the Press, had actually contributed to that magazine at once raised him in the estimation of this disappointed scribe. ' I see the magazine every month, but have never noticed your name. What sort of stuff do vou write for it ? ' 1 French verses,' he answered. ' There are some in the current number,' and taking the magazine from the table, he opened it, and handed it to his friend. 1 Do vou mean to say that you wrote those ? ' exclaimed the other. He was used to the boasts of younger jour- nalists, and eyed Rosmead with suspicion. c I did,' the latter answered. Then, noticing the shadow of doubt upon his face, he took from the table a letter he had received from the editor that morning, asking for another contribution. Sight of this was, of course, convincing. c Well,' the journalist said at last, ' you may write French verses with success, because it's very few Englishmen who can do it; but fiction is entirely out of the question. Take my advice, and don't waste your time in endeavour- ing to accomplish the impossible. Better become a good pressman than a bad novelist. While you've got a berth on a paper, you've always your weekly screw ; not much, perhaps, but it's sure. As a writer of fiction you might slave for six months and not earn sixpence. No, study the journalistic art more closely ; try and put a bit more "guts" into your leaders, and sling in a bit of Latin some- times. It always impresses your readers, even if you don't know the translation yourself. Then in a few years you may be able to leave here and get on a decent paper in the provinces, possibly even a daily.' 1 I'd like to be on a London daily,' observed Rosmead, in all seriousness. 5 66 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES His friend laughed heartily at this artless remark. 1 So would all of us, mv dear fellow,' he said. l Eight pounds a week and all expenses. Only fancy ! But such a berth isn't to be dreamed of. No M local man," in all my long experience, has ever gone straight to a London dailv, and every local man who has tried to write novels has ignominiouslv failed.' That night, when he returned from attending a stupid amateur entertainment at Twickenham, two miles away, Bertram Rosmead sat alone beside his fire, reflecting deeply. He recollected even' word his friend had ut- tered, and saw how utterly hopeless it was to obtain fame in fiction. As a journalistic plodder, a mere scribbler of reports and commentator on local intelligence, he might, after a few years, join the staff of a better journal with slightly increased salary, and that was the highest level to which he could rise. Like his friend, he must remain and grow old in his groove, for ever scribbling paragraphs anent parish teas and mothers' meetings, describing sales of work and juvenile junketings, or commenting in high- falutin' terms upon the latest scheme of sewerage, or the engaging qualities of a l departed fellow-townsman.' He thought all this over, long and seriously. Once all his hopes had been wrecked, all life crushed from him, by the fickleness of the one woman he adored. His friends here in England knew nothing of it. It was a secret locked within his heart. Often in moments such as these he wondered how Fosca fared, whether Jean, the traitorous, oilv-mouthed Frenchman, had already deserted her ; whether, as was most probable, she was back again, pray- ing forgiveness of the inebriate Marquis. Then he sighed, and strove to cast her memory from him. Even Teddy, the faithful, ever-happy Teddy, had gone out of his life, for, after he had left the Quartier to wander, ONE FACE 67 1 the Bouchon,' unable to live there alone with the recol- lection of Violette upon him, had left to studv in Florence. He had heard this from a mutual friend to whom he had written, but none, it appeared, knew Teddy's address. He was no longer a Bohemian, he supposed ; no longer one of themselves. Thoughts of the past possessed him that night as the little clock ticked on in the dead silence, and his lamp spluttered as the oil became exhausted. He pondered sadly upon the discouraging words of the journalist. To write romance was the one absorbing ambition in life, for he had always been essentially a dreamer, and long ago had woven strange, weird plots in his mind after reading the romances of Dumas, Ohnet, Bourget, or Poe. 1 No,' he cried aloud at last, starting to his feet with sud- den decision, and clenching his hands, l I won't be beaten. I'll try again, and if I fail, I'll still try, and try, in face of all thev saw Their discouragement shall never deter me. I know I had no talent for art, but believe that some day I mav be able to write fiction, to intelligibly relate the stories which so often rise involuntarilv in mv mind. To-morrow I'll make another start on a short storv.' Four manuscripts were lving upon the table, each having been around to several papers, and each c declined with thanks.' His eves fell upon them. c No good,' he murmured. c I'll write fresh ones,' and taking them up, he cast them bodilv into the fire. \\ ith sadness he watched the flames consume them, for they were the result of many weeks' toil, of manv long nights of brain- racking. It was a sacrifice to burn them, but he was pre- pared for it, prepared for anything in order to attain his end. Then, when the flames had died down, he sighed, blew out his lamp, and went to bed. An incident occurred on the following night, as his paper 68 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES was going to press, which opened his eyes regarding the treatment of fiction. For many months an exciting novel had been running serially in the paper, supplied from Lon- don in leaden stereotyped columns, but great was the fore- man printer's dismay, on making up the paper, to find that although he had two columns of the story, yet there was no instalment for the following week, and it was not con- cluded. Inquiries were made, and it was discovered that a lad had placed the two final chapters in the melting-pot, in order to manufacture paper-weights. Rosmead was sitting at midnight at the back of the shop in his mouldy den, which, never having been swept for years, did duty as editorial office, when the foreman burst in, saying, in those sharp, brief tones which every foreman printer uses — c No more of that darned yarn. The end's been melted up.' Rosmead looked up from reading his proof, inquiringly, and in response to a question, the appalling facts were explained. 4 Well, what are we to do ? ' the editor asked, dismayed. c Dry it up,' was the prompt rejoinder. 1 How can vou, when nobody in the office has read it ? I'll have a look at it presently.' 1 No, it's the boss's orders that the bally sheet goes to press at twelve. There isn't time for fussing after it,' the man answered, wiping his hands on his apron. 4 Then what are you going to do ? ' 1 It's already done, mister. I've comped three lines, married a couple of 'em, and put " The End." The forme's locked up, so make your mind easv. We make no difficulties in this office. If the public don't like it, thev must do the other thing.' And with that he disappeared. ONE FACE 69 Next morning the readers of the exciting serial in the Hounslow Standard were mystified and amazed to find that Lady Geraldine, already a wife, had been abruptly married to a burglar ! In the months that followed, every moment he could snatch from the trudging hither and thither consequent on reporting for his obscure sheet, he spent crouched at his table struggling to write short stories, gradually acquiring a slight stoop, so long and diligently he sat. To the thin- faced relict who administered to his daily wants his studi- ous habits were remarkable. ' My young man never goes out and about o' nights, like other men,' she told her gossiping neighbours of the lodging-letting genus. ' He's poring for ever over 'is writing night after night, till I fully expect he'll have a touch of brain fever. He goes nowhere ; scarcely anybody comes to see him except the boy from the orfice, who brings him printed bits of the newspaper, what he calls proofs. He's well educated, a perfect gentleman, my dear — and of course I knows a gentleman when I sees one : but he's a bit moody like. He used to be merry enough when he first came to me. But now I firmly believe he's got some trouble or other on his mind, poor fellow.' The 'poor fellow' alluded to certainly had a very serious trouble on his mind. He had written over a dozen stories of various lengths, and had sent them to a wide variety of papers, but fate seemed against him, for not a single one had been found of sufficient merit to be worth publication. In order to pay the postage on these children of his brain, he had been forced to exercise an economy which at first was terrible — namely, he had given up his cigarettes, for the money he spent in them weekly gave him three or even four chances with editors. Therefore, after the first day or so, he gladly faced the difficulty, although it must be added that even then this was in vain, and the stamps he 70 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES so hopefully purchased were in every case wasted. There were plain signs, too, that in most instances his manuscripts were never read, and these discouraged him more, perhaps, than any other circumstance. He feared that editors had become tired of the short, polite notes accompanying his screeds, and that being so, he believed his chance of success had vanished for ever. There is a low tide in the affairs of every struggling literary man when, crushed beneath his ever-recurring dis- appointments, and disheartened by the futility of his attempts to secure a footing in the profession that it is his aim to join, he is ready to retire from the fray. Bertram Rosmead was no exception. He had, as is usual with the inexperi- enced writer, tried all the highest class publications without bestowing any thought upon those which cater for the lower classes. No writer is content with beginning with the lowest rung of the ladder. Ill fortune had dogged him so persistently, that at last he was on the point of relin- quishing all hope, when one evening, while travelling by train between Twickenham and Hounslow, he picked up part of a paper which had been left in the compartment by some previous traveller. It was a family journal he had never seen before, green-covered, of the shape and style of Tit-Bits, published in Glasgow, and entitled Scottish Nights. He saw that it contained stories — short stories by persons whose names were unknown — and it occurred to him that, while London editors had conspired against him, country editors might regard his contributions a little more favour- ably. So he carried home this incomplete journal, and that night selected two of his short stories, which were the most dramatic in his own estimation, and dispatched them to the North. An anxious week followed, but, sure enough, the post- man came one morning and handed in a bulky packet ONE FACE 71 which he knew too well contained his rejected manuscripts. In despair he tore open the packet, but next second uttered a loud exclamation of amazement, when he discovered that with the manuscript were the proofs, and with the proofs a cheque for two guineas, the first monev he had earned bv writing fiction. At last he had taken the first step. He was no longer an amateur, but was paid for his contributions. He had en- tered the ranks of professional romancers. And he went forth happily, w T ith elastic tread, singing to himself the merry- song in the chorus of which he had so often joined at Mother Gery's — Mimi, Mimi est une blonde, Une blonde que Ton connait; Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, Landerirette! Et qu'un bonnet. That day he read the proofs carefullv, and returned them with a note to the editor, offering further work. To this came a polite reply, and in a short time the readers of that Scotch weekly periodical knew T the name of Bertram Ros- mead as a regular contributor of short sensational stories. Those feuilletons which had failed to attract the editors of the World, Truth, or Vanity Fair, delighted the readers over the Border, and after some months the editor found his newly-discovered contributor's work so popular, that he expressed his readiness to consider a serial story 7 to run eight or ten weeks, if Mr. Rosmead cared to submit one. Thus, full of enthusiasm, the editor of the Hounslow Standard sat down, and after weeks, nay months, of hard work, completed his first novel. It was, however, a pain- fully amateurish attempt. The art of writing serial fiction is acquired only bv long and diligent practice, therefore there 72 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES was little wonder that the editor should return it with a let- ter of profound regret that the storv l was not of a character to interest his readers.' Truth to tell, it was the crudest sensation possible, with a blundering and impossible love interest, and a denouement which was exposed in the first chapter. Such a piece of work was fit only for one thing — to light the fire with ; but the editor had seen that his un- known contributor had a distinct talent for writing sto- riettes, and therefore hesitated to wound his feelings. On the contrary, he wrote a few days later asking for further short stories. Eighteen and sixpence or a guinea was not a very high rate of remuneration for four or five thousand words of fiction, but Rosmead, in the first flush of his suc- cess, considered it a very handsome reward, and was more than contented. The refusal of his novel disappointed him bitterly, but having grown callous, regarding failure as the natural outcome of enthusiasm, he cast the manuscript aside, and continued to write the briefer and more crystallised fiction. Throughout three whole years, long weary years of toil and disappointment, with scarcely a single day's holiday, he worked on, by day scouring his district to pick up local news, and at night slaving beneath his lamp, striving to im- prove his style, taking as his models the shorter stories of Maupassant, of Alontepin, of Pierre Loti, and Zola's inim- itable c Stories for Ninon.' In those idle days beside the Seine, he had read diligently many second-hand French novels purchased from the stalls, and therefore endeavoured to follow the lines of the successful feuilletonists. Of English fiction, however, he knew little or nothing. Gradually he extended his connection. One or two manuscripts, with which he experimented, were accepted by those penny pseudo-Society journals in London which make a point of publishing a short story, and he could not ONE FACE 73 disguise the fact that he was surely, if slowly, developing into a writer of fiction. It was at this juncture, when one night, having treated himself to a little mild dissipation in the form of a visit to London, he was passing along Fleet Street, gazing up wist- fully at the brilliantly-lighted newspaper offices, and won- dering whether some day he, too, might not spend his nights in one of those great establishments, where the work was light and the pay handsome, when suddenly, at the corner of Chancery Lane, a face, passing beneath the electric light, attracted him — a face more pure, more regular in outline than he had ever before witnessed. The face was the face of a heroine of romance ; a trifle pale and wistful, perhaps, but eminently beautiful. Was he not seeking local colour for the romance he intended, ere long, to write ; was he not wandering, aimlessly, that night, in the great world of London, seeking material for the book which, some day, would make his name world- famous ? For an instant he hesitated. Then he turned and fol- lowed her. CHAPTER VII THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT Alone, she was walking quickly in the direction of Charing Cross, a neat, erect figure in black, a trifle petite, but essen- tially dainty. Already she had gained the Law Courts before he drew up behind her, and then he saw how slim- waisted and neat-attired she was, how gracefully she walked, how well her little black, jet-trimmed bonnet, with its tiny white bird, suited her dark beauty. Since Fosca had gone out of his life, he had gazed upon no other woman with admiration until that moment. He was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. Literature was his mistress, and he cared for little else beside his books and the old littered table whereat he spent the silent watches of the night. He was not one to be easily fascinated by a woman, more especially now that Fosca had shattered all his belief in woman's honesty and affection. Even though studiously polite, and essentially chivalrous, he was inclined to treat the fair sex with calm indifference, and never sought their society. During the past three years, he had lived only with his books, and with that Bohemian instinct, in him inborn, cared for nothing outside the range of his own studies. He passed her, pretending to hurry on without noticing her, but, nevertheless, casting a covert glance at her face. At that instant, however, she raised her eyes and peered into his, with a glance, half of inquiry, half of annoyance. THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT 75 She was about twenty-one, as far as he could judge, with a pair of dimpled cheeks, eyes dark and luminous, a small, delicate nose that denoted considerable self-will, and a high brow shaded bv a mass of fluffy nut-brown hair. Her black cloth jacket, short and smartly made, fitted her without a crease; her skirt hung straight in graceful folds without dragging at the back, as London skirts will ; and pinned to her coquettish little muff of quilted black satin was a bunch of violets. Her face, among all others, had attracted him, because it was such a face as he had imagined his heroine should possess. He decided to study her character, her virtues, and her weaknesses, and reproduce her in his pages with the fidelity of a photograph from the life. He raised his hat and spoke to her. It never occurred to him, accustomed as he was to the free manners of the Quai Montebello, that he was doing anything extraordinary in thus accosting her, or seeking to force himself upon her without an introduction. She glanced at him for an instant, in haughty contempt, then lowered her eyes modestly, and slightly quickened her pace. Again he spoke, but without heeding him, she turned almost at right angles and crossed the road. Undaunted by this rebuff, he followed her, and a few minutes later, advancing again to her side, expressed a hope that he had caused her no annoyance. 4 Your persistence does annoy me,' she answered briefly, glancing severely at him. c Then I trust that you will forgive me,' he said, with politeness. ' Forgiveness is quite unnecessary,' she replied, once again looking into his face. c I recognise that I am speaking with a lady,' he ob- served. c I trust you will allow me to treat you as such.' c Well ? What do you want ? ' she asked, the shadow 76 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES of annoyance fading from her face, a fact which showed him that, like every other woman, she was a trifle vain of her appearance and amenable to flattery. c I am alone,' he responded, with a boldness which sur- prised her. ' I want your companionship, if you will grant me that favour. You, too, are alone. Is there any reason why we should not spend an hour or so in each other's society ? ' She regarded him calmly, and saw that he was tall, dark, and good-looking, beyond the average run of the men who endeavoured to force themselves upon her, and although not very well dressed, perhaps, — for he wore a thin silver watch- guard, the essence of bad taste in man's attire, — yet there was about his rather long hair and carelessly-tied cravat a dash of the easy-going, good-for-nothing which commended itself to her. Their eyes met. He laughed, and next instant had won her consent. Along the Strand, across Trafalgar Square, and up Pall Mall he strolled at her side, chatting affably, and discussing commonplaces, noting with minuteness her manner and her speech, and gauging her character from her expressed pleasures and dislikes. Although so well and neatly dressed, it was apparent, ere she had spoken half-a-dozen words, that she was not a lady. Her grammar was very faulty; she spoke with a drawl that showed her to be an unmistakable Cockney, using such words as ' chimbley ' for chimney, ' skillington ' for skeleton, and referring to gentlemen of her acquaintance as c fellows.' Her name, she told him, was Lena Loder. ' And may I write and see you again ? ' he asked, when, after reaching Piccadilly, they had again retraced their steps to Charing Cross station, where she said she must leave him. ' IVe enjoyed this little chat immensely, and I hope I haven't bored you too much.' THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT yy c No, not at all,' she declared; nevertheless it was evi- dent she was in a hurrv to escape from him. 1 Then to where may I address the letter : ' he asked. She hesitated. As yet she was undecided whether she really liked him. 4 Well,' she said at last, c if you really would like to see me again, write to me at the Adelphi Theatre.' c The Adelphi ! ' he cried, surprised. c Then you are an actress ? ' 1 Yes,' she laughed, c I'm on the stage.' He regarded her curiously. For the past hour he had been inwardly congratulating himself upon his ability to read her character as easily as though it were an open book. He had imagined her to be the daughter of some small tradesman, or perhaps a c show-room ' hand at one of the Oxford Street drapery establishments, for she had spoken with all the slang used by young ladies of that class, who are fond of talking of their c fellows,' of their Sunday trips to Richmond or Hampton Court, or of their visits to the Oxford, the Royal, or the Alhambra on winter nights. The craze for the Cinderella, too, — for every large drapery house now has its Cinderella dances, — is one of the outward and visible signs of the modern shop-girl ; though it must be said that hearts as brave and tender beat beneath the cotton corsets of the counter-slave as beneath the long- waisted, Paris-made satin ones of the lady of Mayfair. Lena had expressed her fondness for cinderellas, and the student of character had been misled by this and other statements into a belief that her calling was the same as Fosca's had been. 1 I'm really surprised to know you're an actress,' he said. c I know several actresses, — French ones, — but they're not at all like you.' 1 But I'm English,' she laughed. ' I suppose that's the 78 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES difference. I've been in the " 'Arbour Lights " ever since the first night — a year and a half ago now.' ' But the theatre is open to-night, and you're not there ! ' he exclaimed, puzzled. 'I'm due now,' she answered hurriedly. c So I must go. Good-bye. Then you'll write — eh ? ' 'Yes,' he answered, lifting his hat, as he grasped her small hand. ' I'll write in a day or two, and we will have another walk. Good-bye.' She laughed gaily, and next moment was lost in the hurrying crowd. As he walked across Hungerford foot-bridge to Waterloo Station to take his train back to dreary, suburban Hounslow, he laughed aloud at his little adventure. He was not enam- oured of her in the slightest degree. True, her face was beautiful, but her beauty was more that of a brown-haired, waxen doll than of a woman, and her painful ignorance of one or two subjects he had broached jarred upon his highly sensitive nature. A dry, supercilious laugh escaped him when he reflected upon the sole reason which had prompted him to approach her, and the result of his observations. She was wild, unsympathetic, uneducated, with no soul above the cinderella or the theatre ; she loved London, revelled in its ceaseless turmoil, and hated the country, be- cause, as she declared, its dulness bored her to death. He had, on first sight of her, imagined her as a heroine. How mistaken sometimes are our first impressions ! That night he went home with a feeling that his evening had been distinctly wasted. He had studied a woman's character, and only found what had irritated and disgusted him. He compared her with Fosca, the vivacious, neat- ankled, hoydenish, but, nevertheless, educated and refined Fosca, that child of Bohemia he had loved so tenderly. The comparison was hideous. This little Lena, who acted THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT 79 in the c 'Arbour Lights ' was, from every point of view, odious. He resolved not to see her again. His first experiment in the study of character had cer- tainly not been a success. Lying on his table, he found a letter from a magazine editor, asking for another of his French poems, and that night, before retiring to rest, he sat with his feet on the fender, and wrote the following in pencil, in imitation of Alusset : — Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre, Qu'allez-vous faire Si loin d'ici ? Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde Et que le monde N'est que souci ? Vous qui croyez qu'une amour delaissee De la pensee S'enfuit ainsi, Helas! helas! chercheurs de renommee, Votre fumee S'envole aussi. Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre, Qu'allez-vous faire Si loin de nous ? J' en vais pleurer, moi qui me laissais dire Que mon sourire Etait si doux. In the davs that followed, he found himself thinking a good deal of Lena, not because he had been attracted by her pretty face, nor bv anv good qualitv she possessed, but simply because he believed that, as a character in his book, she might be useful after all. There was something about her that was uncommon, although he was unable to accu- rately define it. Thus he became interested in her,. 80 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES Therefore, after some deliberation, he wrote, met her one Sunday afternoon, strolled with her across Kensington Gar- dens, and again placed her on the dissecting table, with the same disappointing results as before. On every subject but one she spoke freely. She avoided all reference to the theatre. He found her merry and amusing enough, even though the ignorance she betrayed caused him numberless twinges, and later, when he took her to supper at the Cafe Monico, that garish restaurant, so popular among shop-assistants and foreign clerks on Sunday evenings, he found she was evi- dently no stranger there. On several other occasions they met and went for long walks together. Sometimes he would afterwards reproach himself for thus wasting his time ; for he had been one evening secretly to the Adelphi, and had there seen his lit- tle friend. She had, he discovered, but a thinking part, forming one of a crowd of fisher-girls, her chief work being to carry a basket, and shade her eyes with her hands, as if watching for the return of the fishing-smack supposed to be having a rough time of it somewhere on the painted back- cloth. Such duties were certainly not arduous. She was 1 on the stage,' and that was about all. Unaware that he had seen her across the footlights, she one evening, in response to his questions, told him about herself. It was a sad story, and as she related it, he saw how her gaiety faded. She was, it appeared, the daughter of an artist, once well known and prosperous ; but who, through drink, had been ruined, and had died fifteen years before from injuries received in a street accident while intoxicated. Her mother had been left alone, without re- sources, with four children, all girls, dependent upon her, and in order to support them had been compelled to clean chambers and act as l laundress ' to gentlemen in the Tern- THE STUDENT AXD THE SUBJECT Si pie. Of her sisters, one had married a worthless, drunken scamp, who now starved his wife and existed in the direst poverty, while the other, who had always been weak and ailing, had now been bedridden for the past three years, suf- fering from consumption in complication with other diseases. Lena alone worked, and her salary of eighteen shillings a week, together with what her mother, aged seventy, earned by l doing for ' a barrister in the Temple, just sufficed to keep a home over their heads. She told her wretched storv simply, sighing when she mentioned her mother, and speaking in confidence to Ros- mead, as if she had known him all her life. If the truth were told, she liked him for his easy-going disposition, and her estimate of him was considerably increased by the sym- pathy he now expressed with her. c Then you live close bv the theatre, I suppose ? ' he remarked. c Not ven" far off. Our neighbourhood isn't a very salubrious one,' she laughed sadly. ' We live in Gough Square, at the back of Fleet Street. Mother has lived there for twenty years.' c Gough Square ! ' he exclaimed, surprised. He knew the spot, a small paved square, approached by one of the dark, narrow courts off Fleet Street, and surrounded by great printing establishments, book-binders, paper ware- houses, type-founders, and kindred trades. The trees under which Dr. Johnson loved to walk have disappeared long ago. In that vicinity there were no residents, the old, red, dirt-grimed houses, of notable proportions a century ago, being now let out as offices to engravers, agents, and un- important journals, for it was the very heart of newspaper London, hemmed in on every side by great, high buildings, excluding light and air. Truly it was not by any means a salubrious spot, the atmosphere thick with the soot of a 82 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES myriad chimneys, and the odour of printing ink, and crowded at mid-day with c comps.' and apprentices, who smoked, swore, and idled away their dinner hour. In these meagre, sordid, unhealthy surroundings, Lena had been bred and born. Was it, then, any wonder that her growth should be stunted, her limbs thin and fragile, or her speech should savour of the dialect of Farringdon Market; that she forgot to aspirate her c h's,' or that her education had progressed no further than what had been imparted to her at the Board School round in Fetter Lane ? Rosmead felt deeply touched. It was evident, however, that she liked the stage, for she presently related with pride how, for five years running, she had been engaged by Augustus Harris as one of the chorus in the Drury Lane pantomime, of the amusing incidents which so often occurred 'behind,' of the beauty of the dresses, and the revels on Twelfth Night, when the Baddeley cake was cut. Nevertheless, underlying this superficial gaiety was a heart overburdened with sorrow, a brave little heart, which struggled on to assist her mother, and to provide necessities for her invalid sister. Soon the pair became fast friends, and once or twice, at Rosmead's invitation, she travelled down to Hounslow, arriving at mid-day, eating a homely chop with him, and then walking along the picturesque winding road past Kneller Hall to Twickenham, or across the bare brown fields to old-world Isleworth, that quiet, peaceful village by the river side. They would return to his lodgings for tea, and then she would catch her train back to town in time for the theatre, having, as she would afterwards relate to the other girls in the dressing-room, spent l a day in the country.' Two, or even three times each week they met, either in London or at Hounslow, and he found himself neglecting THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT 83 his work sadly. He did not love her, did not even admire her, except for her honest, valiant efforts to support her mother's dingy home ; yet he found her verv amusing, with her bright chatter of the theatrical world, a world unknown to him. At last, one dav in Januarv, when thev had been ac- quainted nearly two months, and she was sitting beside his fire drinking her tea prior to returning to Waterloo, she looked at him gravely for a few moments, and then sud- denlv burst into tears. He jumped up, and taking both her hands in his, asked what ailed her. At first she would not answer \ but at length, after mam- repeated inquiries, she faltered, raising her tear-stained eves to his — 1 I'm verv, verv unhappv. Forgive me for making a fool of mvself.' 4 Unhappy ! Why ? ' 1 I'm going to leave home,' she answered briefly. 1 Why ? What has occurred ? ' he asked. He knew nothing of her home, having onlv seen its exterior, one of the grimiest of all in that decaved little square. c It's impossible to live there anv longer,' she said. c I do mv best, vet nobodv is satisfied. My step-sister is alwavs creating discord and making my life unbearable.' c Your step-sister ? Who is she ? You've never told me of her before,' he said. 4 My mother married twice,' Lena explained, c and mv step-sister lives with us. She's thirtv-five, and earns a little over at Spottiswoode's at the bookbinding. But her temper's unbearable. She's everlastingly nagging at poor mother and me, and then Man' has the fits come on her. I can't stand it any longer. I've done my best, Heaven knows.' 84 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c Yes,' he replied sympathetically, 1 1 believe you have, little one. It's a shame, a great shame, that they should treat you so. But if I were vou, I'd bear up. Don't show that these words of your step-sister annoy you.' 1 No,' she said decisively. ' I've threatened to go lots of times, and I now mean it. They've driven me from home.' 1 But where will you go ? ' 1 I don't know.' 1 Have you no friends with whom you can live ? ' 1 No, none,' she replied, shaking her head sorrowfully. c Girls like me don't have many friends. Everybody looks upon the stage with suspicion.' He sighed. What she said was quite correct. The standard of morality among female supernumeraries at theatres is not calculated to inspire confidence in respect- able females of that genus known as ( motherly.' No, it was not surprising that Lena was friendless. That night, after she had left him, he sat with his chin resting upon his hand. Her sorrow had secured his sym- pathy, for impressionable, tender-hearted, and ever ready to render assistance to those in need, although he was often in sore straits himself, he could not bear to see her treated in this fashion. Perhaps her work was not really hard at the theatre, but it was work surrounded by pitfalls ; work amid a crowd of women whose standard was little better than those painted daughters of the pavement who trailed their skirts up and down the ever-busy Strand ; work that dulled all sense of refinement, and that took her home at midnight, alone, unprotected, and exposed to all kinds of insults. Yes, his first estimate of her had been premature and ill-judged. He had seen her through spectacles of cynicism, and the vista had been a distorted one. Now he looked upon her as her true self — an honest, hard-working, self- THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT 85 denying girl of the people, fitted in every way to become his heroine. But she intended to leave home and go and live among strangers. Eighteen shillings a week would not keep her respectablv and pay for her lodgings. If she left home, then the inevitable would result — it must result. He shuddered to think of it. Again the dark, handsome face and sparkling eyes of Fosca arose before him, but with a cry of anger he cast aside the remembrance, and thought of Lena, the brave little woman who had sat there in his chair, and unbosomed to him the cause of her unhappiness. He was silent and thoughtful a long time, reviewing his own position and hers. Then at last he rose, with sudden, chivalrous resolve. He did not love her; he could never love her. It was sheer madness, he knew. The old adage said that pity was akin to love. Well, he pitied her. She was in peril, and he would save her from ruin. He seated himself at his table and wrote her a long letter, explaining his position plainly and honestly, and asking her to meet him in London next afternoon. They met, and before they parted Lena Loder, the walking lady in the ' 'Arbour Lights,' had promised to become the wife of Bertram Rosmead, journalist. CHAPTER VIII GREY DAYS Lena's marriage was not longed delayed. She packed a trunk a week later and left home, telling her mother she could not remain there any longer on account of Annie's continual ill-temper. An hour later she met Bertram at Ludgate Hill station, and drove with him to the registry office in the Blackfriars Road, where they were made man and wife, two cabmen acting as witnesses, and receiving five shillings as their reward. Three days were spent at Brighton, the longest absence he could take from his journalistic duties ; then they returned to Hounslow, taking up their quarters in two furnished rooms in a tiny cottage, one of a row inhabited mostly by railway porters and employes at the neighbour- ing gunpowder-mills. Bertram's salary as editor was still, as it had been from the first, thirty shillings weekly, an application for a rise having met with a distinct and firm refusal, and this combined with his average earnings from his Scotch paper amounted to about two pounds weeklv, a sum which certainly did not admit of many luxuries. In order, however, to further increase their slender income, Lena decided to retain her engagement at the theatre, pointing out that, even if she spent seven shillings a week in railway fares to and from Waterloo, and expended threepence a night on her supper of that high- smelling, oleaginous delicacy dear to the palate of every chorus girl, fried fish, she would still earn nine and six- pence a week, which would be a great help to them. GREY DAYS 87 She was a thrifty little woman, so, stifling the feelings of misgiving that arose within him at thought of her being compelled to return alone long past midnight, he allowed her to have her own way and retain her c thinking part ' in Mr. Sims's popular drama. She was filled with gratitude towards him for having taken her from her uncongenial home, and, t>v reason of that, exhibited towards him some show of affection, but before many weeks had passed, the ghastly truth was forced upon him that he did not and could not love her. His marriage had been a foolish, romantic affair, brought about entirely by her affectation of unhappiness. Her conversation, vulgar and uneducated, jarred always upon him ; she was fond of the slang of the dressing-room, and almost before the novelty of marriage wore off, began to tire of her quiet daily life at Hounslow and look forward nightly to her journey to London. In the daytime his duties took him out a great deal, and she was thrown upon the society of the landlady, the wife of a man who was absent all the week, being an omnibus-conductor in London, while in the evening, as soon as Bertram came home, it was time for her to catch her train to Waterloo. Rosmead, sensitive, good-hearted, easy-going fellow that he was, could not close his eyes to the one glaring fact that he had made a terrible mistake — an error that he feared might cost him his future. He had, out of sheer kindness of heart, allied himself with this vain, feather- brained little figurante, and gradually found himself detest- ing the sight of her. At night, when she was absent, he strove hard at his table, as he had done in his bachelor days, writing short stories, a rondeau or two, a few sonnets, and a chanson in imitation of l Lorsque la Coquette Esp'e- rance' of his master, Musset. Success, however, came very slowly. Not one quarter he wrote could he dispose 88 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES of, and often, when alone, he felt inclined to abandon all thought of ever earning a living wage at anything else but journalism. As summer came and went, he saw plainly that Lena was dissatisfied. She had told him how more than one of 4 the girls ' at the theatre lived in snug little flats, and how one came everv night in her brougham, and it occurred to him that she was thinking that such a life was preferable to being the wife of a slave of the lamp. Yet with calm philosophv he smothered his feelings, and outwardly ex- hibited no sign of disappointment, annoyance, or bitterness of heart. Towards her he was just as affectionate, just as tender, as he had ever been, for he had taken a step blindly and foolishly, and the consequences were upon his own head, to bear them lightly or heavily, just as he chose. He struggled hard to bear them lightly, but it cost him many hours of serious thought as he trudged over those flat, dusty roads to Feltham, to Twickenham, or to Isle- worth in search of news, and it was not long before his brother journalists, all of whom had been introduced to Lena, shrewdly guessed the truth. In desperation he worked at night, never resting, even on Sundays, ever struggling to gain a foothold in the profession that would take him out of that dull, dreary round, yet always failing, until his forehead became lined, and his brave, honest heart callous and world-weary. One day in late autumn, however, Lena openly declared her disgust with her life and surroundings. She was sitting in their tiny living-room, with its cheap suite covered with red velvet, that bore so unmistakably the stamp of the shop where weekly payments were taken, and having finished her tea, prior to leaving for the theatre, was gazing thoughtfully into the fire. c I'm sick of this confounded hole,' she said, pouting. GREY DAYS 89 'It's simply disgusting. Nothing to see, and nowhere to go. In London you can take a ride on a 'bus ; but here, when you go out, you only have lonely country roads. It's horrible.' ' Ah ! ' he said, sighing, c I am sorry, dear, deeply sorry, that it is impossible for me to live in London. My work lies here, you know.' * But you're always stuck over your table, slaving away, puzzling your brain, and earning nothing,' she observed. Her words stung him to the quick. It was true he had striven hard, denying himself any hours of recreation, deny- ing her the hours he might have devoted to her entertain- ment, with one object in view, — namely, to earn sufficient to avoid the necessity of her having to go to London each night in all weathers to gain the modest sum of nine and sixpence weekly. He had tried, yet failure still dogged his footsteps. He was still unknown, still among the Great Unpublished. 4 I have done my best,' he answered, simplv and quietly. * It's a poor look out for us, I'm thinking,' she said bluntly. c If writing don't pay, then why don't you take to something else ? Of late you seem to be getting quite the old man.' 1 I know it,' he answered, striving to stifle the sigh which escaped him. He was working against fearful odds, and these cruel words of hers disheartened him. l If I could only get one book taken, I might then be able to move out of this place ; but at present I have no real success — none. One or two of my stories and a few verses have appeared in the magazines, but all anonymously. Therefore I'm still unknown.' c Name is everything nowadays, I suppose,' she said re- flectively. ' It must be, judging from the dreadful rot one reads by well-known people in the Sunday papers.' 90 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES He reflected that what she vulgarly denounced as c rot ' was often the finest and most finished fiction. She appre- ciated a Family Herald supplement; but one day when she had taken up Zola's c Stories for Ninon,' she had quickly flung it aside as stupid and uninteresting. c I'm trying to make a name,' he said, swallowing the resentment that arose within him, and speaking tenderly, but with a voice that trembled. ' Everyone at first must have their share of disappointments.' c And you're having the pretty full share of yours,' she smiled rather cynically. ' I really can't see the use of mak- ing your life a burden and slaving away like this for nothing. Surely a couple of years of trying to get on has shown you that it's hopeless. To my mind, you're only wasting time.' c Then you think that I shall never be successful ? ' he asked gravely. c It isn't possible, buried as you are down in this hole,' she declared. c To get your things taken you must be on the spot, and know the people. You'll never be known while you stick down here on this rag of a paper.' He bit his lip. l I shall make a change as soon as I can,' he said. c At present I know of no opening elsewhere.' c Well, I hope we'll get away from here very soon, for I'm utterly sick of this dreary life,' she said, and a moment later she left him to put on her jacket and hat. When she had hurried out to catch her train, he stood for a long time in the same attitude in which she had left him. He had hampered himself with her, a vain, coquet- tish, brainless girl of the people, the very last woman fitted to become the wife of a man of his culture and refinement. Yet he had not complained, even though the ghastly truth had been forced daily upon him. His marriage had been GREY DAYS 91 a wretched, dismal failure, but, with the instinct of the Bohemian, he merely shrugged his shoulders and let it pass. To be a true Bohemian one must have no sorrows, no regrets ; one must live in the present, and allow the past and the future to take care of themselves. Her discontent, and her doubt in his abilities, discouraged him more than any other adverse circumstance. He was downcast, un- manned, soul-sick. Lena had taken an earlier train to town than usual, on pretence that she wanted to purchase something before go- ing to the theatre, but really because she was anxious to get into that movement and bustle which was to her her very life. On arrival at Waterloo, she found she had yet two hours to spare before being due at the theatre, therefore she took an omnibus to Fleet Street to visit her mother. Her home was indeed a comfortless, meagre one. When she entered the single back room in which she had spent nearly the whole of her life, she found her mother, a small, stunted old lady in shabbv black, her hair still dark, not- withstanding her age, seated on a rickety chair by the fire, while at the further end stood the bed on which lay her invalid sister, moaning and coughing, with another smaller couch close by it. The carpet had long ago lost all traces of pattern, the old mahogany chest of drawers was of a style in vogue a century ago, chipped and broken, and upon that antiquated article of furniture stood a couple of shell- covered boxes, a stand of wool abominations supposed to represent flowers, and a large familv Bible, while the square table in the centre, rickety as was the other furniture, was covered with a piece of brown American cloth. A piece of string, stretched across the apartment from end to end, showed that sometimes clothes were hung there to dry, and the room smelt strongly of the pair of kippers which mother and daughter had eaten for their tea. The poor girl upon 92 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES the bed, wan, white-faced, and haggard from years of suffer- ing, tossed restlessly, murmuring some words, while her mother sat motionless, staring into the small, cheerless fire. Suddenly Lena burst into the room, greeting them both with scant courtesy, and, without inquiring after her sister's health, threw down her umbrella, drew a chair to the fire and grumbled that it gave forth no warmth. Long ago she had returned to her mother and confessed that she had married ; but she seldom visited them now, because, as she had declared to her husband, they continually wanted money out of her. Her invalid sister was always in need of some- thing, and she, now that she had left home, begrudged every penny she gave her. It was a sad home, that of Mrs. Loder. She was a God-fearing, patient woman, who had been well brought up, and who for years had striven and sacrificed herself for her children, until age had com- pelled her to relinquish all her work, save one set of cham- bers in Fig Tree Court. She had never seen Bertram Rosmead, because Lena had felt no inclination to bring her husband to that wretched, single, close-smelling room, but she had formed an opinion that he must be an upright man, and always expressed a hope that her daughter was happy. ' No, I'm not happy,' Lena declared, in answer to her mother's usual question. * What ? ' Mrs. Loder asked, surprised. ' Have you quarrelled, then ? ' ' No, not exactly quarrelled,' her daughter answered. ' But I've expressed my opinion pretty straight upon that wretched hole, Hounslow, and if he doesn't like it, well, he must lump it. That's all/ c It's the country, and much healthier there than here,' observed her sister, in a weak voice. 'Shut up,' cried Lena. 'You know nothing about it, GREY DAYS 93 and there's no necessity for you to interfere with my affairs. Look after your own.' c Lena ! Lena ! ' her mother remonstrated, c why do you come here and create discord when you know poor Mary is so ill?' c Then she shouldn't interfere,' Lena answered indig- nantly. c But I won't allow you to speak like that,' Mrs. Loder said, sharply. l If you've had a quarrel with your husband, it's no reason why you should come here, give vent to your feelings, and upset us. Husband and wife should settle their differences themselves.' 1 Ah ! ' cried Lena, angrily, ' I see I get no sympathy here. It's because I give you no money now, I suppose. If I had married a rich man, you'd have been all smiles, and I should have been the best girl in the world ; but because I'm poor, you don't want to see me.' 4 Lena ! Lena ! ' cried her mother, reproachfully. But Rosmead's wife snatched up her umbrella, and, without further word, flounced from the room. When she had gone, Mary turned restlessly upon her couch, and, sighing, said — 1 Lena always had a temper ; but since her marriage, she seems to have become unbearable.' ' Yes, dear,' her mother answered quietly, resuming her seat by the meagre fire. c She's cruel to speak like that after the years I have toiled for you all since your poor father's death. When he died I had no friend to give me a helping hand, and ever since that day I have been face to face with poverty.' ' Well, never mind, mother,' Mary said cheerfully. c Don't think of it. It's useless for you to worry yourself for nothing.' But Mrs. Loder only sighed. 94 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES Meanwhile Lena made her way through Fetter Lane into Holborn, and thence to Staple Inn, that small, old- world square of quaint, ancient houses, approached by a narrow court off the busy main thoroughfare. It has not the high repute of the Temple, Lincoln or Gray's Inn, its residents being a motley assortment of journalists, book- makers, outside stockbrokers and bankers' clerks, but it is nevertheless a quiet and convenient spot, preferable to the gloom of Bloomsbury — or Gloomsbury, as that faded quarter might justly be termed. Up the unlighted wooden stairway of one of the oldest of these houses Lena made her way, with a certaintv of tread which betrayed that she was no stranger to the place, and stopping before a door on the top floor, which bore in white letters the name l Sir Douglas Vizard,' rang the bell. There was the sound of a door banged to, a shuffling of feet, and then she was suddenlv confronted by a short, stout man of about sixty, florid-faced, with grey side- whiskers, who held a cheap paraffin lamp in his hand. c Well, who are you staring at, silly ? ' Lena asked, laugh- ing at his look of inquiry . 1 Lena ! ' he cried gaily next instant. ' Come in, come in. I really didn't recognise you in the dark.' And shuffling in his slippers, he led her into the small, old-fashioned, musty sitting-room, where she threw herself into an easv chair with the air of one perfectly at home, and leaning back, laughed merrily. 4 Wherever have vou been ? ' he asked, sinking into a seat opposite her. c You've not called for months.' ' I've been away in the country,' she answered vaguely, with a faint smile. c Alone ? ' he inquired, with a meaning leer. He was a gross, showy, over-dressed man, who wore large rings on GREY DAYS 95 his fat hands, a heavy gold albert, and a great single paste diamond in his shirt-front. This external exhibition of wealth impressed people in the City, for if the truth be told, the baronet was not very wealthv, and allowed his name to appear as director of certain companies and pocketed fees ranging from the nimble half-sovereign to the crisp and respectable five-pound note. His life had been full of ups and downs ever since he had inherited the empty title, but out of the latter he had managed to make a very comfortable income by imposing on the credulity of others, allowing no corner to his conscience, and acting with a boldness that was incredible. On his own account he had started one company which existed wholly in his imagination, but it brought him in sufficient to keep him in comparative luxury, to pay his subscription at the Constitu- tional Club, and otherwise to ( keep him on his legs.' Among the class to which Lena belonged Sir Douglas was well known, for he had been for years a patron of the theatres and music-halls, and had a fatherly habit of addressing all the girls as ' my dear.' To Lena he was evidently no stranger, for after she had been chatting with him for some time, she rose, and, without invitation, took a bottle of port and two glasses from the cupboard, carried them to the table, and observing that he was not so cour- teous towards her as he used to be, exclaimed — c 'Ere's luck,' and tossed off her wine at a single gulp. 1 Then you're not at the theatre now — eh ? ' Vizard said, in a wheezy voice, with his stereotvped smile, glancing at her wrist, and noticing that she still wore the cheap gold bangle he had given her two years ago. c Oh, yes, I am,' she answered. c I've been living in the country and coming to town every night.' c Quite the leading lady,' he observed, smiling. ■ I 96 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES haven't been to the Adelphi for an age. I can't stand melodrama at any price.' 1 That's the reason why I've come to look you up. We all thought you were dead, and I've got the fair hump of things in general.' 'Then you'll find I'm very much alive,' he answered, jumping up nimbly and crossing to her. ' Come give me a kiss, like a good little girl,' and he put his arm around her waist, and bent his gross, red face to hers. His touch brought back to her in an instant the recollec- tion of Rosmead, of her husband's calm patience, and of how deeply she had wronged him. 1 No,' she cried with sudden resolve, springing to her feet. ' No. Don't touch me.' 1 Why ? ' he demanded in amused surprise. 'Because — because I am married.' He regarded her in silence for a moment, then burst out laughing. CHAPTER IX THE MILLSTONE A few weeks after Lena's open expressions of disgust at her surroundings, Bertram one morning received a letter which caused him boundless delight. It was from the O'Donovan, the lazy, laughing Teddv, whom everybody at Julien's had known as c The Bouchon,' upon whose mouth had always been the ready question in the slang of the Quartier Latin, ' En secbez-vous un f ' l and whose love had met with such a sudden, tragic, and mysterious end. He had, it appeared, seen some anonymous French verses in Temple Bar, and recognising them as having been written by his friend when they were living together, had communicated with the editor, and the latter had for- warded his note. It was an urgent request that Bertram should come and see him, therefore that afternoon he took train to Kensing- ton, where he found his old friend installed in a handsome studio in Hornton Street, close to the High Street railway station. l The Grey House,' as it was called, was a strangelv-built Gothic residence of grey stone, presenting a rather severe, even ecclesiastical appearance, but inside it was furnished richly with artistic taste, a dining-room in old oak, a pretty drawing-room with fine Turkey carpet and rosewood furniture and white enamelled cosy-corners, while upstairs, occupying the whole of the area of the house, 1 ' Prenez- c vous un bock ? ' 7 9 8 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES was a great, high-roofed studio, with huge windows, grand piano, Eastern rugs, stands of armour, and a Moorish alcove draped with silken embroideries, forming a canopy supported by Arab spears. As the neat maid-servant ushered him in, he looked around the place in amazement. Truly, it was a luxurious place, and Teddv must have made enormous strides to be possessor of such an art collection. c What, ho, old chap ! ' shouted the O'Donovan, gaily, emerging from behind the easel, and giving his old friend a hearty hand-grip. ' So at last I've found you. Manton, bring some whiskey and soda, and I'm out if anybody calls,' he added, addressing the maid in the same breath. The girl withdrew, and the two men walked together across to the fire. c Well, and how's the world been using you ? ' the artist inquired, tossing his pallet and brushes aside. The model, a girl, whose neck and shoulders he had been painting, had slipped away into the tiny dressing-room at the end, and the two men were alone. ' Oh ! I suppose I mustn't complain,' Rosmead answered, smiling rather bitterly. c Not too well — eh ? ' his keen-eyed friend observed. 1 So you've taken to literature after your walking tour to the devil. Why did you leave Paris like that ? ' ' You needn't ask. You know the reason.' c Yes,' O'Donovan sighed. ' She was a heartless little cat to treat you so. And I never thought it of Jean — never.' ' No, no,' cried Rosmead, quickly. ' Don't talk of it now. It's all passed, and I have ceased to remember.' c Ceased to remember ! ' the artist repeated slowly. ' I wish I, too, could forget, old fellow,' and he sighed. 1 Marry, and then vou'll forget,' the journalist suggested. THE MILLSTONE 99 c What, are you married ? ' Teddy asked, surprised. c Yes,' he answered. c Why not ? Is it such an ex- traordinary occurrence for a man to marry ? ' ' Married, and taken to literature,' observed the artist. 4 No,' his friend said, correcting him. c I've taken to journalism, and hold a rather low-down position — with my usual ill-luck. I'm editor of the Hounslow Standard.' l A local rag — I beg its pardon — one of those which report mothers' meetings and big gooseberries — eh ? ' ' Yes,' laughed the friend of his student days. c When I returned to London I tried to get into literature by becom- ing a journalist. I took my first step, and have stuck there ever since.' c And you are married. Who's your wife ?' 'She's at the Adelphi Theatre — got a little part there.' 6 What's her name ? Is it on the bills ? ' ' No,' he answered hesitatingly. ' Her name is Lena Loder.' c Lena Loder,' he gasped, glaring in amazement for a moment at his friend ; then, as if recovering himself, he turned to the little Turkish coffee-stool upon which the maid had placed the tray, saying: c Have a whiskey, old chap,' and busied himself in mixing it. Rosmead had not noticed the artist's sudden change of manner when he had mentioned his marriage, and when they had drunk to each other, the O'Donovan again returned to the subject of literature. C I remember in the old days,' he said, l it used to be your ambition to write fiction. Have you done any ? ' c Lots, but I haven't yet succeeded,' the other answered. 1 What has been published has appeared in unknown papers, and I'm still without name ; therefore, without fortune. But you — how long have you been in London ? ' c Nearly two years now,' Teddy replied. c I worked pretty hard in Florence and Rome, then came here, and ioo SCRIBES AND PHARISEES found that my Academy pictures had already made me known. I do a good many portraits of well-known people, so I'm compelled to work in this museum. The fashion- able women who come here have an absurd idea that an artist's studio should be a sort of combined curiosity-shop and furniture show-room, so I screwed the guv'nor up to shelling out for the place, and here it is. What do you think of it ? ' c Beautiful,' the journalist declared, in admiration, com- paring the meagre sitting-room in which he worked with this fine apartment, where nothing was inharmonious, nothino- wanting-. ' It's an ideal studio ; the sort of room one reads about in the pages of " Ouida." 4 Yes,' its owner sighed. c For me it's far too elegant ; I much prefer a plain room, where I can wear slippers and an old coat ; a studio like ours on the Quai. By Jove ! those were happy days, Rosmead, old chap — ah! happy before that wretched tragedy which wrecked my life.' ' You've discovered nothing, I suppose ? ' inquired the journalist, in a tone of sympathy. ' Absolutely nothing,' he answered bitterly. ' The police could find no clue whatever to her identity. Who she was will now ever remain a mystery.' Cut off from artistic life as Rosmead had been by burial in that dreary suburban town, he knew nothing of his friend's recent successes, of the notable picture of a well- known societv woman in last year's Academy, which had given him such fame as a portrait-painter, or that he was now one of the lions of the season. He glanced at the mantelshelf and saw, stuck in the frame of the mirror, cards for all sorts of societv junketings ; but it was not until he had made a tour of the studio and inspected some of his friend's recent works that he realised how great was the stride he had made. THE MILLSTONE ici Upon one easel was a life-sized portrait, three-quarter length, of a thin-featured, rather ugly, but nevertheless striking woman, in black. All the character in the face had been brought out in lifelike detail, and although the dress was unrelieved by colour, the portrait showed genius that was unmistakable. In reply to Bertram's question, his friend mentioned the lady's name, a name which he knew by repute as that of the foremost among women novelists. c And this,' continued O'Donovan, turning an unfinished canvas which had its face to the wall. c This is Lady Elvaston, wife of Sir Charles Elvaston, the pro- prietor of the Evening Telegraph. That's the kind of paper you ought to be on,' he added. ' Ah ! I only wish I could get on it ; I should then be able to make progress. As it is, however, I'm handicapped by being hidden away, with a millstone around my neck.' c Your wife ? ' inquired Teddy, looking sharply at him. c My wife ! Why do you ask ? ' Rosmead exclaimed quickly, with affected indifference. c Because — well, because you seem to regret your mar- riage, my dear old fellow, that's all,' his friend answered straightforwardly. ' Now, in the old days we never had any secrets, you and I ; therefore there's no reason why we should have any now. Tell me plainly what troubles you.' Rosmead hesitated. He had not come there to whine over his own personal troubles. He had never done so in Paris, and he had not intended to do so in London. But he could trust Teddy, for was he not his very best friend ? had he not had hundreds of opportunities for testing the firmness of his friendship and loyalty, and never once had he found him wanting ? So again he cast himself into his chair, and related briefly how he had struggled and striven, how he had laboured 102 SCRJBES AND PHARISEES night and day in his desperate endeavour to gain a foothold in literature, and how all his efforts had been unavailing. He had merely been sowing the wind. Without hiding a single fact from the merry-eyed Irishman who sat before him, grave-faced in attentive attitude, he explained how he had first met Lena, and how, in order to save her from ruin, he had married her. 4 1 did not love her,' he cried emphatically. c I cannot — I shall never love her. Already she's tired of me, tired of the life, which she declares is dull and joyless. She casts into my face all my failures, reproaching me for being such a fool as to trv to win fame. For that I hate her — yet she is my wife, and, as such, it is my duty to do my best for her.' Teddy sighed. He saw that his friend was terribly in earnest. It was this wife of his who was hampering him. He was certainly not the same happy, light-hearted Bertram that he had known in the dear old Ouartier, but, grave- faced, heavy-eyed, and somewhat pale, he had now the countenance of a desperate man. 'Your marriage seems, my dear old chap, to have been a mistake — a terrible mistake,' he said decisively. ( Any- one can see from what you say that she doesn't love you. She merely married you out of caprice — merely in order to gain her own ends. At the moment when she accepted your offer she was in need of a protector, and has just used you as her tool. But why worry yourself over such a woman ? ' he asked. ' She has not your interests at heart as the wife of a professional man should have, and she's utterly worthless.' 1 Do you think so ? ' the unhappv journalist asked. c I know it,' the artist assured him emphatically, quali- fying his assertion next second by adding : ' At least, what you've told me proves that she must be.' THE MILLSTONE 103 1 Then what do you advise ? ' the other asked, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. 1 The reply is obvious. If you allow her to constantly worry you, to upset your work by continually grumbling, then your chance of success will slip from you for ever. You're not the first man by hundreds who's been ruined by a vain, unsympathetic wife. You can never make a name while you have a woman of her character ever at your elbow.' Rosmead pondered. 1 You suggest that I ought to leave her — eh ? ' he asked at last. O'Donovan raised his eyebrows with expressive gesture, and answered — * It's the only course, if you really mean to get on. You are quite right in saying that you have a millstone around your neck. If you're not careful, the dead weight will sink you. She can't love you, or it would be impossible for her to act as she does — utterly impossible. Her free- dom would no doubt please her, and you'd then be able to turn out better work, for your mind would be clear.' c But my conscience wouldn't,' answered Rosmead. c That means that I must abandon her. No,' he added huskily, c I've made a fool of myself by marrying, but it shall never, never be flung into my face that I cast off" my wife in order to gain my freedom and to achieve fame.' c Then you love her ? ' the artist observed, with knit brows. c Love her ! ' he echoed. ' I hate and detest the sight of her.' 1 Then why not part ? ' c No, old chap, for two reasons that's impossible,' he replied. l First, my slender salary is insufficient to keep us both apart, and secondly I could never bring myself to cast 104 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES her off merely because she stands in the way of my personal advancement. She's my wife, and, as such, I must bear the burden.' The artist looked full into his friend's face, sighed deeply, but no word escaped him. Of all his friends Bertram Rosmead, the man without talent and without money, had been the closest. He could not bear to see him crushed and disheartened in this manner. c I'll tell you what I'll do,' he cried, suddenly jumping up, as a happy thought occurred to him. c You must get on a better paper than that suburban sheet of yours, that's agreed. Now, Lady Elvaston is coming to give me another sitting to-morrow. I know her very well — dine there, and that sort of thing — so I'll ask her whether her husband couldn't put vou on his staff.' 1 On the Evening Telegraph ! ' cried Rosmead, joyously, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. c Ah ! if he only would. It's one of the oldest of the eyening papers, and certainly holds highest rank. But I fear they take only the most experienced men/ c Never admit ignorance of anything, my dear boy. I never do,' declared Teddv, airily, as was his wont. c I'll have a talk with her to-morrow. We are very good friends, and we'll see if we can't work the oracle for you. Then some day when you write art criticisms, you may perhaps be able to give me a leg up — see? Hurrah for County Cork ! ' And Rosmead joined in his friend's merry laughter, even though he had but little hope that such a course as was proposed would be of any avail. His misgivings in that direction, however, had no foun- dation. True to his promise, the fashionable voung painter put the matter before Lady Elvaston, who was well-known in London as an enthusiastic lion-hunter, with the result THE MILLSTONE 105 that Bertram Rosmead, whose sole experience of the Press had been obtained upon that obscure, ill-printed little sheet, found himself one morning attached to the reporting staff of one of London's most respectable, most prominent, and most Conservative newspapers. Unlike the local reporter, whose ambition it is to turn out as much c copv ' as possible, the reporter on a London daily strives to condense his information into the very J j smallest possible compass. The Evening Telegraph was not a large sheet, therefore the news had to be given in paragraphs, and so small was the amount of work done by the reporting staff, and so great was the grumbling among its members when any little extra duty had to be performed, that the sub-editors, of whom there were three, declared that their colleagues were l paid to look miserable.' Bertram Rosmead quickly discovered that, while his salary was doubled, his duties were mere child's play in comparison with those at Hounslow. He had taken a set of chambers in Dane's Inn, that chilling, dismal little paved court off the Strand, at the back of St. Clement's Danes church, a change which caused Lena the most profound satisfaction. The rooms, being situated at the back, were gloomy and prison-like, with ground-glass windows to hide the squalid outlook, and constituted as frowsy an abode as even the most dry-as-dust barrister could have wished for. It consisted solely of a small entrance-hall, a living-room, and one bedroom, and there being no room for a servant, Lena declared her intention to manage by herself rather than live in any part less central or further removed from that thoroughfare bv her beloved, the Strand. Therefore they were compelled to cook, eat, and live in that one close back room, the faded carpet of which was worn into holes, with shabby, dirt-grimed furniture whence the stuffing escaped, the two book-cases at either end being filled with io6 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES musty leather-covered tomes of the law which had been fino-ered and pored over by generations of students who had previously tenanted the place. Lena, of course, quickly made the dulness of her home an excuse for going out, a fact which her husband did not fail to notice. She was very often absent when he returned home — visiting her mother, or married sister, she said. And he believed her. CHAPTER X A WORLD OF l TAPE ' AND ' FLIMSY ' Work on the Evening Telegraph did not at first admit of much time for literary pursuits. From the day on which he entered upon his duties he became much attached to the chief sub-editor, Mr. Fownes, a dark-bearded, easy- going;, good-tempered man of about forty-five, who had himself gained his experience on the provincial press, and had, after twenty years of toil, gained that plum of journal- ism, the control of the news department of London's best evening paper. Upon Mr. Fownes rested the responsi- bility of everything. The editor was a mere figure-head, a man of very meagre literary attainment, who, however, bearing the hall-mark of Balliol, was accepted as a genius ; while the leader-writers were so many pawns, who consid- ered themselves too superior even to parley with the news department. Seated in his chair, with his two assistants on either side and his row of speaking tubes at his elbow, Mr. Fownes selected what news should appear in the paper, gave his orders to the various departments in some- thing of the manner of the captain of a ship, for at a word from him the contents-bill changed as if by magic, or the ponderous, roaring machines below poured forth their tons of copies of the journal per hour, automatically gummed, folded, and counted into quires. In that sub-editor's room there was eternal bustle and turmoil. Half-a-dozen telegraph instruments clicked on 108 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES monotonously night and day, Sundays and weekdays, regis- tering on the c tape ' the news of the world ; the private wire to the office in the City ticked out each hour, trans- mitting the latest from the Stock Exchange ; hosts of men of all kinds, the hangers-on of journalism, entered every moment with some unimportant item of news which they dropped into a large basket \ streams of telegraph messen- gers were constantly coming and going ; men would open the door, shout some cabalistic word, and close it again without waiting for response ; and reporters would enter, fling their single sheet of manuscript into the basket, curse the weather, and remark that it was time to return home. It was here where the real work of the paper was per- formed, in that dingy room, with its high-up windows, its paper-strewn floor, its panelled walls, wherein lurked many insects of a variety not unknown to the body of mankind, and where hung a coat so encrusted with dust that its original colour was indistinguishable. Has anyone ever seen a sub-editor's room without a frayed and dusty coat hanging upon a nail ? Legend had it that this particular coat belonged to an assistant sub-editor who one day mys- teriously disappeared, leaving no trace behind except the week's salary due to him and his office coat. He was believed to have been associated with the Nihilists, because he had on one occasion spent three days in St. Petersburg. Throughout the day this sub-editorial trinity worked on, examining the reports as they came in, preparing some for the printers and rejecting others, eating their meals without moving from their chairs, and smoking briar-pipes until in the afternoon the air became so thick with smoke and the combined odours of the three meals that only those with strong stomachs could venture into the den. The chief sub-editor's chair was irreverently termed l the perch ' by all the staff, because he sat on a sort of raised dais, the A WORLD OF ■ TAPE ' AND * FLIMSY ' 109 whim of some previous sub-editor, who had had it placed there because the machinery beneath should not jar him. The duties in that office had probably upset his nerves. In all that busy hive of journalism however, the reporting department was the most interesting galaxy of talent. It was perhaps unique. The chief reporter, whose duty it was to lounge about in a tall hat during the morning and attend the House of Commons in the afternoon, was a thin, rather sallow-faced Scotchman, who would have ' taken a note ' of the appearance of the Archangel as calmly as he sat in his box in the Gallery and scribbled his hieroglyphics at ' question-time.' He was a clever journalist, who had cultivated the art of being grimly sarcastic at the sub-editor's expense, whereupon the latter would, in revenge, cast his next contribution to the day's news into the huge waste- paper basket, or give it to the junior reporter to re-write c without so much gas.' The second reporter was a person of much distinction. He was an elegant young gentleman, of distinguished ap- pearance and superior manners, whose chief labour seemed to consist in training his long, fair moustache, and who occa- sionally attended a meeting with the air of conferring a favour upon the sub-editors by doing so. He had earned the appellation of ' The Worm ' — how no one knew ; perhaps because he was once rebellious, and had c turned.' Sometimes, in excess of zeal, he would write a l bit of description ' of some civic function, but this was gen- erallv noteworthy by reason of atrocious spelling, big words wrongly applied, and flowery aphorisms which the sub- editors promptly struck out, the long-suffering trinity being afterwards roundly abused for their well-meaning efforts to prevent the journal being held up to derision. Next in rank was a tall, thin, fair-bearded young man, with hollow cheeks, who wore a rusty hat of the stove-pipe no SCRIBES AND PHARISEES shape, and an overcoat in the warmest weather. He went through the world with a wounded, grief-stricken expres- sion, which seldom, if ever, relaxed. He had some secret sorrow, it was believed, and was never known to smile, unless it was on one celebrated occasion when the chief reporter, in leaving a meeting hurriedly in unwonted en- thusiasm to l catch an edition,' trod upon the new silk hat of the junior reporter. This glossy headgear was the first of its kind the youth had ever had, and he brought it back to the office under his arm. It was a strangely-conducted organ, this — the gravest and greatest of London's evening journals. No one had ever been known to be discharged from its staff. The junior reporter already referred to, a youth who had served his apprenticeship to that profession, was an interesting specimen of its product, besides being a common object of the Strand. During his apprenticeship he had mainly dis- tinguished himself by his sharp passages of arms with the head-printer, a very stout, grey-haired man, who had once been a sea-going skipper, whose motto was ' Time and this blanked Circular wait for no man,' and who sent the paper to press six times a day with the regularity of the synchro- nised clock over his head. This youth smoked cigarettes furiously, and, during the winter, used to be deputed by the reporting staff to stay in the office and keep up a good fire in their room. He was, in fact, stoker to the establishment. So enthusiastically eager had he been to learn his profession that, on the day he completed his six-years' term, the man- ager screwed up courage to tell him that he must consider his engagement at an end. Knowing, however, that such a course was entirely an innovation, this imperturbable youth still remained, and for the past three years had continued to draw his salary regularly, and even successfully demand an increase. A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY 1 in His opinion of the staff was amusing. He declared that thev were c a scratch lot,' and that between them thev were not equal to the task of composing an advertisement of quack medicine. It was true that the training on the Evening Telegraph was decidedly unique. Taught to write almost next to nothing, the reporters, if the weather did not happen to be pleasant, quickly fell into the commend- able habit of strolling along the Strand as far as Short's, or Romano's, spending half-an-hour there, and returning to the office, stating that the meeting they had attended was not worth reporting. On the other hand, had the last trump sounded, the industrious trio of sub-editors would have brought out an t Extra Special,' containing c Feeling in the Citv,' and calmly awaited the arrival of c Latest Details ' on one or other of the c tapes.' Among such surroundings Bertram Rosmead quickly became miserable. The whole reporting staff at once sneered at his inability to write shorthand swiftly, and poked fun at his reports when they appeared in the paper. The elegant young; man with the moustache, who consid- ered himself a critic of literature, music, the drama, and everything else beside, having once written an appreciative notice of some Christmas cards, was particularly sarcastic at Rosmead's expense, for it being whispered about the office that he wrote verse and fiction, he was at once dubbed c our special novelist.' But this young fair-mous- tached critic was essentially a Hn-de-siecle journalist, fault- lessly dressed, who studied whole phrases from Ruskin and Carlvle, and slung them bodily into his conversation or his notices of the Lord Mayor's Show, the Dog Show at the Palace, the Military Tournament, or any of those other hardy annuals. In his own abilities he was perfectly confident. Whenever he worked, it was for the purpose of exhibiting his great talent and profound superior know- ii2 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES ledge. And if the argus-eyed Fownes dared to alter a single word, this superior journalist would enter the room and roundly abuse him. Mr. Fownes, worthy man, had controlled the destinies of an influential paper when his youthful critic was sucking a coral consoler in his cradle, and usually treated such caustic remarks bv walking from the room and having an interview with the foreman-printer. So well regulated was that office that if a reporter inter- viewed anybody, or endeavoured to obtain an item of fresh news by unwonted enterprise, the others, consumed by jealousy, immediately howled him down. There were weeks when the rebellious reporting staff refused to speak with the sub-editors, or when the burly foreman-printer, after consigning the whole staff to asphyxiation by sulphur, worked on just as he liked, and sent the paper to press without any fresh news. Once when this occurred and he was remonstrated with, he gruffly replied — c What's the good of giving the readers too much news ? It spoils 'em for the future. If they can't find sufficient in our sheet, let 'em spend an extra ha'penny and buy an Echo. They pay their money and take their choice. What more do thev want ? ' Before a fortnight had elapsed, Rosmead's position had become almost untenable among all these conflicting in- terests and petty jealousies. From the junior reporter, who sat by a fire huge enough to roast a sheep, with his legs resting on a broken chair, pipe in mouth, and reading a stray volume of Dickens, to the thin-faced Scot, who took a morning snooze in the chair with one arm, the only easy one the reporters' room possessed, they all conspired to bring himself and his work into derision. Alone among them all, the patient, clear-headed, keen-witted Fownes, who had read and admired his verses in the magazines, remained his friend. A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY' 113 Almost Rosmead's first engagement of importance was the investigation of a threatened serious strike of gas- workers out at Beckton, in the far east of London, a labour movement which would leave half the metropolis in dark- ness, and so well did he perform the task that his article was quoted by the Times and several other papers. For this he received commendation from Sir Charles Elvaston, a fact which at once aroused the bitterest hatred and jealousy of all his colleagues. Of such is the world of journalism. But treating their sneers and sarcasm with contempt, and gravely plodding on, content in the know- ledge that his chief, Mr. Fownes, held him in respect, he continued to perform his duties. Many times portions of his reports or interviews had the distinction of being quoted by the morning papers, much, of course, to the chagrin of those interesting and talented gentlemen who were l paid to look miserable.' With his evenings free, Bertram continued his literary struggles at home. Before leaving Hounslow he had com- menced a novel, a strange, weird story of man's betrayal and woman's love, which he had named c Silent Fetters,' and some three months after joining the Evening Telegraph, there appeared a paragraph in the papers, saying that this novel was shortly to be issued by a publishing firm, one of the best-known in London. Even then Lena was not enthusiastic. She called him a fool for his pains, for stick- ing for ever at his desk, and laughed derisively at the sum he had received for the entire rights of the book. It was twenty pounds. She called it paltry, and was annoyed because it went to liquidate debts he had contracted at Hounslow. She wanted new dresses with it, but he was obdurate, and paid the bills. The book duly appeared, a two-shilling novel of that class popular a few years ago as the c yellow-back,' with a 8 ii 4 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES striking picture cover, bearing his name in large red letters. With what pride he placed a copy before him and surveyed it ; with what pride he saw it displayed on the bookstalls at Charing Cross and the other termini ; with what pride he was importuned by the bookstall clerk at St. Pancras to buy his own book ! The feeling of satisfaction at seeing one's first book on sale can only be fully appreciated by the man to whom it is the crowning result of years and years of toil and tribulation, of disappointment and despair. But the Atheneeum dismissed it in half-a-dozen lines of hostile criticism, and the reporters of the Evening Telegraph were jubilant. So carried away were they by enthusiastic satisfaction, that they cut out the notice and gummed it to the wall. The crisis of their antagonism was, however, reached when, one dav, on account of one of the sub-editors leav- ing to direct the news department of the Pall Mall Gazette, Rosmead was appointed to his vacant chair. They then refused to allow their ' copy ' to be cut about and improved upon by their late colleague, whom they declared was an arrant outsider, and very soon matters came to such a crisis, that Mr. Fownes was reluctantly compelled to take counsel with Sir Charles, with the result that the reporting staff received a snub which lingered long in the memory of its dissatisfied members. During all this time, however, Rosmead continued to work at home, slaving ever beneath his lamp. His first book had been a qualified success. With the exception of the Atheneeum, and perhaps one or two papers which review superficially and make it a rule to publish a smart and abusive paragraph at a new author's expense, the notices of the book had, on the whole, been appreciative. It was by no means a great work. The plot, they said, was good, but the story lacked characterisation, and its denouement was A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY* 115 not sufficiently striking. A pirate publisher had reprinted it in America, and in several New York journals he found fairly good reviews of it. At last he had become a novelist. Twenty pounds for eight months' work is not a high rate of remuneration, and he plainly saw that, before he could become a professional author, he must earn considerably more than that. Therefore he set to work, disregarding Lena's incessant grumbling, and in his gloomy sitting-room wrote every night, and through the whole day on Sundays. He had commenced another book, in which he hoped to remedy the defects pointed out by the reviewers, a book which he intended should place him on a footing with pop- ular writers, and towards that end he strove, buoyed by a new-born enthusiasm which his sulking, pouting wife did not share. The c Harbour Lights ' had come to an end, and Bertram had caused her to relinquish her engagement. There was no real reason why she should be absent every evening, now that he was earning sufficient to keep them in the necessa- ries of life, therefore, much against her wish, he forced her to leave the Adelphi. No sooner had he done this than he regretted it. 1 Now that you won't allow me to go on the stage any more,' she said one evening, l you'll be able to take me sometimes to the music-halls. You know how fond I am of them. There's lots of tickets at your office — Mr. Fownes told me so.' He hesitated. Evenings at music-halls, those insane entertainments which he so abominated, meant loss of valuable time, loss, perhaps, of his chance of making a name. ' But I can't work at my book and go out too,' he said. ' Oh ! of course,' she cried, her eyes flashing with anger u6 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 'You always place your writing before my enjoyment. You begrudge me any little pleasure, and would like to see me as staid as an old woman of fifty.' ' No,' he answered quietly, ' I begrudge you nothing, Lena.' c But are you such an idiot as to suppose that I can stick for ever in these gloomy old chambers, and never go out ? You've got your work — such as it is — to interest you. I've got nothing.' c You can surely read a little,' he said, reflecting that for months he had never seen her with any book or news- paper in her hand, except the Referee. ' Read be hanged,' she answered petulantly. c I'm not a bookworm, and never shall be. You've chosen to make me give up the only bit of pleasure in life I had, therefore you must take me about of an evening.' c But can't you see, dear, that my advancement is to your own interest ? ? he pointed out. c Surely you would like to be able to have a nice house in the country and live happily ? ' ' I've had enough of the country,' she answered promptly. ' You'll never get me to live in it again. The Strand's good enough for me.' He sighed. She had not a grain of sympathy for him, even though she had seen him toiling night after night, seeking that will-o'-the-wisp, success. She had expressed no satisfaction when his first book had been published ; she had never read it, and laughed when she confessed to her friends her utter ignorance of its contents. Selfish and narrow-minded, she had not profited by it, therefore it did not interest her in the least degree. 1 Surely a comfortable little house in the country, where we could live happily without my absence daily at the office, would be preferable to these two rooms,' he said. A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY' 117 ' I am only doing my best to get on, Lena, as every other man should do who has a wife.' ' And you earn twenty pounds after eight months' work,' she laughed contemptuously. ' My pay was small enough, but I earned more than that.' The fact was, alas ! too true. A supernumerary at a theatre was paid at a higher rate than fiction. How could he ever hope to make a living as a novelist ? ' I am but beginning,' he observed, rather sadly, stifling the sigh which rose within him. 'Think of some men earning thousands a vear at fiction.' 'You'll never be one of them,' she replied coldlv, with a sneer. ' All of them have influential friends, and have greater talent than vou have. What's the use of trying to accomplish things that are impossible.' 1 Read the reviews of my book,' he answered, taking from his table a number of sheets of paper pinned together, whereon he had gummed the cuttings, and handing them to her. ' I don't want to bother mv head over your wretched old reviews,' she cried, casting them from her. ' Such twaddle onlv makes vou vain, and causes you to fancy you can write. But you'll never make a mark, for you ain't got it in you. If vou had, your stories would have been taken long ago.' ' Your words are certainly extremely inspiring,' he observed, with some asperity. ' 1 only tell you the truth,' she answered. ' I'm your wife, and you ought to take mv advice.' ' And give up all thought of writing fiction — eh : Relinquish all hope of being able to earn a living without daily toil at a newspaper office ? Never ! ' 'No,' she cried fiercely. 'You care nothing for me — absolutely nothing. You sit here scribbling away night n8 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES after night, while I — I can mope or amuse myself as best I can. You've even taken my profession from me.' c Profession ! ' he exclaimed, with a bitter smile. c Is the mere walking; on to a stage and striking an attitude to be o o o elevated to a profession? ' c It's as honourable as yours,' she protested. c If you had not taken me away from it, I should have had a speak- ing part in the new piece — I'm sure I should.' 1 The theatre is no place for an honest, respectable wife,' he answered. 'Don't you think I can take care of myself?' she retorted. l Trust me ; I wasn't born yesterday.' c I have always trusted you, Lena,' he replied calmly. ' Then why do you doubt me now ? ' she inquired, standing before him defiantly, with knit brows and a hard- ness about her mouth. ' I have expressed no doubt. You have left the theatre because I wished it — that's all.' 1 And you'll take me to the music-hall of an evening because I wish it,' she said decisively. ' You've wasted time enough over your miserable scribbling.' 4 If I spend my time at those inane variety entertain- ments, my chance will slip by,' he said. ' Cannot you remain in patience a little longer, until I have finished this book.' ' Another six months,' she observed, grumbling. c No, I don't mean to bury myself, if you do ; so that's straight.' ' It isn't necessary for you to bury yourself, as you choose to term it,' he responded. c You go out in the daytime to see your friends, and I don't complain. I do not expect you to remain indoors alone always. I merely ask you to allow me to do my work at night.' 4 I'm content enough to stay at home in the daytime, if A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY' 119 I go out of an evening,' she said. c I must go out at night. I've always been used to it, and I mean to go.' 1 Then you are determined to ruin all my prospects ? ' 1 Prospects ! ' she echoed. c Pretty prospects they are.' He was silent. The prophetic words Teddy had uttered on that afternoon in his studio recurred to him. His friend had declared that this selfish, unsympathetic woman would ruin him, and it seemed as if his misgivings were likely to be fulfilled. He had manfully borne up against her ill- temper, her eternal grumbling, her bitter opposition to all his well-meaning projects, her discouraging apathy towards all his exertions, because he considered it dishonourable to leave her after having contracted marriage. He had borne his sorrows as only a calm, philosophical man can bear them ; he had fought a valiant fight with his conscience, and still held mastery over himself. Teddy O'Donovan was a frequent visitor at his chambers, but Lena hated him. On several occasions lately he had invited her husband to dine at the Saturday house-dinner at the Savage Club, but Lena had always shown such un- willingness to allow him any little recreation in which she herself could not participate, that he had been compelled to decline. Teddy pointed out that at the Savage were men who could be of use to him ; but Lena cared nothing, absolutely nothing, for her husband's future so long as she had sufficient money for her cheap finery. In everything where Bertram was concerned his wife's inordinate selfish- ness asserted itself, until she lived for herself alone, caring for no one, heedless of all except her own pleasure and per- sonal appearance, the latter consisting of powdering her face until the mixture of glycerine and chalk might almost have been scraped from her nose and cheeks. Whenever Teddy visited at Danes' Inn he could not fail to recognise the dismal state of affairs, and often sighed 120 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES to witness how cruelly unsympathetic was Rosmead's wife. In the old days, his fellow-student had been a merry, rol- licking fellow, with buoyant heart and laughing face. And now Bertram had become strangely silent, morose, and heavv-eved. It was this ignorant, worthless, doll-faced 1 walking lady ' whom he had so foolishly made his wife, who was wrecking his future, sapping his life. Teddy hated and detested her. Bertram looked up at her after a long silence. c Well,' she asked. c Aren't you going to take me out to-night ? ' 1 No,' he answered, c not to-night. To-morrow. I've got some verses to write to-night.' c Oh, confound your wretched French poetry. Nobody reads it,' she said, with an angry sneer. c Then I shall go out bv myself.' j j c Very well,' he answered. c But you know it is against my wish that you should go out at night alone.' c Well, if you won't come with me, I must go alone. I mean to go out at night and see a bit of life — and even you shan't stop me.' Then, without another word, she went into the adjoining room, put on her things, and left without wishing him good-bye. When the door had banged, he sighed, passing his hand wearily across his darkened brow, then sank into the chair at his table, and, after much painful effort, wrote a short but beautiful poem, of which the following was the first verse : — Rien rfest doux que l'amour, aucun bien n'est si cher j Pres de lui le miel meme a la bouche est amer. Celle qui n'aime point Venus sur toutes choses, Elle ne connait pas quelles fleurs sont les roses. He sat writing until the clock of St. Clement Danes, haying chimed c Home, Sweet Home,' slowly and A WORLD OF 'TAPE' AND 'FLIMSY* 121 solemnly struck the midnight hour. This aroused him. The roar of traffic in the Strand, the beating of London's heart, had died away. He flung down his pen in surprise that his wife had not returned. A thought occurred to him that she was probably waiting at her mother's for him to fetch her, so after a few minutes, he read through what he had written, blew out his lamp, and went out. He rang the bell at the grimy old house in Gough Square, and after a long time the summons was answered by Mrs. Loder, aghast at seeing her son-in-law. Lena had not been there that evening, she said, and he turned heavily awav, retracing his steps to his gloomv chambers. He in- quired of the old commissionaire who acted as night- watchman, and was informed that she had not entered the Inn. Then he climbed the dirty stairs to his rooms, and waited in sorrow and patience. Soon after one o'clock he heard a latchkey thrust into the door, and his wife entered. Her hat was slightly awrv, her hair dishevelled, her face flushed, her veil torn. She stood for a few moments in the doorway of the dingv old room, looking at him, laughing stupidlv, and swaying slightly. Instantly the horrible truth dawned upon him, paralysing his senses. He stood in silence, regarding her with ineffa- ble disgust. She was drunk. From her glove there slipped a piece of green paper, which fluttered to the ground. Her husband picked it up, and found it was the coun- terfoil of an admission ticket to that gilded and car- peted promenade of Aspasia, the grand circle at the Empire. CHAPTER XI c TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH ' 4 So you have returned ? ' Rosmead exclaimed severely, regarding her with ineffable loathing. c You've been to the Empire alone, and come back to me in this disgraceful condition ? ' c What condition ? ' she asked defiantly, advancing into the room with uneven steps, and sinking into a chair. c The condition you are now in — one of absolute intoxi- cation,' he retorted bitterly. c You — you say I'm drunk,' his wife cried, her eyes aflame. c You're a cruel beast ! You take away all pleasure in life, and then abuse me. I'm not drunk. It's a lie.' He turned from her. c Faugh ! ' he ejaculated. i Don't seek to hide your vile, insufferable habits like that. I surely know when a person is drunk or not.' c I tell you I'm not drunk,' she shouted, stamping her foot. He shrugged his shoulders, nauseated, answering : c A man intoxicated is bad enough, but a drunken woman is the most wretched, debasing spectacle on God's earth.' c I'm a debasing spectacle — am I ? ' and she laughed stupidly. c I'm disgusted,' he declared furiously. c For this there's no extenuating circumstance. I told you I'd take you out to-morrow night ; yet you put on your smart clothes, 'TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH' 123 and go alone to a place where even I myself wouldn't take you.' 1 You're far too prudish,' she observed huskily. c You're getting an old man before you're a young one.' 'Your action to-night,' he said, standing before her, ' shows me plainly that vou have neither self-respect nor respect for me, vour husband. Such a spectacle as you present is absolutely disgraceful. You have no soul above comic operas and music-halls.' 1 Go on,' she said, laughing. ' I'm all attention. You don't care for entertainments yourself, and you're jealous that I should enjov mvself.' 1 Enjov vourself ! ' he echoed. 'Is going to a music- hall, mixing with a crowd of the fastest women in London, and getting intoxicated, your idea of enjoyment ? If so, your tastes must be very debased ones.' c Mv tastes are as cultivated as yours,' she protested, with faulty articulation, leaning back in the armchair and blinking at him. ( Because I happened to meet one of the girls at the theatre, and she stood me drink, vou say I'm drunk. Why, you drink more in a day than I do in a month.' This was a barefaced untruth, for he drank nothing be- vond his glass of bitter at his meals. But when his wife was excited, all reason left her, and knowing this, he did not attempt to differ. ' I'm surprised, Lena,' he exclaimed — l utterly disgusted at vour conduct. Surelv this is not the manner in which a respectable woman should conduct herself! I've done my best, and have tried to elevate vou ; but you seem only to sink lower and lower, until now you've lost ever) 7 atom of self-respect.' c Elevate me,' she cried. ' You ! You're a prettv one to talk of elevating anybody, a stony-faced cur like you ! ' 124 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 1 You are complimentary, indeed,' he observed, his face growing paler in anger. c And so are you, when you tell me I'm drunk.' c I wish to make no further comment upon that point to-night,' he replied harshly. ' I merely say that it is disre- spectful towards me, your husband, to go drinking in low bars at midnight with this girl, whoever she is.' ' Do you want me to go the whole evening without a drink when I'm thirsty, merely because you don't like me to have one ? You'll want me to go to chapel next.' ' A woman who had love or respect for her husband would neither act nor talk in this manner,' he retorted bit- terly, his grave, serious face darkening as he strode up and down the shabby room. ' If your mother knew, she would sympathise with me.' ' No,' his wife sneered, ' you're gravely mistaken there. She regrets that I should have married such a miserable hound as you — a man who loves his books and his wretched scribbling better than his wife.' She spoke the truth. Yes ; he loved his work better than he loved her, because she had never shown the slight- est interest in his projects, nor an atom of sympathy towards him. This discovery that she drank filled him with the most intense loathing. He hated all persons who had no control over themselves in the matter of drinking, and the publican was his pet abomination, whom he was never tired of denouncing. He was by no means narrow-minded, but in journalism he saw about him so many men and women ruined by drink, that spirituous liquors caused him loathing. In Paris his set drank heavilv enough, but their thin red wine at four sous never intoxicated like the sulphurous, poisonous liquids which London publicans are allowed to sell under the names of whiskey, brandy, and gin. Half the whiskev sold in London public-houses is a spirit which 'TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH' 125 has a potency to send men and women temporarily insane. To its agency half the crimes of the metropolis are due, and to its agency more than half the poverty and wretchedness. In many a London bar a man or woman can get mad drunk for fourpence. Even as Rosmead passed, he could smell the nauseating odour of his wife's breath. 1 I loved you,' he burst forth bitterly, c I loved you until, by your ill-temper, selfishness, and utter disregard for my welfare, vou crushed every spark of affection or respect from my soul. And now you have taken to drink and music-halls.' I It's entirely your fault,' she said, in a reproachful, lan- guid voice, her eyes half closed. ' If vou had stirred your- self about a bit and taken me out, I should never have wanted to have gone about bv myself. I told vou so long ago.' I I have nothing of which to reproach myself,' he an- swered gravely. ' 1 have laboured in vain in my endeav- ours to make vou view life in a proper manner, but you are daily sinking lower and lower, and would drag me down with you if vou could. But understand me,' he cried, his eyes flashing as he stood before her. c I hate and detest a woman who drinks, and if you continue, you'll no longer find a home with me.' She looked at him unsteadily for a few seconds, her shifty eves wide open in surprise. Then, with the same stupid, hideous grin of intoxication, she answered — c Surely you don't think that such a threat troubles me in the slightest ? I shall please mvself whatever I do. You've married me, and you'll have to keep me. If I want a drink, I shan't ask vou whether I may have it. It's your pals around you — that foppish idiot of an artist, O'Donovan, and the rest — who are trying to separate us. I know it. I'm not blind.' 126 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c No one is trying to separate us,' he said sternly, his disgust inexpressible. c You are doing your best to create a breach between us, while I am slaving night and day in order to earn money to keep you in comfort and respecta- bility. Surely O'Donovan is my friend. If it were not for him, I should still have been at Hounslow.' 1 Friend ! ' she laughed, hiccoughing. ' Your friends are my enemies. The mean skunk shall never enter this place again. If he does, then I go out. None of these men you call your friends are any good to you. They laugh at your futile literary attempts behind your back — and well they may.' 1 It may be left to my own judgment to choose my friends,' he replied, annoyed. c It's useless to argue with you further.' c Of course it is,' she retorted. c Because you know that I speak the truth. A woman has always a keener instinct than a man.' c And if you used yours for my advancement, instead of my disgrace, it would be much more to your credit,' he retorted. l A woman who once gives way to drink is damned for ever.' ' So I'm damned,' she laughed tantalisingly. c Abuse me a little more. It is so interesting — all this.' c To-night at the Empire there were several new turns, and the Press were invited. Many men who know you as my wife were there. What, I wonder, is their opinion of you rubbing shoulders with that crowd of wretched, painted women, drinking in their company, for aught I know.' c I saw one of your pals there — I forget his name. He talked to me for a long time,' she said, speaking with diffi- culty, and repeating her words. c I told him that you pre- ferred to stay at home, and he seemed amused.' 'TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH' 127 ' Who was he ? ' Rosmead cried angrily. 4 Describe bun.' 'You're jealous — eh ? ' she exclaimed, smiling. 'No, not jealous,' he declared. 'I'm only grieved that you should thus so far forget yourself as to disgrace me in this manner. What will the men I know think when it is known that I allow you to go to a music-hall alone, Lena ? ' he added, in a hoarse voice, with a sorrowful note in it. 'You are driving me to desperation.' ' You've already driven me there,' she answered, with artificial gaiety. ' Well, I'm drunk — at least, you say I am — so I'll go to bed,' and she sighed. ' Not before you tell me with whom you've been to- night,' he cried, grasping her wrist. His face was blanched, his brows knit, his teeth set in firm determination. ' I'm not to be trifled with, and if you tell me a lie — by Heaven ! I'll — I'll cast you out like a dog.' '^That's easier said than done,' she answered, setting her shoulders in an attitude of firm defiance. ' Remember, I'm your wife.' ' I wish I could regard you with respect as such,' he replied, with a touch of sorrow. ' But after to-night, after this disgraceful exhibition of your passion for low perform- ances and drink, I can only look upon you and loathe you as an encumbrance. Tell me,' his grip, trembling with anger, tightening on her wrists. ' With whom did you go to the Empire to-night ? ' ' I decline to satisfy you,' she responded. ' I told you I should go, and I went. That's sufficient.' ' I demand to know who was with you,' he said, bend- ing down closer to her, a fierce look in his angry eyes. The thought that she had thus disgraced him before his fellow journalists had made his blood rise within him. They would sneer at him as a fool for allowing her to go 128 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES there alone, exposed to the insults of that crowd of after- dinner loungers. To-morrow half Fleet Street would know about it, for in no circle does gossip travel more quickly than among pressmen. 1 1 decline to tell you.' 1 You shall,' he cried, with set teeth. * You hear me ! You shall.' 1 I shan't,' and with a sudden twist of her hand, she wrenched herself free, and rose unsteadily to her feet. Again he grasped her determinedly. c You hurt me,' she gasped. c You're a cowardly brute ! I'll tell everybody to-morrow how badly you treat me — see if I don't,' and she burst into drunken tears. 'And to-morrow I'll see your mother, and ask her to talk to you.' 'You don't think I care any more for my mother than for vou — do vou ? ' she retorted. c Go to her, and see what sort of reception you'll get.' 1 I shall go to her. She certainlv will not encourage you in such disgraceful conduct.' 1 Oh, go to her, and be hanged,' Lena answered, her face flushed, her eyebrows working convulsively, and her gaze unsteadv. l I'm tired. I don't care about being up all night, if vou do.' 1 Who was with you at the Empire ? ' 1 Nobodv vou know. A girl at the theatre.' 1 That's a lie,' he cried, looking straight into her eyes. 'If she was one of your theatre friends, she would be at work all the evening.' 1 She's left the theatre,' Lena answered briefly, in a voice which plainlv betraved her hopeless state of intoxication. 1 And vou met her at the Empire ? ' 1 Of course I did.' 'TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH' 129 A paroxysm of anger seized him, as the truth crossed his mind. 1 Then you are so debased that you actually cannot recognise the disgrace of being seen in company of such a woman. No respectable woman would go there alone. Every admission you make adds to my disgust. You've been drinking in company of such a low woman as that ! ' He released her hand, and flung it from him, saying — c Go to bed. A woman who has lost her self-respect so entirely as you have is no longer worthy the position, or even name, of wife.' 'Your abuse don't hurt me. I abominate and detest your mean, miserable ways, and your ugly face, always as grave as a monk's. You don't know how to treat a woman as a gentleman should. You think yourself a gentleman, but you're an egotistical cad. I hate you ! ' she screamed in her drunken passion — c I hate you ! ' 1 Go to bed,' he said firmly, pointing to the door. 1 Sleep off your beastly drunkenness, and then, when you are sober, we'll resume this discussion.' 1 You can't answer. You know what I say is the truth, miserable, melancholy hound that you are.' 1 Go. Do you hear me ? ' he shouted, springing towards her, his hands clenched. She saw how desperate he was, and in that moment fear of him seized her. Next instant, however, she gave vent to a hollow laugh, meant to be derisive, but hideous in its artificiality, took her cape from the chair, and tossing her head with an expression of utter contempt, staggered from the room. CHAPTER XII THE BOOM Sub-editorial duties on the Evening Telegraph were distracting, but the hours were short. Rosmead com- menced work at half-past seven in the morning, and left at two, the bulk of the day's work being over by that hour. It must not be supposed, however, that the office was a sinecure, for the piles of telegrams and 'flimsy' which he waded through with a keen eye for errors in grammar, exaggerations of the truth, or uninteresting ( padding ' were such as would astonish anyone save the sub-editor, whose mind in that direction has been reduced to something of a machine. But Rosmead's work terminating early, he had the afternoon and evening in which to continue his literary work. The discovery of his wife's fondness for drink had in- creased his anxiety tenfold, but, with his generous nature, he had forgiven her, on condition that such an event should not again occur. A few weeks later he received his first commission in fiction. The editor of Clippings, a popular weekly paper, having read his novel, wrote, ask- ing him to call. He did so, and when he left, he carried in his pocket an agreement whereby he was to write a sensational serial story of sixty thousand words, and for it receive the sum of thirty pounds, to be paid in weekly instalments as the story appeared. In the seventh heaven of delight, he returned to Danes' Inn, climbing the stairs two steps at a time, and bursting THE BOOM 131 into the room, waved the paper above his head joyfully, crying — 1 At last ! Lena. They are beginning to see that I can write. Look at this ! ' She took the agreement from his hand, and read it unmoved. c Only thirty pounds ! ' she observed, with a sneer. ' It's paltry enough. Why, other men would get three hundred for a long story like that.' 8 1 am but a beginner, and at present have to be con- tent with what is offered me,' he answered. l I'm not sufficiently known to employ an agent to conduct my affairs and bargain for me.' c So you're going to slave for three months or so for thirty pounds ? ' she cried petulantly. ' Yes,' he answered, in a calm voice. c I have begun low down, and am content to climb slowly.' That night he commenced his story, a curious mystery of London life, with a strong love interest. It opened with a tragedy, abounded in dramatic scenes, and into it he put his very heart and soul. Constant practice had taught him some technique, and now he found himself un- consciously balancing the grave with the gay, and working slowly towards his climax. One morning he awoke to find himself being 'boomed.' On his way along the Strand to his office, he chanced to glance up at a hoarding, and what he saw caused him to stand amazed. Upon an enormous picture-poster, repre- senting a beautiful girl standing behind a half-open door with a revolver in her hand, was the title of his story, and below c By Bertram Rosmead,' in letters two feet long. He continued along the Strand to investigate other hoard- ings. Yes, upon every one was this same striking poster, with his own name looking so strangely grotesque, glaring 132 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES in his eyes. Not only in London was this advertisement posted, but in all the great provincial towns ; therefore, within a week or two, a very large section of the public, especially readers of Clippings, which boasted a circulation of . nearly a million copies weekly, knew the name of London's newest author. The first instalment so pleased the enterprising editor that he wrote him a polite letter of thanks, and as soon as the first chapters appeared, the circulation of the paper went up by leaps and bounds, attributable, of course, to the publication of the highly-interesting serial. To him this was gratifying ; but progress in fiction meant increased jealousy on the part of the staff of the Evening Telegraph. They endeavoured to deride his plot, to poke fun at the poster, as though he had designed it, and to cast slurs upon Clippings, as a paper circulating mainly among errand-boys. Mr. Fownes was still con- fident in his assistant's ability ; but his other colleague of the trinity, a stout man of quick temper, who had endeav- oured to enter literary life and failed, became, for some unaccountable reason, Rosmead's bitterest enemy. Jealousy of his success was, of course, at the root of it ; but he rather enjoyed his colleague's sneers than otherwise. In no profession, not even in the drama, are jealousies so fierce as in literature. The mere journalist is, in most cases, fiercely antagonistic towards his literary brother, because the latter is his own master, and can work where and when he chooses. To the pressman, as to many others, the life of the writer of fiction is believed to be an ideal existence. In a few cases, perhaps it is, but in the majority, even the popular novelist, whose name is on everyone's lips, and whose doings and sayings are chronicled in every newspaper up and down the kingdom, has his skeleton in his cupboard. THE BOOM 133 Of the staff, the reporters were, of course, the most sarcastic ; but the fever-heat of their jealousy was reached when, a few months later, the object of their sarcasm was chosen to go abroad as special correspondent to witness the unveiling of the Holy Coat at Treves, in Germany, a cere- monial performed once every fifty years. The sacred relic is kept walled up in the church, and only exposed for adoration during five days twice every century. For months the coming event had been commented upon by the Continental Press, great pilgrimages had been arranged, and many of the most distinguished dignitaries of the Roman Catholic Church had promised to attend. It was, therefore, decided that the Evening Telegraph should have a special account, and Rosmead, by reason of his able descriptive powers, was commissioned to proceed there, an honour which only the working journalist can appreciate. The expenses allowed on the Evening Tele- graph were always liberal, and never questioned. Indeed, on one occasion a reporter bet one of his colleagues a new hat that, in his weekly account of expenses, he would put down the item, ' Cab up office-stairs, one shilling,' and get it. He did so, and it was actually paid without question. Reporters on the Evening Telegraph, presumed to be supe- rior persons, were not expected to walk anywhere ; therefore if they only strolled as far as Trafalgar Square, they charged 'bus fare there and back, while cabs to and fro between the office and the House of Commons were so numerous that the office-boy had been known on several occasions to take a hansom and drive around Hyde Park for an airing — at the expense of the journal. Truly it was a remarkable journal, this steady-going, lethargic, and highly-respectable evening paper. The allowance being so liberal, Rosmead decided to take Lena, and one night they left Liverpool Street, travelling i 3 4 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES via Harwich and Antwerp to Brussels, arriving there next morning. Lena was, of course, delighted. It was the first time she had been on the Continent, and all was novel to her. As they were changing to the Bale express at Brussels they were startled to hear a shout behind them, and a voice crying — c What, ho, Bertram ! Where are you off to in such a deuce of a hurry ? ' Both turned instantly, and were confronted by Teddy O'Donovan, struggling beneath the weight of his heavy kit-bag. 1 You ! ' his friend cried. c I'm off to Treves to see this Holy Coat there's been such a talk about.' c And I, too, old chap,' cried Teddy, gleefully. ' I'm go- ing for the Graphic' Lena glanced at the artist with a shadow of annoyance on her face, and greeted him very coldly. The train, with its restaurant car, was ready to start, so they scrambled up into an empty compartment, and a few moments later were on their way to the German frontier by way of Namur. Teddy explained that he had been in Brussels a week, visiting an artist whom he had met in Florence, and while Rosmead related to him the plot and development of another new serial for Clippings, Lena, whose antipathy towards O'Donovan amounted almost to a mania, ensconced her- self in a corner, and tried to read some of the English papers she had bought before leaving London. This unexpected meeting gave the utmost satisfaction to both men, but when in the evening they alighted at Treves, they found themselves in a dilemma. Every bed in the town had been taken weeks before, and even long sheds had been erected at the roadside for the accommodation of the thousands of pilgrims who had flocked there from all THE BOOM 135 parts of France and Germany. For a couple of hours they drove from hotel to hotel, endeavouring to find a resting- place, but without success, and at length, about nine o'clock, were compelled to leave by train and stay the night in that curious, old-world town, Luxemburg. Early next morning they again took train to Treves, and found the town crowded to excess with the unwashed, the halt, and the maimed, all of whom believed that sight of the sacred relic would heal them. So great, indeed, was the multitude around the cathedral that they were unable to approach anywhere near to the entrance, and as the bishop had issued an order that no tourist or sightseer was to enter the cathedral while the holy garment was on show, the two correspondents found themselves severely handicapped. Through the whole morning, in the broiling sun, they struggled and fought with the crowd to advance towards the entrance, but without avail. So great was the press that Lena declared that she would faint, and at length, tired and exhausted, they were compelled to relinquish their efforts and obtain lunch. This they took in a little restaurant in the Grande Place, a few doors from that old fifteenth-century hotel known as the ' Rathshaus,' and it was while they were eating their meal, and Rosmead was cursing their ill-luck, that the suave proprietor, a portly, good-humoured German, over- hearing, advanced and began to chat with them. To him they related their woes, when, laughing at them heartily, he said : — 'As it happens, I'm one of the honor- ary guardians of the Coat. The guardianship descends from father to son, and has been in my family for nearly three hundred years.' ' Then you might get us a private view of it after the closing of the public exhibition,' Rosmead suggested, with journalist instinct. 136 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c I only want a single glance at it,' added the irrespon- sible Teddy, smiling. c If not, then I'm afraid I shall have to make some fancy sketches.' c What! publish views of it from imagination?' Lena asked in surprise. 1 Whv not ? I've come out here to sketch, and I'm go- ing to sketch something or other, if it's only an empty barn.' Meanwhile the genial, fair-haired restaurant-keeper was hesitating. The easy-going manner of these two Bohemians had commended itself to him, and a few minutes later he explained that at four the cathedral closed for the day. If thev would meet him half-an-hour later at a side-door which he indicated, the cathedral being in sight from where they were sitting, he would take them in just for an instant's peep at it. 1 It's against the bishop's orders, you know,' he added ; 1 but I'll see what I can do.' Both men thanked him heartily, and the two spent the afternoon inspecting the Roman remains, the great, gloomy old Porta Nigra and other lions of the place, until half-past four, when they kept the appointment. Unfortunately, however, almost at the same instant that the good-hearted restaurant-keeper arrived with his key, the bishop himself emerged from that verv door. The great man, seeing the honorary guardian in company with strangers in tweed suits, regarded him with suspicion, and on account of that their friend dared not allow them to enter. So again they were thwarted and disappointed ; again they went back to Luxemburg to sleep, wearied, after a long and futile day. The life of the special correspondent is fraught with many adventures, and though frequently enjoyable, the difficulties which beset his path are often almost insur- mountable. Travelling and sight-seeing are not his only THE BOOM i 37 duties. He has always to bear in mind that the news agencies are everywhere at work and may forestall him, supplying his paper with a longer and better account of the event than he himself is able to obtain, and that, in such case, his journal has expended a good round sum in expenses and telegraphy for absolutelv nothing, his c copv ' on arrival being pitched into the waste-paper basket as l old stuff,' which Reuter's have alreadv done better. Again, as Reuter's correspondent is generally a well-known inhabitant of the town, he alwavs secures priority at the telegraph office, which, to the special correspondent, is a matter of the very highest importance. It is, indeed, on record that the correspondent of a well-known morning paper, in order to secure the monopoly of a wire to London, gave the telegraphist a copv of the Bible, and told him to telegraph it. This was done, and when the operator had got to the fourth chapter of Genesis, the enterprising correspondent handed in his telegram, afterwards causing two more chap- ters to be telegraphed, so as to close the wire for a time against anv other message to London. Dodges such as these are in the everyday life of the successful correspondent, the man who travels from one end of the world to the other as diligent servant of the British public. In this case it looked verv much as if the correspondents of the Evening Telegraph and the Graphic would have to depart emptv awav. That night, however, thev held solemn counsel, and next day, returning to the pilgrimage- town, thev purchased blue linen blouses of that form so popular in Belgium and Luxemburg, and buying straw hats, copies of the canticles, a rosarv each, and a cross of red and blue silk, which they pinned to their breasts, lounged about the Place before the cathedral, watching their opportunitv. At last it came. A great pilgrimage from Metz arrived 1 3 3 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES in procession, headed by priests, banners, censers, and other accessories, and slowly entered the ancient pile. Unob- served in the crush, the pair joined it, while Lena went across to a cafe to await them, and chanting the canticles vociferously, artist and journalist wended their way through the zealously-guarded portals into the great, dimly-lit cathe- dral, where upon the high altar, surrounded by a thousand candles, the sacred and much revered relic was exposed to view. On either side stood two priests in gorgeous vest- ments, and as the pilgrims passed in single file before it, thev handed up their rosaries, rings, or handkerchiefs to be placed for an instant in contact with the piece of brown stuff, which looked something like sack-cloth, departing in belief that the articles possessed a supernatural power to heal all diseases. The sight was a strangely impressive one, a marvellous illustration of the peasant's firm belief in the teaching of the priests. The hundreds of thousands of pilgrims swarming in that town, eating up every particle of food like locusts, sleeping bv the wayside, and travelling to and fro in rail- way cattle-trucks, were fully confident that this was the veritable coat which our Lord wore at His crucifixion, even though microscopical analysis had long ago proved that the material from which it was originally woven was unknown until four centuries later. The French, German, or Italian peasant will believe anything which the priest tells him, and even here, in Treves, the restaurant-keeper, who was one of the guardians of the revered tunic, had remarked to Rosmead : c Ah ! all this is a fine harvest for the priests.' Such being the case, was it any wonder that the Paris Figaro should one day have treated its readers to a learned and diverting discourse upon the discover}- in Austria of a holy pair of trousers ? Was it any wonder, either, that THE BOOM 139 this pair of irresponsible merry-makers should have treated the exhibition as a huge joke, and poked fun at it ? Bv three o'clock they had escaped from the crowd and rejoined Lena, then, having held consultation, decided to leave Treves at once and spend a day or so in one of the quiet villages on the Moselle, where thev might finish their work without interruption. Rosmead looked at his map, and found a village in which he had spent a few davs when on tramp after leaving Paris. It was Alf, a sleepv little place, situated at the bend of the river amid most picturesque sur- roundings, a spot unknown to the tourist, quaint, lethargic, and wo rid- forgotten. So that night thev found themselves at the old inn, the onlv one Alf possesses, famous for its trout, its Brauneber- ger, and its Berncastel c Doctor,' a low-built, old-fashioned hostelrv, which onlv awakens from its slumbers thrice daily, when the dustv old post-diligence on its way from Treves to Coblenz, or the one from Cochem, awav over the Eifel, arrives and changes horses. The approach of the , lumbering old vehicle is heralded bv the winding of a horn, which echoes for miles along the vallev, warning the post- master to have his bag in readiness and the ostler to harness the horses. The charm of the old place had lingered in Rosmead's memorv. He well remembered how he had worked for a dav or two gathering grapes on that hill-side, and had slept in a drv outhouse not far from the inn. In- deed, from the window of his room next morning he saw the shed which had given him shelter, and sighed when the bitter truth occurred to him that he was even happier in those wild, free davs than now. The August dav was bright and warm, and while Lena amused herself in the garden beside the river among the bowers of Marechal Niel roses, her husband sat near her in the open air, writing a description of the Holv Coat of 140 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES Treves, and Teddy, having found an easy wicker chair in the inn, brought it out, stuck his legs on another, and proceeded to finish the rough sketches he had made. Rosmead had received instructions to treat the subject just as he found it. He had found it ridiculous, therefore he wrote the most amusing yet the most bitter criticism of any that had appeared in the Press. He headed his article c The Holy Coat of Treves : By an Amateur Pilgrim,' described his efforts to view the c sacred ' relic, and how subsequently he went in decked out in his double cross of red and blue, a pious expression on his face, and a rosary in his hand. From time to time as he wrote he smiled, and then, in reply to Teddy's demands, read aloud the most amusing extracts, causing roars of laughter. This article, which he transmitted to London later in the day, was without doubt an exceedingly clever piece of work, and justly won for him a reputation as correspondent. It was strikingly brilliant. Unlike the pro- duction of the majoritv of correspondents, who, in their pain- ful endeavours to be funny, project a few wisps of wit into their wilderness of words, it was genuinely and excruciatingly humorous. Indeed, such was its biting sarcasm and caustic criticism, that within a week of its appearance in the Even- ing Telegraph it received the distinction of being translated into German, and appearing, with illustrations, in the best- known of the comic journals in Berlin, the result being that the editor of that paper was afterwards prosecuted for ridiculing a holy relic, and sentenced to enforced retirement for six months ! That night, when Rosmead had dispatched his article, they dined out in the garden beneath the trailing roses, and afterwards, when it grew dark and the dew fell, smoked in the long old dining-room, with its antique carved oak and its row of old drinking-mugs upon the buffet. They were the only visitors at the inn, the only strangers in Alf ; for THE BOOM 141 as yet the Moselle is unknown to the tourist, although the dav is not far distant when the Rhine-weary holiday-maker will turn his step towards the Eifel and the Moselle, and 1 grand ' hotels and pensions will raise their hideous white facades upon the vine-covered, ruin-crested slopes between the Marienberg and the Schloss Eltz, that structure so bewildering that one wonders how it could have been built by human hands. Lena retired to bed early, with an excuse that she was tired, and the two men sat for an hour or so, smoking, and sipping a bottle of Brauneberger of that delicious bouquet which one can obtain only in the country where it is made. They were alone in the great, half-lighted old room. The window was still open, and beyond glistened the river rip- pling in the light of the full moon. The post-diligence, with its jingling bells, had arrived, changed its horses, and departed on its long night journey to Coblenz, just as it had done any time during the past century or so, and all was still and peaceful in the little old-world village. Within sight of the window, in the full moonlight, stood the plain stone cross with a list of names inscribed thereon, the names of those gallant sons of Alf who fell at Sedan in the war with the French in '70. c Then we return to-morrow,' the artist was saying. 4 Can't you stay another couple of days ? It's pleasant enough here. You want a change, old chap. It will do you good.' c Yes,' his friend said. c I feel as if a month's rest would set me up \ but it is impossible. We are short- handed at the office, and a fortnight's holiday a year is all anybody at our place is entitled to.' 1 1 should try and spin out a few more days, if I were you,' he said persuasively. c No,' he answered. c Impossible. I've got other work 142 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES on hand that I must do. An artist, like yourself, is his own master ; but a journalist is always at the beck and call of the journal which employs him. I only wish it were possible to spend a week or two here. I know the country. It's the most peaceful and most beautiful in all Germany, the ideal holiday resort for an over-worked man.' 4 Then you absolutely must go to-morrow ? ' 4 Yes,' he answered. l My story in Clippings is not fin- ished, and as it's being published week by week, I can't be behind with it. Besides, I've two fresh commissions which will keep me busy for the next month or so.' c Soon you'll be able to dispense with newspaper work, my dear fellow. You've certainly made a hit in Clippings. They've boomed you magnificently.' 'Yes,' Rosmead answered. 'Nowadays everything is boom. Without advertisement, even Scott or Dickens wouldn't stand a chance to-day. This is proved by the splendid books by cultured writers which are dead failures because they are not sufficiently advertised. Publishers are fond of saying that advertisement will never make a bad book go. But look at any library list, and you'll find that the best advertised book is the book in the greatest demand.' ' I don't read novels very much,' Teddy observed, smil- ing, c but when I do, I somehow manage to get hold of a choice sample of rubbish. My luck, I suppose. When people — women who sit to me, for example — rave about a book, I read it, but it generally turns out to be some insane rot — sex problem, the emancipation of women, or such like theme, which is discussed in smart society, and thereby obtains a dinner-table notoriety.' c That's just what makes a book go,' his friend said, * dinner-table chatter. I maintain that anything, be it a THE BOOM 143 quack medicine, somebody's soap, or a new novel, provid- ing it is judiciously advertised, will sell like hot cakes.' 1 The boom is of the man nowadays, not his works. Look at some men in the Savage, for example.' 1 Of course,' the journalist answered. l I know one man in your club whose sole claim to distinction is that he once wrote a blood-curdler in the Boy's Own Terrifier. He has the audacity to invite serious editors to lunch, holds forth on the higher criticism, and having gone through the paragraph boom, is now accepted as a genius. He means to write a book some day.' 1 Ah ! I know that man,' Teddy said, laughing. c There's lots of his sort about. Nowadays men get boomed before they've done anything. It's puff first and work after with you literary men. With us, we have to make a bit of a show in the Academy before anybody will believe in us.' c Yes, every paper has its literary column, and will pub- lish paragraphs about the doings of the most unknown tyro in fiction, because they're only too glad to get hold of stuff to fill it up. Hence the twaddle you read about novelists. A man's true worth is never known by the public, because the greater art a novelist displays in boom- ing himself, the greater is the public's appreciation. Why, there's one man actually known in literary circles as u The Boomster," because he has elevated the art of self- advertisement to a science.' ' You'll never do that, old chap,' Teddy said. ' You're too much of a Bohemian ever to become a literary bounder.' 'I hope I never shall,' Rosmead answered. 'They say success spoils a man. It might spoil me.' 1 No, never,' his friend answered. Then, lowering his voice, he added, c The only thing that I fear may spoil you, 144 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES may even ruin you, Bertram, is vour domestic infelicity. Lena seems more petulant, more nervous, more hysterical than ever.' The journalist sighed. c Yes,' he replied. ' You know mv difficulties, old chap. I've confided in no one but yourself. My life is absolutely colourless and blank. I work on, it's true. I'm gradually beginning to reap the benefit of my years of hard struggle, but I fear it's all in vain — it all leads to nothing.' 'Yours is hard luck — devilish hard luck,' observed Teddy, sighing. l I only wish I could help vou, but while you are still with her you are hopeless. I don't say that to disparage her, but merely because I'm vour friend, you understand.' 'You told me so long ago,' Rosmead observed mechan- icallv. ' I'm seriously hampered bv her.' ' Not onlv hampered,' Teddy said seriouslv, his eyes fixed upon the friend of his student days. ' Not only hampered, but disgraced.' ' Disgraced r ' cried the journalist, starting forward, for he had told not a soul of Lena's penchant for drink. 'Dis- graced ? What do vou mean ? ' CHAPTER XIII BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA In an instant Teddv O'Donovan saw that his anxiety for his old friend's welfare had once more nearly led him to betray himself. With consummate tact, however, he laughed at his friend's eager inquiry, and turned the con- versation into a different channel. For an hour they continued to chat, then parted for the night. When Rosmead entered his bedroom, however, he found his wife seated in an easy-chair in a state of semi-intoxica- tion. Before leaving London he had placed a bottle of brandy in his bag, in case of emergencies, and the remains of this she had emptied. 'You've been a long time,' she said huskilv, inert and helpless. c I thought you'd never leave your pal. Was his conversation so very interesting ? ' He glanced at the empty bottle standing upon the dress- ing-table, and took in the situation at a glance. c You had better go to bed,' he said calmly. ' It's late, and you are tired — very tired.' 4 Yes,' she said, ' I'm very tired,' and she sighed wearily, and began to prepare herself for bed. He knew it was use- less to talk to her in that condition, therefore did not attempt it. She had promised him on the night she had gone to the Empire that she would not drink again, but she had broken her promise, and was now stupidly drunk. True it IO 146 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES was, as Teddy had long ago predicted, this woman, with her powdered doll's face and coquettish manner, would ruin him. Slowly, but surely, he was achieving fame, yet the fruit of all his labour was thrown to the winds. Now that this terrible truth was forced upon him, he found himself be- coming more and more callous, more heedless of reputation and of fame. Hundreds of times he had heard it said that in woman drunkenness was a vice which could never be eradicated. This penchant for drink created a breach be- tween Lena and himself which widened daily — which some day must put them asunder. Yet, when he reflected, he remembered that each man and woman had some besetting sin, and he debated within him- self whether, after all, it was fair to abandon her on account of a failing over which she had no control. She was a woman, he remembered, and a woman had not the strength of will which a man possessed. On the other hand, he sighed when he remembered how for months she had sought to deride his work and to heap ridicule upon it, in order that, instead of striving to gain a livelihood by fiction, he might take her to those lower music-halls in the direction of which her vulgar tastes always led her. She hated thea- tres, but loved variety entertainments and ballets. It was not for the art displayed there, for she had not the slightest artistic instinct either in her dress, in her home, or in her amusements, but merelv because the songs had a double entendre, and the dances were a trifle risky. Things are said, and suggestions are made, on the stage of the modern music-hall which would not have been tolerated in public even in those degenerate days when the c Hole in the Wall ' still existed. Girls in their teens are now taken by their elders to witness performances which are fraught with thin- ly-disguised indecencies, and learn to laugh at them without a blush. Even with such useless officials as County Coun- BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA 147 cil inspectors and the mock supervision of Bumbledom, the state of the modern music-hall has never been so bad as it is at present, for in no capital in Europe is prostitution so openly tolerated and encouraged as it is by the management of the West-end c hall.' Even the state of the Moulin Rouo-e, that pasteboard and gilt hall of Terpsichore which Paris supports for the delectation of the foreigner, is less pernicious than the gilt and plush c lounge ' of the first- class London music-hall. The recent puritanical movement which aimed at sweep- ing clean our music-halls may have been ill-timed, but its object was commendable, for while the County Council investigate very closelv the application of an East-end public-house for a dancing licence, they license the West- end halls for vice with scarcely an inquiry. Possibly many of those estimable seekers after notoriety who are so fond of writing c C.C after their names hold shares in the various halls, and are well aware that such investments are extremely profitable. It would be interesting to know how many members of the London County Council hold shares in London music-halls. Sad as it is, it is, nevertheless, a fact that vice pays always. Rosmead said nothing to his wife next morning. He merely placed the empty bottle aside when packing, deem- ing it best to treat the matter with indifference, and two days later they were back again in their gloomy chambers in that dreariest and dingiest of London Inns. Marcus Aurelius has left directions by means of which every worry-line may be removed from the hand, and every anxious wrinkle from the face. If that tranquil philosopher, skilled in the science of the imperturbables, could visit the interior of a London newspaper office, he would be shocked at the unnatural disfigurements of those who scribble for their daily bread. As the journalist's worries increase, the 143 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES hairs decrease, until the bald truth shines out unmistakably. Such being the case, it is the first duty of the sub-editor to school himself not to worry. The secret, of course, lies in the concentration of the forces upon the thing in hand without suspense as to the issue. He may, of course, have the issue of the paper at heart. That is his duty. Only the act of God, the Queen's enemies, and other modes of the inevitable, release him from responsibilitv, and therefore he sits in his chair, calm and unmoved bv any of those extraordinary events which hourlv flow before his notice. Every moment, indeed, demonstrates the incongruity of a world where a man may fall fifty feet over a precipice without hurting himself to-day, and to-morrow die of eating a faded oyster. But he is a pressman, without conscience and without nerves, and the stranger the story, the more interesting; it will be to his readers. On Bertram resuming his chair, he found that his article on the Holv Coat, while giving the most complete satisfac- tion to Sir Charles and to the Oxford young gentleman whose lack of journalistic knowledge fitted him for the post of editor, had aroused the bitterest indignation of l The Worm ' and his colleagues. The young gentleman with the fair moustache, the height of whose attainment had been the writing of a description of the Lord Mayor's Show — mainly from the dusty files of the past — had believed him- self qualified for the office of special correspondent, and his criticism of Rosmead's article was extremely amusing by reason of its painful hostility and its Carlvlean flow of big words. This talented young gentleman that very dav wrote two reports, one in which he referred to an assem- blage of local ' magnets,' and in the other, reporting a speech regarding affairs in Alatabeleland, he wrote that the natives were returning to their c crawls.' The life of a sub-editor on a daily paper, though one BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA 149 of terrible monotony, is fraught with some diversions, and that of Bertram Rosmead was no exception. His home life was wretched enough, and his harassing work sufficient to turn his hair grey before its time. Indeed, since he had occupied his chair in that office, he felt himself prematurely ageing, and had dropped into a groove, working mechan- ically, half inclined to abandon all hope of becoming a successful novelist. One day, when one of the trinity was away suffering from a bilious attack — a frequently-recurring malady in the office of the Evening Telegraph — and Mr. Fownes had gone out after his lunch to obtain ten minutes of fresh air on Waterloo Bridge, Rosmead chanced to be called out of his room to consult the head-printer. When he returned, a few minutes later, all the tapes were still working away industriously, with that dull, metallic, monotonous click, the long strips of white and green paper twisting like snakes into the baskets below. Before re-seating himself he glanced along at them to discover what was the latest news, when his eyes caught the following startling words : l Her Majesty died at Windsor at a few minutes past noon to-day.' He stood dumbfounded. In every newspaper office throughout the kingdom the death of the Queen is an event spoken of with bated breath. Indeed, in every office of a daily journal there are a special set of emergency arrange- ments to be put in force in case of such national bereave- ment. Rosmead glanced at the tape, and saw it was the one supplied by the Exchange Telegraph Company. Rushing across to one of the speaking-tubes, he shouted down to the machine-room, c Stand by there ! Queen's dead ! ' In an instant the appalling news spread through everv de- partment of the great establishment, and news-runners, those 150 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES sturdy itinerant, strident-voiced fellows who dash along with bundles of paper beneath their arms, hearing it, ran out into the Strand, proclaiming the terrible intelligence to passers-by. Within a few minutes a crowd of clerks, printers, reporters, and others assembled in the sub-editor's room to view the telegram, and Rosmead was in the meantime at the telephone asking the head office of the Exchange Company, in the Haymarket, whether they had any confirmation of the startling report. c It don't want any confirmation. We're not in the habit of sending out fictitious news,' answered a deep, sepulchral voice. c But it is not confirmed by any other agency,' Rosmead observed. c They'll get it later on,' said the voice. 'Our rivals are always a day behind the fair.' c But where did you get the report from ? ' inquired the sub-editor. 1 Our correspondent at Windsor. He's reliable — very reliable.' Mr. Fownes had just entered, hot and breathless. He had overheard the report in the Strand, and rushed upstairs three at a time. 1 Better wire to our Windsor correspondent, and send a reporter to the Lord Chamberlain's office,' he suggested. Meanwhile, in the composing room the burly head- printer, hearing the news, continued eating his lunch un- disturbed, merely ejaculating c Queen's dead. Turn the column-rules/ The column-rules set upside down, it may be explained, causes the paper to appear striped in deep mourning. If the heavens had fallen, the head-printer would not have abandoned his lunch. All was ready. Mr. Fownes, as chief sub-editor, had assumed the painful duty of writing the introduction to the BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA 151 melancholy report, and had finished a dozen lines or so, commencing : ' It is with heartfelt regret that we are com- pelled to report,' etc. Rosmead had found, in a dusty cup- board, a column of stereotyped obituary, which had been kept there in readiness for the past decade, and the machines were being prepared to pour out their tons of copies of the paper, when into the sub-editor's room entered a short, dark man, carrying a black leather bag, the telegraph-inspec- tor of the Exchange Telegraph Company. All pounced upon him. His duty was to go the round of the London newspaper offices and see that the tapes were working properly. c Look at this ! ' they cried, placing the telegram before him. l Have you seen it on any other tape ? ' The man looked at it, then glancing at them, burst out laughing. 4 Well, what are you laughing at ? ' Rosmead cried indig- nantly. ' Come, we're wasting time. Other papers will be out before us.' c Look here,' exclaimed the inspector, diving down into the basket where rejected telegraphic tapes were thrown, and taking out a small piece, which he held before them. Upon it were but four words, c John Harker, coachman to ' 1 You've only got half the message,' the inspector laughed. ' This is the first part, which has evidently been torn off and flung down before the second half came up. Surely the death of the Queen's coachman isn't such an extraordinary event ? ' Everybody laughed immoderately. The inspector had saved the Evening Telegraph from being the laughing- stock of the world, for in a few more moments thousands of copies would have been selling in the London streets. The speaking-tubes were next instant at work, the orders 152 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES countermanded, and the head-printer, still eating his lunch, ejaculated, his mouth full of bread and cheese : ' Turn the rules back. Subs, have had a glass o' bitter, and it's made 'em drunk.' Five minutes later, the office of that dignified and highly- respectable journal resumed its normal aspect. As the months passed, Rosmead kept diligently at work, and had, by dint of toiling on, in face of Lena's ill-will and obstinacy, concluded a new novel dealing with life in the old town of Blois, where some of his childhood days had been spent. With success he had tried another firm of publishers, and as soon as it was issued, it was hailed on every hand as a masterly piece of fiction. Nearly all the morning papers reviewed it as a serious piece of work, and within a week there began to appear paragraphs about his birthplace, his education in the Quartier Latin, and his present occupation. In the literary columns of the other evening papers there were laudatory paragraphs, declaring that this book was one of the books of the season ; that its first edition had been exhausted on the day of publication, and that, no doubt, his marvellously true picture of French middle-class life was due to his cosmopolitan parentage. He had undoubtedly made a hit at last. This was proved by the fact that one or two c At home ' cards began to dribble in upon him, cards from hostesses who make a point of inviting notable novelists, artists, and musicians to their exclusive gatherings, for the delectation of their guests. It is a cheap way of providing entertainment of an afternoon, for most people like to meet the writer of a book they have read and admired, even though the author may be a very disappointing, matter-of-fact person in the flesh. Thus was Bertram bidden to the drawing-rooms of Kensington and Belgravia. He received letters expressing BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA 153 admiration of his work, and asking for his autograph, applications for his photograph from editors of illustrated journals, while commissions for short stories began to come in unsolicited. Even this did not cause Lena the slightest gratification. She saw that he alone was invited to the houses of the rich, that his success meant her elevation bevond her present sphere, and she declared that she hated the ways of what she termed c grand society.' Her tastes lav in the direction of a low Strand bar, where she could sip that infusion of logwood and alcohol sold under the name of port, nibble a biscuit, and listen to the broad remarks of the unfortunate women about her. To her, an evening at a respectable house was a trial, unendurable if there was not sufficient to drink. But whenever whiskey made its appearance on anv table, she never failed to disgrace him bv helping her- self to half a tumblerful. In these invitations Rosmead saw a means of advance- ment. The author who avoids societv hides his light beneath a bushel, and remains unknown. To the popular author, as to the actor, advertisement is evervthing in these degenerate davs of boom and bunkum. If he looks in at Mrs. So and So's c At home,' the fact is dulv chronicled in next week's Lady's Pictorial, as well as in the Morning Post of the following dav ; if he attends a public dinner, his name is placed among the guests ; and if he has the gift of public speaking, he will have a heading all to himself in the morning papers, such as l Mr. Scrivener on Modern Fiction.' Self-advertisement is the secret of all success in modern literature. It is bv this necessity of posing in societv that the modern novelist, in so manv instances, becomes vain, egotistical, and even insufferable among his own set. Anv writer of fiction can count a score of men, mostly second-rate, who were once good fellows, but who 154 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES are now consumed by their own conceit, and fancy that the mantle of Scott or Dickens has fallen upon them. To such men the cheap puff is their very life. They would black the boots of the editor of the chief literary journal in return for a review (with extracts) of their last book, and will take a thousand-mile railway journey in order that their names may appear in the list of guests at some notable function. At the opening of free libraries and institutes they speak with a dramatic modulation of the voice, and descant, with many grand phrases and a Greek quotation or two, upon the future of literature, not for- getting to have type-written copies of their speech ready to hand down to the reporters at the close. But these are not the Bohemians of literary London. A man who is a Bohemian at heart remains ever so, no matter what success may come to him. He chafes beneath the trammels of society, he abhors the silk hat and frock coat, and soon longs for the old free life of long ago, when his jacket was threadbare, his stomach empty, and his heart was light. Rosmead was one of the latter. He only accepted these invitations because Teddy advised him ; because he saw that, without a little self-advertisement, he must remain unknown. 1 Trot about a bit, old chap,' the artist had said when he consulted him. 'You'll get known, and people will buy your books and order them from the libraries. It shows that you're a coming man, and that your real boom has at last begun. Buy a dress-suit and a diamond shirt- stud, and go into society now and then. It will do you good, and you'll pick up lots of local colour that you may use later on. Keep your eye to the main chance, my dear fellow, as I do. Never mind what Lena says.' So he took his old friend's advice, and, while slaving away by day in that close, stuffy sub-editor's den in his BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA 155 ragged office coat, often unshaven and unkempt, he at night appeared, smart and spruce, in faultless attire, in West-end drawing-rooms, where he was lionised as the latest novelist, and where gushing women took him into cosy-corners, and treated him to their inane discourses upon the books they liked best, and the plays which had created an impression upon them. CHAPTER XIV 1 IN THE SWIM ' Rosmead had already written four books, three of which had been distinct successes, when one day he received a terrible and staggering blow. His publisher had failed. Such intelligence was sufficient to crush hope from the heart of any man. For years he had toiled, struggled, and striven, and now, just when he expected substantial cheques for the profits on his books, the company was unable to dis- charge its liabilities. He consulted the editor of a literary journal, a kind-hearted and firm friend, who was a barrister and authority on all matters of copyright, and from him learned that his position was even graver than he expected. His agreements with these publishers had been for half profits, and giving them the exclusive right to print and publish the books in England, therefore the company had half share in the books, and the latter could neither be reprinted nor withdrawn from the company. The plain truth was that he was compelled to abandon all his previous work as valueless. True, he had established a reputation, one that increased daily, for he was now contributing to the best magazines in England and America, and scarcely a day passed with- out some mention being made of him or his work in one or other of the thousand provincial journals. His books were sought after at the libraries, gossiped about at dinner- 'IN THE SWIM' 157 tables, and criticised by that gang of superior critics which appears to centre around the office of the Board of Trade. For the past year he had anonymously reviewed his fellow authors' works in an important literary journal, and was now asked to sign his criticisms, a fact which showed that he had at length obtained a foothold in literature. He had been elected a member of the Savage upon Teddy's pro- posal, and had joined a fashionable West-end club, where smart society gathered in the private theatre on Sunday evenings to listen to concerts by music-hall artists. Yet he had striven in vain. All was to no purpose, and with Lena's grumbling and words of derision ever in his ears, he was compelled still to edit the day's news at the Evening Telegraph. Only the working journalist, the man shut up in a close, stuffy room through the hot summer days, with the whirr-click-click-click of half-a-dozen tapes eternally in his ears, the thousand and one items of the day's news passing through his mechanical brain, the odour of printer's ink and damp paper ever in his nostrils, to-morrow's work commencing ere to-day's is done ; only the man whose lot in life is to dole out the world's news to the expectant public six times daily knows the rush, monotony, and terrible brain-tear of life within the office of a London evening newspaper. To Rosmead, the weariness of life in London through those long, breathless August days grew unendurable. He longed, irresponsible wanderer that he was, to get awav to peace and to green fields, and would often leave his chambers half-an-hour earlier in the morning in order to stroll about Covent Garden market and sniff* that breath of the country borne in by the flowers. Even the smell of the vegetables was to him refreshing in that wearv, jaded, de- pressed frame of mind, with the dust of London over his heart. 158 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES With the failure of his publishers he felt much inclined to throw up the sponge. He had written fiction and ob- tained a fair reputation, but his monetary gains had been paltry indeed, averaging some fifty pounds a year. He had heard of a literary agent, a man whose respectability and probity stood so high that all the most popular novelists entrusted to him the whole management of their affairs. He sold their work, drew up their agreements, collected their royalties, arranged for the securing of American copyrights, and acted as adviser to his clients. In despera- tion Rosmead sought his aid. He found a set of handsome, business-like offices, with clerks and typewriters, and was ushered into a small, rather bare waiting-room, the walls of which were embel- lished with one or two choice engravings, — a room in which many an expectant author has waited to have audi- ence with Mr. Howden, the King of Fiction ; an apart- ment which the majority of latter-day novelists — and of publishers, for the matter of that — are well acquainted with. A few minutes later he was shown into a private room, and found himself in presence of a tall, grey-bearded elderly man, of refined, courteous manner, who spoke low, and listened attentively to Rosmead's story. Around this room were large portraits of popular authors, signed and framed, souvenirs from his clients, for, as is well-known in literary London, Mr. Howden, by acting as an impartial go-between between author and publisher, had succeeded in doubling, trebling, and even quadrupling an author's earnings. In pursuing his just and upright course, much hostile criticism had, of course, been directed against him by minor publishers, who were jealous that the author should obtain his fair share of profits ; but respectable and responsible publishers were his friends, while the small set grew furious at the simple mention of his name. Not- 'IN THE SWIM' 1 59 withstanding that, through the past decade he, with his son as partner, had lived down criticism, and now held control of the whole fiction market. Through that office passed nearly the whole of the manuscripts of well-known writers ; therefore publishers, when they wanted a book by a certain author, applied to Mr. Howden for it. Such is the mode of modern literary business. In his quiet, pleasant manner the confidential agent gave Rosmead some frank and sound advice as to future enterprises. He had, he said, watched his visitor's work, had noticed his steady progress, and concluded by ex- pressing his readiness to act on his behalf. c You have already established the groundwork of a reputation, Mr. Rosmead,' the courtly agent said. c And it shall be my very best endeavour to further your inter- ests, and to place your next book with some responsible firm at a fair royalty. Of course, you must advance by degrees, but you are not an amateur ; the excellency of your work is known, therefore, the difficulties of disposing of future work are small.' 1 I am still engaged in journalism, and I'm anxious to leave it,' Rosmead declared. 1 Then my advice to you is remain where you are,' answered Mr. Howden, promptly. ' Continue for the pres- ent the course you are pursuing. Then, when I succeed in making contracts ahead for you, you can leave London, live in the country, and do some really good work. Re- main patient, and you will succeed.' With these words, uttered in a low, refined voice, still ringing in his ears, Bertram Rosmead went out into the bustling Strand, again hopeful, lighthearted, and eager. He had entered in despair, fearing that he was not of sufficient importance to become one of Mr. Howden's clients, but had left full of renewed courage for the fierce 160 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES strife of literary life. The agent of the greatest novelists of the day was now his agent. To have Mr. Howden to conduct one's affairs was hall-mark of one's standing among writers of contemporary fiction. He went home and related to Lena his interview with the agent, and its gratifying result, but his wife only ex- pressed disbelief in all agents, and smiled contemptuously. c You're anxious to leave London, and to live in the country,' she said. ' Well, when you do so, I shall remain here. I had quite enough of Hounslow. I'll never be buried alive again.' ' Very well,' he sighed. c Besides,' she added, 'if you leave London, you won't be able to go to those " At homes " you love so much. You go there only to flirt with a lot of women who fancy you're a great genius. You're getting to be a swell with two- pence in your pocket.' 4 Surely there's no occasion to insult me, Lena,' he answered, with some asperity. c I know well that you care nothing for my interests, but even in face of that I shall continue to strive. In the past you've discouraged me with all your cruel, unsympathetic words, but I am, nevertheless, determined to take Howden's advice. The failure of my publishers is a blow indeed, but I'll not yet despair. I'll commence once again, with hope for better fortune.' And Lena laughed, a dry, contemptuous laugh, as she always did when unable to reply to his sound arguments. From that day he re-commenced the struggle as eagerly as he had begun it, caring nothing for the sneers in the office of the Evening Telegraph, or for his wife's constant ill-will and penchant for spirits. In most other men, all sense of refinement would have been dulled by Lena's eternal ill-temper, her ignorance, 'IN THE SWIM' 161 and her fondness for everything low and vulgar ; but he fought against it, schooling himself to regard her with apathy, and to take no heed of her reproaches, her scorn, or her insults. His life was very unhappy and lonely, for with such a wife he could make no friends, and could invite no one to his home. Yet he found now, as he had done even in the early days of his marriage, solace in his work and comfort in his own deep thoughts. Many have said that the wild rush of journalistic life unfits the man who desires to become a novelist, as it destroys all powers of originality. On the contrary, how- ever, Rosmead, sitting in his close, noisy room, found about him much that was stimulating and worth studying, much that would be of use to him in the future. Some characters in London journalism of to-day are distinctly unique, and if Dickens were still alive, would certainly be handed down to posterity. For example, there is not a pressman in Fleet Street who is not acquainted with that round, merry-faced, fair-bearded, comfortably-built man known as l Bishop ' Crook. The reason for this ecclesi- astical appellation is because Mr. Crook's speciality is the supply of church news to all and sundry of the London papers, and be it a consecration, a diocesan squabble, or a Church Congress, Mr. Crook contracts with every sub- editor in London to supply a condensed or full report, as ordered. Although he writes learnedly upon ecclesiastical matters, hob-nobs with bishops, and spends many hours in the cosy libraries of deans, canons, and other notabilities of the Church, he is the reverse of sanctimonious. In Fleet Street he freely expresses his opinions in rather forcible language on the Church in general, and on bishops in particular. Indeed, on one occasion, when he called to interview the late Archbishop of Canterbury upon some important 11 1 62 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES subject, the good-humoured primate, having heard of Mr. Crook's contempt for all bishops, said : c How is it, Mr. Crook, that, although you are so sym- pathetic in your writings, you nevertheless hold such a bad opinion of us ? ' <• Well, m'lord,' answered the ever-ready Crook, c the fact is, that if I call upon a dean, a canon, or any of the smaller fry, I generally get a very appreciable glass of old port. But when I call upon a bishop or an archbishop, refreshment never makes an appearance. Men from Fleet Street have thirsty souls.' The archbishop laughed. c Fleet Street and the Church are like oil and water — eh ? ' he observed, at the same moment touching the bell, a summons which was instantly answered by the butler. c In future,' said his lordship, addressing the man, ' when- ever Mr. Crook calls, see that he has a glass of the best port — the very best, remember.' c Yes, m'lord,' answered the servant, and withdrew. c H'm,' grunted Crook, in his beard, as was his habit, when anything gave him satisfaction. c You see, Crook,' observed his lordship, c even arch- bishops aren't such bad fellows, after all, are they ? ' And ever after that, even to this day, it is a joke against the merry purveyor of ecclesiastical intelligence, whenever he has called at the c Cheshire Cheese,' the c Rainbow,' 1 Short's,' the Ludgate-station bar, the ' Romano's,' the 'Marble Halls,' or any of those houses of refreshment where journalists most do congregate, that he has l called to see the Archbishop.' Another man with whom Rosmead became intimately acquainted was old Mr. Wyatt, the reporter at the Central Criminal Court, a man who, although now dead, with his son reigning in his stead, was known to every London 'IN THE SWIM' 163 journalist on account of his extraordinary eccentricities. He was nearly seventy, rather deaf, and much addicted to the snuff habit. Since the year of grace 1830 he had sat in his small box, reporting criminal cases for all the London papers, and was the special representative of the Press admitted to all executions in Newgate. Having known the judges in the days when thev practised as young barristers in that court, and having watched the career of every member of the bar who frequented the Old Bailev, he was allowed considerable licence. His worst habits, however, were those of taking snuff, causing frequent explosions in court, and of speaking in very loud tones whatever he had to say. For instance, if the judge was solemnly pronouncing sentence upon a mur- derer, a loud voice would arise in court with the words — 1 Now then, look sharp, bov, or vou won't catch this edition of the Pall Mall. Take a 'bus. It'll only cost a pennv, and this murder's worth it.' His lordship, however, would only glance at him severely, and even the usher had orders not to cry him down. For years thev had all tried to make him speak lower, but to no avail, so the court was very often convulsed by old Wyatt's quaint and pointed remarks to him- self. Sometimes, when the court was breathless in expec- tancy, he would observe aloud : c I wonder when we're going to have lunch ? ' Or he would bend over to a col- league, and sav, c I could do with a cold gin, couldn't vou ? ' Whereat bar and public would be convulsed with laughter, and his lordship had considerable difficulty in preserving his own gravity. He was very fond, too, of advising the judge what sentence he should pass, impatiently ejaculating such words as, ' Oh ! give him five years,' c Six months '11 be a lesson,' or c First Offenders Act.' Indeed so well versed was he in 1 64 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES criminal law, and such a long experience had he of the ways of the Recorder, that many times he wrote down the sentence, and finished his report, long before sentence had been pronounced. He was one of the most notable char- acters in journalism, but, like others, he has now passed away, although his memory will linger long in every news- paper office, both for his execrable handwriting, and for his personal eccentricities. Again, among the wreckage of journalism, that sham- bling, shabby brigade whom drink, illness, or ill-fortune have placed beyond the pale, and who earn a precarious liveli- hood as 4 liners,' Rosmead found much to study. Drink was the cause of the degradation and poverty of the major- ity. Many who had occupied good positions on first-class papers were now only too glad to supply a paragraph of a street accident for a shilling, while others scoured London hourly to seek something worth writing about. One man, a good-hearted fellow, who, although he dressed shabbily, and was down at heel, yet expended all his money upon his wife and children, made a speciality of supplying a para- graph daily to all the evening papers descriptive of the weather, and actually made a living out of it, while the speciality of another was the reporting of aristocratic mar- riages, at the rate of half-a-crown a wedding. He was known as c Orange Blossoms,' on account of his nose, which, ruddy and pimply, bore outward and visible signs of frequent libations of hot rum. Amid these surroundings, in a strange little world utterly unknown to the London public, Bertram Rosmead lived and worked, ever observant, ever gauging the character of these men around him, mechanically performing his duties, but always with the hope that ere long he might leave that wild whirl of life and bustle, and be free to devote his time to the profession he loved. 'IN THE SWIM' 165 As autumn again gave place to winter, he found invita- tions still increasing, one which pleased him most being a plain correspondence-card with address embossed in crimson, whereon was written — c Mrs. St. Barbe at home. Thursday, November 8, 9.30 P.M.' Of all the cards he had received, even though some of his hostesses bore titles, none gave him such complete satis- faction as this. Literarv London knows well the monthly 4 At homes' given in winter by that genial traveller, novelist, and critic, Francis St. Barbe, and how in his flat at Ken- sington one meets evervbody in literature who is anybody. Indeed, every person bidden to St. Barbe's has c done some- thing,' is a great writer, a great traveller, a great scientist, a great actress, or a great critic. Therefore, to receive a card was in itself a distinction. For over a year he had been a fellow-contributor with St. Barbe to the literary journal for which he reviewed, and although they had met several times, he had received no invitation until that dav- Rosmead went, and as he closed the door of his chambers, a half-drunken curse from Lena's lips was hurled after him. She had acquired the habit of drinking whiskey at all hours of the dav, and often by seven or eight in the evening was in a maudlin condition. In reply to her demand that he should take her to a music-hall, he had refused, pointing out how essential it was that he should go to the St. Barbes', whereupon she had flown into a rage, cursed him and his work, using all the foul expressions picked up in the theatre dressing-room. Night after night, in order to keep her quiet and obtain rest himself, he had taken her to music-hall after music-hall, sitting out the performances, though bored to death ; but even that had not satisfied her. Anything which might advance him she hated. Madly jealous of any 1 66 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES attention shown him by his hostesses, she grew furious whenever he accepted an invitation, and poured forth upon him torrents of abuse, interspersed with the vilest of curses upon his work and all that concerned him. With a sigh, he walked quickly to the Temple Station, and took train to Addison Road, half-an-hour later enter- ing the St. Barbes' flat. So crowded was it, even to the very door, by a well-dressed, distinguished throng, that it was with considerable difficulty he discovered his host. None of the rooms were large, but in all were books, mostly review-copies, in rows upon rows, signed portraits of celebrities, and curios of all sorts ; while the gay, chat- tering crowd included nearly every writer of note at that moment in London. As he gazed around, he recognised the men and women about him by their portraits in illus- trated papers and shop windows, for here once every month the literary set assembled to talk shop and scandal, to sip claret-cup, eat sandwiches, and depart at two or three in the morning. It was always a happy evening, for St. Barbe was a particularly good host, introduced everybody, and was never tired of lending a helping hand to young authors who had distinguished themselves. Indeed, to know St. Barbe was to have a friend, for he was on good terms with everybody. Among those who crowded the flat, so that there was scarcely breathing space, were men and women whose names were household words wherever the English tongue was spoken : the latest traveller, a sallow man, who had just returned from Thibet, the latest artist, and the latest scientist ; while after midnight there came the latest actor and the most renowned actresses, who brought with them the latest and most admired of the younger debutantes. The crowd was a very mixed one, but there was not a person there who was not interesting. St. Barbe made it a rule to < IN THE SWIM' 167 exclude outsiders, even though they might be wives of mil- lionaires. No London hostess could gather such a distin- guished crowd as he gathered about him. Rosmead was cordially greeted by his host, but so great was the chatter and loud the laughter, that he could scarcely make himself heard, and a moment later found himself in- troduced to a dark-haired, full-bearded man, of almost gigantic stature, a renowned Scotch novelist, whose name was at that moment on everybody's lips. The pair com- menced to chat, the good-humoured Scotchman observing that he had read and admired Rosmead's last book, a fact which to Bertram was exceedingly gratifying ; then to- gether they sought a place against the wall where they could lean and talk. c This is the first time I've been here,' the great writer remarked presently, with a strong Scotch accent, as he gazed around at the throng of well-dressed women and rather spruce-looking men, for those who are on St. Barbe's visiting list affect smartness of attire rather than cultivate its artistic negligence. In the mode of wearing their hair alone were thev outwardly distinguishable from any other crowd in any other London drawing-room. c It's also my first visit,' Bertram answered. 'Then until to-night,' observed the leader of the so-called 4 kailyard school,' ' we were among the great unknown.' 1 1 was, and still am,' said Bertram. c You, however, have a reputation wider, perhaps, than anyone in this room.' c Well,' said the novelist, laughing merrily, ' I may be known here and there, but I'm not much the better for it, I'm afraid. Reputation is but a bitter fruit of labour, for it only makes a man vain, discontented, and egotistical/ At that instant a woman, leaning on the arm of an elderly, rather distinguished-looking, thin-faced, grey-haired 168 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES man, brushed past Bertram, her perfumed chiffons almost touching his face, and in doing so, she gazed for an instant into his face. For one brief moment their eyes met, and Bertram Rosmead started in amazement. Next second he stood rigid, speechless, petrified. CHAPTER XV THE SECRET OF A DAY For a single instant only she paused, gazing at Rosmead with a startled, half-fearful look in her luminous eyes, then passed on, leaning upon the arm of her companion. From the crown of her well-dressed hair, with its diamond-edged comb, to the tip of her pointed grey suede shoe she was graceful and chic, her perfect figure well set off by her gown of black silk trimmed with silver, her rounded arms and neck showing white as alabaster. c Pretty woman, that — very pretty,' remarked the Scotch novelist, observing the look of recognition she had given his companion. c Do you know who she is ? ' Rosmead held his breath, but in a moment recovered his self-possession. c No,' he answered, somewhat harshly. c But I know who she was.' 'Who she was!' he exclaimed. 'That sounds inter- esting. Who was she ? ' ' I knew her in Paris,' Rosmead answered. ' Her name is Fosca Farini,' and as he uttered those words, his eyes followed her graceful figure, and he saw her pass into the small inner room, which, leading from the drawing-room, was decorated as a Moorish lounge. 1 How smart she is ! ' repeated the novelist. • Devilish pretty woman. French, I suppose ? ' ' No, Italian.' 170 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES Then at that moment Teddy O'Donovan, a well-known attendant at these gatherings, approached, and commenced to chat. He had painted a portrait of the Scotch novelist, which had been hung, therefore they were not strangers, and the conversation very soon turned upon pictures. c Some day,' the novelist said, ' I hope my publishers will give you one of my editions de luxe to illustrate.' 4 I shall be delighted ' the artist answered. ' Let them give me plenty of time, for I'm always full up six months in advance, as you know. But I'll try and do some good pictures for you.' Then, turning to Rosmead, he exclaimed — ' Who do you think is here ? You'll never guess/ c I know already,' Bertram replied, in a strange, hard tone. ' She is here.' ' And the Marquis,' added the artist. ' The Marquis ! ' his friend exclaimed, in surprise. c Yes. They're both here. How they came to be invited, or where they've sprung from, Heaven alone knows ; but it's a solemn fact. And after all this time, too ! Have you seen her ? ' c She's in there,' answered Bertram, indicating the Moor- ish room, and during this discourse they became separated from the Scotch novelist by the chattering throng. ' Well, I never thought either of us would meet her again,' Teddy said. 'It's most extraordinary. She looks in pretty easy circumstances, too. Married, perhaps, old chap, and settled down after her little escapade. Girls often do.' ' Perhaps,' his old friend acquiesced, his eyes still upon the door, where the crowd passed and re-passed. c Go in and speak to her. It'll do no harm. She treated you beastly shabbily ; but let bygones be bygones. There's Jimmy Slade, the dramatic critic, over there, and I THE SECRET OF A DAY i 7I want to get a couple of stalls for the Savoy from him. So tra-la-la,' and a moment later the irrepressible painter had vanished among the gay, laughing crowd. Bertram stood for a moment in hesitation, still pressed against the wall by the throng, which seemed each moment to increase, till the rooms were crowded to suffocation, and starched collars sank as damp rags. He still wondered which was the best course to pursue. Quickly, however, he decided to seek her, and demand an explanation of that day, long past, when she left him, and sent that cruel letter which had wrecked his life. With that object he went on, pressed forward by those behind. As he passed the door and entered the Moorish room, he saw, straight before him, a lounge against the wall, with a canopy of yellow silk above it, a covering which shut out the light of the shaded arabesque hanging lamps, rendering it almost dark within. Alone in the deep shadow sat Fosca, a striking figure in black and silver. She was awaiting him. Her face was white in eagerness and expectancy; her dark eyes seemed to him to burn with all the fire of her old love of long ago. He approached, simply uttering her name in a hoarse, low voice — c Fosca ! ' He tried to utter some word of welcome, but was tongue-tied. In that half-darkness she sat there, an almost weirdly handsome figure, the typical heroine of his last romance, beautiful of feature, graceful in every line. In her black hair the diamond comb alone caught the light, and glowed with a thousand iridescent fires. 'Bertram! At last!' she exclaimed in French, in a low voice, her white breast heaving and falling quickly beneath its lace. c I — I feared lest you would not come to me — that you still hated me.' i/2 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c And why should I come ? ' he inquired, finding tongue at last, as he sank on the soft divan beside her. ' The love that once existed between us is long ago dead. Is it not best that it should be buried once and for ever ? ' She glanced at him for a single instant, and even in that half light he saw tears glistening in her eyes. I Yours is not an enthusiastic welcome,' she said sadly, in a harsh voice, half choked by emotion. I I do not welcome you,' he answered coldly. ' We have met only by accident, and this encounter is painful.' 4 If to you,' she said, ' then the more so to me. You no doubt believe that in the years that have passed since those old days at the Louvre I have forgotten. But I tell you, Bertram, I have ever remembered you. I have heard long ago of your success as a novelist, but I feared to write to you or see you, because ' c Because,' he repeated, remembering the pure and affec- tionate intercourse once existing between them, ' because you treated me so cruelly. Well, what of your lover ? ' he asked, growing excited. 1 My lover ? ' she echoed, with a puzzled look. c The man in whose company you left Paris,' he said, in a tone of intense bitterness. l The man who posed as my friend, yet was my enemy.' 1 Ah ! you mean Jean,' she cried. l Of course. I see it now. You believe that I actually left Paris with him ; that I had fallen so low as to deceive you like that. Yes, yes, I made a fatal mistake in writing that heartless, foolish letter. You will never believe me if I tell you that I did not leave Paris with Jean ; that, being forced to fly from Paris, I made that excuse to you in order that you, who loved me so well, should believe me worthless and forget. No. You cannot believe me, Bertram, I know.' He looked at her incredulously. The hum and laughter THE SECRET OF A DAY i; 3 of many voices filled his ears, but half hidden there as he was, no one could see him distinctly. c You wish me to believe this ? ' he asked. ' To believe that you actually wrote that letter without loving Jean, and without any intention of leaving Paris with him ? ' ' I ask you to still trust me, Bertram,' she said in deep earnestness, her eyes fixed upon his with unwavering glance. 1 I have spoken the truth.' ' Impossible,' he exclaimed impatiently. ' It is useless to seek to excuse yourself in this manner.' I You accompanied Jean to the station,' she observed. c I was not there.' c You might have been in another carriage, or have left by another train,' he retorted quickly, for he was angry that she should even now seek to deceive him in this lame manner. She sighed deeply. I I had dreaded this always,' she exclaimed, shuddering slightly. ' 1 felt certain that you could never accept my explanation.' ' But you do not explain,' he declared. 'You do not tell me why you were compelled to leave Paris.' c No,' she replied, after a second's hesitation. c That's impossible.' c Why ? ' he inquired, surprised at her sudden change of manner, for in that moment she had grown strangely pallid and haggard, as if striving to hide from him some terrible, ever-oppressing secret within her heart. ' The reason why I left Paris is known only to myself,' she faltered. 'And you decline to tell me ? ' he remarked. ' It is impossible to explain,' she answered quickly, her face blanched, her eyes shining upon him with that strange inner love-light he so well remembered. Years had not dimmed his memory of the pink glow of those calm sum- 174 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES mer evenings when they strolled together in the Tuileries Gardens, or of those sunny afternoons in the Bois, when they sat together in peaceful solitude and indulged in the pleasant day-dreams of youth. She was more beautiful now than then, more chic, more refined, more graceful. In that instant, as their eyes met, the truth was forced upon him that he still loved her. But reflecting upon the lameness of her excuse, and of the strangeness of her secret, he was filled with doubt. c If you will not tell me the truth,' he said gravely, c it is impossible for me to believe you. I have still your letter in which you renounce your love for me, and tell me that you have left Paris with Jean. The truth was,' he added, with intense bitterness, ' that you were aware I had no money, while Jean was rich and able to provide you with luxuries. Life at the Louvre was irksome — you told me so hundreds of times — and seeing in him a mode of quit- ting it, you did so. It is the same always. Women love for money/ c No,' she protested fiercely. ' I do not love for money. I should still have loved you, Bertram, had you been in rags. I own that my actions were mysterious, that the letter I wrote you was sufficient in itself to cause you to hate me ; but could you know the whole of the true facts, you would never utter those words — words which rend my heart.' c Why are you not frank ? ' he inquired reproachfully. c Surely there is no secret of your past that I must not know ? ' c Yes,' she answered, in a low, strained voice, ' there is a secret — one which I must still keep from everyone, even from you. I left Paris — I was forced to leave by a strange combination of circumstances ; but I swear that I went alone, that from the moment when you and I were together THE SECRET OF A DAY 175 in the studio the last time, I have never, until this instant, met Jean Potin. I swear that,' and she paused, looking him full in the face. c I swear on the tomb of my dead mother that I have ever loved you, Bertram, and have thought of no other man.' c And you ask me to believe all this ? ' he exclaimed, with a smile of undisguised cynicism. ' Even with your letter still preserved ? ' c Yes,' she answered simply. ' I ask you to believe me, because I tell you the truth.' c Yet you conceal from me your motive ? ' 1 I must,' she answered. c It is imperative. Will you never believe me ? ' He hesitated. His mind was overshadowed by doubt. c I cannot believe you, Fosca,' he replied at last, drawing a deep breath. Again she sighed. The tears standing in her eyes showed how deeply in earnest she was, how great was the tumult of emotion within her. In that brief hour all his old passion for her had returned. He compared his peev- ish, drunken, ignorant wife with her, and the comparison was odious. Yet her explanation was insufficient to satisfy him. She was hiding from him some secret which, in order to place credence in her story, it was necessary for him to know. Thoughts such as these surged through his brain, and he felt himself wavering. Suddenly, from the depths of his being, he felt a delicious freshness arise, like the vague advent of some new faith, and his hand sought hers. At that instant, however, their host came along, and pok- ing his head beneath the canopy, cried cheerily — 1 Ah, mademoiselle ! I've been hunting everywhere for you and for you, too, Rosmead. I want to introduce you to Monckton, who is one of our fellow-reviewers — a 176 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES man you ought to know, and a great admirer of your books. Wait a moment,' and that indefatigable centre of this London literary circle carried off Fosca, ere he could utter a word. But a few moments later his host returned and took him to where Monckton, the well-known reviewer, was standing. Everybody in that room knew Monckton, the thin-faced young man with fair hair which, although it bore painful traces of having been waved artificially, was the special admiration of ladies. He was clean-shaven, narrow-jawed, with a pair of fine eves that any woman might have envied, and a face so peculiarly effeminate that one of his witty enemies, whose book he had criticised adversely, had once referred to him as l the young man whom the Creator had intended as a lady's maid.' He was not a brilliant man bv any means, but that little circle of l boomers,' the dozen or so friends who push each other into notoriety by means of advertisement, had admitted him to their set a year ago, and now his name was known throughout the length and the breadth of the land. Indeed, with his striking personality, his affected manners, and his drawling speech, he was a fair specimen of the literary product of the present age ; a man who, by writing a little indifferent poetrv and criticising other people's work with a profound scholarly air, had forced people to believe in his capabilities. True, he had published a book or two of lyrics in the manner of most spring poets, but they had only been remarkable for the extraordinary merit which his friends alone discovered in them. Whenever he published a book, the reviews were more laudator)' than those of a collection by the Laureate, and whenever he spoke at public dinners, which was pretty frequently, the morning papers would invariably appear with the head-line c Mr. Monckton on Poetry,' as if he were a THE SECRET OF A DAY 177 recognised authority. He was a shining light, too, of a club which his friends had started for mutual admiration, and for the purposes of advertisement, a club called after an Oriental poet of the past, whose name, being almost unpronounceable, impressed the ignorant public. This se- lect coterie of log-rollers, who dined once or twice a year, and heralded their dinners by many preliminary puff para- graphs, always made a point of inviting important editors, because the latter would c boom ' them in return for their invitation to the seven-and-sixpenny dinner. A strange little world is Literary London. How little the public know of it, notwithstanding the c Literary gossip ' of every newspaper. The Sette of Odd Volumes, the Cemented Bricks, the Argonauts, and the New Vagabonds are all similar clubs, but are more catholic in membership, and do not so openly advertise themselves, nor are their members so pain- fully wanting in genuine Bohemianism as this charmed circle of poets, minor critics, and indifferent novelists who dribble out little books and puny poems on subjects theo- logical. If a minor writer chances to be particularly friendly with a couple of members it is sometimes decided to c boom him,' or in other words cram him down the public throat. With that object he is invited to the next dinner, and then around go the ingeniously-worded para- graphs that c Mr. So-and-So, whose last book "Pants" attracted so much attention both here and in America, and whose new study of slum life is just ready, has been invited as guest, &c.' The papers, from literary reviews to gut- ter-journals, print them eagerly; the public, who have never heard of ' Pants,' ask for it at the libraries, and very quickly Mr. So-and-So c booms,' his advertisement being continued by the report of the dinner, wherein the happy guest is referred to as ' the new Scott,' or the writer c whose 12 178 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES romances have been declared bv more than one critic to be worthy to rank with those of Dickens.' Mushroom reputations such as these last for a year or so, and then die down until, in publishers' parlance, they are 1 dead uns.' Once, indeed, this little company of log-rollers had actually l boomed ' a man who had never written any- thing more noteworthy than a few short stories in a boys' paper, and whose novel had been refused by every publisher in London. Dozens of artificial reputations are manu- factured in this way annually. Men who have struggled on for years and years doing good, honest work, work that would rank far in advance of these Jack-in-the-Box geniuses, are left behind in this race for fame, because thev will not condescend to play their own clarion. But to such the proclamations of the newlv-arrived sound like tin whistles in an opera orchestra, for the sturdy plodder in lit- erature knows well that the public, although it may be gulled at first bv laudatory reviews, will soon allow the dull man who is thus thrust upon them to find his own level, a level from which he will never again ascend. In literature, as in business, a reputation once lost can never be regained. Again, it is a striking fact in literary London that the more incompetent the writer the more vain he generally becomes. With one or two exceptions, perhaps, the popu- lar writer is never a vain man. In most instances he is surprised at his own success, and, being so, cannot be egotistical. He leaves egotism to those clever young men with whose works his publisher fills up his list ; men who earn about one twentieth part his income and to whose wives' c At homes ' he is invited in order that he mav be lionised. The difference between Rosmead and Monckton was great. By dint of sheer toil the former had forced his THE SECRET OF A DAY 179 way forward into notoriety, while the reputation of the latter had been gained at the expense of a few midday chops at the Savage Club, one or two seven-and-sixpenny dinners at popular restaurants, with a ^ew notices of books remarkable for adulatory phrases and ' lines for quotation.' The one was a romancer whose work showed talent of the highest order ; the other an artificial poet whose lines were far from faultless, and whose moral teaching was somewhat dislocated. Yet Monckton spoke to the man introduced to him with a languid, patronising air as if the effort of speaking to such a person was a bore. He raised his white, tapering hand, glanced at it, then resting his elbow in his palm, struck an attitude, intended to be imposing. He began to praise Rosmead's last book, but with his words of approbation were mingled disparaging remarks regarding diction and grammar, in a manner which showed that he intended to impress him with a sense of his superi- ority. Monckton was nothing if not a superior person. ' I don't know that one need be so very particular in writ- ing romance,' Rosmead answered, a trifle abruptly, his eyes fixed upon Fosca, who was at that moment chatting with much sprightly gesticulation to an elderly and distinguished R. A. c What people want from a writer of romance is a good story, with an absorbing plot, and plenty of go in it. That's what I always try to produce.' ' But, my dear Rosmead,' drawled the sandy-haired poet, with a look of consternation, ' think of your style.' c I'm not a grammarian,' answered Bertram, impatiently, for the man's affected superiority disgusted him. 'Not nine-tenths of my readers care a semi-colon for grammar ; they want a story. If they want grammar they can buy " Lindley Murray." ' Both men laughed. Monckton saw that Rosmead was 180 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES too straightforward and plain. So confidently did people believe in him that it had become his habit to pronounce his own opinions on everything concerning literature, from the Baconian theory down to his own latest effort in puny verse. For a man to speak of grammar in that flippant manner horrified him. ' The masters of fiction always paid great attention to style,' he observed. ' I'm not a master, and never shall be,' Rosmead answered. 'As long as I write an interesting story and the public buy me, I seek no further distinction,' and as he spoke, a tall, thin, grey-moustached man brushed past him. It was the Marquis. The recognition was mutual. The man, who had been a shabby, penurious artist's model in Paris, was now quite spruce and well-dressed, although bv the manner in which his evening clothes hung upon him, it was evident he was not at home in them. His face was a trifle greyer than it had been in the days when Rosmead had lived on the Quai Montebello ; his hair was thinner, and he had now shaved his beard, that hirsute appendage which had been the despair of so many artists. ' Ah ! Signor Rosmead ! ' the old man gasped in surprise, as his eyes met Bertram's. ' Yes,' the other answered in French, glad of an oppor- tunity to escape from the superior person with whom he had been conversing. c So you are in London, Marquis ? ' 'No, no,' he laughed. 'Marquis no longer. I've dropped my title.' ' Why ? ' ' Because suspicion always attaches to an Italian Marquis, except in his own country,' he answered. ' But how have you been all these years ? ' Rosmead regarded the old man with a smile. Almost THE SECRET OF A DAY 181 involuntarily he placed his hand in his pocket, for he expected the aged model to crave the usual loan of thirty centimes. Farini's eves were red and shifty, and his breath bore traces of the atmosphere of the refreshment- room. 1 Oh, Fm all right,' Rosmead answered cheerfully. ' But how is it that we meet here ? I thought you were always in Paris,' and he glanced inquiringly at the old Bohemian's sorry attempt at genteel garb. c I've come with Fosca. She's here,' he explained. ' Yes,' the novelist replied briefly. ' Fve been speaking with her. The Bouchon is here, too. Have you seen him ? ' ' The Bouchon ? ' cried the old Italian, enthusiastically. c No, I haven't seen him. I've been all the evening in the other room,' he said, indicating the refreshment-room, ' in conversation with a gentleman. How is the Signore ? ' 4 As merry as ever,' Bertram laughed. 1 He's a great painter now, I hear,' the model said. l My prophecy has come true. He was the only man at Julien's who could paint my forehead with any degree of accuracy. You know what a difficult forehead Fve got. I've heard in Paris of his success in your Academy. And you ? ' Bertram was explaining that he had given up painting and taken to writing fiction when, seeing Fosca left for a moment alone, he, crossing quickly to her, whispered — 1 Fve been waiting to get another word with you. First, whv are you in London ? ' ' To seek you,' she answered, raising her fine eyes to his. 1 How did you know I was here ? ' 1 I read a paragraph about you in the Petit "Journal a month ago. It said that you, Bertram Rosmead, now a successful writer of romance, had once studied art in the Quartier Latin, but, failing, had taken to literature, and now 1 82 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES lived in London. Then I knew it was my Bertram, and I came here,' she said simply. He looked straight into her eyes for a single instant. Yes, he saw she was far more beautiful than in the old days. He had noticed how her elegant figure was being everywhere admired. But the crowd had now thinned, for it was past two o'clock, and everyone was saying good-night. As he stood talking with her, their host, hot after his exertions to make everyone acquainted with every- body else, approached them, exclaiming in good French — c Well, mademoiselle, I hope you haven't been bored ? ' c Not at all,' she replied, with a glance at the man beside her. c I've found here an old friend — a very old friend.' 1 Oh, you were acquainted, were you ? ' he asked, addressing the novelist and laughing. c Yes, in Paris, long ago,' he replied ; and then, as his host moved away, he asked her for her address, in order that he might call upon her. c We're staying at the Waterloo Hotel, in Jermyn Street,' she answered. ' When will you come ? ' ' To-morrow, at three,' he replied, after a second's hesitation. 1 Very well,' she said, as the Marquis came up to take charge of her. c Till then, good-bye ; ' and in a low, earn- est half-whisper she added, c Remember, what I have said is the truth. I swear it is. Reflect before you prejudge me.' For a moment her tiny hand, in its long cream glove, rested in his. Then she turned and left him. A quarter of an hour later he was driving along Kensing- ton Gore towards his dingy Inn, her words still ringing in his ears. The night was chill and silent, the long rows of gas-lamps bright and brilliant. London was asleep beneath a very peaceful sky, which was studded with stars. CHAPTER XVI FRIENDS c I missed you last night, old fellow. Where did you get to ? ' inquired Bertram, as he burst into Teddy's studio early next morning. He had sent a note to the office excusing himself from duty that day, and had come down to Kensington on purpose to consult his friend. 1 I left early,' the painter answered, casting himself into a chair, and throwing back his head upon the cushion be- hind. c I was at the Savage late on the night before, and felt a bit chippy. I saw you chatting with Fosca under the canopy — well, and the result ? ' 1 The result — eh ? Well, the result is nothing.' 4 You've charged her with being unfaithful, and all that, I suppose ? ' 1 Yes, and she denies it,' answered the novelist, sinking into a chair. ' She declares that she never accompanied Jean, and that she wrote the letter merely because she wished me to believe her worthless.' c Then she loved somebody else, and wanted to get rid of you,' observed Teddy, philosophically. c She swears she's never loved anybody else.' ' A lame excuse — a devilish lame excuse,' Teddy grunted dubiously. Bertram hesitated whether he should tell his friend everything. He could trust O'Donovan, who knew well the secret sorrow which oppressed his heart. Therefore 1 84 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES he resolved to narrate the facts as Fosca had related them. c She has told me a strange story,' he said, his eyes fixed upon those of his friend. ' She says that she was forced to leave Paris and to part from me. She loved me, yet it was imperative that we should separate ; therefore she wrote that cruel letter, in order that I might cast her aside as unfaithful and worthless.' 1 Forced to leave Paris ? ' echoed the O'Donovan. « Why ? ' ' Ah ! that's just the point,' Bertram answered, with a sigh. l She won't explain.' ' Suspicious,' observed the other. c It's impossible to place credence in a story such as that without a knowledge of the whole facts. If she really loved you, why didn't she take you into her confidence ? No, my dear fellow, if I were you I wouldn't let the matter rest here. I'd make her tell me the truth. If she loves you she'll tell you at last. Women are fond of affecting secrecy in such matters.' c It was such an extraordinary meeting,' Bertram said, stretching himself in his chair. ' She says that she read a paragraph about me in the Petit Journal and came to London expressly to seek me.' 4 I'm afraid that's not quite true,' Teddy answered. c Before leaving last night I made a remarkable discovery, one which fully accounts for the Marquis and Fosca being in London.' 4 What was it ? ' inquired the other, eagerly. 1 Well, when I came across the Marquis in the crowd I fully expected him to pin me in a corner and extract the usual loan. But he didn't ; and a quarter of an hour later I learnt a most astounding fact. The Marquis is a rich man.' FRIENDS 185 1 A rich man ! Has he at last inherited the family castle in Spain ? ' c No ; it seems he's dropped on his legs in a very re- markable way, even though a little late in life. You know he was always a pretty good musician. Well, it seems that in his younger days he was a violinist at La Scala Theatre, in Milan, and rose to be conductor of the orches- tra there. A drinking bout was the cause of his services being dispensed with, and he went to Paris, but from that time sank lower and lower, until he became a model for the head, and as such we knew him. But in his sober moments, during the past few years, the old boy has com- posed an opera, a work which a year ago was produced in Vienna, and afterwards in Paris, where it met with such success that it has already been heard in all the European capitals.' 1 The Marquis has written an opera ! ' cried Bertram, his eyes opening incredulously. ' Never. What's its title ? ' 1 " The Loaned Threepenny-Bit " would have been an apt one,' laughed Teddy, 'but its real title is u II Par- paglione." ' 1 " II Parpaglione ! " ' gasped the other. ' Why I saw it a week ago at Covent Garden. It's magnificent. Half London raves over it, and seats are booked months in advance. Surely the Marquis didn't compose that splendid music ? ' 1 He did, without doubt,' Teddy replied, taking up the morning paper, and, pointing to the advertisement, handed it across to him. c There's his name.' Bertram looked and saw there true enough the announcement : c To-night at eight. Farini's famous opera, " II Parpaglione." ' 1 Why the profits from such a work must be enormous,' he exclaimed, glancing again towards his friend. 1 86 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c I should rather think they were,' Teddy replied. 1 Look what a run it's had. I'm told that in Italy it's played in two or three towns every night. The Italians have gone stark mad over it. Who would ever have dreamed that the " Threepenny Marquis " could do any- thing except drink a bilboquet, borrow thirty centimes and predict the future success or failure of the man to whom he sat for St. Peter. It's truly astounding.' c But of course he was always a good musician,' Bertram exclaimed. ' I remember once when Bresson, of the orchestra at the Francais, was in our rooms, and we in- duced the old chap to give us a tune on his mandolin, he declared that the Italian's music was faultless. Don't you remember you asked what song it was he had played, and he replied that it was one of his own, and we all laughed him to derision. The idea of that drunken old scamp compos- ing a song was too absurd. Yet now we know the truth.' c Poor old Marquis ! In those shabby down-at-heel days nobody believed in him any more than they did in us,' Teddy observed. ' He was too good a Bohemian ever to boast, or even refer to his own talents.' I Yet " II Parpaglione " is the work of a master. Go and see it,' urged Bertram. c I will. Already I've heard lots of the music,' the artist answered. ' For the past six months or so, every orchestra has had selections from it on their programme. It is splendid, and although I'm not a critic of music, seems to me to equal the best work of Verdi or Puccini.' c Yes, I entirely agree with you there. The Marquis is undoubtedly a genius. To think that his head should hang in the galleries as that of St. Peter ! It's too funny.' I I doubt whether the much-painted saint himself had a finer head,' laughed Teddy. c He certainly didn't possess such a capacious throat or so charming a daughter.' FRIENDS 187 4 Ah, Fosca ! ' exclaimed his friend, his mind ever revert- ing to the woman he loved. ' I'm going to call on her this afternoon.' 'Then compel her to tell you everything. Clear up the mystery, or it will worry you to death. You were hard hit in those days, and you haven't yet got over it.' 1 I shall never get over it, I fear, old fellow.' The artist sighed. He knew that his friend, ever modest and sincere, spoke the truth. Fosca, the sprightly neat-ankled girl who had come like a ray of sunshine to brighten their shabby old studio, and had captivated them all in the old days on the Quai Montebello, was now, as the daughter of the distinguished composer, more graceful, more strikingly beautiful with her Parisian chic, her bright eyes and her musical laughter, than she had been when her face was rendered pale and haggard by long hours in the Maga- sins du Louvre. Teddy saw that in Rosmead all the old fire of love had been rekindled, that she was still his idol, even though she had once cast him aside in favour of a more wealthy lover, even though in his own bizarre home his peevish wife was fast drinking herself to death. c Don't act rashly, old chap. That's all my advice,' the artist said. c I'm not likely to,' his friend sighed. c You, Teddy, are the only man who knows my secret. To the world I'm a happy, successful man, whose reputation grows daily, and who has every prospect in life, but alas ! at heart I'm one of the most wretched fellows on earth. Without comfort at home, without a single friend except yourself, I live on from year to year, growing every day more careless of the future, because it can only bring me vexation and sorrow. I have striven and fought for my standing in my profession until I have gained the mastery, but the result is only an empty name. There is no brightness in my home, or in 188 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES my heart, because mine has been a vain effort, its result a fruitless blank. Fame has come to me, but alas ! at what bitter cost ! ' he added in the voice of a man over-burdened with poignant sorrow. Teddy was struck by his weary, dismal countenance, whence all life appeared to have been effaced by the long years of toil and disappointment. ' No, don't give up, my dear old fellow,' he cried, rising and placing his hand upon his friend's shoulder. l One woman alone loves you and has your interests at heart. It is, however, not just that you should love her. Long ago I told you that Lena would be your ruin. She is worth- less — absolutely worthless, and unfitted to be the wife of an honest straightforward man of your stamp.' I Why do you say she is worthless ? ' asked Rosmead. 4 Whenever you speak of her I always have a strange fancy you are in possession of some secret that you would like me to know. What is it ? ' The artist hesitated, his eyes, with an unusually serious expression, fixed upon those of his friend. ' I say that she's unfit to be your wife, Bertram. I can say no more than that,' he answered very gravely. 8 You advise me to abandon her ? ' he asked in a low voice. 8 Yes. Come back to life — love, be a man.' 8 To love Fosca instead ? ' he inquired with knit brows. I I did not suggest that,' the artist replied, waving his hand in a vague way. 8 No, I will not advise you to for- sake your wife for a woman who has already played you false.' 8 But Fosca's secret ? ' the novelist observed uneasily. Intense emotion was stirring him. 1 Ascertain its nature. Then consider how you should act,' Teddy suggested. c The ways of women are very strange. Even now she may be lying to you.' FRIENDS 189 ' No,' he murmured bitterly, l I believe she speaks the truth. But I must not love her — I dare not.' He was shaken by so frightful a sob that Teddy could not restrain his own tears. Their hands were clasped, their hearts full of the softest emotion. Could Bertram Rosmead have known the ghastlv truth, he would have been struck bv the nobility of soul which had lain for so long behind his friend's anxietv. But the death born of doubt had swept through him, shattering everything, and rendering his bodv but the sepulchre of all his hopes and aspirations, of all his energies, of all his love. CHAPTER XVII THE CUP OF PLEASURE The afternoon was chilly, and as Fosca sat over the fire in her cosy little sitting-room in the Waterloo Hotel, that essentially foreign hostelry in Jermyn Street, she shivered and drew her low chair nearer. Suddenly the Marquis entered from the adjoining room, red in the face and fuming. He was coatless, and his hair was awry on account of a strenuous, but futile effort to button a very stiff collar. 1 Confound these laundry-women's triumphs,' cried the old man, in anger, speaking in Italian, as he always did when vexed. ' I can't button the thing.' c Oh, let me do it ! ' exclaimed Fosca, jumping up and taking the refractorv collar in her hand. ( Poor babbo, you're always in trouble over your clothes nowadays.' c Madre di Dio ! Yours give you enough trouble, too,' he snapped. c You're always at the dressmaker's, and I have to pay some very interesting bills.' 1 You know vou always like to see me look very nice,' she laughed. c Come, let me button your collar ! ' and with a deft movement she fixed the stud in its place. c Shall I tie your cravat for you ? ' 'No, no,' he answered. ' Only a man can tie a man's bow properly. Holy Virgin ! one has to pay dearly for a bit of success. In the old days I never wanted a collar, and I was far more comfortable without one.' THE CUP OF PLEASURE 191 1 But we both often wanted a meal,' Fosca observed a trifle gravely. c And if your success had come earlier poor mother might have been saved a lot of suffering. ' c Ah, yes ! ' sighed the great composer, growing grave in an instant at mention of his dead wife's name. c Poor dear ! If I had only had this success two or three years ago her life perhaps might have been saved by the great doctors. There is, alas, no help for the invalid poor. Monsieur Rosmead asked last night after her, and I was compelled to tell him the truth — that she was dead.' Then suddenly breaking off, he added, c By the way, he's going to call on you to-day, isn't he ? ' c Yes, babbo ; he's due here now,' she answered, hesi- tating slightly, her cheeks flushing. ' Well, you must entertain him yourself,' he replied. ' I suppose in polite society, such as we are compelled nowa- days to affect, it isn't considered quite the thing for an unmarried woman to receive a gentleman. Yet you often went walks with him in Paris, young puss, and I suppose you still love him now, if the truth were told — eh ? ' 1 Why ? ' she asked, with affected indifference. 1 The look on vour face when you met him was quite sufficient to tell me the truth,' answered the Marquis. ' I'm old now, my dear, but I, too, was young once.' And he sighed. c Poor babbo,' she answered, looking at him gravelv. c But you're not very old ! you'll live years longer yet, and write lots more operas.' c No,' he replied, with a touch of sadness. c I have no further ambition to write. One success, such as the " Par- paglione," is sufficient. I shall never do anything better — never.' c Oh, yes, you will,' cried his daughter, cheerily. ' I'm sure you will. After this, we'll go to Tuscany, to Lucca, 192 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES that grey, quaint old city where we stayed six months ago. There you can settle down to work again, and in easy cir- cumstances. We'll have a nice villa with a terrace and a garden, with trailing vines and an arbour where we can dine together. It will be quite an ideal existence. I love the old place.' c But you forget,' her father said, interrupting her, l you forget that I'm a born Bohemian, and can't settle any- where ; you forget, too, that you may marry, and then I shall not want a villa. A couple of rooms off the " Boul. Mich." are good enough for me.' 1 No, no,' Fosca answered quicklv. ' I'll never allow you to go back there again. Remember who you are now — the most distinguished composer of the day, the man of the hour. Look upon your writing-table there, and see the invitations which have come to you from well-known people who want to lionise you, the applications for inter- views, and for autographs. Do not thev convince you that you ought not to drift back to the old life of the Quartier? No, babbo ; you shall never go there. The influence of your companions there would be fatal.' c In other words,' he laughed, c you mean that I should just drink mvself to death ? ' c When vou don't drink you know you're much better in both health and temper,' she said, with a convincing air. But he laughed lightlv, stroking her dark hair as she lifted her handsome anxious face to his. c I must be going,' he said. c I have an appointment at Covent Garden Theatre at three, so I've only just time. You'll wait and see your lover, of course. Rosmead's a good fellow, a very good fellow. I always liked him. He's become quite a famous romance-writer, I hear.' c Yes,' Fosca replied. l Even the Paris papers speak of him as one of the most prominent among English novelists. THE CUP OF PLEASURE 193 But why do vou refer to him as my lover, babbo ? ' she inquired, laughing a trifle nervously. c Because he was so long ago, and, judging from vour lover-like attitude at St. Barbe's last night, I assume that the old love has been revived,' answered the Marquis, a mischievous twinkle in his dark, deep-set eyes. Fosca blushed, but did not answer. The old Bohemian knew bv her demeanour that he spoke the truth. 4 Well, don't marrv too quickly, that's all,' her father urged. ' You know how lonelv I shall be without you, especially nowadavs, when I have to put on a clean starched shirt everv night, and dress like a cafe-waiter.' His daughter laughed. One of his pet aversions was evening dress. He alwavs declared that he bore a striking resemblance to Monsieur de Paris, the official French heads- man, and she often declared to her friends that her father would be entirelv satisfied with his success were it not for the fact that he had now to conform to the conventional rules of societv. He could no longer drink that cheap wine of the Quartier he loved so well, nor could he consume those long rank cigars. For good Havanas he had no appreciation. Like many another Bohemian, whom Dame Success has dragged out of the Latin Quartier, he retained a secret affection for those thin and particularly choking cigars which one purchases for ten centimes at the corner of the Rue Madame. He was at home beyond the Pont Neuf, where he could lounge in the little cafes or eat at Mother Gerv's, and chat with the men he knew ; but here, in London societv, the admired composer of one of the most notable operas of the past ten years, he felt uncom- fortable, and even hated his success because of the social duties it imposed upon him. To Fosca, however, the gaiety was pleasant. Long ago, when serving those grand ladies at the Louvre, she had 13 194 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES often wished that she, too, might be rich, receive invitations to balls and dinners, and wear dresses which other women would admire and envy. In her day-dreams she had some- times imagined herself in the place of one of those women whose accepted invitations were so numerous that they had to keep a diary of them, and now she was actually one of them. For more than a year her life with her father had been one perpetual round of gaiety in Vienna, in Peters- burg, in Milan, in Berlin, in Rome, and now in London. Courted and flattered because of her extreme beauty, she had drained the cup of pleasure to the dregs, but inwardly she told herself that not one man she had met had ever stirred within her heart the chord of love. In her memory there had ever remained the image of the one man for whom she entertained affection — the dark-haired, grave-faced, unsuccessful artist, the man whom she had so deeply wronged. But at such times there would arise within her a remembrance, a strange, terrible ghost of the past which held her transfixed, dumb, horror-stricken. It was in this mood that she sat when a few moments later the Marquis had left, having struggled into his coat, and lit one of his favourite ten-centime cigars, which he found he could purchase at a shop in Coventry Street, Hay- market. She presented a somewhat nervous appearance as she crouched again beside the fire, her tiny red morocco shoes upon the fender. Her dress of pearl-grey, which any woman would have recognised as bearing the unmistakable stamp of the Rue de la Paix, rendered her figure more slim and fragile than her black costume of the previous night, but it suited her complexion well, even though her face was a trifle pale and anxious. She had glanced at the little travelling-clock on the mantelshelf, and had seen that it was already past three, when almost the next second the man she was expecting was ushered in. THE CUP OF PLEASURE 195 She rose slowly to meet him, and he took her hand with- out a word. Then, w T hen they had both seated themselves and the door had closed, she exclaimed, in French : 1 So you have come ! I began to think you did not intend to see me again.' ' For both our sakes, Fosca, it would have been best, perhaps, if I had not come,' he answered in a low intense tone, his voice shaken bv an emotion he tried in vain to subdue. 1 Why ? ' she inquired quicklv, in some surprise. c You made an appointment. If vou had not kept it, your conduct would not have been gentlemanly.' c I know it,' he said. c But there are times when even rudeness is judicious.' She sighed, guessing at what he hinted. 1 I have learnt,' he went on, ' I have learnt of vour father's wonderful success, and of vour recent travels all over Europe. The Marquis is certainly to be congratu- lated, and you, too, on possessing such a talented father. I saw the " Parpaglione " the other night, but never dreamed that he, my old friend, the father of the woman I loved, composed that delightful music' 4 The woman vou loved,' she repeated in a low voice, sad and mournful, staring into the fire. c You use the past tense. Then vou no longer love me ? ' He hesitated, gazing at her white, haggard face, and see- ins: there how soul-wean* she was. 4 I did not say that,' he hastened to assure her. ' Any declaration of affection is, however, futile under the cir- cumstances.' « Why ? ' c Because you refuse to be frank with me,' he answered. c Ah ! ' she easped, holding her breath for a single in- stant. - Ah, ves ! I, of course, told you last night.' 196 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES I You told me nothing,' he observed. " It is to ask you to confide in me the truth that I have come to you now.' I I have told you the truth,' she answered, composing herself in determination. 1 You say that the cause of your leaving Paris was not love for Jean. Well, what was it ? ' he demanded. ' Surely, Fosca, I, of all men, have a right to an explana- tion ? ' 1 Yes,' she slowly answered. ' You have a right, the greatest right, but unfortunately my motive for leaving Paris on that day was a secret, and must still ever remain a secret.' c One that inculpates you ? ' ' Inculpates me ! ' she gasped, blanching to the lips in an instant. ' What do you mean ? ' Was it possible, she wondered, that he could have any suspicion of the terrible truth concealed within her heart ? c I mean that you wrote to me, saying that you preferred Jean. What guarantee have I that such was not actually the case ? ' She breathed again more freely. Evidently he knew nothing. 1 You have only my word, Bertram,' she answered quietly, looking him straight in the face, with her bright, dark eyes brimming with tears. fc The word of an honest woman.' At that instant Rosmead felt himself wavering. Was it true, after all, that his doubts were without foundation; that she really loved him with that true womanly love for which his heart had yearned so long. He remembered Lena, the degenerated product of the theatre dressing- room, the idle, intemperate woman who had done her best to bring him down to her own level, who had forced him to drink with her in those low bars he abominated ; the THE CUP OF PLEASURE 197 woman who would journey half London over if she thought whiskey would be offered her ; the woman who would pawn the rings he had given her, buy gin with the pro- ceeds, and drink it neat until their rooms stank with its stale, nauseating odour. Often and often had a lump arisen in his throat, and bitter tears welled in his deep, serious eyes when, after trying to argue with her, and show her the folly of her actions, she had raved at him, abusing and cursing him. Many and many a night had he gone out, crushed and hopeless, wandering down one or other of the quieter streets off the Strand to the Embankment, plunged in his own sad thoughts, with his future dismal and hopeless. Everywhere, in the eyes of all his friends, Lena had dis- graced him. He never now took her anywhere, because of her terrible craving for drink. He had grown callous, and ceased to regard her with affection. She had by her constant ill-temper, her utter disregard for his well-being, her disgraceful behaviour, and her ever-ready abuse, dulled his senses and stifled all the love that ever existed within his heart. Now, at this moment, with Fosca at his side, he could only regard the woman who bore his name as an encum- brance. He remembered O'Donovan's advice, and resolved to stand firm and seek an explanation. c I should never have doubted your honesty, Fosca,' he said, after a long pause, c were it not for that letter.' c It was a mistake which I've ever since regretted,' she answered quickly, adding, c Then you don't think I'm honest ? ' c I cannot judge until I know the true facts,' he re- sponded diplomatically. ' At present you are only seeking to mystify me.' 198 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES c No, no,' she protested vehemently. l Believe me, Bertram, I would tell you all — explain everything — if I only dared. But I dare not. It would be fatal.' 4 Because you think that the truth would reflect upon you too strongly ? ' c Ah ! ' she sighed deeply, in a trembling voice. 4 If I could tell you, even then you would never believe the strange facts without proof — and proof I could not give you. Silence is best, even though it be enforced.' ' A silence that will drive me to desperation.' c No, no,' she answered. l Believe that I am still an honest woman, that I do not lie to you, that — that I love you.' He looked at her long and earnestly. In exercising his profession as novelist, he had learned to observe closely, to analvse character, and to divine thoughts. He saw in her eyes that bright, eager, wistful look which cannot be feigned — the glance of genuine love. He was inclined to believe her, yet, sitting there in her chair, her head thrown back, her red lips parted, displaying her even rows of pearly teeth, her dark hair straying in tiny tendrils across her white brow, she seemed to him so typical of Circe that he hesitated. Was her declaration of love mere caprice, he wondered. Was it not likely that in the years that had passed she had had a troop of lovers ? The great beauty she had devel- oped was sufficient guarantee that many men had admired her, and what more natural than she should have recip- rocated their love ? She had come to England to participate in her father's success, and now, finding in her old student- lover a man of mark, she had resolved to again bring him to her side, and to toy with his affections as she had done in those davs of long ago. Such thoughts flashed through his brain as he sat before her, and his heart hardened. THE CUP OF PLEASURE 199 Witnessing the heavy look upon his face, she slowly stretched forth her white, bejewelled hand, but he did not offer to take it. c Do you believe no word I utter ? ' she asked in a low, intense tone. c I cannot feel convinced that vou still love me,' he an- swered. l If vou did, vou would at least confide in me.' c I do confide in you,' she protested. c My inability to explain the reason why I left Paris on that morning, long ago, is not my own fault. I act under compulsion.' c You fear an exposure of the truth,' he observed in a half whisper. 1 Yes,' she sighed. c At present the truth must remain hidden from evervone, even from you, the man I love. If I told vou it would be fatal to your interests — as well as to mine.' 1 I really don't understand vou, Fosca,' he said, growing for a moment impatient. ' You seem determined to mystify me without any just reason.' 1 No,' she answered. c You mystify yourself by con- tinuing to repeat the one question to which I am unable to give a satisfactory reply.' < Why ? ' 4 Because I do not mvself know the actual truth of the circumstances which forced me to leave Paris, therefore I cannot explain to vou that which is still a mvstery,' she replied with an affected calmness. Her face had grown hard-set and very pale, as if she were struggling desperately to preserve the great secret of her life, one which ever oppressed her, holding her crushed and powerless. On his part, he was hesitating whether he should tell her of his marriage, or whether it would be best to leave her without referring; to the unfortunate bond which held him galled, and aloof from her. Her determination to preserve 200 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES her secret — which he felt confident was a guilty one — made it impossible to believe in her declaration of constant affection. Once he thought he had detected an artificial ring in her voice, and by this his suspicions became deep- rooted. His nature was by no means impetuous. His careful studies of character and human nature had rendered him a little cold and cynical, a trifle world-weary before his time, as it ever does with men who practise the profession of letters. The novelist's success depends mainly upon his keen insight into character and his quick perception of all the emotions and passions that stir the human heart, powers which he only achieves after long and constant studies, studies which in the majority of cases render him coldly philosophical, with a disbelief in any unselfishness in human nature, morose perhaps, and generally wearied, and apa- thetic of the world's pleasures. Bertram Rosmead was, however, not naturally a morose man. Constantly depressed by Lena's ill-temper and intemperance, he had, nevertheless, become dull, and careless of all beyond the manuscript which at the moment lay upon his writing-table. Should he confide in Fosca ? Should he tell her of his unfortunate union with a woman he had never, and could never, love ? He paused. She had not been frank with him ; therefore, he would not be frank with her. No. He determined to part from her, and allow her to remain in ignorance. When she dis- covered the truth, she would be filled with chagrin. That should be her punishment. c I think,' he said at last, regarding her with a calm, open look, ' I think it was rather unfortunate for us both that we should have met again like this, Fosca. It has only opened up old wounds, which I thought were healed long ago.' 4 Are you sorry ? ' she asked, in a low, reproachful whis- THE CUP OF PLEASURE 201 per. c Do you actually regret, Bertram ? Yet you used to declare that you would love me my whole life through, you used to assure me, when we walked together in the Bois — do you remember those days ? — how well you loved me, how that I was your heart, body, and soul ? And now all is of the past. You regret because we have met,' she added, sighing, with poignant bitterness. 1 We were both young and foolish then,' he stammered. c Age and experience changes everyone.' c Then if it has changed you,' she said, in a voice half choked with emotion, c if you no longer love me, there is little use for us to meet again. When you reflect, are you not convinced that I, too, loved you truly then ; are you not convinced that I cared for no one except yourself? ' c Yes,' he responded promptly. l You loved me once, Fosca — until you knew that I was penniless.' ' Ah, no ! ' she cried, bursting into tears, as, rising sud- denly, and standing at his side, she grasped his hand. c I swear it was not so. Money had nothing whatever to do with it.' c But love had,' he interrupted ruthlessly. ' You loved Jean Potin.' c Never,' she declared. c I swear I never did, any more than you loved the — that woman whom your friend O'Donovan adored.' He noticed with what strange hesitancy she spoke of the mysterious Violette, and wondered. It seemed as though, for some unknown reason, she hated the dead woman's memory. ' But from motives which you are, even now, resolved to hide, you led me to believe so,' he observed, without attempt- ing to disguise the doubt consuming him. She sighed, then held her breath, regarding him with a troubled, wistful expression. 202 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 1 I know, I know,' she murmured. c But vou will for- give my one foolish action ? I desired to leave behind me all of the past, even you, because — because I was unworthy your love,' she cried, in tears. c Your words are sufficient proof of your unfaithfulness,' he answered, in a chilling tone. c iVlv unfaithfulness ! ' she echoed blanklv. c Ah ! If I could tell you — if I dared to tell you — all! But you will never believe me — never.' c No,' he said, rising slowly, and putting her outstretched hand from him. c You speak the truth, Fosca. I cannot believe vou.' 'You believe that I lie to vou,' she gasped, drawing back, and regarding him through her tears. C I express no opinion,' he answered coldly; c none be- yond the suggestion that we should not meet again.' c You will forsake me because — because of this,' she wailed, in a trembling voice. c When vou care to give me a clear explanation, I am ready to hear it,' he replied. c Until then, we shall not meet.' He stretched forth his hand, and hers lingered in it for a moment. Then he released her, and, turning, left the room without further word ; while she, when the door had closed, flung herself upon the couch, and, heedless of everything, gave way to a torrent of bitter tears. The man she loved better than life, the man who had been ever in her thoughts since that well-remembered dav when she had fled secretly from Paris, had forsaken her, because he believed her worth- less, soulless. Yet her secret held her dumb. CHAPTER XVIII THAT WOMAN'S LOVER ' Two hours later, while the yellow London twilight was fast darkening, Fosca sat in the low chair, her red, tear- stained eves fixed blankly upon the flickering fire, reflect- ing bitterly upon the interview with Bertram, and its result. The Marquis had not yet returned, and she had not rung for the lights, preferring to remain in the glimmer of the fading day, as it harmonised better with her own sad thoughts. Bertram had discarded her. He had forsaken her because of her inability to speak the truth, and she was now trying to devise some excuse by which she might bring him again to her side. She had staked all — her heart, her soul, her honour — and she had lost. He doubted her. He had implied that she lied to him, and had coldly told her that further belief in her honesty was impossible. She had, therefore, no hope of regaining his love, because she knew too well, alas ! that any explanation was out of the question. Her lips were sealed in a fatal silence. She murmured some strange, incoherent words, sighed deeply, and then remained with her pointed chin resting in her palm, her eyes fixed again upon the fire. In this reflective attitude she sat for some time without stirring, when suddenly she was awakened from her painful reverie bv the door opening, and the waiter exclaiming in French — c There is a gentleman to see mademoiselle.' 204 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES 4 Who ? ' asked Fosca, turning quickly. 1 Monsieur has given no name,' the man answered. c Will mademoiselle see him ? ' Fosca, now thoroughly aroused, reflected for a moment. It was strange that a man who wished to see her should refuse his name. It savoured of mystery. Her first im- pulse was to decline to see the stranger, but on second thought that it might be someone who desired to see her father on business, she, after a moment's further hesitation, told the waiter to admit him. The door closed, but opened again quickly as the mys- terious caller was ushered into the sitting-room, where the only light was from the flickering flames, and where Fosca was still sitting in a calm, unruffled attitude. He was stout of figure, florid of complexion, and breathed heavily, as if the ascent of the stairs had been too much for him. Un- able to see him distinctly, she leaned forward, regarding him with some surprise. The light of a leaping flame suddenly fell full upon his face, revealing his features, and as she next instant recog- nised them, she uttered a startled cry of dismay, then sat glaring at him. The waiter had left, and they were alone together. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, in French, in a low, meaning tone, as, uninvited, he walked across and took a vacant chair near her — the one in which Bertram had sat. C I see you have not forgotten.' 'How could I ever forget?' she gasped, pale and trembling. 'No,' he answered, in a coarse, hoarse voice. C I sup- pose the recollection isn't very pleasant.' He spoke French almost perfectly, yet his slight accent pronounced him an Englishman. Again the furtive flame shot up and illuminated the 'THAT WOMAN'S LOVER' 205 coarse, florid face with its grey side-whiskers. The features revealed were those of the shambling recluse of Staple Inn, Sir Douglas Vizard, the man whose name was on the list of patrons of many benevolent societies and religious insti- tutions, and who so often spoke at young men's meetings at Exeter Hall. 1 And vou have sought me out to taunt me again, to drive me to desperation — perhaps to suicide!' she cried bitterly, glaring at him, her tiny hands clenched, her rings sparkling in the firelight. c I have no desire that vou should make such a fool of yourself, mv dear,' he answered with imperturbable cool- ness, sitting back, with his crossed legs stretched towards the fire. c Of course I'm well aware that mv presence isn't very welcome,' he added with mock politeness. c I really couldn't allow vou to come to London without paying you a visit. I wrote asking vou to call on me, but as you refused, I have come to you.' She lifted her eves to his with a look of ineffable hatred. 1 Are you so brutal, so devoid of all human svmpathv, that vou take a delight in thus torturing me ? ' she cried fiercely. 1 Have vou forgotten the last occasion when we met ? ' 1 No ; I have cause to remember it,' he answered, with a sarcastic laugh. c Just at the moment vou thought your- self safest I turned up at your hotel in Vienna, like a skele- ton at the feast — eh ? ' And he smiled inwardly as he saw the impression his ruthless words produced upon her. 1 Surely you have bv this time learnt that it is impossible to rid yourself of me,' he added ; ' therefore why make at- tempts which must alwavs result in your chagrin r ' 1 Hear me ! ' she cried in a hard, stern voice, rising, and standing erect in defiance before him. l I will rid myself of you who haunt me thus like some gaunt shadow. There is a limit to human suffering, and you have driven me very 2o6 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES near to it. In these years that have passed you alone have held me fettered within your thrall ; you alone have ren- dered me nervous and wretched; you alone have tortured me until I have a hundred times been upon the verge of suicide. In Paris, when I had no money, I was unworthy your attention ; but these last two years, ever since we met by chance in the Montagne de la Cour in Brussels, you have haunted me — in Berlin, in Rome, in Vienna, in Paris, and now in London. I hate you ! ' 'And yet I am mademoiselle's best friend ! ' he observed in a half-reproachful tone. 'No,' she answered; 'my worst enemy. At intervals you seek me, recall all the horrible past, and profit by my misfortune.' 1 Have I not saved you from exposure, disgrace, and even something more terrible ? Is it not to me alone that vou owe everything ? ' 1 But will vou never forget ? ' she cried despairingly. 1 Will you never allow me a respite of peace and happi- ness, or must I hope only to escape you by self-destruction ? Believe me, I do not fear death, tortured as I ever am bv these haunting remembrances, these hideous ghosts of the past.' She was standing before him, an erect, elegant figure, her face pale and determined, an air of tragedy in her attitude. 4 Mv dear girl,' he replied, with a brutal laugh, ' your life is entirelv in vour own hands, and it really matters nothing to me. If you prefer to kill yourself you only acknowledge vour own cowardice by so doing.' 4 No,' she retorted, ' you, yourself, are the coward to treat a woman with such cold cruelty. Once you thought the knowledge vou hold gave you power over me, but you were mistaken. I defied you,' she said, vehemently. ' I still defy you ! ' 'THAT WOMAN'S LOVER' 207 c Yes, yes,' he laughed. c I've heard all that fine talk from your pretty lips before. Defiance, however, is a word you shall expunge from your vocabulary. Only those who are pure and honest can afford to use that expression/ 1 And I am not ? ' she cried, her bright eyes flashing in anger. c You deliberately seek me out to insult me ! ' L I have said nothing, my dear, to reflect upon your good name,' he answered, a trifle more politely, fearing lest, losing control over herself, she might create a scene. He was not prepared for that, because his name and reputation were too well known in London. 4 Then why have you come here ? ' she demanded. 1 Why did I seek you last time, in Vienna ? ' c To blackmail me,' she answered boldly. He bowed, as though she had paid him the most deli- cate of compliments. The great brassy rings on his coarse hands shone brightly in the fitful light, and from the heavy albert across his broad waistcoat Fosca's eyes caught the glint of gold. ' You are determined to grow fat upon my misfortune,' she observed hoarsely. ' When I was a mere shopgirl in the Louvre, you only troubled me with your attentions, bringing me flowers and sweetmeats during business hours, and getting me into trouble with the head saleswoman. But now, when you know that I can obtain money from my father, you are determined to have the full price of my secret.' ' I gave you the choice of an alternative,' he observed abruptly. ' One that was an insult to my honour,' she cried, in a voice of withering contempt. ' One that no honest woman could accept ! ' c Honest woman ! ' he echoed, for the first time betray- ing signs of impatience. ' Go to the mirror, light the gas, 208 SCRIBES AND PHARISEES and see whether your face is that of an honest woman,' he said, in a tone of mingled anger and disgust. ' And you ! ' she retorted, with a gesture of antipathy. 1 That you, the bearer of one of the oldest and most hon- oured names in England, should descend to gain a woman's love by the despicable means to which you have resorted, can only fill one with utter scorn and loathing.' ' Are such recriminations of any use ? ' he asked. ' Why exhaust the dictionary in this manner ? Surely your own actions have been far worse than mine. Rather let us transact our — shall we call it business? — and end this interview.' She paused, motionless, statuesque. Unable to stir a muscle, she knew that she was powerless in this man's hands — that a word from him and an exposure would be brought about, an exposure before facing which she would rather kill herself. Her life was irrevocably in the hands of this coarse, brutal man who delighted in torturing her with hideous remembrances, as a mode of holding her cowed and terrified. 1 If I thought we would never meet again, I would willingly pay you any price you ask,' she said, in a monot- onous voice, as if speaking to herself. ' No,' he replied, with that feigned politeness which aggravated her. c I would not wish to put mademoiselle to inconvenience for any large amount. In fact, I prefer small sums. They are much more acceptable just at this period, when things in the City are not over-bright.' She made a gesture of impatience. c Then you are resolved to taunt me, always ? ' she cried. c Shall I never escape your abominable attentions? ' 'I do not intend that you should, mv dear,' he answered coolly. l Once you defied me. I do not think you will