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 1. THE UPPER BERTH. By F. Marion 
 
 Crawford. Fourth Edition. 
 
 2 MAD SIR UCHTRED OF THE 
 HILLS.. ByS. R. Crockett. Fourth Edition. 
 
 3. BY REEF AND PALM. By Louis 
 Becke. Preface by the Earl of PEMBROKE. 
 Third Edition. 
 
 4. THE PLAYACTRESS. By S. R. 
 
 Crockett. Fifth Edition. 
 
 5. A BACHELOR MAID. By Mrs. Burton 
 
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 6. MISERRIMA. By G. W. T. Omond. 
 
 7. TWO STRANGERS. By Mrs. Oliphant 
 
 8. ANOTHER WICKED W^OMAN. By 
 
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 9. THE SPECTRE OF STRATH- 
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 10. KAFIR STORIES. By W. C. Scully. 
 
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 17 AN IMPOSSIBLE PERSON. By Con- 
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 THE MAKING 
 
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 DIANA'5 HUNTING. | 
 
 
 By Robert Blxhanax. 
 
 SIR QUIXOTE. 
 
 By John Buchax. 
 
 FOR HONOUR 
 
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 By Cl.\rk Russell. 
 
 LE SELVE. 
 
 By Olida. 
 
AN ALTRUIST 
 
BOOKS BY OUIDA. 
 
 LE SELVE. (In the Half-crown Series). 
 Cr. Svo, cloth, 2S. 6d. 
 
 THE SILVER CHRIST and A LEMON 
 TREE. (In "The Pseudonym Library.") 
 Paper, is. 6d. ; cloth, 2S. 
 
 TOXIN. (In "The Century Librar)-.") Il- 
 lustrated. Paper, is. 6d. ; cloth, 2s. 
 
 London- :T. FISHER UXWIX. 
 
'-^^ise . Ue J^^ A^mee 
 
 An Altruist 
 
 OUIDA^ jj^e-y. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TOXIN," "LE SELVE.' 
 ■'THE SILVER CHRIST," ETC. 
 
 Second Edition 
 
 LONDON 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 1897 
 

 CorvRiGHT BY T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 for Great Britain and United States 
 
 of A merica 
 
 50*? 
 
AN ALTRUIST. 
 
 THE scene is Wilfrid Ber- 
 tram's rooms in Piccadilly, 
 facing the Green Park. The 
 time is six o'clock in the after- 
 noon. The audience is a goodly 
 number of men and women of 
 that class which calls itself 
 Society. The rooms are small 
 and the guests are many. 
 A few look contemptuously 
 amused. A great many appear 
 excruciatingly bored. 
 
 " It's all rot ! " says one 
 gentleman in confidence to his 
 walking-stick. 
 
 It is the general opinion, 
 II 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 though it has but one spokes- 
 man. 
 
 " What a shame, when he is 
 so much in earnest ! " says a 
 pretty girl. 
 
 " Bores always are awfully 
 in earnest," replies the critic. 
 " If he'd only give us some- 
 thing to drink " 
 
 " You can get plenty to 
 drink in the street," says the 
 young lady, with a withering 
 glance. 
 
 Meantime, Wilfrid Bertram, 
 who has been speaking for more 
 than an hour without contra- 
 diction, except such as he read 
 on his friends' faces, perceives 
 at last that he has been weary- 
 ing them ; a knowledge which 
 is always slow to steal upon the 
 teacher of mankind. 
 
 He stops in the middle of a 
 very fine peroration. 
 
 "My dear people," he re- 
 
 12 
 
All Altruist ^-^ 
 
 marks, a little irritably — "I 
 mean, ladies and gentlemen — if 
 you are so soon weary of so illi- 
 mitable a subject, I fear I must 
 have failed to do it justice." 
 
 " So soon ? — oh, hang it ! " 
 says the man who has wished 
 for something to drink. "We 
 came upstairs at half-past four, 
 and you've had all the jaw to 
 yourself ever since, and it's past 
 six now, and we're all as thirsty 
 as dogs." 
 
 An expression of extreme 
 disdain passes over the lecturer's 
 face. 
 
 " I did not invite you, Lord 
 Marlow," he says, very coldly. 
 *' If I had done I would have 
 provided beer and skittles for 
 your entertainment." 
 
 " Oh, I say Wilfrid, come, 
 
 finish your ' address to us ; it's 
 
 extremely interesting," observes, 
 
 in amiable haste, a much older 
 
 13 B 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 man, with a bald head and 
 pleasant, ruddy countenance, 
 who is his uncle. Lord South- 
 wold. 
 
 "Immensely interesting!" 
 echo everybody : they can say 
 so with animation, almost with 
 veracity, now that they are 
 aware it is drawing to an end. 
 
 " I ask your pardon if my 
 infirmities have done injustice 
 to a noble theme. I fear 
 I have failed to make my- 
 self intelligible," says Ber- 
 tram, in a tone intended to be 
 apologetic, but which is actually 
 only aggressive, since it plainly 
 implies that his pearls have 
 been thrown before swine. He 
 closes the manuscript and note- 
 books which are lying before 
 him with the air of a person who 
 is prepared for anything from 
 the obtuseness and ingratitude 
 of humanity. 
 
 14 
 
An Altruist ^©^ 
 
 " Nothing could be clearer 
 than what you've said," says 
 the gentleman who wanted a 
 drink. ** Nobody is to have 
 anything they can call their 
 own, and everybody who likes 
 is to eat in one's plate and 
 bathe in one's bath." 
 
 '* At theatres the buffoon in 
 the gallery is usually turned out, 
 with the approval of the entire 
 audience," Bertram remarks, 
 with sententious chilliness. 
 " Were I not in my own cham- 
 bers " 
 
 Lord Mario w laughs rudely. 
 
 " I don't think you could 
 throw me downstairs. Your 
 diet of brown bread and aspara- 
 gus don't make muscle." 
 
 " My dear fellow — before 
 v/omen — pray be quiet," mur- 
 murs a guardsman who is on 
 the seat next to him. 
 
 " Do finish your reading, 
 15 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Wilfrid," says Lady South- 
 wold, coaxingly. " Your views 
 are so disinterested if they are 
 a — a — a little difficult to carry 
 out as the world is con- 
 stituted." 
 
 " Excuse me," replies Ber- 
 tram, " I have trespassed too 
 long on every one's indulgence. 
 It is, I believe, altogether im- 
 possible to attempt to introduce 
 altruism and duty into a society 
 which considers Lord Marlow's 
 type of humanity as either 
 wholesome or ornamental." 
 
 " I never knew a lecture that 
 didn't end in a free fight," says 
 his uncle Southwold, hurriedly. 
 " But we can't have one here, 
 Wilfrid, there are too many 
 ladies present." 
 
 A shabby little old gentle- 
 man, doubled up in his chair, 
 who is his grace of Bridlington, 
 murmurs doubtfully : '' I don't 
 i6 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 see how your theories would 
 work, Bertram." 
 
 ** Don't you, Duke ? Is 
 there not such a proverb as 
 Fais ce que dois^ advlenne que 
 four r a ? " 
 
 The duke nods, and coughs. 
 " There is. But I am afraid it 
 will land you in Queer Street 
 sometimes. There's another old 
 saw, you know, ' Look before 
 you leap ! ' Safer of the two, 
 eh } " 
 
 " For the selfish, no doubt," 
 replies Bertram. 
 
 His hand is on his note-book ; 
 he is thinking with regret of 
 the concluding passages which 
 he has not been able to read, 
 and a little also that Cicely Sey- 
 mour, the young lady who 
 snubs Marlow, has a very beau- 
 tiful profile, as a white gauze 
 hat laden with white lilac rests 
 on the fair coils of her hair. 
 17 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 That brute Marlow is at her 
 elbow, saying something idiotic ; 
 Bertram cannot hear what, but 
 he hears her laugh, and knows 
 that she is probably being made 
 to laugh at himself. 
 
 The intruding Marlow's jeer 
 at his vegetarian views is un- 
 just to him, for he is tall and 
 well made, though slender ; but 
 then, as his people often tell 
 him, his muscle was built up 
 in the score of unregenerate 
 years before his Oxford terms, 
 when he was as philistine as 
 any other Eton boy, though he 
 liked his books better than the 
 playing-fields. 
 
 He is the younger son of a 
 peer, has a little money of his 
 own, and makes a little more by 
 writing for scholarly reviews ; 
 but beyond all he is an altruist, 
 a collectivist, a Fourrierist, an 
 Engelist, a Tolstoi-ist ; and, 
 i8 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 in common with other theorists, 
 he has imagined that to be told 
 the truth is enough to make 
 people believe in it and observe 
 its gospel. He has been con- 
 tinually deceived in this im- 
 pression ; but he has always 
 held it, and it is proportionately 
 irritating to him when, after 
 having shed the light of infor- 
 mation upon his contemporaries, 
 they still show no symptoms of 
 being converted. 
 
 Even the old duke, who is 
 his godfather, and is generally 
 tender to his theories, does no- 
 thing but nod his head and 
 repeat like a magpie : " Look 
 before you leap ! " 
 
 " I think you said that pro- 
 perty was like a cancer in the 
 body politic.^ " observes a lover 
 of practical politics, a Unionist 
 member of parliament, putting 
 his glass in his eye. 
 19 
 
•^ An Altruist 
 
 " I said the consolidation and 
 transmission of property was 
 so," replies Bertram, with some 
 hauteur : people cannot even 
 quote him correctly ! 
 
 " Ah ! seems to me the same 
 thing." 
 
 " No more the same thing 
 than Seltzer and the Sellinger ! " 
 cries Marlow. 
 
 " Oh, indeed," says the poli- 
 tician, humbly ; " forgive my 
 stupidity." 
 
 Bertram implies by a gesture 
 that his indulgence to human 
 imbecility is inexhaustible, but 
 sorely tried. 
 
 " I had hoped," he says, sen- 
 tentiously, " that you would 
 have gathered from my previous 
 discourse how intense is my 
 conviction that those who pos- 
 sess property should give it up, 
 generously, spontaneously, for 
 the good of all, before awaiti.ig 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 that inevitable retribution which 
 will fall on them if they con- 
 tinue to insult the People by 
 their display of wealth, unearned 
 and unjustified ; for the riches 
 of the noble and the milHonaire 
 are as absolutely theft as any 
 stolen goods obtained by vio- 
 lence and fraud, and do continu- 
 ally provoke the crimes which 
 they so savagely denounce and 
 
 punish " 
 
 " Humph ! That's strong," 
 mutters the duke. 
 
 " La Propriete c'est le vol," 
 murmurs Cicely Seymour 
 " La propriete d'autrui, oui ; 
 mais pas la mienne ! " 
 
 *' If there's no flimsy any- 
 where," asks Lord Mario Wj 
 " who'll breed racers ? " 
 
 "Who'll buy Comet clarets ? " 
 " Who'll employ cooks ? " 
 " Who'll keep upshootin' ? " 
 ^'Who'll build Valkyries?'' 
 
 21 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 ^* Who'll go by the Flying 
 Dutchman ? " 
 
 "Who'll dance cotillons?" 
 
 Bertram replies with dignity : 
 '* My friends, these are mere 
 frivolous jests on your part. 
 When the entire structure of 
 our rotten and debased society 
 shall have been shattered there 
 will of course be no place in 
 a regenerate world for these 
 mere foolish egotisms. 
 
 " Foolish egotisms ! " echoes 
 Lord Southwold. " Oh, Lord ! 
 A good glass of wine a foolish 
 egotism ? " 
 
 " Do you mean you want 
 Local Option ? " asks the duke, 
 with some alarm. *' I wouldn't 
 have come if I'd known that." 
 
 Bertram answers with irri- 
 tation : " There is no question 
 of local option or of total absti- 
 nence, Duke. If property were 
 generally and duly distributed, 
 
An Altruist :> 
 
 wine would be so too ; and if 
 individualism were duly recog- 
 nised, you would no more dare 
 to interfere with the drunkard 
 than with the genius. 
 
 " African sherry all round — 
 what a millennium ! " cries 
 his uncle. " Tipplers all over 
 the place, and no lock-up to put 
 *em in ! What an Arcadia ! " 
 
 " Genius has frequently been 
 rudely compared to inebriety," 
 remarks the practical politician ; 
 " but I have never known quite 
 such a slap in the face given 
 to it as this. Max Nardau is 
 deferential in comparison." 
 
 " Look, sir," says Bertram, 
 addressing the duke, but glanc- 
 ing at Cicely Seymour — " look 
 at the utter debasement of our 
 financial system ! What are 
 banks except incentives to 
 crime ? What are the Bourses ; 
 the Exchanges, or Wall Street, 
 23 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 except large seething cauldrons 
 of sin ? What are the great 
 speculating companies if not 
 banded thieves for the stripping 
 of a gullible public ? What is 
 the watch you wear, with its 
 visible chain glaring across your 
 w^aistcoat, except a base, mean, 
 grinning mockery of the hungry 
 man who meets you in the 
 street ? " 
 
 Marlow takes out his watch. 
 
 *' My conscience is clear in 
 that respect. My watch is a 
 Waterbury, and wouldn't fetch 
 the hungry man a shilling if he 
 pawned it." 
 
 " And my chain," says Lord 
 Southwold, touching a steel one, 
 " was my poor old Hector's 
 collar, and I wear it in memory 
 of him. How he'd thresh out 
 five acres of turnips before lun- 
 cheon ! We shall never see his 
 
 like." 
 
 24 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Bertram grows impatient : 
 "Individually you may wear 
 Waterburys or dog-collars, but 
 each is nevertheless a symbol 
 of inequality between you and 
 the man in the street, who is 
 obliged to look at the church 
 clock to see the hour at which 
 he may seek the parish dole. 
 
 " What profound philo- 
 sophy ! " cries Southwold. 
 " What crimes one may com- 
 mit without knowing it ! " 
 
 " If a watch be an unwhole- 
 some sign of a bloated aristo- 
 cracy, pray, Mr. Bertram, what 
 are our jewels ^ " asks a very 
 pretty woman, Lady Jane 
 Rivaux. 
 
 " There are no words strong 
 enough," replies Bertram, " to 
 condemn the use of gems, 
 whether from a moral or an 
 aesthetic point of view. In a 
 purified condition of society 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 they would of course become 
 impossible abominations." 
 
 The ladies present are too 
 horrified to speak ; Jane Rivaux, 
 alone, recovering her first shock 
 of surprise at such a blas- 
 phemy, asks, with vivacity : 
 
 "But all the people you would 
 throw out of employment? 
 The people who dig for jewels, 
 don't they dig ? The people 
 who polish them, and cut them, 
 and set them, and deal in them ; 
 the people who make the iron 
 safes, and the patent locks, you 
 would throw them all out of 
 work ? Surely that wouldn't be 
 doing any good ? What would 
 become of the miners and lapi- 
 daries and jewellers and all the 
 rest? " 
 
 Bertram smiles with pitying 
 disdain. 
 
 " Oh, my dear Lady Jane, 
 your kind of reasoning is as old 
 26 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 as the hills, and carries its own 
 refutation with it. All those 
 workmen and tradesmen would 
 be liberated from labours which 
 now degrade them, and would 
 thus be set free for higher work 
 — work worthy of being illu- 
 mined by the light of reason." 
 
 '* What work ? Would they 
 be all schoolmasters and gover- 
 nesses.^ Or all authors and 
 artists.^ " 
 
 " What work ? Such work 
 as the Community might 
 organise and distribute, such 
 work as might be needful 
 for the general good. When 
 every one will work, every 
 one will have leisure. The 
 poet will mow the meadow in 
 the morning and compose his 
 eclogues in the afternoon. The 
 painter will fell trees at dawn 
 and at noon paint his landscapes 
 in the forest. The sculptor 
 27 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 will hew coal in the bowels of 
 the earth for a few hours and 
 come to the upper air to carve 
 the marble and mould the clay. 
 The author will guide the 
 plough or plant the potato- 
 patch at sunrise and will have 
 the rest of the day free to 
 write his novel or study his 
 essay " 
 
 " Humph ! " says Southwold, 
 ruffling his short grey hair in 
 perplexity. " The precise use 
 of wasting Sir Frederic 
 Leighton's time on a seam 
 of coal, and Mr. Swinburne's 
 on a mowing machine, I 
 don't exactly perceive. How- 
 ever 
 
 " Pierre Loti is your ideal, 
 then," says Cicely Seymour. 
 " He ' has gone down to the 
 deep in ships ' before he writes 
 of sea life." 
 
 " He is an officer," objects 
 28 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Bertram, with regret and con- 
 demnation in his tone. " With 
 his true and profound altruism 
 he should have gone before the 
 mast." 
 
 " I suppose our sex will have 
 to sweep and cook and sew 
 before we are allowed to 
 frolic?" asks Lady Jane. 
 
 "You'll have to produce a 
 certificate that you have made 
 and baked three dozen pigeon 
 pies before you'll be allowed one 
 waltz, Lady Jane," says Marlow, 
 who has with difficulty kept 
 his mouth shut. 
 
 " We shall sweep our own 
 chimneys, clean ourselves, and 
 play the violin," replies that 
 lively person. " We shall have 
 to cook our salmon before 
 we're allowed to fish for it ; we 
 shall have to roast our pheasants 
 before we're allowed to shoot 
 
 them, and " 
 
 29 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram interrupts her with 
 scant courtesy : " I under- 
 stood that those who did 
 me the honour to come here 
 to-day brought open minds 
 and philosophical views to 
 this meeting, or I should not 
 have invited you to discuss and 
 consider the best means for the 
 educated classes to anticipate 
 the coming changes of the 
 world." 
 
 " Why should we anticipate 
 them," murmurs the old duke, 
 " when they'll be so deucedly 
 uncomfortable to all of us? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed," says South- 
 wold, " it'll be bad enough to 
 grin and bear 'em." 
 
 Bertram plays wearily with 
 his shut note-book. 
 
 " If you cannot see the 
 
 theoretic beauty of united and 
 
 universal work, it is hopeless to 
 
 expect that you should desire 
 
 30 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 its practical adjustment to every- 
 day life." 
 
 " Well, but," says the poli- 
 tician, who is nothing if not 
 practical, "it is just the utter 
 unworkableness of your system 
 which damns it in the eyes of 
 rational men. Pardon my say- 
 ing so." 
 
 Lady Southwold murmurs : 
 " Give them some tea, Wilfrid ; 
 they are all growing cross." 
 
 " As you please. But it is to 
 me absolutely frightful to see 
 how unconscious of your own 
 doom, and how indifferent to 
 the great movements of the day 
 you all are " 
 
 "If they are really great 
 movements, they'll move with- 
 out us ; you can't stop an ice- 
 berg or an earthquake with 
 your little finger. But there's 
 a good deal of grit in the old 
 order of things still," says the 
 31 
 
^C An Altruist 
 
 duke. " Yes, I'll have a cup of 
 tea, Wilfrid ; I see you've got 
 it there." 
 
 Bertram murmurs wearily : 
 " Critchett — tea ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir," says a person 
 who is the perfection of all 
 the virtues of valetdom. 
 
 Marlow, wholly undisturbed 
 by the insults which have been 
 heaped on him, calls out : 
 
 " And temperance drinks, 
 Critchett ! Lemons divorced 
 from rum, sterilised milk, 
 barley-water, tartaric acid " 
 
 " Mr. Bertram," says Cicely 
 Seymour, " how do you recon- 
 cile your conscience to the de- 
 basing offices which you employ 
 Critchett to fill for you ? " 
 
 "Or to the fact of keeping 
 a Critchett at all ? " adds his 
 aunt Southwold. 
 
 " Surely it's Critchett who 
 
 keeps him, , out of a 
 
 32 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 strait-waistcoat ? " murmurs 
 Marlow. 
 
 Critchett hands tea and coffee 
 and chocolate, in a silver ser- 
 vice, with cakes, fruits, and 
 biscuits. 
 
 " And all these pretty things, 
 Mr. Bertram ? " asks Lady 
 Jane. " Surely they are the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt, and ought 
 not to be here } " 
 
 "They ought not," replies 
 Bertram, " nor Critchett either." 
 
 " Oh, he is such a delightful 
 servant ; so noiseless, so pr^- 
 venant^ and so devoted to you ; 
 you would never find his equal 
 if you sent him away." 
 
 " No ; but for one man to 
 serve another is contrary to all 
 principles of self-respect on 
 either side." 
 
 "My dear Wilfrid," cries 
 Lady Southwold, " how I wish 
 you were small enough to be 
 33 
 
^ An Altru ist 
 
 whipped ! What a deal of 
 good it would do you ! " 
 
 Bertram smiles faintly. 
 
 " Flagellation was, I believe, 
 most admirable discipline ; but 
 we have grown too effete for it. 
 Our bodies are as tender as our 
 hearts are hard." 
 
 " I have always thought," 
 said Cicely Seymour, in a very 
 soft voice, " that if everybody 
 could be born with ten thousand 
 a year, nobody would ever do 
 anything wrong." 
 
 Bertram looks at her ap- 
 provingly. 
 
 " You are on the right road, 
 Miss Seymour. But as we can- 
 not generalise property, we 
 must generalise poverty. The 
 result will be equally good." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " roars his 
 uncle very loudly. " I never 
 heard such a subversive and im- 
 moral doctrine in all my days ! " 
 3-1 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Bertram glances pityingly at 
 him. 
 
 " And yet it is based on pre- 
 cisely the same theory as the one 
 which you accepted when you 
 passed the Compulsory Clause 
 of the Parish Councils Bill." 
 
 " The Upper House passed 
 that infamous Bill. I was in 
 the minority against it," replies 
 Southwold, very angrily. 
 
 " But when everybody's got 
 sixpence a day," suggests a 
 young man with an ingenuous 
 countenance, " and nobody six- 
 pence halfpenny, surely some- 
 body'll have a try for the illegal 
 halfpenny, won't they ? It is 
 human nature." 
 
 " Certainly not," replies Ber- 
 tram, very positively. " No- 
 body will even wish for an extra 
 halfpenny, because when in- 
 equality shall be at an end envy 
 and discontent will be unknown. 
 35 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Besides, if all the property of 
 the world was confiscated or 
 realised and equally distributed, 
 the individual portion would 
 come more nearly to half a 
 crown a head per diem. On 
 half a crown a head per diem 
 any one can live " 
 
 Lord Southwold sighs. 
 " Oysters are three shillings 
 a dozen," he murmurs. 
 
 " Of course, if you expect to 
 continue the indulgence of an 
 
 epicure's diseased appetites " 
 
 says Bertram, with impatience. 
 
 ''It's the oysters that are 
 diseased, not our appetites," 
 says Southwold, with a second 
 sigh. 
 
 " If," says Bertram, ignoring 
 his uncle's nonsense — " if I 
 have made anything clear in 
 my recent remarks it must 
 surely be that Property is, 
 in the old copy-book phrase, 
 36 
 
An Altruist r^ 
 
 the root of all evil ; the man- 
 drake growing out of the bodies 
 of the dead, the poisonous gas 
 exhaling from the carrion of 
 prejudice, of injustice, and of 
 caste." 
 
 " But, my dear Wilfrid," cries 
 Lady Southwold, with equal 
 impatience, " yours is rank 
 Communism." 
 
 " You can call it what you 
 please. It is the only condition 
 of things which would accom- 
 pany pure civilisation. When, 
 however, I speak of half a 
 crown a day," he pursues, " I 
 use a figure of speech ! Of 
 course, in a purely free world 
 there would be no coined or 
 printed money, there would be 
 only barter." 
 
 " Barter ! " echoes Marlow. 
 
 " I should carry two of my 
 
 Berkshire pigs, one under each 
 
 arm, and exchange them with 
 
 37 D 
 
^? An Altruist 
 
 you for a thousand copies of 
 your ^ge to Come'' 
 
 " I think barter would be in- 
 convenient, Mr. Bertram," says 
 Cicely Seymour, doubtfully. 
 " And what should I barter } I 
 can't make anything. I should 
 have to cut off my hair and 
 wait a year till it grew again." 
 
 Every one laughs, and Ber- 
 tram even relaxes his gravity. 
 
 " I fear, Miss Seymour, that 
 Solon's self would give you all 
 you wished for a single smile ! " 
 
 At that moment a small boy 
 comes into the room, out of 
 breath, grinning, with several 
 oblong pieces of printed paper 
 in his hand ; he pushes his way 
 unconcerned between the ladies 
 and gentlemen, and thrusts the 
 papers at Bertram. 
 
 " Here, mister, you must 
 tone these here down ; manager 
 says as Fanshawe says as the 
 38 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 British Public wouldn't never 
 stand them pars, he's marked at 
 no time ; and manager says as 
 I was to tell you Public is extra 
 nervous now cos o' that bomb 
 at Tooting." 
 
 Bertram takes the sheets in ill 
 humour, and tears them across. 
 
 " Mr. Fanshawe is well aware 
 that I never correct and I never 
 suppress. I forbid the produc- 
 tion of the article in a mutilated 
 state." He hands the pieces to 
 the boy. " Bid Mr. Fanshawe 
 return me my original copy." 
 
 The boy looks frightened. 
 
 ** Who'll pay for this here 
 settin-up, sir, please, if proof 
 ain't to be used .^ " 
 
 " Did you say Fanshawe ^ " 
 says Lord Southwold. " Do 
 you mean the great Fanshawe 
 of the ^orch ? Can anything 
 be possibly too strong for 
 him.?" 
 
 39 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 "Oh, my dear Wilfred ! do 
 let us hear what you can 
 have said ? It must be some- 
 thing terrific ! " says the old 
 duke, who rather likes sub- 
 versive opinions, considering 
 philosophically that he will be 
 in his grave before they can 
 possibly be put into practice. 
 
 "What 'm I to tell the 
 manager about payin' for the 
 settin'-up of this here, if type's 
 to be broke up, sir ? " asks the 
 boy, with dogged persistence. 
 
 " Go out of the room, you 
 impudent little rascal ! " says 
 Bertram, in extreme irritation. 
 " Critchett ! turn that boy 
 out ! " 
 
 Marlow gets up and offers 
 the boy a plate of pound cake. 
 
 " You are not civil to your 
 
 sooty Mercury, Bertram. He 
 
 offers you at this moment the 
 
 most opportune illustration of 
 
 40 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 your theories. He comes on 
 an errand of the intellect, and 
 if a somewhat soiled messenger, 
 he should nevertheless be treated 
 with the respect due to a 
 guardian of literary purity and 
 public morality. Sweet imp ! 
 refresh your inner man ! " 
 
 The boy stuffs his mouth 
 with cake and grins. 
 
 " Are these chambers mine or 
 yours, Lord Marlow ^ " asks 
 Bertram. 
 
 " Both mine and yours, or 
 neither yours or mine. There 
 is no such thing as exclusive 
 possession. You have just told 
 us so." 
 
 " Critchett ! " says Bertram, 
 and points with stony gaze to 
 the printer's devil, " turn that 
 boy out of the room." 
 
 Critchett, reluctantly touch- 
 ing anything so sooty, takes 
 him by the collar and drives 
 41 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 him before him out of the 
 room. 
 
 Marlow picks up the torn 
 proofs. " Who'll pay for the 
 setting-up ? asks this dear child. 
 Unused proofs are, I suppose, 
 first cousins to spilt milk and 
 spoilt powder. Mayn't we read 
 this article ? The title is 
 immensely suggestive — ' Fist- 
 right and Brain-divinity.' Are 
 you feloniously sympathetic 
 with the Tooting bomb ? " 
 
 Bertram takes the torn proofs 
 from him in irritation and 
 throws them into the open 
 drawer of a cabinet. 
 
 " The essay is addressed to 
 persons of intelligence and 
 with principle," he says, sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 " But it seems that Fanshawe 
 has neither, if he fail to appre- 
 ciate it .^ " 
 
 " Fanshawe has both ; but 
 42 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 there are occasional moments 
 in which he recollects that he 
 has some subscribers in Phi- 
 listia." 
 
 " Fanshawe knows where his 
 bread is buttered," chuckles the 
 duke ; " knows where his bread 
 is buttered." 
 
 " If Fanshawe don't publish 
 it he won't pay for it, will 
 he?" asks Marlow, with some 
 want of tact. 
 
 "I do not take payment for 
 opinions," replies Bertram, au 
 bout des levres^ and much an- 
 noyed at the turn the conversa- 
 tion has taken. 
 
 " Most people run opinions 
 in order to get paid for 'em," 
 says the duke, with a chuckle. 
 
 " Why are you not in Par- 
 liament, Mr. Bertram ^ " asks 
 Cicely Seymour. 
 
 " In Parliament ! " repeats 
 Bertram, with the faintness of 
 43 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 horror ; incredulous that he 
 can hear aright. 
 
 " Well, yes ; have I said any- 
 thing so very dreadful ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Cicely ! " says 
 Lady Southwold. " Ever since 
 Wilfrid came of age we have 
 all been at him about that ; he 
 might have had a walk over for 
 Sax-Stoneham, or for Mickle- 
 thorpe, at any election, but he 
 would never even let himself be 
 nominated." 
 
 Bertram shrugs his shoulders 
 in ineffable disgust. 
 
 " Two Tory boroughs ! " 
 
 " You could have held any 
 opinions you had chosen. 
 Toryism is a crepon changeant 
 nowadays ; it looks exactly like 
 Radicalism very often, and only 
 differs from it in being still 
 more outrageous." 
 
 " But perhaps Mr. Bertram's 
 objection is to all representa- 
 44 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 tive government ? " says Cicely 
 Seymour. 
 
 Bertram glances gratefully 
 at her. " Precisely so, Miss 
 Seymour." 
 
 " But what could you substi- 
 tute ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Cicely, read 
 his paper the Age to Come^ 
 and pray spare us such a dis- 
 cussion before dinner," says 
 Lady Southwold, with impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " But what would you sub- 
 stitute ? " says Cicely Seymour, 
 with persistent interest in the 
 topic. 
 
 " Yes ; what would you sub- 
 stitute } " asks the practical 
 politician. 
 
 Bertram is out of temper ; 
 these acquaintances and relatives 
 worried him into giving this 
 exposition of his altruistic and 
 socialistic views, and then they 
 45 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 brought a fool with them like 
 Marlow, and have turned the 
 whole thing into a farce. To 
 Bertram his views were the 
 most serious things in creation. 
 He does not choose to have 
 them set up like croquet pegs 
 for imbeciles to bowl at in an 
 idle hour. 
 
 '' I would abolish all govern- 
 ment," he repHes, very de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 " Oh ! " Both the politician 
 and Cicely Seymour look a 
 little astonished. 
 
 " But how then would you 
 control people ? " 
 
 " Sane people do not require 
 to be controlled." 
 
 " But I have heard a man of 
 science say that only one person 
 out of every hundred is really 
 sane } " 
 
 '' We are bad judges of each 
 others sanity. But since you 
 46 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 take an interest in serious sub- 
 jects," says Bertram, resting his 
 eyes on her in approval, " I 
 will, if you will allow me, send 
 you some back numbers of 
 the Age to Come."' 
 
 " Do you mean, Wilfrid, 
 that an obtuse world is so un- 
 grateful as to leave you any 
 back numbers at all ? " asks 
 Southwold. 
 
 " They will show you," con- 
 tinues Bertram, ignoring the 
 interruption, " what my views 
 and the views of those who 
 think with me are, concerning 
 the best method of preparing 
 the world to meet those social 
 changes which are inevitable 
 for the future, those rights of 
 the individual which are totally 
 ignored and outraged by all 
 present governments, whether 
 absolute, constitutional, or, in 
 nomenclature, republican." 
 47 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " But why should we pre- 
 pare to meet them when they'll 
 be so deucedly uncomfortable 
 to us if they arrive, and why 
 should we trouble about help- 
 ing them onward if they're so 
 inevitable and cocksure in their 
 descent on us ? " says his uncle. 
 " I asked you that question just 
 now, and you didn't answer me. 
 Does one avoid an avalanche 
 in the Alps by firing a gun 
 to make it fall sooner than it 
 would do if left alone ? " 
 
 Critchett is meantime en- 
 gaged on the expulsion of the 
 printer's devil by a back-stair 
 exit, and, profiting by his ab- 
 sence, a little girl, who has come 
 in at the front entrance, pushes 
 aside the portiere of the door 
 and stands abashed in the 
 middle of the room. She is 
 eight years old, has a head of 
 red hair, and the shrewd, watch- 
 48 
 
All Altruist §^ 
 
 ing face of the London child ; 
 she carries a penny bunch of 
 violets. Bertram sees her en- 
 trance with extreme displeasure, 
 not unmixed with embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 " What do you want here, 
 Bessy .^" he inquires, with scant 
 amiability. 
 
 Bessy advances and holds out 
 the violets. 
 
 " Annie sends these 'ere 
 vi'lets with her love, and she's 
 got to go to EaJin' for a big 
 horder o' mustard an' cress, and 
 please when'll you be round at 
 our place ? " 
 
 Bertram is extremely annoyed. 
 
 " Run away, my good child. 
 You see I am engaged." 
 
 " When'll you be round at 
 our place ? " repeats the little 
 girl. " The pal as lodges over 
 cousin Joe hev given us tickets 
 for Hoxton Theayter, and 
 49 ii 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Annie says as how she'd go 
 if you wasn't comin' in this 
 evenin'." 
 
 " Run away, child," repeats 
 Bertram, imperiously. " Crit- 
 chett ! " 
 
 Critchett, who has returned, 
 with a demure smile, guides 
 the steps of the reluctant Bessy 
 from the chamber. 
 
 " Why do you let these 
 children in, Critchett ? " asks 
 Bertram, as the valet returns. 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir," the ser- 
 vant says, humbly, as he lays 
 the violets down on a cloi- 
 Sonne plate. " But you have 
 told me, sir, that you are 
 always at home for the Brown 
 family." 
 
 " You might surely have 
 more judgment, after all your 
 years of service ! " replies his 
 master. " There are exceptions 
 to every rule." 
 
 50 
 
An Altruist .^ 
 
 Marlow looks up to the ceil- 
 ing in scandalised protest. 
 
 " Service ! Service ! " he re- 
 peats. " Hear him, ye gods ! 
 This is the rights of the 
 individual ; the independence 
 of the unit ; the perfect equality 
 of one human being before 
 another ! " 
 
 Cicely Seymour looks over 
 her shoulder at him and re- 
 marks slightingly : " You are 
 a great tease, Lord Marlow. 
 You make me think I am in 
 the schoolroom at Alfreton 
 with my brothers home from 
 Eton for Christmas. Do you 
 really think that chaff is wit ? " 
 
 *' I am not chaffing, Miss 
 Seymour. I am in deadly 
 earnest. This modest bunch 
 must hold a deal of meaning. 
 Who are the Brown family ? 
 Where is ' our place ' ^ What 
 is the meeting which must be 
 51 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 postponed because a bloated 
 aristocrat, rolling in ill-gotten 
 wealth, requires that corrupting 
 luxury known as mustard and 
 cress ? " 
 
 Everybody laughs, except 
 Cicely Seymour. 
 
 "Yes, Wilfrid," says Lady 
 Southwold ; " who are the 
 Brown family? " 
 
 " To whom you are always 
 at home," adds his uncle. 
 
 " And Annie who sends 
 button-holes with love," adds 
 Marlow. 
 
 Bertram replies with icy 
 brevity, " A perfectly respec- 
 table young woman." 
 
 " And the respectable one's 
 address.?" asks Marlow. 
 " Where is ' our place ' ? I 
 am seized with an irresistible 
 longing to eat mustard and 
 cress. I never did eat it, but 
 
 still " 
 
 52 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Bertram eyes him very dis- 
 agreeably. " The Browns are 
 persons I esteem. I should not 
 give their address to persons 
 for whom I have no esteem." 
 
 ^'My dear Wilfrid! " cries 
 his aunt. '* How altruism does 
 sour the temper ! " 
 
 " Temper ! I hope I have 
 too much philosophy to allow 
 my temper to be ruffled by the 
 clumsy horse-jokes of my ac- 
 quaintances." 
 
 " But why are you always at 
 home to these Browns ^ " 
 
 Bertram hesitates. 
 
 " Are they acolytes.^ studies.^ 
 pensioners ? " asks his aunt. 
 
 " Is the respectable one 
 pretty ? " murmurs Marlow. 
 " The respectable ones so 
 uncommonly rarely are ! " 
 
 He takes the violets off the 
 cloisomie plate. 
 
 " A buttonhole to be worn 
 53 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 at Hoxton Theatre ? It is an 
 emblem of the immorality of 
 finance : for its commercial value 
 must be at least four farthings. 
 If my Waterbury offend the 
 eye of eternal justice this penny 
 bunch must outrage it no 
 less." 
 
 " It is quite natural, I think," 
 says Cicely Seymour, rather 
 impatiently, " that Mr. Bertram 
 should have many friends in 
 those classes which he considers 
 so superior to his own." 
 
 " I do not say any class is 
 superior to any other," inter- 
 rupts Bertram. " I say that 
 all are equal." 
 
 There is now a great buzz 
 of voices everywhere in the 
 rooms ; people are so very glad 
 to have the muzzle off after an 
 hour's silence ; he cannot doubt, 
 as that murmur and trill of 
 conversation run all round him, 
 54 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 that he has bored them all 
 excruciatingly. 
 
 ''They have no minds! " he 
 thinks, bitterly. " We sell a 
 bare score of copies a month 
 of the Age to Come^ and the 
 Dustcart^ with its beastly ribal- 
 dry and social scandals, sells 
 sixty-five thousand ! " 
 
 " Do you mean to say, 
 Wilfrid," asks his aunt, eating 
 a caviare sandwich, " that any- 
 body would pay taxes if they 
 were not obliged ? " 
 
 " Do not people, urged by 
 conscience, send arrears, un- 
 asked, to the Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer ? " 
 
 "Well, they do certainly 
 now and then. But they must be 
 very oddly constituted people." 
 
 " Is conscience an eccentri- 
 city ? " 
 
 His aunt does not argue, she 
 only shakes her head. 
 SS 
 
^§ An Altruist 
 
 " I can't believe anybody 
 would pay taxes if they weren't 
 obliged." 
 
 " But they do. There are 
 these instances in the papers. 
 If moral feeling in the public 
 were acute and universal, as it 
 ought to be, every public duty 
 would be fulfilled with promp- 
 titude and without pressure." 
 
 The old duke nods very 
 expressively. 
 
 " Your aunt's right," he 
 mumbles. " Conscience-money 
 can only come from cranks ! " 
 
 " Come and dine with us, 
 Wilfrid," says his aunt ; " we 
 never see you now. I assure 
 you a good dinner changes the 
 colour of political opinions in 
 a wonderful degree. I am 
 dreadfully afraid that you have 
 been living on boiled soles and 
 carrot fritters." 
 
 Bertram smiles slightly. 
 56 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " The carrot fritters ; not the 
 soles. I am a vegetarian." 
 
 " But we are justified in 
 being carnivorous," says South- 
 wold, very eagerly. " Individu- 
 alism justifies us." 
 
 Marlow repeats with em- 
 phasis : " We are justified in 
 being carnivorous. Individu- 
 alism justifies us." 
 
 " Certainly," says Bertram, 
 with uncivil sarcasm. *' The 
 crocodile has a right to its 
 appetites, and the cur to its 
 vomit. Solomon said so." 
 
 " Am I the crocodile or the 
 cur ? " asks Southwold. 
 
 " Do you keep Critchett on 
 carrot fritters ? " asks Marlow, 
 " and what does he have to 
 drink ? Hot water ? Hot 
 water is, I believe, the beverege 
 which nowadays accompanies 
 high thinking." 
 
 " And how do you reconcile 
 57 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 your conscience and your creeds 
 to keeping a Critchett at all ? " 
 repeats Lady Jane. 
 
 Bertram replies with distant 
 chillness and proud humility : 
 " The leaven of long habit is 
 hard to get rid of; I entirely 
 agree with you that I am in 
 the wronG:. To have a ser- 
 vant at all is an offence to 
 humanity ; it is an imperti- 
 nence to the brotherhood of 
 our common mortality." 
 
 " Don't be afraid," says 
 Southwold, grimly, " our bro- 
 thers and sisters in the servants' 
 halls pay us out for the out- 
 rage ; they take away our 
 characters, read our correspon- 
 dence, and pocket twenty per 
 cent, on all our bills." 
 
 " Can you blame them ? 
 
 They are the product of a 
 
 corrupt society. No one can 
 
 blame them, whatever they are 
 
 5i^ 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 or do. The dunghill cannot 
 bring forth the rose. Your 
 service has debased them. 
 The fault of their debasement 
 lies with you." 
 
 " But Critchett cannot be 
 debased. He must, living in 
 so rarefied a moral atmo- 
 sphere, be elevated above all 
 mortal weaknesses." 
 
 Bertram replies stiffly : "I 
 can assure you 1 have much 
 more respect for Critchett than 
 for any member of a St. James' 
 Street club." 
 
 " And yet you give him 
 carrot fritters ! " cried Lady 
 Southwold. 
 
 Bertram replies with great 
 irritation : " He eats whatever 
 he pleases, turtle and turbot for 
 aught I know. I should never 
 presume to impose upon him 
 either my menu or my tenets, 
 my beliefs or my principles." 
 59 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " You do wisely if you wish 
 to keep him ! " says his aunt. 
 " I hope you zvill keep him. 
 He is your only link with 
 civiHsed life." 
 
 Bertram smiles. " My dear 
 aunt, when I was in the 
 South Pacific I landed at a 
 small island where civilisation 
 was considered to consist in a 
 pierced nose and a swollen belly. 
 I do not want to be offensive, 
 but the estimate which my age 
 takes of its own civilisation is 
 not very much more sensible." 
 
 " I think it would have 
 been better, Wilfrid, to study 
 psychology under these savages 
 than to publish the Age to 
 Come ! You could not have 
 injured them^ but here " 
 
 " How illiberal you are, dear 
 Lady Southwold," says Cicely 
 Seymour. " You want a course 
 of Montaigne." 
 Oo 
 
An Altruist 5^ 
 
 "What's that, Miss Sey- 
 mour?" asks Marlow. "A 
 rival to Mariani wine? " 
 
 " Yes, a French wine ; very- 
 old and quite unequalled 1 " 
 
 Even Bertram laughs. Mar- 
 low is irritated. He does not 
 see what he has said which is 
 so absurd, or why his friends 
 are laughing. 
 
 " Why do you always take 
 that prig's part?" he mutters, 
 sullenly, aside to Cicely Sey- 
 mour. 
 
 " I do not take any one's 
 part," repUes the young lady ; 
 " but I detest injustice and 
 illiberality." 
 
 At this moment the old 
 duke rises with Bertram's help, 
 is assisted by him to find his 
 hat and stick, and takes his 
 departure, assuring his godson 
 that he had been much enter- 
 tained. 
 
 61 F 
 
^* An Altruist 
 
 Following the duke's ex- 
 ample every one takes their 
 leave, assuring their instructor 
 that they have derived much 
 entertainment and information 
 from his disquisition. Cicely 
 Seyniour says simply and very 
 gently : " Thanks, Mr. Ber- 
 tram. You have made me 
 your debtor for many noble 
 thoughts." 
 
 When they have left him 
 Bertram walks up and down 
 his rooms dissatisfied with 
 himself. 
 
 " What a coward ! " he 
 thinks, with the moral self- 
 flagellation of an over-sensi- 
 tive and over-sincere person. 
 " Why could I not tell them 
 the truth ? Why did I limit 
 myself to saying that she was 
 a perfectly respectable young 
 woman ? If I cannot face the 
 simple enunciation of the in- 
 62 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 tention, how shall I ever bring 
 myself to the endurance of 
 publishing the fact when it is 
 accomplished ? Am I, after all, 
 the slave of opinion, like any- 
 body else ? Am I afraid of a 
 set of fools who are capering 
 on their primrose path, seeing 
 nothing of the abyss to which 
 it leads? If I have not the 
 courage of my views and 
 faiths, wherein am I superior 
 to their philistinism ? I do 
 what I choose ; what I see to 
 be wise and right and just ; I 
 desire to give an example 
 which shall show how utterly 
 I despise the fictitious barriers 
 of caste and custom, and yet 
 I have not courage enough to 
 say to a few people who are 
 drinking tea in my rooms, 
 * My good folks, I am going 
 to marry a young woman 
 called Annie Brown.' Why 
 63 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 could I not say it ? Why was 
 I such a miserable poltroon ? " 
 
 He throws himself into a 
 deep chair and lights a cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 " What would mv aunt have 
 done ? What would that grin- 
 ning cad Marlow have said ? 
 What would Cicely Seymour 
 have thought r Perhaps she 
 would have approved. She 
 has more sympathy, more in- 
 sight than the others — and 
 what a charming profile ! And 
 those deep blue eves under 
 those long thick lashes ; they 
 are eves which have mind in 
 them as well as youth and 
 smiles and innocence ; they are 
 eyes which will be still beauti- 
 ful when she is seventy and 
 her hair is white under a lace 
 mob-cap or a black satin hood. 
 What colour are Annie's eyes ? 
 They are round and small, of 
 <^4 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 no particular colour, I think ; 
 a reddish ori-ev. Dear good 
 little girl, it was not for her 
 beauty that I selected her." 
 
 Critchett opens the door at 
 that moment, and breaks in on 
 his reflections. 
 
 " IMr. Fanshawe, sir." 
 
 A gentleman of no definite 
 age, with a shrewd countenance 
 and a significant smile, crosses 
 the room v>ith outstretched 
 hand. 
 
 " My dear Wilfrid, they tell 
 me you are in a wax about the 
 exceptions I took to your article. 
 I am extremely sorry to touch 
 any single line of yours, but 
 B.P. must be considered, you 
 know. You are miles too 
 advanced for this inviolate isle ; 
 she is still shuddering at the 
 fright which Guy Fawkes gave 
 her." 
 
 Bertram replies stiffly : " I 
 65 
 
^* An Altruist 
 
 have certainly no affinity to 
 Guy Fawkes, who was a re- 
 ligious person and a strict 
 monarchist. As for the essay, 
 pray do not trouble yourself ; 
 I shall publish it in the Age to 
 ComeT 
 
 " Oh, that's a pity ; that 
 will be practically putting it 
 into the waste-paper basket ; ex- 
 cuse me saying so, but you 
 know the circulation of the 
 Age to Come is at present — is — - 
 v/ell — limited." 
 
 " We certainly do not chro- 
 nicle scandals of the hunting- 
 field, and devote columns to 
 prophesying the shape of next 
 year's bonnets, as the T^orch 
 does ! " 
 
 " That shows you don't 
 understand your public, or 
 don't want to secure one. Ex- 
 treme opinions, my dear boy, 
 can only be got down the 
 66 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 throats of the world in a 
 weekly journal by being 
 adroitly sandwiched between 
 the caviare of calumny and 
 the butter of fashion. People 
 hate to be made to think, my 
 dear boy. The y^ge to Coyne 
 gives 'em nothing but think- 
 ing ; and damned tough think- 
 ing too. You write with un- 
 common power, but you are 
 too wholesale, too subversive ; 
 you scare people so awfully 
 that they stop their ears to 
 your truths. That is not the 
 way to secure a hearing." 
 
 " I am consistent." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! Never be con- 
 sistent. There's nothing so 
 unpopular in life." 
 
 " I despise popularity." 
 
 "You despise bread and 
 butter. I believe you lose 
 twenty pound a month by 
 your Age to Come ? " 
 67 
 
^§ An Altruist 
 
 " To speak more correctly," 
 replies Bertram, bitterly, " it 
 gets me into debt to that 
 amount ! " 
 
 " Heaven and earth ! Why 
 don't you drop it P " 
 
 " It is a matter of principle." 
 
 " Principle which will land 
 you in Queer Street. Now, 
 my dear Wilfrid, no man 
 thinks more things bosh than 
 I do, or takes more pleasure 
 in saying so, but I combine 
 pleasure with business ; I say 
 my say in such a way that it 
 brings me in eighty per cent." 
 
 Bertram looks at him de- 
 risively. 
 
 " I have always known that 
 your intellect was only equalled 
 by your venality ! " 
 
 Fanshawe laughs good- 
 humoured ly. 
 
 " That is neat. That is 
 soothing. It is not difficult 
 68 
 
An Altruist .^ 
 
 to understand that you are 
 not considered a clubbable 
 man ! However, as you credit 
 me with intellect, I don't mind 
 your denying me morality. But 
 seriously, my dear friend, you 
 are much too violent, too un- 
 compromising for success in 
 journalism. Who tries to prove 
 too much fails to prove any- 
 thing, and when you bend your 
 bow too violently it snaps and 
 speeds no arrow. I confess that 
 I (who am as revolutionary as 
 most people and always dis- 
 posed to agree with you) do 
 frequently get up from the 
 perusal of one of your articles 
 with the unwilling conviction 
 that it is best to let the 
 old order of things alone. 
 Now, that is certainly not 
 the condition of mind which 
 you wish to produce in your 
 
 readers. 
 
 69 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram is silent. After a 
 pause he says : 
 
 " What do you advocate, 
 then ? A cautious trimming ? " 
 
 '* Trimming was the name 
 which the eighteenth-century 
 poUtician gave to what we 
 now call opportunism. All 
 sagacious men are not oppor- 
 tunists, but all sagacious men 
 endeavour to create supporters, 
 not antagonists. Now, all 
 violent assertion raises oppo- 
 sition, for human nature is 
 cantankerous and contradic- 
 tory. 
 
 Critchett enters and hands 
 a card on a salver. " If you 
 pie se, sir, the gentleman's wait- 
 ing below ; says he sent you a 
 letter two days ago ; gentle- 
 man's head of the firm of Fol- 
 liott and Hake, sir." 
 
 Bertram looks vaguely about 
 
 the room. " There are a good 
 70 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 many letters unopened. I 
 wonder which it is P " 
 
 Fanshawe catches up a pile 
 of letters from a writing-table 
 and sorts them : " Here's one 
 with ' Folliott and Hake ' on 
 the seal ; how unpractical you 
 are, dear boy ! " 
 
 Bertram takes the letter and 
 looks at it without curiosity. 
 " It is sure to be something 
 unpleasant. I never heard of 
 Folliott and Hake." 
 
 Fanshawe laughs. " I have ; 
 many a time. They have been 
 solicitors in more than one libel 
 case, of which the Torch was 
 defendant. Come, open the 
 letter. See what it says." 
 
 Bertram opens and reads it : 
 " Only that they have a matter 
 of great importance to com- 
 municate to me. I really have 
 no idea what it can be. People 
 think so many things important 
 71 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 which are of infinitesimal insig- 
 nificance." 
 
 " You will best correct your 
 ignorance by allowing Mr. 
 P'olliott to enter and explain 
 himself." 
 
 *' I am so opposed to all 
 lawyers on principle." 
 
 "So am I, as I am opposed 
 to small-pox, or bicycle riders, 
 or yellow fogs ; but they are 
 not to be avoided in this life, 
 and it is neither polite or politic 
 to keep these highly respectable 
 solicitors waiting like sweeps. 
 Critchett, beg Mr. Folliott to 
 enter. I will leave you, Ber- 
 tram." 
 
 " No, no ; for goodness' sake 
 stay. I may want some advice." 
 
 *' You not unfrequently do. 
 But you never follow it when 
 given. Pray be civil." 
 
 A few moments later Mr. 
 Folliott enters ; a bland, white- 
 72 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 haired, portly old gentleman, a 
 little ruffled at having been left 
 so long at the foot of the 
 stairs. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. — 
 Mr. — Folliott," says Bertram, 
 looking at the letter. " I had, 
 in fact, not opened this note of 
 yours. It is a bad habit I have 
 of leaving letters unread." 
 
 " It was Sheridan's, sir," says 
 the lawyer, pointedly. " It did 
 not bring him good fortune." 
 
 He catches sight of Fan- 
 shawe, and his amiable counte- 
 nance assumes the startled and 
 displeased expression of a cat's 
 face, when the cat suddenly 
 perceives a bull terrier. 
 
 " I naturally awaited you, 
 Mr. Bertram, or a communi- 
 cation from you, all the day," 
 he says, in an affronted tone. 
 " Hearing nothing I thought it 
 best to come myself. You 
 73 G 
 
^i; An Altruist 
 
 are perhaps unaware that the 
 Prince of Viana is dead." 
 
 " I never heard of the indi- 
 vidual," says Bertram. " Who 
 was he ? " 
 
 " He was your first cousin. 
 You may know him better as 
 the son of Mr. Horace Erring- 
 ton." 
 
 " Oh ! The son of my 
 mother's brother? We never 
 knew him. There was a family 
 feud." 
 
 " But you will remember to 
 have heard that his father made 
 great wealth in the Abruzzi 
 through copper mines, was 
 nationalised, and was ennobled 
 by Victor Emmanuel. The 
 family feud was chiefly on ac- 
 count of his connection with 
 commerce and his change of 
 country." 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " I regret to inform you that 
 74 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 your cousin is dead, at thirty- 
 three years of age, killed by a 
 wild boar when hunting in the 
 Pontine marshes ; he has left 
 you, Mr. Bertram, his sole and 
 exclusive heir." 
 
 Bertram stares at him. 
 
 " What ! you must be joking, 
 Mr. Folhott ! " 
 
 The old gentleman takes off 
 his gold spectacles and puts them 
 on again in extreme irritation. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of 
 joking, sir, either in business or 
 outside it. We were solicitors 
 to his father and to himself. 
 We drew up this will five years 
 ago. You are inheritor of an 
 immense fortune, Mr. Ber- 
 tram." 
 
 Bertram stands staring at 
 him, then turns to Fanshawe. 
 '* Do you hear ? Is it true ? 
 Surely, no one could insult me 
 so greatly, even in jest ^ " 
 75 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " I really do not under- 
 stand," says the lawyer, be- 
 wildered. ■ " What insult can 
 there be ? I am speaking, sir, 
 in most sober earnest." 
 
 "Shall I fan you, Wilfrid.? 
 or send for some sal volatile?" 
 says Fanshawe, derisively: 
 " Don't be an ass," he adds in 
 a whisper. " This sensible old 
 fellow will think it his duty to 
 shut you up in a private mad- 
 house, if you talk like that. 
 Pull yourself together, and 
 answer him sensibly." 
 
 Mr. Folliott surveys the 
 speaker as a timid person may 
 look at a lion riding on a 
 velocipede in a circus-ring. 
 
 " If Mr. Bertram would 
 place me in communication 
 with his solicitor matters 
 would be facilitated," he mur- 
 murs. • 
 
 " I have no solicitors," re- 
 76 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 plies Bertram. " If you will 
 pardon what may seem an 
 offensive opinion, I regard all 
 men of law as poisonous para- 
 sites growing on the rotten 
 trunk of a society which has 
 the axe of retribution laid at its 
 roots." 
 
 Mr. Folliott is too astonished 
 to be offended : " I fail to fol- 
 low you, sir, but I have no 
 doubt you mean something 
 very profound. Your cousin 
 did not, I imagine, read your 
 articles in the reviews, but I 
 have read one or two of them. 
 However, notwithstanding your 
 extraordinary opinions, you are 
 a man of birth and breeding, 
 and must, in a measure, be a 
 man of the world, sir. You 
 must know that you must 
 allow me to fulfil my office. 
 This will has to be proved and 
 probate taken out." 
 77 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Where is the necessity ? " 
 
 " Be so good as not to play 
 with me. You must accept 
 the inheritance or decHne it. 
 In event of your refusal, of your 
 formal and final refusal, the 
 whole of this property is to go 
 to the testator's old college at 
 Oxford — Magdalen College." 
 
 " Ah ! that is a consola- 
 tion." 
 
 "Why so, sir?" 
 
 " Because, although I have 
 no sympathy with the modern 
 movements at Oxford, and con- 
 sider that she has fallen away 
 from her original high mission, 
 yet she is, and always will be, 
 a seat of learning ; and the 
 Humanities will never wholly 
 be banished from her halls." 
 
 " Again, 1 fail to follow you 
 sir." 
 
 " I mean that such an alter- 
 native destination for the pro- 
 78 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 perty will enable me to decline 
 it with a clear conscience." 
 
 " Really, sir, your replies are 
 wholly unintelligible." 
 
 Bertram turns helplessly to 
 Fanshawe. " Explain to this 
 gentleman my views regarding 
 property." 
 
 "I am aware of some of 
 them, sir," replies the solicitor, 
 sententiously. 
 
 "You read the "Torch, Mr. 
 Folliott, don't you ? " says the 
 proprietor of the 'Torch. 
 
 " When my professional 
 duties compel me, sir." 
 
 " But the ^orch is milk for 
 lambs, Mr. Folliott, beside the 
 Age to Corned 
 
 The solicitor bows with an 
 expression which indicates that 
 he would prefer to remain 
 unacquainted with the Age to 
 Come. 
 
 " But pardon me," contmues 
 79 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Fanshawe, *' is my friend here 
 really so immensely in luck's 
 way ? " 
 
 " He inherits under the 
 Prince of Viana's will all pro- 
 perties, both English and 
 Italian," replies the lawyer, 
 with the cat's expression more 
 accentuated on his countenance. 
 
 " And they are very large ? " 
 
 " Very large. My late client 
 was an only son, and though 
 generous, never spendthrift." 
 
 Fanshawe touches Bertram's 
 arm. " Wake up, Wilfrid. Do 
 you hear ^ Can't you speak ? " 
 
 Bertram says wearily, " What 
 am I to say ? It is an unspeak- 
 ably awful thing. I really can- 
 not bring myself to believe in 
 it." 
 
 " If you will allow me," says 
 the solicitor, " to make you 
 acquainted with some details of 
 
 the " 
 
 80 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " To what end ? Do the 
 items of the contents of the 
 pack interest the pack-horse to 
 whose aching back the burden 
 is offered ? " 
 
 " Again I fail to follow you." 
 
 ''To follow him, Mr. Fol- 
 liott," says Fanshawe, " requires 
 a long course of patient perusal 
 of the Age to ComeT 
 
 " Quite so, quite so," answers 
 the solicitor, coldly, in a tone 
 which intimates that he will 
 not have that patience. " I 
 have certainly never seen the 
 announcement of an inheritance 
 received in such a manner." 
 
 " But why," says Bertram — 
 " why did this relative, whom I 
 never knew, leave his property 
 to me } " 
 
 " I cannot tell, sir. It was 
 certainly not by the advice of 
 our firm." 
 
 " Are there any conditions 
 8i 
 
^? An Altruist 
 
 attached to this extraordinary 
 bequest ? " 
 
 " None, sir. You can realise 
 at once and invest everything 
 in dynamite and pyretic acid," 
 replies the solicitor, with a 
 rasping scorn showing through 
 the velvet of his admirable 
 manners. 
 
 " Oh, my dear sir ! Can 
 you fall into the vulgar error 
 of confounding collectivism and 
 altruism with anarchy ? They 
 are as far apart as the Poles. 
 One is love ; the other hatred." 
 
 " I confess, sir, that such 
 love nauseates me. I prefer 
 of the two the hatred. But 
 I am an old-fashioned person, 
 and I know little of literature 
 later than the 'Sixties." 
 
 " A most debased period in 
 every form of production." 
 
 " It may be so. Macaulay 
 was alive in it and Tennyson 
 82 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 But I did not come here to 
 discuss the characteristics of 
 generations. I came to inform 
 you of an event which I im- 
 maturely concluded would ap- 
 pear to you both important and 
 agreeable." 
 
 " You did not know me, my 
 dear sir." 
 
 " I did not, sir." 
 
 With a little cough and a 
 little stately bow the old gentle- 
 man prepares to leave, with the 
 cat's glance at the bull terrier still 
 more hostile and more scared. 
 
 " You will be so good, sir, 
 as to call on us to-morrow 
 morning, or to send some re- 
 presentative authorised by you. 
 You must be aware that the 
 law requires you either to ac- 
 cept the bequest or decline it." 
 
 " I am criminal if I accept : 
 I may be equally criminal if J 
 reject it." 
 
 83 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Again I fail to follow you, 
 sir. But of course you are 
 your own master ; and in the 
 event of your failure to call on 
 us to-morrow morning you will 
 be so good as to make us ac- 
 quainted with your decision and 
 intentions." 
 
 " I will send you, Mr. Fan- 
 shawe," replies Bertram. 
 
 The solicitor does not look 
 everjoyed at the promise, but 
 bows in silence, a very stiff 
 and formal bow, and leaves the 
 room without more words. 
 
 " I am afraid I was not very 
 polite to him," says Bertram, 
 doubtfully, when the stuffs of 
 the portiere have fallen behind 
 him. 
 
 " You certainly w^ere not," 
 replies Fanshawe. " I think 
 you could give hints to 
 Whistler on the Gentle Art 
 of making Enemies. But why 
 84 
 
An Altruist ^^^ 
 
 did you talk all that rot ? He 
 only ridiculed you for it." 
 
 " I merely said what I 
 meant." 
 
 " You mean to let this 
 fortune go to Magdalen Col- 
 
 ? " 
 
 leg 
 
 " Unless I change my present 
 intentions very completely." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! This is green 
 sickness, moonstruck madness ; 
 Hamlet's monomania was no- 
 thing to it. Are you absolutely 
 insensible to the fact that you 
 would be able to print ten 
 million copies of the Age to 
 Come every week and distribute 
 them gratis all over Great 
 Britain every week } " 
 
 " Even that alluring prospect 
 cannot tempt me. My accept- 
 ance of a fortune would be as 
 anomalous as Lord Rosebery's 
 creation of peers. Miserable 
 creatures that we are, we are 
 8.:; H 
 
^§ An Altruist 
 
 only tolerably respectable so 
 long as we are commonly con- 
 sistent." 
 
 " Oh, Lord save us ! You 
 can't possibly be serious ? " 
 
 " I speak in entire sincerity." 
 
 " A very dangerous thing to 
 do at any time. People have 
 such a shocking habit of taking 
 one at one's word ! Old Fol- 
 liott's very shrewd too, though 
 he's a Tory." 
 
 " What is his shrewdness to 
 me ? " 
 
 "Well, if you retain him as 
 your man of business it may be 
 a great deal. It is usual to re- 
 tain the testator's solicitors when 
 they are as eminent and irre- 
 proachable as Folliott and Hake." 
 
 Bertram grows impatient. 
 
 " Cannot you understand ? 
 I do not take this property. 
 Do not dream of taking it for 
 
 a single instant ! " 
 86 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " You can't be such a trans- 
 cendent ass ! Excuse me, 
 but " 
 
 " I should have thought you 
 would have looked at this 
 matter as I do." 
 
 " Dear boy, all property 
 ought to be abolished, on that 
 we are quite agreed, but whilst 
 it still exists in this piggish 
 world we are bound in duty 
 to ourselves and our neighbours 
 to make the best of it, and get 
 as much as we can ! " 
 
 " Then you are a mere sham ? 
 A humbug ? A hypocrite ? " 
 
 " You mean to be rude, but 
 I take no offence. Everybody 
 is insincere in civilised coun- 
 tries." 
 
 " What an infamous theory ! 
 I have always thought that 
 your Richmond villa, your 
 house at Prince's Gate, your 
 swell garden parties, your blood 
 87 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 horses, and all the rest of it, 
 were ludicrously out of keeping 
 with your political and literary 
 declarations of opinion." 
 
 " Not more so than your 
 silver tea-set and your exem- 
 plary Critchett are with yours. 
 Don't let us quarrel, at least not 
 until to-morrow. I want to 
 see more of old Folliott. He 
 is one of the worst enemies 
 I have, and I do so delight in 
 drawing the claws of an enemy 
 with my bland and benign 
 manners. Besides, I owe him 
 a good deal. The Torch was 
 in its infancy when he made 
 its fortune and set it on its legs 
 by his libel suits. Meet me in 
 Hyde Park at eleven to-morrow. 
 I'll come out of my house 
 through Albert Gate, and we'll 
 go down to his office together." 
 
 " You can go, and take my 
 written refusal with you." 
 88 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 Fanshawe gives a gesture of 
 irritated impatience, and looks 
 at his watch. 
 
 " La 7iuit forte con sell. You 
 will thmk differently in the 
 morninCT. I am dinino^ at Rich- 
 mond. I can't stay another 
 moment, but for Heaven's sake 
 take till to-morrow to think it 
 over Ta-ta ! " 
 
 "Good-day." 
 
 Bertram looks out of the 
 window and watches Fanshawe's 
 private hansom flash down Pic- 
 cadilly ; he vaguely wishes that 
 he too were going to dine at 
 Richmond, and were not fettered 
 by principle to a cheese omelette 
 and a vol au vent of mushrooms. 
 
 It is a fine, breezy sunshiny 
 morning on the morrow, good 
 yachting weather, as some one 
 says who is going down to 
 Gravesend for the first cutter 
 race of the season. 
 89 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram walks along Rotten 
 Row under the trees with a 
 mind so preoccupied that he 
 narrowly escapes being knocked 
 down by an ambassadress on a 
 bicycle. He is repeating to him- 
 self what he said to the old 
 duke, " fais ce que dois ad- 
 vienne que pourra," and he is 
 conscious that the injunction 
 has its thorny side like most 
 other virtuous things. 
 
 He has been unable to sleep 
 all night for the tormenting 
 visions evoked by Folliott's 
 visit and his dead cousin's 
 bequest. 
 
 Because you valorously resist 
 a temptation it does not any 
 the less sharply assail you. 
 Because you limit yourself 
 strictly to rice croquettes you 
 do not the less painfully recall 
 the forbidden flavour of a salmi 
 of game. He considers it no 
 90 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 more possible for him in com- 
 mon decency to accept this 
 property than to embrace 
 Mahomedanism or renounce 
 clothing ; but none the less is 
 he haunted by the possibilities 
 that its possession would bring 
 with it. 
 
 He is human, and his heart 
 is heavy as he walks along 
 in the pleasant April wind. 
 He realises that there are 
 many charming things which he 
 has renounced — voluntarily re- 
 nounced, indeed ; but, then, is 
 it really more agreeable to kill 
 oneself than to be killed ? Any- 
 how, the result is the same ; 
 the grave is as deep and the 
 sleep as eternal. 
 
 When he has arrived opposite 
 the residential hotel which raises 
 the colossal offence of its eleven 
 stories between the elm-trees 
 and their right to air and light 
 91 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 he sits down, feeling rather Hmp 
 and aimless ; and lighting a 
 cigarette, he awaits the coming 
 of Fanshawe. There is a police- 
 man close at hand ; some chil- 
 dren are near, with their nurses ; 
 and a respectable - looking, 
 middle-aged, brisk woman, with 
 some fine linen in a flat basket, 
 is approaching. He raises his 
 hat to her. 
 
 " Is that you, Mrs. Brown ? 
 I never saw you in the Park 
 before." 
 
 " No, sir, I don't often come 
 nigh fine folks," answers Mrs. 
 Brown. " But I've got to go 
 to Prince's Gate, number fifteen, 
 and I turned in 'ere 'cos the 
 traffic's that crowded on the 
 'igh-road ; 'is 'Ighness is agoin' 
 down to 'Ounslow." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure. Plow are 
 your people this morning ? " 
 
 " My pore legs, sir, be as bad 
 92 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 as ever — but there, we pore 
 folks can't stop for aches and 
 pains, or we'd never do naught 
 in this 'ere world ; 'twasn't 
 made for the likes of us." 
 
 " That is a sad reflection. 
 But pray don't say ' sir ' to 
 me." 
 
 " It comes nat'ral, sir. I 
 hev alius been one as did my 
 humble duty to the quality." 
 
 " Oh, I know ! It is this 
 terrible servility which has 
 entered like blood-poisoning 
 into the very marrow of the 
 people." 
 
 The policeman standing near 
 listening grins behind his white- 
 gloved hand. 
 
 " You are so used to stoop 
 and cringe that you have lost 
 the power to stand upright 
 when you are invited to do 
 so," says Bertram, impatiently. 
 " Where is your daughter? " 
 93 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 " Annie's at Ealing, sir. It's 
 Primrose Day to-morrow." 
 
 "And what is your opinion 
 of Primrose Day, Mrs. 
 Brown ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, it's got 'em lots 
 o' votes, but it do seem to me 
 a pack o' folly. No offence." 
 
 " And the Primrose Dames, 
 Mrs. Brown .? " 
 
 " Well, sir, they're a pretty 
 spry lot o' ladies, and they 
 come and talk, talk, talk, and 
 me at the mangle, and I wish 
 'em anywheres ; and one o' 
 'em promised to have my 
 kitchen boiler looked to, but, 
 Lord ! that's three months ago 
 come Monday was a week, and 
 nobody's come to the boiler." 
 
 " The Conservative party 
 always forgets the boilers ; and 
 are extremely astonished when 
 the neglected boilers blow up." 
 
 " My boiler was no business 
 94 
 
An Altruist ^-^ 
 
 o' theirs," says the good woman, 
 hotly ; " but if they said they'd 
 send, they hought to hev sent. 
 But there ! that's them ladies 
 all over, in and out, and to and 
 f/o, and it's how's my soul ? 
 and how's my dust-bin ? and 
 hev I faith ? and hev I a patent 
 kitchener? and do I read my 
 Bible ? and do I keep the traps 
 on my drains ? and do I see 
 the blessin's o' eddication ? and 
 do I keep my sink flushed ? 
 and am I an abstainer ? and do 
 I use carbolic acid ? Such a 
 pack o' nonsense, and in they 
 comes without rappin' ; and if 
 they sees a bit o' dust in a 
 corner 'tis ' Lord, Mrs. Brown, 
 don't ye know as dust is 
 microbes, and microbes is sar- 
 tain death P ' And I says, says 
 I, ' No, marm, my leddy, my 
 granny lived to ninety-six, and 
 on her ninetieth birthday she 
 95 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 walked four miles to market 
 at Winchester and back, and 
 she alius said to all o' us as dust 
 was wholesome, and cobwebs 
 too, and shouldn't ne'er be 
 interfered with 
 
 She stops, out of breath, and 
 the listening policeman smiles 
 again. 
 
 " People were more robust 
 in those days, Mrs. Brown," 
 remarked Bertram. 
 
 "Yes, sir, there weren't so 
 many doctors all over the place. 
 When I was a gal, in our 
 villag:e there weren't a doctor 
 within twenty mile ; and no- 
 body never was ill. Nowadays 
 voung and old is alius talking 
 about their livers and lights till 
 they fret theirselves into sick- 
 ness." 
 
 " That is very possible. 
 Science is much to blame for 
 teaching humanity to concen- 
 96 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 trate the mind on the body. 
 There I wholly agree with you." 
 
 Mrs. Brown picks up her 
 load of linen, which she has 
 momentarily rested on the back 
 of the bench. 
 
 " Well, sir, you'll please 
 excuse me, but I can't stand 
 chatterin' here. We pore has 
 got our work to do. That's 
 what I says to them ladies when 
 they come botherin.' I says, 
 says I, ' We pore has our work 
 to do, and when 'tis done we 
 want to sit still, and put our 
 feet up, and take a cup o' tea, 
 and doze like ; we don't want 
 to go strammarkin' about to 
 your concerts, and your read- 
 in's, and your mothers' meetin's, 
 and all them rubbishes, and see 
 a duchess playin' a banjo or 
 hear a duke sing " Hot Cod- 
 lins." ' Let 'em keep in their 
 place, and we'll keep in ours. 
 97 I 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 That's what I says, sir, and I 
 bring up my children to say 
 it arter me." 
 
 " Oh, I am aware, Mrs. 
 Brown, you and those who 
 resemble you, are a terrible 
 stumbling-block to progress." 
 
 " Please don't call me names, 
 sir. I'm a pore workin' woman, 
 but I'm one as hev alius kep' 
 my head above water. You're 
 in one speer, and we're in 
 another, as I hev alius told ye, 
 but all the same I choose to be 
 respecket." 
 
 " My dear creature, no one 
 can respect you more profoundly 
 than I do." 
 
 But Mrs. Brown is not 
 appeased by this assurance ; 
 walks away in high dudgeon ; 
 there is meanwhile a great 
 noise of yelling and shouting 
 in the distance near the statue 
 of Achilles. 
 
 98 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 "What are they doing?" 
 Bertram asks of the constable, 
 who, touching his helmet, 
 answers : 
 
 "Well, sir, the Salvationists 
 have got new banners, ' Glory ' 
 on one side, and ' Eternal Fire ' 
 on t'other; and the pop'lace don't 
 like 'em. Pop'lace very queer 
 and touchy, sir. Never knows 
 what it wants." 
 
 " That is a hasty condemna- 
 tion to pass on those who form 
 the bulwarks of a nation." 
 
 " Bulwarks, is it, sir ? Not 
 when they've got any beer in 
 'em." 
 
 The uproar in the distance 
 grows very loud indeed ; some 
 children are alarmed ; the nurse 
 who is with them asks the 
 policeman if there is any danger 
 of a riot. 
 
 He replies cheerfully, " No 
 fear, mum. They're round 
 99 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Hachilles ; the Salvationists are 
 on one side, a rum chap holler- 
 ing against property on the 
 other. He's one o' them 
 Communists, and the populace 
 don't cotton to them ideas ; 
 pop'lace likes gentlefolks. 
 Lord ! see 'em run to stare at 
 the carriages o' Drawing Room 
 days ! " 
 
 " What is the use," thinks 
 Bertram, " of trying to save 
 sheep who carry their own 
 fleeces obstinately to the 
 shearers ? " 
 
 " This is the impression," he 
 asks of the policeman, " which 
 years on the London pavement 
 gives you of the London popu- 
 lace ? " 
 
 Policeman answers, drily, 
 "Yessir. All the force'll tell 
 ye the same. London populace 
 likes the nobs. Some on 'em 
 yell a lot o' revolutionary non- 
 
 lOO 
 
An Altruist ^o 
 
 sense when they gets in Trafal- 
 gar Square, but, Lord bless ye, 
 they don't mean it." 
 
 " They will mean it one 
 day." 
 
 "Well, sir, if they ever run 
 short o' liquor, on account of 
 them total habstainers, they 
 will." 
 
 " What a view of the sove- 
 reign people ! " says Bertram, 
 who in the Age to Come 
 advocates voluntary total absti- 
 nence." 
 
 " Sovereign, is it, sir } Ever 
 seen 'em o' Derby Day, sir ^ " 
 
 " Yes," replies Bertram, 
 curtly. He perceives that the 
 constable is a satirist. 
 
 In sight at that moment 
 appears a struggling form being 
 violently propelled by two 
 officers of the law, and followed 
 by some yelling roughs and 
 capering boys. 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram cannot believe his 
 senses. 
 
 " Good gracious ! That is 
 Hopper ! " he says to the 
 satirical policeman at his side. 
 " What are they doing to him ? 
 Why is he arrested ? " 
 
 Policeman replies politely, 
 but with slightly veiled con- 
 tempt : " Seem to be running 
 him in, sir. Is he a protegy of 
 yours ? " 
 
 Bertram goes up to the 
 prisoner : " Why, Hopper, is 
 that you ? What has he done ? 
 Why do you collar him like 
 that.?'" 
 
 The constables, who are 
 dragging Hopper between them, 
 reply with curt contempt : "Dis- 
 orderly ; drunk and disorderly, 
 that's what he is, sir, and incitin' 
 to crime." 
 
 " Drunk ? " repeats Bertram. 
 " Hopper ? Impossible ! He 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 has touched nothing but lemon- 
 ade and mineral water for three 
 years ! 
 
 "Is that so, sir? Well, 
 there's an excuse for him, then, 
 poor devil ! " 
 
 The prisoner whines and 
 weeps, " Is that you, Mr. 
 Bertram ? You'll speak for a 
 pore honest man — for a pore 
 honest man — not a drop hev 
 Hopper took — not a — not a — 
 not a drop. Hark'ee, Mister 
 — Hopper was a-tellin' folks 
 — good tidings — proputty's 
 pison — proputty's thievin' — 
 proputty's root o' all evil — said 
 so yerself, mister. Hopper used 
 yer werry words. And Hop- 
 per's run in, and ye stand there 
 —yah ! Blackgud." 
 
 "I am ashamed of you, 
 Hopper," says Bertram, sternly. 
 " But," he adds to the con- 
 stables, " if you arrest this man 
 
^§ An Altruist 
 
 for having taken stimulants, I 
 cannot oppose the measure, he 
 may deserve arrest ; but if you 
 consider him guilty because he 
 has merely striven to disseminate 
 the doctrines which I myself 
 hold, I ought in common jus- 
 tice to accompany him and be 
 locked up as well." 
 
 The first policeman, who has a 
 satiric vein, smiles rather cyni- 
 cally : "Well, sir, I don't say 
 as you shouldn't, but we can't 
 run you in, sir ; you aren't 
 disorderly." 
 
 Marlow, who is sauntering 
 past, stops, and laughs : " His 
 opinions are very disorderly. 
 Half an hour in Bow Street 
 might be a seasonable douche." 
 
 Hopper is struggling between 
 the two constables, who have 
 him by the collar : " Hi, mis- 
 ter ! " he groans, " won't ye 
 speak hup for a 'onest man ? 
 104 * 
 
An Altruist ^-^ 
 
 Kep' me on beastly swills, you 
 hev — kep' proniisin' on me 
 beer'd be free all round — pro- 
 mised as 'ow I'd live in Windsor 
 Castle, and hev ale an' gin on 
 tap all day — promised as 'ow — 
 promised as 'ow — promised as 
 ow 
 
 " Shut up his jaw," says one 
 of the constables to the other. 
 " Get him along somehow. We 
 can't waste no more time." 
 
 They go down the road, 
 dragging and pushing Hopper, 
 a group of small boys dancing 
 hilariously in their rear. 
 
 " I assure you he was an 
 entirely reformed character, up 
 to this moment," says Bertram 
 to the satirical and remaining 
 policeman. 
 
 " Aye, they're alius the 
 worst, sir," says that func- 
 tionary, with conviction. 
 
 " Reformed characters have 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 a knack of backsliding," says 
 Marlow, who has hngered to 
 look on, with great enjoyment 
 of the scene. "Vice is mag- 
 netic. Virtue isn't — somehow." 
 
 Bertram ignores him and 
 continues to address the police- 
 man : "I suppose I can witness 
 on his behalf in the police 
 court ? Get him out on bail ? 
 My testimony surely " 
 
 " Well, sir, I'd let him bide 
 if I was you," says the police- 
 man, without a grain of sym- 
 pathy. " Seven days'll do him 
 a world o' good. Wonderful 
 how it sobers 'em." 
 
 " Why are you so ungenerous 
 to your own class ^ " 
 
 Policeman looks puzzled : 
 " Don't know about ongener- 
 ous, sir ; but I didn't never 
 cotton to drunkards afore I was 
 in the force." 
 
 *' I thought you were a total 
 1 06 
 
An Altruist f^o* 
 
 abstainer, BLn-tram ? " says Mar- 
 low. 
 
 Bertram replies, very stiffly : 
 *' Drink is the most disgusting 
 of all weaknesses, but our dis- 
 gust ought not to destroy our 
 compassion. In that poor man 
 yonder it is a relapse into a bad 
 habit after three years of rigor- 
 ous abstinence." 
 
 The policeman smothers a de- 
 corous smile : " Beg pardon, sir 
 that 'ere man was run in dead 
 drunk a fortnight ago on the 
 Nottin' '111 road and got two 
 days." 
 
 Bertram is silent. 
 
 He remembers that Hopper 
 appeared at his chambers ten 
 days previously with a black 
 eye and bandaged head, and 
 accounted for his condition by 
 a very well-told episode of a 
 runaway horse and a lady saved 
 by his courage and resolution. 
 107 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Marlow laughs, nods, and 
 walks on ; Bertram lights 
 another cigarette. He is not 
 pleased by this episode. 
 
 Marlow, meanw^hile continu- 
 ing his walk, comes, some tenth 
 part of a mile further down the 
 road, on two ladies, whom he 
 recognises immediately although 
 their backs are towards him ; 
 one is Cicely Seymour, the other 
 Lady Jane Rivaux. He over- 
 takes them with as much haste 
 and joyousness as it is possible 
 for a London man in the 'Nine- 
 ties to display in public. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Seymour, such a 
 lark down there," he says, with 
 great satisfaction. " A friend 
 of Bertram's run in dead drunk 
 by the police, and Bertram 
 preaching red ruin on his behalf. 
 On my word, it's the drollest 
 sight I've seen for many a day." 
 
 "It must be," replied Cicely, 
 io8 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 between her teeth. " We have 
 all of us numbers of friends who 
 take more stimulants than are 
 good for them, but they are 
 careful to be in the sanctuary 
 of their own houses or in their 
 clubs." 
 
 " How you do pull up a 
 fellow ! " murmurs Marlow. 
 " Of course, when I say friend 
 I mean a — a — well, one of his 
 monstrous queer acquaintances. 
 He lives amongst that class." 
 
 "What class.?" 
 
 " Well, the — the mob — you 
 know. Folks that come out 
 when there's a riot and smash 
 windows and lamps ; never see 
 'em any other time ; burrow, I 
 suppose, like rabbits." 
 
 " Darkest London ? I fear 
 the lamps when they are not 
 smashed do not throw much 
 light on their darkness." 
 
 " How sententious you are, 
 109 K 
 
^; An Altruist 
 
 Cicely ! " says Lady Jane. "You 
 ought to marry a rising politi- 
 cian." 
 
 " Because I detest politics ^ " 
 
 " Bertram's views aren't poli- 
 tics, they're red ruin," repeats 
 Marlow. " Red ruin to him- 
 self, too ; he's dropped such a 
 pot o' money over that revolu- 
 tionary journal of his that he'll 
 be in the bankruptcy court 
 before the season's over." 
 
 " Has he borrowed any money 
 of you ^ " asks Cicely, curtly. 
 
 "Oh dear, no ; I didn't 
 mean to imply " 
 
 " Then what are his affairs 
 to you.^ " 
 
 " Well— I— I— don't know. 
 Mustn't one talk of one's 
 neighbours ? " 
 
 " It shows great poverty of 
 mind to speak merely of people. 
 There are so many other sub- 
 jects." 
 
 no 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Marlow is abashed. 
 
 He knows that his mind is 
 not rich according to her ideas 
 of intellectual wealth. 
 
 " At all events," he says, 
 rather crossly and hotly, " one 
 may be allowed to envy such a 
 prig such good luck as to have 
 Miss Seymour for a champion." 
 
 " Jane," says Cicely, turning 
 to her friend, '' here come your 
 children. How well that mite 
 Dolly rides ! " 
 
 " He is a prig, you know, 
 my dear," murmurs Lady Jane, 
 " and I am sorry it makes you 
 angry when we say so." 
 
 " I dislike all injustice," says 
 Cicely, coldly, " and I do not 
 consider that Mr. Bertram is in 
 the least done justice to by his 
 friends and relations. How 
 badly every one treated him 
 yesterday in return for a most 
 learned and interesting lecture ! '' 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 While she is thus defending 
 himself and his doctrines in his 
 absence, Bertram, still seated 
 under the trees, sees in the dis- 
 tance a girl's figure ; she wears 
 a black straw hat, a black jacket, 
 and a grey stuff skirt ; she has 
 thread gloves and leather high- 
 lows, the highlows are white 
 with dust ; she has two deep 
 baskets filled with primroses and 
 covered by red cotton handker- 
 chiefs ; she carries one on each 
 arm. She has a round,, fair, 
 freckled face, a sweet and cheer- 
 ful expression, and a fringe of 
 naturally curling brown hair. 
 
 She approaches Bertram smil- 
 ing : "Oh, gracious, sir ! Don't 
 get up for the likes of me. 
 Mother told me as how you 
 were under this tree ; I just met 
 her by the Gate, so I thought 
 I'd come and have a peep at 
 you. 
 
 112 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 " Thanks," replies Bertram, 
 distantly. " Don't say * as 
 how,' Annie, You are heavily 
 laden this morning." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir. Primroses 
 have no roots ; they make a 
 fine show, but they don't weigh 
 naught." 
 
 " Like the party of which 
 they are the emblem." 
 
 Annie smiles, in entire igno- 
 rance of his meaning, and sits 
 down by him, planting her 
 baskets on the ground. 
 
 " These aren't very good 
 flowers," she says, regretfully, 
 "the rain's spiled 'em. They'll 
 do to put at the horses' ears. 
 Why do they put 'em at the 
 horses' ears, sir ? I asked a 
 groom onst, and he says, says 
 he, it means that when our 
 party come back to office we'll 
 take the tax off horses. Is that 
 so, sir.? " 
 
 113 
 
o^ An Altruist 
 
 "They are not only at the 
 horses' ears, but at the asses' 
 buttonholes ! " says Bertram. 
 " As for taxation, it is the arc 
 of Toryism." 
 
 " Dear me ! " he thinks, 
 " why will she sit down by 
 me.? With all the will in 
 the world one cannot but fret 
 occasionally at their manners, 
 though of course manner is only 
 the shell, and ought not to 
 weigh with one ! " 
 
 Annie is meanwhile making 
 some primroses up into a bunch. 
 " What had you said to 
 mother.?" she asks. "Her 
 back w^as quite set up, like." 
 
 " Your mother," replies Ber- 
 tram, " is the most estimable 
 and indefatigable of persons, 
 but she has the taint of pain- 
 fully narrowed and archaic 
 views : she persists in consider- 
 ing herself of an inferior class ; 
 114 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 she persists in speaking of 
 ' quality,' by which she means 
 the patrician order, as some- 
 thing superhuman and alien to 
 herself. It distresses me." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Mother's always 
 going on about our engage- 
 ment. She says as how " 
 
 " ' As how,' again, Annie ! " 
 
 " Well, sir, that's just what 
 mother means. You speak in one 
 way and I in another. And your 
 friends will laugh at my way of 
 speaking, sir; they certainly will." 
 
 " Let them laugh ! Besides, 
 we shall not see them, Annie ; 
 we shall live wholly apart from 
 them, in some remote spot of 
 our own." 
 
 " Out o' London, sir ? " 
 
 " Out of London beyond a 
 doubt. Is that any subject of 
 regret ? " 
 
 " Well — I should miss the 
 streets, sir." 
 
 115 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 *' Miss the streets ! Merciful 
 heavens ! To what a pass has 
 the baneful disease of town life 
 brought a pure and unsophisti- 
 cated soul ! But you have been 
 in the country this morning 
 early — the hem of the country 
 at any rate. Did the freshness, 
 the silence, the fragrance around 
 you say nothing to your heart ? " 
 
 " Well, no, sir. Where the 
 growers are you don't smell 
 much else than manure ; and 
 there's a steam pump always 
 going fit to deafen you." 
 
 " Well, well ! But you must 
 have seen the real country. I 
 have taken you myself to 
 Bushey and Thames Ditton. 
 Surely you must see that the 
 streets are the quintessence of 
 vulgarity, of artificiality, of 
 hideousness, of ludicrous ef- 
 fort ? " 
 
 "If they're as bad as that, 
 ii6 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 sir, why do all the great ladies 
 stay all the summer in 'em, 
 when they might be in the 
 country ? Our little street 
 ain't much, for sure, but there's 
 a deal o' neighbourliness in it ; 
 and I'm so used to listening for 
 Sam's growler rattlin' home I 
 don't think sleep 'ud come to 
 me without it." 
 
 " We really cannot take Sam 
 and his cab into our wadded 
 life," remarks Bertram, with 
 irritation ; " and why will you 
 say ' sir,' and not Wilfrid ? " 
 
 " Your Christian name would 
 sound so cheeky, sir," replies 
 Annie. " I couldn't bring 
 myself to say it. You're so 
 different to me, sir. That's 
 what mother alius says : ' Mr. 
 Bertram's got queer notions,' 
 says she ; ' but he was born 
 of the quality, and quality he'll 
 be till he die, let him fuss and 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 fad and fettle as much as ever 
 he Hkes.' " 
 
 Bertram is looking uneasily 
 down the Mile : " Won't your 
 primroses wither in the sun ? " 
 
 " No ; there's the shade o' 
 the tree." 
 
 Bertram says to himself : 
 " However shall I get rid of 
 her ? If Marlow should come 
 back while she's sitting here, 
 or Fanshawe come out of his 
 house ! " {Aloud.) *' Dear 
 Annie, if you won't misunder- 
 stand me, I think we'd better 
 not be seen sitting here to- 
 gether. Caesar's wife — no, I 
 don't mean that, I mean an 
 EngHshman's betrothed — in 
 fact, you know what I mean. 
 It was very kind of you to send 
 those violets yesterday, but it 
 was a mistake — my rooms were 
 full — people laughed." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bertram, I am 
 
An Altruist ^{^ 
 
 sorry. It was silly, of course, 
 now I think of it," says the 
 girl, as she rises and takes up 
 the baskets. " Mr. Bertram, if 
 you don't like to be seen with 
 me settin' on this bench, how 
 ever will you stand being seen 
 with me all your life .^ " 
 
 " You don't comprehend," 
 replies Bertram, nervously. 
 " That isn't the question at all. 
 I don't want people to say 
 coarse and rude things of you. 
 Of my wife no one will ever 
 dare to do so." 
 
 Annie hangs her head in 
 silence for a minute ; then 
 murmurs : 
 
 ** Do you really love me, 
 sir ? Mother says as how it's 
 moonshine." 
 
 " I dislike the word love. 
 
 It is coarse, and implies coarse 
 
 feelings. It is a degrading 
 
 impulse, shared with the beasts 
 
 119 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 of the fields. Poets are re- 
 sponsible for having covered 
 its unloveliness with a starry 
 garment which has disguised — 
 fatally disguised — its nakedness. 
 What I feel for you is respect, 
 esteem, the sweetness of ful- 
 filled duty, the means of prov- 
 ing to the world the sincerity 
 of my sociology." 
 
 " Yes, sir. You told me 
 that afore." 
 
 " Well, what better senti- 
 ment can you desire ^ Love 
 fills lunatic asylums, divorce 
 courts, cemeteries, heats char- 
 coal braziers, fires revolvers, 
 gives human bodies to fishes ; 
 but such a sentiment as I 
 have for you purifies society, 
 advances civilisation, ensures 
 mutual respect, and eliminates 
 passion, the tyrant of man." 
 
 He stops abruptly, for before 
 his memory floats the vision of 
 
An Altruist ^^^ 
 
 Cecily Seymour, and he seems 
 to hear her saying : " What 
 heresy ! And how untrue ! " 
 
 Annie murmurs, keeping her 
 head down, and in a disap- 
 pointed voice : " Yes, sir." 
 
 " You do not seem to under- 
 stand ! You are vexed ? " 
 
 " I'll try to understand, sir. 
 I'm only a poor girl, and all 
 that you say is very beautiful, 
 I dessay ; but — it makes me 
 think of a novel I got onst 
 from the library, where a poor 
 governess, without a umberellar 
 or a friend, stands out in the 
 rain and looks through the 
 winder at a cosy kitchen, where 
 they're a-toastin' muffins for 
 tea, and a cat's a-warming his- 
 self at the fire." 
 
 " ' Jane Eyre.' I fail to see 
 the connection." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Bertram, I say 
 it ill ; but when you talk in 
 
 121 L 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 that kind o' way it makes me 
 feel out in the cold like as 
 that poor teacher was, and I 
 think I'd rather have the fire 
 and the muffins and the cat." 
 
 *' I fear you are a sad Philis- 
 tine, Annie." 
 
 " I don't know what that is, 
 sir. I daresay as it's only that 
 your beautiful talk's too fine 
 for me. I think I'll go now. 
 I didn't ought to have dawdled 
 here." 
 
 " You are crying, child ! " 
 
 '* Oh, no, sir." 
 
 She gets up and hurries 
 away. 
 
 " O Heavens ! " Bertram 
 says to himself. " One does 
 not go to that sturdy class to 
 get a sensitive plant that droops 
 at a touch. She says libeny and 
 umherellar. It is absurd that 
 such a trifle should irritate one, 
 but it does ; it is like a grain of 
 
 122 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 dust in one's eye, a crumb of 
 bread in one's sock. What 
 atoms they are, yet how miserable 
 they can make one ! And 
 then her absolute inability to 
 understand one ! Love ! Good 
 gracious ! She would want to 
 have a bride cake from Gun- 
 ter's ; a temple of Hymen in 
 spun sugar ! " 
 
 The remembrance of Cicely 
 Seymour's fair face, with its 
 tender, dreamy eyes and its 
 beautiful mouth, comes over 
 him. He shivers in the warmth 
 of the pleasant and unusual 
 sunshine. 
 
 Marlow, who has left the 
 ladies after his snubbing, passes 
 him again, puts his glass in his 
 eye, and gazes after Annie 
 Brown. 
 
 " A p'otdgee ? Younger 
 than your disciples usually 
 are," he remarks. " Ah, to 
 123 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 be sure — that must be the 
 Annie of the violets ? My 
 dear Bertram, surely chivalry 
 should suggest that we should 
 carry her baskets for her ? If 
 you will take the one, I will 
 take the other." 
 
 Bertram deigns no answer. 
 He feels considerably annoyed, 
 and gazes at the cupola of the 
 hotel in front of him. 
 
 Marlow digs holes in the 
 gravel with his cane. 
 
 " What an opportunity lost 
 of practical illustration of your 
 doctrines, and — she's got a 
 smart pair of ankles ; rather 
 thick, but still " 
 
 Bertram continues to gaze 
 abstractedly at the hotel roof. 
 
 " But why, oh why, let her 
 wear highlows.^" continues 
 Marlow. " They would deform 
 a goddess." 
 
 Suddenly, with the sense of 
 124 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 taking a plunge into water of 
 unknown depth, the man whom 
 he torments faces what he con- 
 siders an imperative obhgation. 
 
 *' The young person in the 
 highlows is my future wife," 
 he says between his teeth. 
 *' You will be so good as to 
 make your jokes about some 
 other matter than her ankles." 
 
 Marlow stares, utterly in- 
 credulous and stupefied. 
 
 " Good Lord ! you can't 
 mean it ! Your wife ? Why, 
 she is — she is — she is a very 
 decent sort of girl no doubt ; 
 I should be sorry to imply the 
 contrary, but " 
 
 " Be so good as to under- 
 stand that I am not in jest. 
 That is the — the — the daughter 
 of the people who I am about 
 to marry." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! " 
 
 Marlow drops into a chair, 
 125 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 so astonished that he could not 
 recover his speech. Annie is 
 too far off to hear, and there 
 is no one else within earshot 
 except a groom on the other 
 side of the rails ; the policeman 
 has gone on down the road. 
 
 " I was much to blame," says 
 Bertram, in his chilliest manner, 
 " not to make the announce- 
 ment yesterday when you asked 
 who were the Brown family. 
 My reticence was a weakness of 
 which I am sincerely ashamed." 
 
 He has done what he believes 
 that courage, truth, and loyalty 
 to this poor little girl with the 
 primrose skips demanded, but 
 doing our duty, unhappily, is 
 apt to leave a shivery and 
 prickly sensation behind it, and 
 his reasons do not, even to him- 
 self, appear so logical, admirable, 
 and clear as they had done 
 three months ago. 
 126 
 
An Altruist ^-^ 
 
 And why will she say 
 " li berry " and " umber e liar " ? 
 and her ankles certainly are 
 thick ! He tries to remember 
 Sybil in Disraeli's romance of 
 that name, but he cannot con- 
 ceal from his mind that Annie 
 is not in the very least like 
 Sybil, if he himself somewhat 
 resembles Egremont. 
 
 " And may I tell people ? " 
 asks Marlow, with his eyes 
 staring wide open. 
 
 " You may tell every one. 
 The office of bellman to society 
 is, I believe, very congenial to 
 you." 
 
 " Eh .? Lord, how they will 
 laugh! They'll die of laughin'." 
 
 Bertram reddens angrily. 
 
 " No doubt they will laugh. 
 Such laughter is still as like the 
 crackling of thorns under a 
 pot as it was in the days of 
 Solomon." 
 
 127 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Marlow continues to stare 
 stupidly. 
 
 " Are you sure you aren't 
 jokin' ? chaffin' ? humbug- 
 gin' ? " he asks. 
 
 " I do not joke," replies 
 Bertram, with chill dignity. 
 " And certainly I should not 
 use banter on so delicate and 
 solemn a subject. If you think 
 the actions of my insignificant 
 personality will amuse people, 
 you are at liberty to amuse them." 
 
 With that he nods slightly, 
 and walks towards the French 
 Embassy, leaving Marlow rooted 
 to his chair, still staring with a 
 blank expression of increduHty 
 and amaze. 
 
 " And that prig, that dolt, 
 that triple idiot might marry 
 Cicely Seymour if he chose ! " 
 mutters the young man with the 
 gold crook of his cane between 
 his teeth. 
 
 128 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Marlow cannot believe his 
 own senses. It is eleven o'clock 
 in the morning, and he has 
 taken nothing but some black 
 coffee and a devilled kidney, 
 or he really would think he 
 had been drinking, and for- 
 gotten the debauch. 
 
 He feels that it would be 
 very agreeable to his feelings 
 to return to barbarian methods 
 and pound into a jelly the 
 highly cultured brains of the 
 ctuthor of the Age to Come. 
 
 " But what do you marry 
 her for .^ " he shouts after 
 Bertram's retreating figure. 
 He receives no answer, and 
 Bertram passes away under the 
 budding April boughs. To 
 explain his reasons to Marlow 
 would be indeed to throw 
 pearls before swine. 
 
 As he walks backward in 
 the direction of Hyde Park 
 129 
 
^? An Altruist 
 
 Corner he sees the figure of 
 Annie Brown going down the 
 almost-deserted roadway of the 
 drive. 
 
 " Her ankles a7'e thick," he 
 thinks painfully ; '* and why will 
 she use such very odd words as 
 " liberry " ? Why ? I believe 
 philologists consider that the 
 vernacular of the illiterate is 
 the purest Saxon English 
 spoken ; but it grates un- 
 pleasantly on one's ears. Is 
 that you, Fanshawe, at last ^ " 
 
 Fanshawe, who has come out 
 of his house, which is near to 
 the French Embassy, fixes his 
 eyeglass on the retreating figure 
 of the unconscious Annie. He 
 is of a supernatural quickness 
 of observation. 
 
 Bertram, to his vexation, feels 
 extreme embarrassment. He 
 knows he ought to repeat to 
 Fanshawe the confession just 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 made to Marlow, but he cannot ; 
 it sticks in his throat like a 
 fish bone. The eyes of the 
 potent editor are malicious and 
 inexorable. 
 
 "I saw you from my bed« 
 room window sitting with that 
 young daughter of the sovereign 
 people," remarks Fanshawe. 
 "I wished for a Kodak. The 
 T'orch should have had an 
 illustrated Easter number." 
 
 *' You are fifty minutes late," 
 says Bertram, irritably. 
 
 "My dressing-gown and 
 chocolate pot are dear to me." 
 
 " You always turn night into 
 day." 
 
 *' Night is day in London, as 
 coal and electricity are its sum- 
 mer. Well, sha'n't we take a 
 hansom to Folliott's ^ " 
 
 " Wait a moment, Fanshawe. 
 Sit down here." 
 
 Fanshawe complies reluc- 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 tantly. " Why waste time ? 
 Let's go and settle your in- 
 heritance." 
 
 " Please go instead of me 
 and say that I refuse. It is 
 very simple." 
 
 " It is simple indeed ! So 
 was the remark of ' Tom's a' 
 cold ' ; and just about as 
 reasonable. My dear Ber- 
 tram ! La nuit porte conseil^ and 
 yet you still wish to refuse ^ " 
 
 *' Yes, I refuse ; and " 
 
 He pauses, then swallows the 
 fish bone desperately. 
 
 " And — I am going to marry 
 yonder daughter of the people ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Rumour for once is 
 correct, then ^ " says the gentle- 
 man, to whom the amplifica- 
 tion and publication of Rumour 
 brings in ^40,000 per annum. 
 
 " Yes, I marry the young 
 woman you saw when you 
 wished for a Kodak." 
 1^2 
 
An Altruist 5^ 
 
 For once Fanshawe has not 
 a syllable to say : he is dumb. 
 
 " You look astonished," re- 
 marks Bertram. " Yet with 
 your principles " 
 
 " Principles be damned ! " 
 says Fanshawe. " They must 
 go to the wall when they trample 
 on common sense." 
 
 " But surely for you no class 
 divisions exist ? " says Bertram, 
 with some maliciousness. 
 " Therefore of course you will 
 congratulate me as warmly as if 
 my future wife were that abomin- 
 able thing a duke's daughter." 
 
 " There ought to be no race- 
 horses, but while there are we 
 put our money on them," re- 
 plied Fanshawe. " We must 
 take the world as it is, or cut 
 our throats in it. You are 
 cutting yours with a bowie 
 knife. I will return to my 
 chocolate pot." 
 
 133 ^1 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 At that instant Mrs. Brown 
 comes down the road out of 
 breath. Anni^ is out of sight. 
 
 " I am come after my 
 daughter, Mr. Bertram, if you 
 please. Soon as I told her ye 
 was here I was that mad with 
 myself, for it flashed across me 
 she'd come and " 
 
 " And why not, madam ? " 
 says Fanshawe. " It is, it 
 seems, all en tout bien^ tout 
 honneury 
 
 " I don't understand gibber- 
 ish, sir, but girls should be 
 circumspec." 
 
 Fanshawe gazes at her 
 through his eyeglass. 
 
 "Your mother-in-law to 
 be .^ " he murmurs. 
 
 Mrs. Brown, not hearing, 
 goes on in a rather shrill 
 tone : " I don't mean my 
 <iaughter to walk along with 
 you, sir, till she's a right to 
 134 
 
An Altruist ^^^ 
 
 take your arm afore every- 
 body." 
 
 Bertram shudders. 
 
 Fanshawe lifts his hat to 
 Mrs. Brown approvingly. 
 
 " These sentiments, madam, 
 do you the highest honour. 
 The quality, as you would call 
 them, are not so severe. Their 
 young ladies sit out on the 
 staircases, and flirt in corners 
 with their young men, and 
 meet them in these sylvan 
 groves with a groom as chape- 
 ron, without any certainty that 
 matrimony will ever follow. 
 But then the demi-vierge is 
 probably confined to the Upper 
 ien. 
 
 " I don't know about the 
 ways o' the gentry, sir," says 
 Mrs. Brown ; " in our street 
 we're respectable though we are 
 back o' Portman Square." 
 
 " Madam ! Juvenal himself 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 never implied anything so 
 crushing ! Bertram, I ask 
 again, is this good lady about 
 to be your mother-in-law?" 
 
 "Don't be a fool." 
 
 " Well, dear madam, it is 
 but right that, standing in this 
 future relation to my friend, 
 you should know this fact : 
 Mr. Bertram has had a very 
 large property left him." 
 
 " Lawk a mussy, sir ! " 
 
 " But he is inclined to refuse 
 it on account of his social 
 principles, with which, no 
 doubt, you are acquainted. 
 Now, dear madam, tell us 
 freely your opinion as a person 
 of sound common sense, and 
 one who is about to be closely 
 allied to him. Should he refuse 
 it, or should he accept it ? " 
 
 " Dearie, dearie, sir ! How 
 can anybody hev left good 
 money to such a gawk ! " 
 136 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 Fanshawe laughs aloud : 
 " When Truth comes out of 
 her well she is seldom polite ! 
 Never mind, Mrs. Brown, you 
 can make your peace with your 
 son-in-law some other time. 
 Only tell us now, for we are 
 going to the lawyers on this 
 momentous errand. Ought he 
 to accept or to refuse ? " 
 
 Annie's mother is flattered at 
 the deference to her opinion. 
 
 "Well, sir, it ain't for the 
 like o' me to judge for the likes 
 o' you. But, if ye want my 
 plain opinion, it is this 'un : if 
 he take the proputty he'll look 
 silly. But if he don't take it 
 he'll be silly ; and he'll be sorry 
 all his life." 
 
 " Mrs. Brown," says Ber- 
 tram, " your daughter would 
 not say so." 
 
 " Likely not, sir. She's a 
 slim snippet of a girl as haven't 
 137 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 felt any o' the weight o' livin* 
 yet. When she hev she'll know 
 a full money-box is the softest 
 pillar one can lay a tired head 
 on any night." 
 
 " Mrs. Brown, the classic form 
 of Socrates dwindles before 
 yours ! I place you immediately 
 upon the staff of the T^orchT 
 
 Mrs. Brown is puzzled. " I 
 don't hold with torches, sir. 
 Sam's link-boy, last week in 
 the great fog, flourishing one 
 about like a fool, set fire to all 
 the straw — such a piece o' work 
 — and Sam warn't hinsured." 
 
 " I wince under the moral 
 lesson which you conv^ey by 
 your apologue to my journal, 
 but " 
 
 " How much longer are you 
 going to waste in chaffing this 
 woman?" says Bertram, very 
 angrily. " There's an empty 
 hansom passing. Take it." 
 138 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 "Take it yourself. Mrs. 
 Brown, your lips drop pearls of 
 wisdom. Yet you are servile, 
 Mrs. Brown. Are we not all 
 equal before the great Bona Dea 
 of Nature ? " 
 
 "Equal, sir.^" repeats Mrs. 
 Brown, with fine scorn. " That's 
 his rot ; yet when he come to 
 our place one day, and we was 
 eatin' good Dutch cheese and 
 'errings, he well-nigh fainted at 
 the stink on 'em ! " 
 
 Fanshawe laughs delightedly. 
 
 " He live on peaches and 
 pinehapples, he do," she con- 
 tinued, with a snort ; " and he's 
 spoilt a good seasonable chance 
 o' settlin' herself as my 
 daughter had with the young 
 man round the corner " 
 
 " Shut up that jaw, Fan- 
 shawe ! " cries Bertram, falling 
 into low language in his wrath. 
 
 "Will you go to Folliott 
 139 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 and Hake's or not?" asks his 
 friend. 
 
 " I will go to Satan's self to 
 stop you chaffing this woman. 
 Look how those people are 
 laughing." 
 
 Bertram calls the passing 
 hansom and gets into it ; Fan- 
 shawe follows him, and waves 
 his hand to Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " You must come and dine 
 with me at Richmond, Mrs. 
 Socrates ! " 
 
 Cicely and her cousin are 
 sitting under a tree near the end 
 of the Ladies' Mile with some 
 men standing before them and 
 talking to them, when Marlow 
 again approaches, diffident, but 
 in ill-concealed triumph. 
 
 "Oh, Lady Jane," he says 
 eagerly, not venturing to address 
 Cicely directly, " I've come 
 back 'cos I've such a bit of 
 news ; am authorised to tell it ; 
 140 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 may put it in the Morning 
 Post to-morrow. I've seen 
 'the penny bunch of violets,' 
 and by all that's awful, she's a 
 washerwoman's daughter, and 
 Bertram's going to marry her. 
 It's Annieism you see, not 
 Altruism." 
 
 Much pleased with his own 
 wit and humour he laughs 
 gleefully, whilst his eyes are 
 trying to read Cicely's face ; it 
 gives no sign of any feeling or 
 of having even heard what he 
 has said. 
 
 " What nonsense you talk, 
 Lord Marlow ! " says Lady 
 Jane. '' Bertram may be silly, 
 but he is not so utterly out of 
 his mind as that." 
 
 "Isn't he.^ Why, he's just 
 told me the news himself ! 
 The young woman was with 
 him down yonder. She sells 
 flowers, and had got two skips 
 141 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 full of primroses ; and she's 
 not a good feature in her face. 
 I'll offer to be best man ; shall 
 I send 'em a set of saucepans 
 or a sewing-machine? " 
 
 Cicely casts a look of supreme 
 contempt upon him. 
 
 " The perfection to which 
 you bring your jokes must have 
 cost you a long apprenticeship 
 on Bank Holidays, Lord Mar- 
 low. 
 
 Marlow's mirth is a little 
 subdued. 
 
 " You can't be speaking 
 seriously," says one of the men 
 present. " Bertram is not quite 
 such an ass as that." 
 
 " I am, though," replies 
 Marlow, sulkily. " I've seen 
 the girl, and Bertram's just 
 told me to tell everybody." 
 " What is her name ? " 
 " She's Annie Brown ; we 
 heard that yesterday. Mother 
 142 
 
An Altruist ^-^ 
 
 takes in washing. Oh, Lord, 
 it'll kill me, the fun of it." 
 
 Doubled up with silent 
 laughter he leans upon his 
 cane and furtively watches 
 Cicely's face. 
 
 " Why should you be sur- 
 prised that Mr. Bertram puts 
 his theories into practice ? " 
 she says, coldly. " It is only 
 like Count Tolstoi's plough- 
 
 ing." 
 
 " Goodness, Cicely ! " says 
 Lady Jane, with much irrita- 
 tion. " You surely can't de- 
 fend such an insanity as this ^ 
 It is very much worse than any 
 plough. I thought his manner 
 very odd yesterday about those 
 violets ; for he is not, you 
 know, a man a /ponnes fortunes.'' 
 
 " You would approve him 
 more if he were ! " 
 
 "Well, they are less serious," 
 answers Lady Jane. "You can 
 143 
 
^ An Altruis t 
 
 get rid of them ; but an Annie 
 Brown when you have once 
 married her " 
 
 " At all events," says Cicely, 
 " whatever it may be, it is 
 certainly only the business of 
 those concerned in it, and none 
 of ours. Why are you not 
 already on your way to the 
 newspaper offices. Lord Mar- 
 low ? I believe they give a 
 guinea for first news." 
 
 " Bertram may be so happy 
 as to interest you, Miss Sey- 
 mour," says Marlow, sullenly, 
 " but he's an unknown quantity 
 to the world in general. No- 
 body'd give twopence for any 
 news of him." 
 
 " Certainly he is not chron- 
 icled as the winner at pigeon- 
 shooting and polo matches, 
 which is your distinction. Lord 
 Marlow, and I believe your 
 only one." 
 
 144 
 
An Altruist t^ 
 
 "Why will you be so unkind 
 to Marlow?" asks Lady Jane, 
 as, having shaken off their 
 admirers, they walk back alone. 
 
 "I grant," she continues, as 
 poor Marlow, mortified, falls 
 behind, " that he is not an ex- 
 traordinarily brilliant person ; 
 he will not head the Cabinet 
 or be President of the Royal 
 Society, but his temper is kind 
 and his character blameless." 
 
 " One would think you were 
 recommending a groom ! You 
 may safely add that his hand is 
 light and his seat is sure, for 
 riding is his solitary accom- 
 plishment ! " 
 
 " My dear child, how re- 
 markably severe you are ! Will 
 you tell me what use to Wil- 
 frid Bertram are the incon- 
 testable talents with which he 
 was born ? What does he do 
 with them.'^ Write in such a 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 manner that if he were a native 
 of any other country than Eng- 
 land he would have been lodged 
 in prison years ago." 
 
 Cicely Seymour is silent. 
 
 She has read some numbers 
 of the ^ge to Come^ and she 
 cannot honestly say that she 
 approves of its subversive ten- 
 dencies. She looks straight 
 before her with a heightened 
 colour, and the rose-leaves of 
 her lips are pressed together 
 in irritation. 
 
 " I suppose you will offer to 
 be bridesmaid to Miss Annie 
 Brown," says Lady Jane, irri- 
 tably. 
 
 "Why not.^" says Cicely, 
 very coldly. " One attends 
 many weddings brought about 
 by more ignoble motives." 
 
 "You will not see me at the 
 ceremony," replies Lady Jane, 
 more and more incensed. 
 146 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " 1 know I shall not, nor any 
 of his relatives. But I do not 
 admire the class prejudice which 
 will keep you all away." 
 
 And she leans over the rail 
 of the Ride and pats the mane 
 of a child's pony. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Brown, 
 resting her empty basket and 
 her rheumatic limbs for a few 
 minutes on a bench, ponders 
 vainly on the name Mr. Fan- 
 shawe gave her. " Mrs Socka- 
 tees," she repeats to herself 
 " He can't think as I'm one to 
 marry agen at my time o' life. 
 If it hadn't bin for the children 
 there were a tallow chandler, a 
 warm man too, he was, who 
 would hev bin ready as 
 ready " 
 
 She muses pensively a mo- 
 ment on the charms of the lost 
 tallow chandler who had been 
 sacrificed to her maternal 
 147 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 scruples, whilst Cicely Seymour 
 and Lady Jane are walking 
 towards her. 
 
 " Let's sit down here a mo- 
 ment, Cicely," says Lady Jane. 
 " The children will be back 
 again directly." 
 
 Mrs. Brown rises and curt- 
 sies, taking up her basket. 
 
 " Don't get up, my good 
 woman, there's room enough." 
 
 " Your 'umble servant, 
 ma'am," says Mrs. Brown, 
 standing erect, her empty 
 basket held before her like a 
 shield of Boadicea ; she does 
 not know them by name, but 
 they are possible clients for the 
 wash-tub. 
 
 " Why should you stand ^ " 
 says Cicely. " These seats are 
 free to all." 
 
 " Thanks, miss, but I know 
 my duty." Then she adds, in- 
 sinuatingly, "If you should be 
 148 
 
An Altruist 5 
 
 &^ 
 
 wanting a laundress, ma'am, 
 you'd be doin' a charity to re- 
 member me — Eliza Brown, o' 
 20, Little Double Street, back 
 o' Portman Square ; no acids 
 used, miss, and no machine- 
 work." 
 
 Cicely looks at her, and with 
 some hesitation asks : 
 
 " Are you — are you — the 
 mother of a young person called 
 Annie Brown? She has just 
 gone past here with some prim- 
 roses." 
 
 " Yes, miss, I be." 
 
 "Of Mr. Bertram's heroine ! " 
 adds Lady Jane, with a laugh. 
 
 " Please 'm, don't call her 
 names, ma'am," says Annie's 
 mother, quickly. " She's a good 
 girl, though I say it as shouldn't 
 say it, and there's nought to 
 laugh at, unless it be the gen- 
 tleman's rubbish." 
 
 " You don't seem to be grate- 
 149 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 ful for the compliment he pays 
 to your family," says Lady 
 Jane, much amused. 
 
 " Compliment is it, my lady ? 
 The gentleman's a crank, that's 
 what he is ; he won't never 
 marry her, and there's a good 
 young man round the corner as 
 is left out in the cold. He's in 
 the greengrocery line, and hev 
 got a good bit o' money put 
 by, and the match 'ud be 
 suitable in every way, for my 
 daughter's a good judge o' 
 green stuff." 
 
 " Mrs. Brown," says Cicely, 
 " 1 should like to have the plea- 
 sure of knowing your daughter. 
 Will you bring her to see me ? 
 I am staying with Mr. Ber- 
 tram's aunt, Lady Southwold." 
 
 Mrs. Brown stares hard. 
 
 " You do my girl a great 
 honour, miss, but her head's 
 turned too crazy as 'tis. Poor 
 150 
 
An Altruist /-^ 
 
 folks, miss, ain't got no place 
 with rich 'uns." 
 
 " That is a rather narrow 
 feeling, Mrs. Brown," says 
 Cicely ; " and surely your 
 daughter ought to begin to 
 know Mr. Bertram's friends 
 and relatives ? " 
 
 " She won't never be nought 
 to Mr. Bertram, miss," replies' 
 Mrs. Brown, very confidently. 
 " 'Tis a pack of stuff their 
 thinkin' on it. Lord, my 
 lady, if you only see his shirts, 
 that fine as cobwebs is coarse to 
 em ! 
 
 Lady Jane is much diverted. 
 
 " She evidently does not be- 
 lieve in the seriousness of Ber- 
 tram's intentions. Cicely." 
 
 Mrs. Brown tucks her basket 
 under her arm. 
 
 " You'll excuse me, my 
 ladies, if I don't stay to prate. 
 Us poor folks 'even't got time 
 
^^ An Altruist 
 
 to lose in gossip ; and if you 
 can give me work, 'm, I'll be 
 truly thankful to you, ma'am — 
 Eliza Brown, 20, Little Double 
 Street, back o' Portman Square. 
 Your servant, ladies." 
 
 With that she bobs a curtsey 
 and departs. 
 
 " A nice honest woman," says 
 Cicely. 
 
 Lady Jane laughs. 
 
 " She doesn't appreciate Ber- 
 tram or his shirts. What right 
 has he, with his principles, to 
 wear lawn shirts ? He ought 
 to wear hemp." 
 
 Cicely traces patterns on the 
 gravel with her sunshade. 
 
 " I should like to see the 
 girl." 
 
 " Why ? You may be sure 
 she is a little horror." 
 
 "I am sure she is a very 
 good girl," says Cicely. " I 
 am sure she is a very good girl. 
 152 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 A person must be good that 
 lives amongst flowers." 
 
 " Florists are not all saints," 
 replies Lady Jane, out of 
 patience ; " and it does not 
 seem an exalted mission to 
 make button-holes for mashers. 
 There is not even the excuse 
 of good looks for Bertram's 
 aberration. She is quite a plain 
 little thing, Marlow says." 
 
 " Let us take another turn," 
 says Cicely. " We shall see the 
 children again." 
 
 Bertram returns from his visit 
 to Folliott and Hake at two 
 o'clock that day. He intended 
 going down into the country to 
 a friend's house — a friend who 
 buys Whistlers, adores Mai- 
 larme and Verlaine, writes 
 studies on the pointillistes^ and 
 has published a volume of five 
 hundred pages on Strindberg — 
 but he feels indisposed for even 
 153 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 that sympathetic society. He 
 sends a telegram to excuse him- 
 self, and opens his own door 
 with his latch-key. 
 
 His rooms are en suite^ one 
 out of another, and from the 
 door-mat he can see through all 
 four of them, between the cur- 
 tains of Eastern stuffs which 
 he had brought home years 
 before from Tiflis. He cannot 
 believe in the sight which meets 
 his eyes in the third room, 
 which is his study. 
 
 There is in that room a large 
 Florentine cabinet of tortoise- 
 shell and brass-work ; the key 
 of the drawers thereof is on his 
 watch-chain ; yet he perceives 
 that the drawers are all open, 
 their contents are strewn about, 
 and stooping down over them 
 is Critchett. 
 
 Critchett's back is unmistak- 
 able ; it has as much character 
 154 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 in it as the profik of Caesar or 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Bertram walks noiselessly 
 over the thick carpets, and 
 touches him on the shoulder. 
 
 " You ! — a common thief ! " 
 
 Critchett stumbles to his feet, 
 pulls himself erect rather ner- 
 vously, and faces his employer. 
 In his right hand is a pearl 
 necklace. 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir," he mur- 
 murs. " I thought you had 
 gone to Mr. Domville's. I 
 was coming down w^th the 
 valise." 
 
 Bertram takes the pearls out 
 of his grasp ; he has grown 
 much paler than his -nefarious 
 valet. He is cut to the heart. 
 
 "A common thief — you!" 
 he repeats. The Et tu Brute 
 had not more pathetic reproval 
 in it. 
 
 Critchett in the interval has 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 recovered his self-possession, and 
 what more vulgar persons would 
 call his cheek. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir. There 
 aren't such a thing as theft. 
 What is called theft is only an 
 over-violent readjustment of 
 unfairly divided values. I've 
 read it in the Age to Corned 
 
 " You infernal scoundrel ! 
 These are my dead mother's 
 jewels ! " 
 
 " I know they are, sir. They 
 were doing no good here ; and 
 you told the ladies yesterday as all 
 jewellery was an abomination." 
 
 " This is probably not the 
 first time by many that you 
 have robbed me .^ " 
 
 " I let nobody else steal a 
 farthing from you, sir." 
 
 "Indeed! You like vicarious 
 virtue ! How could you open 
 the cabinet } It has a Br amah 
 lock." 
 
 156 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " And this here's a Bramah 
 pick-lock, sir," says Critchett, 
 displaying an elegant little tool. 
 
 "You infernal scoundrel!" 
 repeats Bertram. " If I did my 
 duty, I should give you to the 
 police." 
 
 '' Oh, no, sir, you couldn't 
 do that to be consistent ; and 
 consistency is the first of virtues. 
 I've heard you say, sir, that pre- 
 vention is suggestion, and that 
 if there was no constables there'd 
 be no crime. In locking up this 
 cabinet you put into my mind 
 the idea of opening it. It is 
 you, sir, who are to blame, 
 not I." 
 
 Critchett smiles demurely as 
 he repeats these words. 
 
 " You have debased me, sir, 
 by making me fill a servile 
 office," he adds. " No man 
 should serve another. You've 
 said so often." 
 
 157 o 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram is silent, unspeak- 
 ably annoyed, mortified, and 
 distressed. He cannot discuss 
 ethics with a treacherous valet. 
 
 " I believed in you, Critchett," 
 he says, after a pause. 
 
 Critchett smiles. 
 
 " I know you did, sir ; you 
 believe in a lot o' things as 
 won't wash." 
 
 " And you feel no remorse 
 for having deceived me ? " 
 
 " No, sir. Remorse aren't 
 seen outside the theatres, I 
 think. 'Tis a word, sir. 'Tis 
 only a word." 
 
 Bertram is silent. The cheap 
 cynicism of this man, who has 
 lived beside him during a dozen 
 years, is revolting. 
 
 " You are aware I could have 
 you arrested .^ " he says, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " No, sir, you couldn't," re- 
 plies Critchett, calmly. " You'd 
 158 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 be giving the lie to all your own 
 theories. Try and look at it 
 philosophic-Hke, sir." 
 
 Bertram feels a violent long- 
 ing to call up the policeman 
 now passing by the rails of the 
 Green Park. He puts a five- 
 pound note on the table. 
 
 " Take your wage for the 
 coming month, and begone." 
 
 " It is usual, sir," objects 
 Critchett, " to give more than 
 a month's anticipatory honor- 
 arium on parting after such 
 long association." 
 
 This is the drop too much 
 which makes the cup of Ber- 
 tram's patience overflow. 
 
 " You impudent villain," he 
 exclaims. " The only payment 
 you deserve is the treadmill. Do 
 not stretch my patience too far." 
 
 Critchett perceives that his 
 long docile victim is roused, 
 and may become dangerous. 
 159 
 
^? An Altruist 
 
 He retreats meekly. 
 
 " Would you wish to examine 
 my portmanteau, sir ? " 
 
 "No," says Bertram. "Be- 
 gone." 
 
 Critchett bows very low. 
 
 "I have only put your theories 
 into practice, sir," he says, when 
 he has reached a safe distance ; 
 " and you will be sorry if you 
 send me away. You won't find 
 another Critchett very easily." 
 
 Bertram turns his back on 
 him ; he feels again a great 
 inclination to summon the con- 
 stable who is walking in the 
 street below. 
 
 The man having at last de- 
 parted, he picks up the various 
 objects and begins to replace 
 them in the drawers of the 
 cabinet. He is depressed and 
 humiliated. For over twelve 
 years he has implicitly trusted 
 Critchett, believed in him, ex- 
 i6o 
 
An Altruist 5©» 
 
 tolled him, and depended on 
 him ; taking his excellent ser- 
 vice as a surety for moral ex- 
 cellence, as most of us do with 
 our servants. 
 
 The cool impertinence with 
 which the thief has quoted his 
 own writings and sayings against 
 him mortifies him ; he is con- 
 scious that Critchett must have 
 always considered him an in- 
 effable idiot. It is not soothing 
 to one's self-respect to realise 
 that for more than a dozen 
 years one has been made a fool 
 of successfully. 
 
 The sight of his mother's 
 jewels also saddens him ; he 
 had been her favourite son, and 
 he had loved her tenderly. 
 
 " You will keep them for 
 your wife, Wilfrid," she had 
 said to him, when she had given 
 him the pearls and other orna- 
 ments on her death-bed. 
 i6i 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 What would his mother 
 say, were she Hving, to such 
 a wife for him as poor little 
 Annie Brown ? Poor Annie ! 
 Who said " as how " and " um- 
 berellar," and who "liked to 'ear 
 the growlers come ratthn' 'ome 
 o' nights." 
 
 " Mr. Bertram," says the 
 voice of Annie at that moment 
 timidly. She has come through 
 the anteroom of which Critchett 
 has left the door open behind 
 him. She wears the same clothes 
 that she wore in the Park, but 
 she carries no baskets on her 
 arms. 
 
 Noticing Bertram's preoccu- 
 pied and distressed expression 
 and the litter of objects on the 
 floor, she is afraid she appears 
 at an inopportune moment. 
 
 " Lord's sakes, sir ! " she mur- 
 murs, " what hev happened ^ " 
 
 " Critchett is a thief, Annie. 
 162 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 I caught him in the act," repUes 
 Bertram, with tragic force. 
 
 " Mother always knew as he 
 was so, sir," replies the girl, not 
 astonished. " But she didn't 
 dare to tell you. You was 
 that fond on him." 
 
 " How could she possibly 
 Know : 
 
 " Well, sir, he was allers a- 
 boasting of 'ow he fleeced you. 
 I believe all the gentlemen's 
 gentlemen in these 'ere parts o' 
 London know how he tricked 
 ye. Law, sir, he even pawned 
 your shirts ! " 
 
 " Why didn't you warn 
 me .? " 
 
 " Well, you see, sir, we didn't 
 like to lose a man his place." 
 
 " You condoned a felony 
 sooner ? " 
 
 " Please, sir, I don't know 
 what that is. But poor folk 
 don't never take the bread out 
 163 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 of each other's mouths. And, 
 besides, you wouldn't have be- 
 lieved anybody against Critchett, 
 sir. You were that wrapped up 
 in him." 
 
 " How cruelly one may be 
 deceived ! " 
 
 " ' ris easy to deceive you, 
 sir, as instead of seeing people 
 as they is, you see 'em as you 
 fancies 'em to be." 
 
 " Perhaps so. I fear I am a 
 greater fool than I thought." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ; only too 
 trustin' like." 
 
 " Well, well," says Bertram, 
 much irritated, " Critchett is a 
 thing of the past. We will 
 never speak of him. But why 
 have you come to my rooms, 
 my dear girl ? It is not — not 
 quite — correct. Cassar's wife 
 you know. But perhaps you 
 never heard of her " 
 
 " No, sir. Who was the 
 164 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 lady ? I only came to say a 
 word, Mr. Bertram. There 
 aren't no harm in it, though 
 mother would be angry over 
 the place." 
 
 " If you had sent me a line 
 I would have called on you." 
 
 " You see, sir, mother's and 
 sister Kate's at home, they'd 
 hear every word, and I want to 
 speak to you all alone. I won't 
 be many minutes. I don't think 
 it's any harm my comin', though 
 mother would be fit to kill me 
 if she knew " 
 
 " Your mother is quite right 
 in her views, Annie. Young 
 women cannot be too circum- 
 spect." 
 
 " I'm alius circumspect sir ; 
 and — oh. Lord, Mr. Bertram, 
 what a beautiful string o' 
 pearls ! " 
 
 " They were my mother's, 
 Annie. They will be yours." 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Mine, sir ! Lord, never ! 
 The idea of Critchett takin' 
 them pearls. Why they must 
 be worth thousands and thou- 
 sands ! " 
 
 " No, a few hundreds. My 
 mother left these things to me 
 for my wife when I should have 
 one. They are verv sacred to 
 me. They will be as dear to 
 you, Annie, I am sure ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, they'll never be 
 mine. You might as well talk 
 of my wearin' the crown of 
 England." 
 
 " Always low and servile 
 .comparisons, Annie ! " 
 
 " Lord, sir, be a queen's 
 crown low ^ " 
 
 " To think of it as a desir- 
 able and enviable thing is ex- 
 tremely low." 
 
 "I'm afraid, sir, I don't 
 understand. Will you please 
 put up these pearls ^ They're 
 i66 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 that beautiful I don't dare 
 touch 'em." 
 
 " They will be my wife's. 
 Therefore I repeat they will be 
 yours." 
 
 " That's what I come to say 
 to you, sir. What we have 
 thought of won't never be. 
 Can't never be. Tisn't in 
 reason. When the 'bus run 
 over me in Piccadilly last year, 
 and you picked me up and took 
 me 'ome, you seemed like a 
 prince to me, sir " 
 
 " Always vulgar and servile 
 comparisons ! " 
 
 " And when you come about 
 our place, mother said to me, 
 ' That gent don't mean no 
 good, and it's the broom I'll 
 take to him ' ; and Sam he said, 
 ' If he's barter Hann I'll give 
 'im a 'idin'.' And then you 
 said we was to marry, and 
 mother said it was all moon- 
 167 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 shine, and Sam didn't like the 
 idea of it ; but you said it 
 would be a beautiful example 
 to all classes, and I — I — well 1 
 couldn't believe my ears, Mr. 
 Bertram." 
 
 " What is the use of going 
 over all this ground, Annie ? " 
 
 " I want you to understand, 
 sir. I've been thinkin' and 
 thinkin' of all you said yester- 
 day, and I see, sir, as how you 
 haven't a mite o' love for me, 
 and it makes me feel cold all 
 over like " 
 
 " Oh, why do you want 
 love ? It is something so vul- 
 gar, so unspiritual, so indicative 
 of an unoccupied mind ! I 
 have the highest respect for you, 
 which I am about to prove in the 
 strongest manner that any man 
 can prove his sentiments " 
 
 " Yes, I know, sir ; but — 
 
 but " 
 
 i68 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 "But there are finer senti- 
 ments than love ! " 
 
 '' Perhaps there are, sir, for 
 the quality. But love's poor 
 people's feast ; the only one 
 they ever knows all their days. 
 And — you — don't love me ? " 
 
 She looks at him fixedly. 
 
 He is embarrassed. 
 
 " Should I have given you 
 my mother's pearls if I did 
 not ? " 
 
 " You haven't giv' 'em, and 
 I haven't took 'em. Some 
 other than me '11 wear 'em. 
 I came to say to you, Mr. 
 Bertram, that I won't never 
 marry you. Mother says as 
 'ow you've come into a great 
 fortune ; but, whether you're 
 rich or poor, that's nothing to 
 me. I won't marry you, 'cos 
 we'd be miserable ; and that's 
 v/hat I come here all alone to- 
 day to say to you." 
 
 169 p 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " You are faithless, Annie ! " 
 
 " No, sir ; I'm faithful. As 
 for me, I'll remember ye all 
 my days. P'rhaps I'll marry, 
 p'rhaps I won't ; but I'll never 
 forgQt xoM, and I'll pray for you 
 every night." 
 
 Bertram is touched and 
 astonished. 
 
 " But, my dear little girl, 
 you have my word ot honour. 
 I can't retract it. I will try 
 and make you happy, Annie." 
 
 "I'm sure you would try, 
 sir ; but you couldn't do it. 
 You'd make me miserable. 
 You haven't any love for me ; 
 you have said you hadn't. I 
 couldn't live like that. I'd 
 work on my knees for you all 
 the day long, but I couldn't 
 stand your chilly pity and your 
 smiling scorn. I'd die of shame 
 and sorrow ! " 
 
 " My poor child, you exag- 
 170 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 gerate immensely. You don't 
 understand what sincere regard 
 I have for you, how honestly 
 I will try to do my duty by 
 you. 
 
 "Sir, I ain't more fit for 
 you than my poor sun-browned 
 throat be fit for a lady's jewels. 
 You've had a hobby, and you've 
 rid it hard, and I was a part of 
 it for awhile. But 'twas only 
 a fancy. Lord ! how clear I 
 saw it all when you spoke so 
 scornful-like o' love ! Love 
 may be a ordinary valleyless 
 sort o' thing like buttercups 
 and daisies, but how them little 
 blossoms do make a glory on a 
 dusty common ! It's the butter- 
 cups and daisies as I want, sir ; 
 not them cold, white pearls." 
 
 " Poor little Annie ! I can't 
 give you what I have not." 
 
 " No, sir, that's just it ; the 
 fault ain't none o' yours. Don't 
 171 
 
^ An Altrui^ 
 
 think as I blame ye, sir, or cast 
 a word against ye. We are as 
 we are made. But it is good- 
 bye, sir, and goodbye it must 
 be for ever. Don't ye worry 
 or fret. 'Taint no fault o' 
 yours. We're too wide apart, 
 and 'twas folly to think as we 
 could ever be one." 
 
 Her voice breaks down, her 
 tears fall ; Bertram takes her 
 hands in his and kisses her on 
 the forehead. 
 
 " Dear little Annie ! I feel 
 as if I had sinned against you ! 
 and yet God knows I had the 
 best intentions ; and if I de- 
 ceived any one, I deceived my- 
 self first of all." 
 
 The tramp of heavy steps is 
 heard in the rooms beyond, and 
 Annie's elder brother, Sam, 
 dashes the door-curtains aside 
 and enters, wildly flourishing a 
 driving-whip. 
 
 172 
 
An Altruist §^ 
 
 " Yah ! Bloated aristocrat ! 
 I've nabbed ye at last ! Shame 
 on ye ! Shame on ye, too, 
 Hann ! " he yells at the top of 
 his voice. " Out o' this room, 
 gal, whilst I gi'e your bloomin' 
 nob the lickin' he deserves. 
 'Tis for this we pore workin'- 
 folk toils and moils and starves, 
 to hev our wimmen-kind trod 
 under foot like dirt by black- 
 guard swells ! Sister Kate, at 
 'ome, says to me, ' Sam, run 
 quick and ye'll catch 'em to- 
 gether.' And I meets yer servant 
 in the street, and he says, too, 
 * Run, Sam, and ye'll catch 'em 
 together.' But I never thought, 
 respectable as our fam'ly is, and 
 so mealy-mouthed as is Sister 
 Hann " 
 
 Bertram coldly interposes. 
 
 "When you have done yelling, 
 my good youth, will you listen 
 to a word of common sense .^ " 
 173 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Oh, Sam, are you mad ? " 
 cries Annie. " Kate never 
 meant anything of the kind. 
 You know Mr. Bertram has 
 ever treated me as if I was a 
 waxworks under a glass case." 
 
 " Take off your hat, put 
 down your whip, apologise to 
 your sister, and listen to me," 
 says Bertram, with authority. 
 
 But the youth is in no 
 mood to hear or to obey. He 
 has taken a glass of gin with 
 a fellow-cabby, and his blood 
 is on fire." 
 
 " I won't listen to you, nor 
 to nobody. Ye'U get yer 
 thrashin' at last, you scoundrel, 
 as preaches to the pore." 
 
 He advances on Bertram, 
 whirling his horsewhip, with a 
 broken lash, above his head. 
 Bertram eyes him calmly, re- 
 members old Oxford rows, 
 straightens his arm, and meets 
 174 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 him with a scientific blow which 
 sends him backward on the floor. 
 
 " Don't scream, Annie. I 
 have not hurt your brother ; 
 but he must have a lesson," he 
 says, as he picked up the whip 
 which has dropped, breaks it, 
 in two, and throws the pieces 
 in a corner. " Get up, you 
 dolt, and ask your sister's 
 pardon," he adds, severely, " for 
 brawling in her presence." 
 
 Sam Brown does get up, 
 stupidly and slowly, looks 
 around him bewildered, with a 
 dazed, blind look. 
 
 "You hits uncommon hard," 
 he mutters, when he becomes 
 fully alive to the position 
 which he occupies. 
 
 " Certainly, I hit hard when 
 I hit at all. You insulted me 
 and, more gravely still, your 
 sister. I am perfectly ready to 
 marry her ; but she will not 
 175 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 marry me. Can you put that into 
 your brain and understand it ? " 
 
 Sam stares and rubs his 
 aching head. 
 
 " Lord, sir, do you mean as 
 Hann hev jilted you ? " 
 
 " Oh, Sam, how can you ! " 
 cries his sister. 
 
 " I believe that is what you 
 would call it in your world," 
 says Bertram, with a slight 
 smile. " Your sister does not 
 wish to marry me. She thinks 
 — perhaps she is right — that 
 I am not worthy of her." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bertram ! I 
 never " 
 
 " She is my dear little friend, 
 Sam," continues Bertram ; " she 
 will always be my friend ; and 
 if you presume to slight or 
 worry her in any kind of way, 
 you will have to deal with me. 
 You know now how I treat 
 affronts." 
 
 176 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 The youth is still stupid and 
 ruefully rubbing his pate. 
 
 " Lawk a mussy ! If you 
 would be spliced to her, she is 
 a darned fool." 
 
 " She is a little sage and a 
 little saint. See her safe home, 
 and there are two sovereigns 
 to buy a new whip." 
 
 " Oh, don't take the money, 
 Sam ! " cries Annie. 
 
 But Sam pockets the sove- 
 reigns. 
 
 " Strikes me, mister, you 
 owes me more than that," he 
 mutters. " 'Tis assault and 
 battery." 
 
 " I shall give you no more 
 money," says Bertram, very 
 decidedly. " I will knock you 
 down again if you like." 
 
 " Come away, Sam," says 
 Annie, pulling him towards 
 the door. " Oh Sam, aren't 
 
 you ashamed.^ " 
 177 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Naw, I ain't," says her 
 brother. " Kate said, ' Run 
 and you'll find 'em together.' 
 I run and I did find ye together. 
 How was I to know ? " 
 
 " Oh, come away, Sam," re- 
 peats his sister, in anguish. 
 " Come away. You disgrace 
 yourself and me. I'll tell 
 mother." 
 
 Sam is suddenly subdued and 
 greatly alarmed. 
 
 " Naw, don't tell mother," 
 he mutters, and sufi^ers himself 
 to be led away. 
 
 " Oh, I am so ashamed ! 
 so ashamed, Mr. Bertram ! " says 
 Annie. " Do pray forgive him. 
 He is only a lad." 
 
 *' I would forgive him much 
 heavier offences. He is your 
 brother." 
 
 "God bless you, sir," she says, 
 softly, looking back at him as 
 she goes out of the door. 
 178 
 
An Altruist i/^ 
 
 " Dear little girl ! Dear, 
 honest little girl ! " murmurs 
 Bertram. " I will try and get 
 her the kitchen, and the muffin, 
 and the cat, which form her 
 ideal, and some good fellow to 
 sit with her by the hearth. 
 Good Heavens ! Can one ever 
 be grateful enough for being 
 saved from relationship to Sam ? 
 What an exciting and exhaust- 
 ing day ! And I have been very 
 Philistine ! " 
 
 He looks wearily round the 
 room ; it has become shockingly 
 disordered ; the drawers of the 
 cabinet are still on the floor ; 
 the chairs which fell are still 
 upside down ; the broken whip 
 lies in the corner ; he is ex- 
 tremely thirsty, and he has not 
 an idea where the mineral waters 
 or the syphon of seltzer, or 
 even the glasses, are kept. In 
 a single quarter of an hour 
 179 
 
^'9 An Altruist 
 
 without Critchett order and 
 harmony have been replaced by- 
 chaos. 
 
 " What miserable, helpless 
 creatures we are ! " he reflects. 
 " Of course it all comes from 
 the utterly false system of one 
 person leaning on others." 
 
 Yet he reluctantly realises that 
 this false system has its merits, 
 as far as individual comfort goes. 
 
 At that moment there is a 
 sharp ring at the door-bell, and 
 a moment later still a male voice 
 cries : 
 
 " Can I come in, Bertram ? " 
 
 " You, Stanhope ? " says 
 Bertram, in extreme surprise. 
 
 " Myself," replies the new- 
 comer. 
 
 He is Sir Henry Stanhope, 
 the Home Secretary of the 
 actual Government. Bertram 
 was his fag at Eton, and a 
 good deal of cordial feeling 
 1 80 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 has always existed between 
 them, despite the vase and 
 irreconcilable difference of their 
 political and social opinions. 
 Sir Henry regards him as a 
 maniac, but an interesting and 
 lovable maniac. Bertram re- 
 gards him in return as a hope- 
 less Philistine, but a Philistine 
 who means well and has good 
 points, and who is, in the 
 exercise of his horrible office, 
 admirably conscientious. His 
 conscientiousness has not, how- 
 ever, prevented him from allow- 
 ing to go to the gallows a victim 
 of prejudice who killed his wife 
 because he was tired of seeing 
 her red hair — a misguided 
 aesthete for whose release 
 Bertram pleaded in vain. Since 
 the time of this unfortunate 
 affair there has been some chill- 
 ness in the relations of Stanhope 
 and himself. 
 
 l8l Q 
 
^*9 An Altruist 
 
 The Philistine minister looks 
 at the disorder of the chamber 
 with some surprise, and seats 
 himself unbidden. 
 
 ** My dear Bertram," he says, 
 rather distantly, " old acquain- 
 tance should not be forgot. 
 Its memories bring me here 
 to-day." 
 
 "Thanks," says Bertram, 
 equally coldly ; and looks an 
 interrogation. 
 
 Sir Henry coughs. 
 
 " You have a good many 
 proteges amongst the lower 
 classes, I think ^ " 
 
 " I deny that there is a lower 
 class." 
 
 " I know you do. But let 
 us for the moment use the 
 language of a benighted and 
 unkind world. Your peculiar 
 views of duty have led you 
 into forming these associations 
 which cannot be agreeable to 
 182 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 your taste. But did it not 
 occur to you that they might 
 be compromising as well as — 
 as rather unrefined ? " 
 
 " Pray explain yourself," says 
 Bertram, with hostility in his 
 tone. 
 
 Sir Henry feels nettled at 
 the manner in which his amiably 
 intended visit is received. 
 
 " Certainly," he says. " In 
 two words, you have a friend 
 of the name of Hopper ? " 
 
 Bertram colours. 
 
 " Frederic Hopper, yes. A 
 very unfortunate person, origin- 
 ally a victim of the London 
 police." 
 
 " Possibly. The police are 
 always accused of being op- 
 pressors or accomplices," con- 
 tinues the minister. " This 
 person is known to them 
 as ' Wet Whistle,' because he 
 has exaggerated views of the 
 183 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 medicinal value of stimulants. 
 This victim came again in 
 collision with the brute force 
 of the police early this morning, 
 and you were present." 
 
 Bertram is silent, conscious 
 that the episode is not heroic. 
 
 " Mr. Frederic Hopper does 
 not interest me in the least," 
 says Stanhope, with culpable 
 heartlessness ; " but it seems 
 you used very singular language 
 to the constables in the Park ; 
 and when the man was brought 
 before the Westminster police- 
 court he gave your name as 
 that of the person who had 
 indoctrinated him with sub- 
 versive views, and it seems 
 that you admitted having done 
 so to the constables in Hyde 
 Park, and stated that you de- 
 served arrest more than did 
 this man Hopper. The police, 
 of course, reported all that you 
 184 
 
An Altruist Mo- 
 saic! at headquarters ; and you 
 are likely to be very seriously 
 annoyed about this matter. It 
 is very dangerous to play at 
 anarchism in these days " 
 
 " If any one is to blame, it 
 is I rather than Hopper ; 
 but there is no question of 
 anarchism." 
 
 " I should certainly consider 
 you the more to blame of the 
 two. A magistrate would take 
 the same view. The Chief Com- 
 missioner is of opinion that you 
 ought to have been arrested 
 with Hopper, since he places 
 all the blame of the subversive 
 principles which he had been 
 delivering in public upon 
 you. 
 
 Bertram does not reply. 
 
 " He states that you had re- 
 peatedly wanted him to place 
 explosives in public buildings, 
 and that you had promised him 
 
-^ An Altruist 
 
 the run of the cellars of Buck- 
 ingham Palace, if he would 
 throw a hand grenade into the 
 royal carriage as the Queen 
 drives from Paddington Station 
 next Monday." 
 
 Bertram smiles faintly. 
 
 " Are you sure that these 
 vivid romances are not com- 
 posed in Scotland Yard ? " 
 
 Sir Henry is thoroughly 
 annoyed. 
 
 "No, sir. Scotland Yard 
 has too many real tragedies to 
 deal with to have time or pa- 
 tience to compose mock melo- 
 dramas. The man Hopper 
 said this, and much more, in- 
 culpating you as an anarchist. 
 All this might have passed 
 as a drunken ranter's ravings, 
 but unfortunately there were 
 your published opinions in that 
 organ of yours, the Jge to 
 Come, The magistrate, Mr. 
 1 86 
 
An Altruist ^<^ 
 
 Adeane, being acquainted with 
 these, thought the matter 
 serious enough to communicate 
 with me, whilst he committed 
 the fellow for seven days. 
 Mr. Adeane was justly of 
 opinion that if you will incite 
 persons to violent and nefarious 
 acts, your social rank and in- 
 tellectual culture ought not to 
 save you from punishment." 
 " Certainly they ought not." 
 " Then you do not admit 
 holding such opinions ^ " 
 
 " No ; I am altogether op- 
 posed to force ; to force of 
 any kind." 
 
 " Then your protege lied ^ " 
 " If he used such expressions, 
 yes." 
 
 " If ! Do you suppose a 
 magistrate would send a de- 
 position which was never made 
 to the Home Office ? I repeat 
 that what gave weight and 
 187 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 credence to this wretched 
 agitator's accusations of you 
 were the very — very — ad- 
 vanced opinions acknowledged 
 and disseminated by you ni 
 the Age to Come. Re-read for 
 yourself these passages," con- 
 tinues Stanhope, taking out 
 his note-book. " Pag-e iv. 
 par. vi. No. 52 ; page iii. par. 
 xi. No. 23 ; page xix. par. ii. 
 No. 9 ; page viii. par. xv. No. 
 45-^what is the meaning of 
 such phrases as these } ' The 
 poor have always been robbed 
 by capital since the creation of 
 currency and the invention of 
 trade. All excesses are to be 
 excused to them in taking back 
 their own.' Or this : ' The rich 
 man, however estimable in pri- 
 vate character, is in position a 
 thief, and in conscience a scoun- 
 drel.' Or this : * Poor-rates and 
 workhouses are the insult which 
 188 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 is added to injury by the rich 
 in their relations with the poor.' 
 Or this : ' Nitric acid destroys 
 more readily but not more 
 cruelly than taxation.' " 
 
 " Do you consider these 
 statements unjustified by the 
 state of society ? " asks Bertram. 
 
 " I consider them most dan- 
 gerous when put before illiterate 
 persons," replies Stanhope. 
 " The half-truths, or the quar- 
 ter-truths, which they contain, 
 are as poisonous as nux vomica." 
 
 " Pray, then, let me go and 
 pick oakum with the unfor- 
 tunate man whom you consider 
 1 have contaminated." 
 
 Stanhope with difficulty keeps 
 down his rising anger. 
 
 " My dear Bertram, I regret 
 that you appreciate my inten- 
 tions so little. I received the 
 communication I speak of from 
 Mr. Adeane concerning you ; 
 189 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 and if I had done what I ought 
 I should perhaps have given 
 you some trouble. But I know 
 you ; and I know that it is an 
 exaggerated altruism which runs 
 away with you into dangerous 
 places ; and that you are the 
 last man in the world to incul- 
 cate or to approve of crime." 
 
 " But what is crime .? " mur- 
 murs Bertram. " Have not 
 regicides many apologists ? Is 
 Carlyle alone in admiring Crom- 
 well ^ As boys are we not 
 adorers of Harmodius and 
 Aristogiton } " 
 
 *' Fortunately," continues Sir 
 Henry, waving aside these his- 
 torical precedents, " the magis- 
 trate took a lenient view of 
 the case, considered it excused 
 by drink (we are always so im- 
 morally lenient to drink in this 
 country !), and so I was enabled, 
 by using unacknowledged influ- 
 190 
 
An Altruist 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ence (a thing I loathe to do), to 
 get the affair hushed up. But 
 I cannot prevent your being 
 marked by the police and con- 
 sidered a dangerous person. 
 You will probably be ' sha- 
 dowed ' for some time, and if 
 anything of this sort occurs 
 again it will be out of my power 
 to save you from exceedingly 
 disagreeable consequences." 
 
 Bertram is silent. 
 
 " Are you anxious to be a 
 martyr in company with Hop- 
 per ? " asks Stanhope, with 
 impatience. 
 
 "If Hopper be made one, 
 certainly." 
 
 Stanhope rises from his chair. 
 
 " I regret- that I intervened 
 to screen you from the conse- 
 quences of your lubies. I 
 stretched my prerogative, and 
 risked the accusation of illegality 
 in my functions, in order to 
 
^§ An Altruist 
 
 extricate you from the dilemma 
 in which your own imprudence 
 placed you, and this I did in 
 memory of old Eton days. 
 But I assure you that I shall 
 not interfere again, and I am 
 sorry that you so little appre- 
 ciate my friendship. Men in 
 office, it is true, should have no 
 personal feelings." 
 
 "I am of course grateful for 
 your personal regard," replies 
 Bertram, in icy tones, *' but I 
 cannot allow any one to criticise 
 or control my opinions." 
 
 Sir Henry does not deign to 
 reply. He takes his hat, and 
 with a curt " good-day " goes 
 out of the room. 
 
 " How impossible it is to live 
 under a government which is 
 utterly barbarian and unen- 
 lightened ! " reflects Bertram ; 
 " and to think that Stanhope 
 could become a member of it ! 
 ig2 
 
An Altruist 5^ 
 
 Such a fine scholar, such a de- 
 voted Hellenist, as he was at 
 Eton ! And now sunk to a 
 Home Secretary ! — a keeper of 
 the ban-dogs of the law ! It 
 is so extraordinary that these 
 Philistines never can compre- 
 hend the beauty of altruistic 
 and collectivist views. They 
 always confound them with 
 anarchy ! As if any two creeds 
 could possibly be more opposed. 
 It is extremely disagreeable all 
 the same. ' Marked by the 
 police ! ' as if I had broken 
 into a silversmith's shop ! I 
 wonder where Critchett kept 
 the mineral waters ? I don't 
 know where anything is. If I 
 had always served myself, how 
 much better it would have been. 
 It is so degrading this continual 
 dependence upon others. Every 
 kind of wrong-doing brings its 
 own chastisement, and our 
 
 193 R 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 heresy and egotism in keeping 
 others in servitude is visited on 
 us by our own impotency to 
 help ourselves in the simplest 
 acts of daily life." 
 
 Some one taps at the door 
 in the midst of his reflections. 
 
 " Come in ! " he cried, irri- 
 tably. " Will annoyances never 
 cease : 
 
 " It's me, sir," says Mrs. 
 Brown. " Please as how I've 
 come to bring you back these 
 two sovereigns as you gave my 
 son. 
 
 " Why ^ I gave them will- 
 ingly." 
 
 " I can't hev him paid for his 
 misbehaviour, sir, and he did 
 misbehave hisself. Kate spoke 
 in jest, and Sam, being tipsy, 
 took it in earnest." 
 
 Bertram, fascinated by a 
 social problem, answers dream- 
 ily . " Tell me, Mrs. Brown, 
 
 194 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 your son attended a Board 
 School ? " 
 
 " He did, sir." 
 
 " And he passed the fourth 
 standard ? " 
 
 " He did, sir." 
 
 "Then, my good woman, 
 what benefit has that education 
 been to him ? " 
 
 " Lord, none, sir ; and nobbut 
 fools could ever suppose as 't 
 would be any ! " replies Mrs. 
 Brown, briskly. 
 
 " How very sad ! " murmurs 
 Bertram. " But I have always 
 feared that the whole system 
 of modern education was one 
 gigantic error. You cannot 
 feed minds wholesale as you 
 feed machines." 
 
 " 'Tis sad as poor folks 
 should be made to pay for such 
 gammon as them schools, sir," 
 says Mrs. Brown. " I beg 
 your pardon humbly for my 
 195 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 boy's misconduct, and you'll 
 please take back the money. 
 As for the rest that Ann hev 
 told me ril make bold to say 
 as I 'eartily agree with it. You 
 know, Mr. Bertram, I never 
 could 'old with that pack o' 
 nonsense o' your marriage with 
 my girl." 
 
 " I know you never approved, 
 Mrs. Brown." 
 
 " No, sir, 'cause I knows my 
 place. Lord, sir, ye'd hev been 
 miserable and my poor girl 
 too. 
 
 " Not through any fault of 
 mine, Mrs. Brown." 
 
 " No, sir ; perhaps not. But 
 miserable ye'd both hev bin. 
 We'll alius remember ye 
 kindly, sir, and I 'opes as ye'll 
 still send us yer linen." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly. I shall 
 always be your friend Pray 
 take those sovereigns." 
 196 
 
An Altruist .V 
 
 " No, sir ; let 'em lie. And 
 might I be so bold as to ask 
 hev ye took up your 'eritance, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " My cousin's fortune ? No, 
 I have refused it." 
 
 " Lord, sir ! That's a real 
 right-down pity." 
 
 "I do not see it so, Mrs. 
 Brown.^' 
 
 " Well, sir, a gent as wears 
 such shirts as you shouldn't 
 quarrel with his bread and 
 butter " 
 
 A postman at that moment 
 comes through the antechamber 
 into the room, and tenders a 
 registered letter with the receipt 
 book for signature. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " asks 
 Bertram, helplessly. " Critchett 
 has always seen to things of this 
 kind." 
 
 "You're to sign your name 
 in the book, sir," says Mrs. 
 197 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Brown. He signs ; and the 
 postman retires. 
 
 " I'll leave ye to read your 
 letter, sir," says Mrs. Brown ; 
 " and if a poor woman may 
 give ye a word of advice, take 
 them cobwebs out of your brain, 
 sir, and open your eyes and see 
 the world as 't is. That ere 
 man as ye thought so much on 
 was a raskill, as rotten as shell- 
 fish o' Saturday nights. Ye've 
 too good a 'eart, Mr. Bertram, 
 a deal too good a 'eart ; and if 
 you make yourself honey flies 
 will eat yer ; that's true as 
 gospel, sir." 
 
 " Wilfrid ! Wilfrid ! " shouts 
 an excited voice in the ante- 
 room, as a robust form and a 
 ruddy face, the face and form 
 of a country gentleman, are 
 visible in the distance. 
 
 Mrs. Brown discreetly retires. 
 
 " My dear Wilfrid, is it pos 
 iq8 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 sibly true what I heard in the 
 Marlborouo;h this moment ? " 
 cries Southwold, out of breath. 
 " Have you actually inherited 
 the whole fortune of those 
 Italian Erringtons, and have 
 never said a syllable about it to 
 your aunt and myself? It is 
 really — really — most extra- 
 ordinary conduct." 
 
 " I do not see that the matter 
 concerns you," says Bertram, 
 tranquilly. 
 
 "Not concern us.?" repeats 
 Southwold, considerably as- 
 tonished. " Well, anything so 
 very fortunate occurring in my 
 wife's family must concern every 
 member of it. I never knew 
 this young man, nor his father. 
 There was that unfortunate dis- 
 sension between your people 
 and his. But it is very con- 
 soling that the grave has now 
 closed on all past feud ; and 
 
^; An Altruist 
 
 that the poor fellow did not 
 allow his father's animosity to 
 alienate him from his kith and 
 kin. I really cannot congratu- 
 late you sufficiently." 
 
 " There is nothing to con- 
 gratulate me upon," rephes 
 Bertram, impatiently. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Nothing whatever." 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 " Because I decline the be- 
 quest." 
 
 " Eh ? " 
 
 " I decline the bequest." 
 
 Lord Southwold pants like a 
 blown horse, his small blue eyes 
 grow large and black ; his ruddy 
 face deepens to purple. " Good 
 God! You are mad as a hatter ! " 
 
 " Are hatters less sane than 
 the rest of society ? I am 
 incredulous of the possibility." 
 
 " You can't mean what you 
 say — you are joking ! " 
 200 
 
An Altruist f^ 
 
 " I am entirely serious. And, 
 if you will allow me to say so, 
 you must be aware that the 
 matter does not, I repeat, in 
 the most remote manner con- 
 cern you." 
 
 " Good Lord ! Am I not 
 your aunt's husband ? " 
 
 " I have always heard so, and 
 Burke vouches for it." 
 
 Southwold emits a strangled 
 sound that is an oath, a snarl, 
 and a groan in one. 
 
 " You ought to be placed in a 
 padded room, sir ? " he says at 
 length, when he recovers his voice. 
 
 " Oh, I am never violent ! " 
 says Bertram with a slight 
 smile, as he glances at the 
 pieces of the broken whip. 
 
 " Where do the money and 
 estates go .^ " roars Southwold. 
 
 " To a very respectable des- 
 tination — Magdalen College." 
 
 " All of it .? " 
 
 201 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " All of it." 
 
 " Oh Lord ! " 
 
 The unhappy gentleman, 
 gasping for breath, drops down 
 on a seat. 
 
 " With this fortune you could 
 marry Cicely Seymour 1 The 
 girl likes you — more fool she ! " 
 
 Bertram changes colour. 
 
 " You have no right to speak 
 of that young lady : she is your 
 guest." 
 
 Southwold becomes furious. 
 
 " You dare to lecture me ? 
 You infernal ass ! who are only 
 fit for a strait-waistcoat." 
 
 Bertram shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 " You are stark staring 
 mad ! " roars Southwold ; " and 
 I tell you you are a disgrace to 
 your family." 
 
 Bertram smiles. 
 
 " How extremely immoral, 
 then, to wish me to accept and 
 administer a great property." 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " Damnation ! " 
 
 Southwold puts his hat on 
 his head, strikes his cane vio- 
 lently on the back of a chair, 
 and rushes out of the room. 
 
 " What can it possibly matter 
 to him ? " murmurs Bertram. 
 " The idea of money excites 
 some people as valerian cjoes 
 cats. 
 
 Lord Southwold, in a whirl- 
 wind of disgust, walks as 
 rapidly as a gouty toe will 
 let him through the three or 
 four streets which divide him 
 from his own house in Berkeley 
 Square, and mounts the stair- 
 case of his home with his wrath 
 at boiling-point. He goes into 
 his wife's morning-room, where 
 she and Cicely Seymour are 
 sitting, one reading, the other 
 writing letters. 
 
 " It's true ! " he shouts. " It's 
 perfectly true ! it's been left to 
 203 
 
"^^ An Altruist 
 
 him and he won't have it — can 
 you believe that ? he won't have 
 it!" 
 
 Cicely looks up from her 
 book and says nothing ; his 
 wife looks up from her writing- 
 pad and says with a sigh : 
 
 " I can believe it — of him'' 
 
 " Well, I can't ; though I've 
 heard him say it with my own 
 ears," returns her lord, as he 
 drops down on a soft seat with 
 the air of a man crushed, an- 
 nihilated, effaced from creation. 
 
 " And he said, ' What could 
 it possibly matter to us ? ' " he 
 added in a faint tone. 
 
 Cicely closes her book. 
 
 "Well, dear Lord South- 
 wold, why should it matter ? " 
 
 " Why ? " he ejaculates. 
 " Why } " 
 
 " Why } " repeats his wife. 
 '■' Oh, Cicely ! " 
 
 " Well, why ? " she says, a 
 204 
 
An Altruist .^c» 
 
 little impatiently. " If Mr. 
 Bertram likes to live a poor 
 man instead of becoming a rich 
 one, what business is it of any- 
 body's ? " 
 
 " Oh Lord ! " sighs her host. 
 
 " Good heavens, Cicely ! " 
 cries his wife. " You might 
 as well ask what does a man's 
 suicide matter to his family ? " 
 
 *' Suicide is a disgrace, or at 
 least it is esteemed so. This is 
 an honour." 
 
 " An honour ' " echo both 
 her host and hostess in one 
 breath. 
 
 " A very rare honour," she 
 replies, " to have a relative who 
 in these days has the courage 
 and loyalty to principle to re- 
 fuse a fortune." 
 
 Southwold is too utterly 
 amazed and shocked to have 
 any power to answer her. 
 
 " My dear girl, this is very 
 205 s 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 far-fetched," says his wife. 
 " You are talking great non- 
 sense, and approving great folly. 
 I cannot believe that even my 
 nephew Wilfrid will be capable 
 of adhering to such a crazy and 
 thankless decision." 
 
 " I am sure he will adhere 
 to it," says Cicely Seymour, 
 warmly. " At least if he do 
 not I shall be very mistaken 
 in him. Do you think," 
 she adds with indignation, 
 " that his principles are 
 mere sugared beignets, mere 
 frothy souffltes of eggs and 
 cream ? " 
 
 " His principles ! " cries 
 Southwold, with a snort like 
 an angry horse. " Do you 
 mean those preposterous tom- 
 fooleries with which he enter- 
 tained us yesterday P " 
 
 " I mean the doctrines taught 
 in his own journal. He is an 
 206 
 
An Altruist ."^ 
 
 individualist, an altruist, a 
 collectivist, a Mazzinist, a 
 Tolstoi-ist. How could such 
 a man with any consistency, 
 with any decency, accept a 
 great fortune ? " 
 
 " My dear Cicely," said Lady 
 Southwold, with unkind inci- 
 siveness. " Only a great for- 
 tune could get such opinions 
 forgiven to him ; and as he 
 is going to marry a washer- 
 woman's daughter, if what you 
 heard in the Park is true, he 
 will certainly never get her into 
 society on any income less than 
 thirty thousand a year ! " 
 
 " He will not want to get 
 her into society. Nobody 
 gathers a dog-rose to put it 
 under a forcing-frame." 
 
 " You are very epigrammatic, 
 my dear, but I am afraid you 
 have not much more common 
 sense than Wilfrid Bertram." 
 207 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 *' John," she adds to her hus- 
 band, " do you think it would 
 be of any use if I went and 
 tried to persuade him to sus- 
 pend his decision ? " 
 
 " I don't think it would be 
 the slightest," replies her lord. 
 " But you might try. There 
 would be no harm in trying. 
 Tell him it's flying in the face 
 of Providence." 
 
 " I am afraid he doesn't be- 
 lieve in Providence ! " says Lady 
 South wold, with a sigh. 
 
 Twenty minutes Jater she 
 returns to her morning-room 
 with a discouraged air, and 
 draws off her gloves. 
 
 " He was not at home," she 
 says, in answer to her husband's 
 look of interrogation. " The 
 door was shut, and his card was 
 stuck under the bell with * Out ' 
 written upon it. I suppose I 
 could have done no good if 
 208 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 I had seen him. For I met 
 Scott-Gwynne in the street, 
 and he told me he had just 
 heard Mr. Fanshawe saying in 
 the reading-room at the Travel- 
 lers* that Wilfrid had refused 
 formally, and signed his refusal. 
 Fanshawe was present." 
 
 "But Mr. Fanshawe as a 
 Socialist, as a Radical, must 
 approve the refusal ? " says 
 Cicely Seymour, from where 
 she sits by a stand of Mal- 
 maison roses. 
 
 Southwold laughs grimly. 
 
 " Fanshawe thinks all wealth 
 should be equally distributed ; 
 but so long as it isn't so, he 
 gets all he can for himself, and 
 considers everybody should do 
 the same who has the oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 Cicely is silent. 
 
 " I suppose Wilfrid has gone 
 to have tea and shrimps with 
 209 
 
■ ^ An Altruist 
 
 the washerwoman," says Lady 
 Southwold. " Cicely, give me 
 some tea, please. I fear shrimps 
 are an unknown joy to us." 
 
 Cicely rises and goes over to 
 the tea-table. 
 
 " Are you really positive that 
 he is going to marry this girl ? " 
 asks his aunt, as Cicely hands 
 her a cup and some muffin. 
 
 " The mother of the girl said 
 so," replies Cicely, coldly. 
 " She did not, herself, seem 
 to care about it." 
 
 Lord Southwold laughs 
 savagely. 
 
 " To make a mesalliance^ and 
 not even to be welcome ! By 
 Jove ! The fellow ought to 
 be shot. Disgracing both our 
 families in such a manner." 
 
 " You are unfair to him. 
 Lord Southwold," says Cicely. 
 
 "In what way, my dear P " 
 
 " You do not attempt to 
 
 210 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 enter into his views, his 
 motives, his principles. His 
 opinions may be somewhat 
 exaggerated, but his loyalty to 
 them is none the less admirable." 
 
 " Oh, you do admit they're 
 exaggerated ? " 
 
 " Some of them, yes. At 
 least, in the y^ge to Come there 
 are things which one cannot 
 wholly accept, but they always 
 err on the side of generosity ! 
 And he is always consistent. 
 Mr. Fanshawe may be more 
 politic, but he is far less to be 
 respected. You blame the refusal 
 of this fortune. But you must 
 admit it shows his consistency." 
 
 " Only fools are consistent," 
 says Southwold, with unspeak- 
 able contempt. 
 
 " Really," cries Lady South- 
 wold, " one would think you 
 were in love with Wilfrid to 
 hear you. Cicely." 
 
 211 
 
^9 An Altruist 
 
 Cicely colours a little. 
 
 *' One is not necessarily in 
 love because one can see two 
 sides to a question. It seems 
 to me extremely unjust to 
 quarrel with anybody for 
 endeavouring loyally to carry 
 out the views which they 
 profess. You seem to admire 
 Mr. Fanshawe's opportunism : 
 I do not." 
 
 " Fanshawe is a shrewd man 
 of the world, Wilfrid is a 
 monomaniac who has gone daft 
 on altruism." 
 
 *' Or Annie-ism, as Lord 
 Marlow observed with such 
 exquisite wit," says Cicely 
 from .her retreat amongst the 
 roses, whither she has returned 
 after dispensing the tea. 
 
 A footman puts aside the 
 portieres of one of the doors, 
 and announces : 
 
 " Mr. Bertram." 
 
 212 
 
An Altruist ^><^ 
 
 There is a dead silence. 
 
 Lord and Lady Southwold 
 stare blankly at him. 
 
 Cicely rises from her bower 
 of roses and crosses the room 
 to him. She holds out her 
 hand with a charming smile. 
 
 " Let me congratulate you on 
 your marriage, Mr. Bertram," 
 she says, in a very kind, sweet 
 voice. 
 
 Bertram looks at her with a 
 little embarrassment. 
 
 " It is very good of you. 
 Miss Seymour ; you are the 
 only person who has said a 
 kind word " 
 
 " A kind word ! Can you 
 expect kind words ^ " begins 
 Southwold, in great ire. 
 
 " My dear Wilfrid, when 
 you afflict and disgrace us so," 
 says his aunt. 
 
 Bertram silences them with 
 
 an impatient movement. 
 213 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " Allow me to speak. My 
 marriage will not disgrace you, 
 for it will not take. place " 
 
 " Thank God ! " cries Lady 
 Southwold. 
 
 " It is not I who have with- 
 drawn. It is — it is — Miss 
 Brown, with the consent of 
 her family. But I did not 
 come to speak of this matter, 
 which is one purely personal ; 
 one with which I was not aware 
 you were acquainted. I came 
 to apologise to Lord Southwold 
 for my rudeness to him a little 
 while ago." 
 
 " All right, all right," replies 
 that choleraic but amiable 
 person. " I'm afraid I used 
 strong language myself ; but 
 really your pig-headed illusions 
 are so uncommonly trying to a 
 plain, ordinary man like my- 
 self " 
 
 " And you haven't refused 
 214 
 
An Altruist ,^ 
 
 the inheritance, Wilfrid ? " asks 
 his aunt, in great anxiety. 
 
 " 1 have refused, certainly," 
 replies Bertram ; '* I have 
 signed and sealed refusal." 
 
 Southwold emits a very 
 wicked word ; his wife groans 
 aloud. Cicely Seymour, who 
 has gone back to the roses, 
 listens with a face grown bright 
 with interest and approval. 
 
 " Miss Seymour does not 
 blame me ? " says Bertram, 
 softly. 
 
 " No ; I should do as you 
 have done." 
 
 " Thanks," says Bertram, 
 very gravely. Then he takes 
 a registered letter out of his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I have just received this," 
 he continues. " Will you 
 allow me to read it to you.'^ 
 It was sent to me by the poor 
 vicar of a village in the Pontine 
 215 
 
•^ An Altruist 
 
 marshes, near which my cousin 
 met his death. He says that 
 my cousin dictated it as he lay 
 dying in his presbytery, and 
 the priest wrote it ; it has been 
 sent to me through the Embassy 
 in Rome. Hence the delay. 
 To Folliott of course the man 
 of business had telegraphed. 
 The letter which he dictated 
 to this priest is, of course, in 
 Italian. I propose to translate 
 it to you, for I think my 
 uncle and you do not know 
 that language. It is very 
 short." 
 
 He speaks to his aunt, but 
 he looks at Cicely Seymour. 
 
 " 'I am a dead man,' " he 
 reads aloud from the letter. 
 " ' An old tusker has let life 
 out of me for ever. lou 
 will get this when I am 
 gone. I wish we had known 
 each other. I have left you all 
 216 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 I possess, not because you are 
 a relative, but because I think 
 you will do good with it. I 
 have not been a student, but I 
 have seen some numbers of your 
 journal, and though I do not 
 agree with you in all your 
 opinions, I see you care for the 
 poor. Come and live on my 
 lands, and you'll have work 
 enough cut out for you. I 
 have not done my duty — do 
 yours.' It is signed by him, 
 and the signature is witnessed." 
 
 They are all silent. 
 
 Lady Southwold has tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " There is a postscript," con- 
 tinues Bertram, " ' Take care 
 of my horses and dogs.' The 
 priest adds that the poor fellow 
 had desired him to send it to 
 the English Embassy, and died 
 half an hour after dictating it. 
 That is all." 
 
 217 T 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 " It is very touching," says 
 his aunt. " I wish we had 
 known him." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 " A pity you did not get it 
 earlier," says Southwold, " or 
 had not been so precipitate." 
 
 Bertram folds the letter up 
 and looks across at the Mal- 
 maison roses. 
 
 " Magdalen College," adds 
 Southwold, grimly, " won't 
 trouble itself much about the 
 horses and dogs." 
 
 " Can't you withdraw your 
 refusal, Wilfrid ^ " asks his 
 aunt. 
 
 Bertram is silent. 
 
 "Would they let you .^ " 
 asks Southwold. 
 
 " It is a cruel position to be 
 placed in," says Bertram. 
 
 " Would it be utterly impos- 
 sible," says Southwold, sarcasti- 
 cally, " for you to regard it, as 
 
 2IcS 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 a mere, humdrum, ordinary 
 Philistine person like myself 
 would do, as a very fortuitous 
 and felicitous piece of good 
 luck ? " 
 
 " Good luck ! " echoes Ber- 
 tram, in disgust. " Cannot you 
 see that whatever I do I must 
 feel humiliation and remorse ; 
 that however I may decide, I 
 must feel that I leave some duty 
 undone ? " 
 
 " No," says Southwold, very 
 shortly, " I really cannot see 
 anything of the sort. But I 
 am obtuse, and J am very 
 commonplace." 
 
 There is again a prolonged 
 silence. 
 
 It is broken by the low, clear 
 voice of Cicely Seymour, on 
 whose hair the last rays of the 
 dim red London sun are shin- 
 ing in a nimbus. 
 
 " I understand what Mr 
 219 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram feels. To accept this 
 fortune will be painful, and even 
 odious to him with his views. 
 But to let it go to others, 
 even to Oxford, must be, 
 after receiving this letter, 
 equally distressing to him be- 
 cause he will feel that he has 
 failed to carry out a dead man's 
 trust. Is not that your mean- 
 ing, Mr. Bertram ^ " 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " These are very iine-drawn 
 sentiments, and they are, I con- 
 fess, wholly beyond me," says 
 Southwold, with grufF con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " I know what they both 
 mean," says his wife. " But to 
 me too it is, I admit, rather 
 far-fetched. It seems to me so 
 easy and so simple to go back 
 to Folliott and Hake and say, 
 ' I have changed my mind ; I 
 accept. 
 
An Altruist ^ 
 
 " But would it be right to do 
 so ? " says Bertram. " How 
 can I be sure that the foul fiend 
 of selfishness is not deluding me 
 by taking the shape of duty ? " 
 
 " You split straws ! " growls 
 Southwold. " The business of 
 the world would never get 
 done if men hemmed and 
 hawed and tortured themselves 
 as you do. Can you retract 
 your refusal .? That's the main 
 question." 
 
 " I can. Folliott said that 
 they should take no action on 
 it for twenty-four hours, but 
 hold it in abeyance for that 
 term. Fanshawe suggested 
 that, indeed insisted on it." 
 
 *' Fortunate for you that a 
 practical man was with you. I 
 have a respect for Mr Fan- 
 shawe which I did not feel be- 
 fore. Well, my dear Wilfrid, 
 you can't hesitate." 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Bertram does hesitate. 
 
 He looks across at the roses. 
 
 " Will you decide for me, 
 Miss Seymour ? " 
 
 " It is a great responsibility,' 
 she replies, and her colour rises. 
 
 She plays with one of the 
 roses nervously for a few mo- 
 ments. At last she looks up 
 and says gravely : 
 
 " I think you should accept, 
 Mr. Bertram. To you such 
 wealth would be no sinecure, but 
 always regarded as a great trust 
 to be employed for the welfare 
 of others." 
 
 Bertram bends his head. 
 
 " Since you think so, I will 
 endeavour to merit your opinion 
 of me." 
 
 " And if you go and live on 
 the Italian lands you can be as 
 self-sacrificing and as wretched 
 as you like," adds Southwold, 
 gleefully. "Mosquitoes, 
 
An Altruist ^^ 
 
 malaria, malandrini, and the 
 hourly probabihty of a shot 
 from behind a hedge, or a 
 dagger-thrust from an irate 
 beggar, will certainly provide 
 you with constant material for 
 the most active altruism." 
 
 " Of course he will be in 
 England half the time ; there 
 is a great deal of the Errington 
 property in England," says 
 Lady Southwold, before whose 
 mental vision many charming 
 prospects are dancing ; and she 
 rises and goes across to Cicely 
 Seymour and kisses her on her 
 sun-illumined hair. 
 
 "You will always give Wil- 
 frid good counsel, won't you 
 darling ? " she says, very ten- 
 derly. 
 
 " Mr. Bertram will want no 
 counsel but his own conscience," 
 says Cicely Seymour, with the 
 colour in her cheeks. " Oh, 
 
^ An Altruist 
 
 Lord Southwold, conscience is 
 so rare in our days, it seems al- 
 most dead ; you should not 
 laugh at those who through all 
 mockery try to keep alive its 
 sacred flame ! " 
 
 " Since Wilfrid has your 
 esteem, my dear, I laugh at 
 him no longer," says South- 
 wold, with pleasant malice. " I 
 am thoroughly convinced that 
 he is the wisest, and will be the 
 happiest, of men." 
 
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