•■ n: 
 
 wF^ec J\H.G e
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 /
 
 WRECKAGE
 
 UnifofDi -jjitfi this z'obtme, 
 p7-ke 34". dd. each 
 
 THE JTTACK ON THS MILL 
 
 By EMfLE ZOLA 
 
 Athen.i!Um^"/4' indeed the /rest thiui;- that 
 M. Zola ha.s eve)' written." 
 
 THS Jl'ERJGS JVOMAO^ 
 
 By WOLCOTT BALESTIER 
 
 Scotsman — " The hook it-'ill interest every one 
 that takes it 11/'." 
 
 LONDON : WILL I AIM HEfXEMANN
 
 w- 
 
 RECKAGE 
 
 SEVEN STUDIES 
 
 BY 
 
 Hubert Crackanthorpe 
 
 V;( 
 
 LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 MDCCCXCIIl BEDFORD STREET W.C
 
 TRESIS' 
 
 Ai( rights resei-ved.
 
 "Que le roman ait cette religion que 
 le sieck /trssr appelait de ce large] et 
 vasie nom : • Human itc' :—il lui suffit 
 dc cette conscience: son droit est la."
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PROFILES 
 
 A CONFLICT OF EGOISMS 
 
 THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE 
 
 DISSOLVING VIEW . 
 
 A DEAD WOMAN 
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 EMBERS .... 
 
 I'AGK 
 
 I 
 
 107 
 
 1:25 
 165 
 21;
 
 PROFILES 
 
 I 
 
 It was one of the first warm afternoons of the 
 year ; the vigorous rays of the sun lent the young 
 leaves, whose delicate green suffused the wood, an 
 exquisite transparency. 
 
 All was still ; the rushes clustered immobile on 
 the banks of the little stream ; no breath of wind 
 ruffled its surface. 
 
 Alone a water-rat splashed, and gently rippling 
 the water, swam across. 
 
 On the bank a girl was sitting, her white cotton 
 dress rucked about her knees, displaying a small 
 pair of muddy boots, which dangled close to the 
 water's surface. Her body was thrust forward in a 
 cramped position, as with both hands she held. a 
 long, clumsy-looking fishing-rod. She was watching
 
 Wreckage 
 
 intently the movements of a fat, red float, which 
 bobbed excitedly up and down. 
 
 She was bareheaded, and her crisp, auburn 
 hair was riotously tumbling about her ears and 
 neck. 
 
 Quite pale was her skin, but pale, transparent, 
 soft; exquisite was the modelling of her fresh, firm 
 lips. 
 
 There were great possibilities of beauty in the 
 face ; but now an all-absorbing look filled it, the 
 forehead puckered over the eyebrows, the lips set 
 tight together. 
 
 A little way off, on the grass, a young man, in a 
 grey flannel suit, was lying on his back, his face 
 shaded by her big-brimmed straw hat, inside the 
 ribbon of which were tucked some bunches of 
 primroses ; one hand thrust in the armhole of his 
 waistcoat, the other thrown back over his head — 
 the limp abandon of his pose betrayed that he was 
 asleep. 
 
 Down darted the fat, red float. Awkwardly the 
 girl tugged at the rod ; the line tightened, swaying 
 about from side to side.
 
 Profiles 
 
 " Maurice ! " she called ; then louder, as he did 
 not wake. 
 
 Maurice started, pushed the hat from off his eyes, 
 murmuring sleepily — 
 
 " Hullo ! what's up ? " 
 
 " Make haste, do ! I can't hold the rod any 
 more." 
 
 He jumped up, took it, and in a minute or two 
 the fish was floundering on the grass, its sleek, 
 silver sides gleaming in the sunlight. 
 
 "Why, Lilly, it's quite a big one," he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Tall, with fine, broad shoulders, and a small, 
 well-shaped head, evidently not a quite young 
 man ; but a trick of raising his eyebrows with an 
 air of boyish surprise, made him appear some years 
 younger. 
 
 " He pulled like anything. I should have had to 
 let go the rod in another minute. My arms ache 
 all over," she added, ruefully. 
 
 "That rod's too heavy for you. I'll have to get 
 another, if we're coming fishing again." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Of course we are. I love it." 
 
 3
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Quite beautiful she looked, her face lit up in a 
 delicate flush of excitement. 
 
 " Put on another worm, quick. There's sure to 
 be some more, aren't there ? " 
 
 Maurice pulled out his watch. 
 
 " Nearly four o'clock," he said, shaking his head. 
 " I've got a guard at half-past five. We must pack 
 up." 
 
 At once her face clouded, the eyes half-closed, the 
 mouth drooped, the chin pouted. 
 
 A pettish exclamation was on her lips, but, 
 catching sight of an amused twinkle in Maurice's 
 eyes, she checked herself, and her face cleared. 
 
 Together they unscrewed the rod, and when they 
 had put the joints into their canvas case, they 
 started off through the wood, along the narrow path 
 that led to the village. 
 
 Maurice, with the rod under his arm, and a long- 
 cigar in the corner of his mouth, Lilly bareheaded, 
 her hair more unruly than ever, carrying her hat 
 and her parasol in her hand.
 
 Profiles 
 
 II 
 
 They were engaged to be manied, Lilly and 
 Maurice. It had been so for nearly three months. 
 
 Lilly lived with her Aunt Lisbet in a semi- 
 detached villa on the outskirts of Guildford, where 
 Maurice's regiment was quartered. 
 
 She had never known her mother ; when she 
 ransacked the dim memories of her childhood, there 
 was nobody further back than Aunt Lisbet. Her 
 father she scarcely remembered at all, for he had 
 died when she was quite a little girl. He had 
 been a bookmaker, and a coloured photograph 
 of him — a burly, red-faced man, in a white top- 
 hat, and a long, grey dust coat with a scarlet 
 flower in the button-hole — hung over the fire- 
 place in Aunt Lisbet's bedroom. Underneath the 
 photograph was written, James Maguire— " Big 
 Jock." 
 
 During his lifetime " Big Jock's" good luck had 
 been almost proverbial, so that he was reputed to 
 be worth a " tidy pile." But at his death, when all 
 
 5
 
 Wreckage 
 
 his debts had been paid, scarcely a hundred pounds 
 remained. What had becon^e of it all no one knew, 
 and Aunt Lisbet had never forgiven her brother 
 for this mystery. The disappearance of the money 
 itself exasperated her; but the thought that for years 
 he had been secretly making away with large sums 
 without a word to her, his sister, who had kept 
 house for him since his wife's death, and who had 
 been a second mother to his child, made her espe- 
 cially furious. 
 
 This bitter feeling against her brother, instead 
 of subsiding as time went on, only rankled the 
 more in her mind, and now, except in terms of abuse 
 she never mentioned his name. 
 
 She was a thin, sharp-boned, little woman, with 
 red lids to her greenish-coloured eyes, a long, aqui- 
 line nose and a pointed chin. When she spoke to 
 Lilly of her father, there came into her voice a 
 curious, rasping intonation. 
 
 Aunt Lisbet drank ; chiefly brandy, and her 
 drunkenness took the form of fits of ungovernable 
 passion. 
 
 These outbursts were almost always directed 
 6
 
 Trofiles 
 
 against Lilly ; not that Aunt Lisbet had any pat - 
 ticular personal animosity towards her niece, but 
 because Lilly was the handiest object on which to 
 vent her feelings. 
 
 She would begin by recalling some evil trait in 
 Jock's character. Lilly had no really tender 
 affection for her father's memory, the little she knew 
 of him was far from creditable. But this disparage- 
 ment of him by Aunt Lisbet somehow made her 
 blood boil, and at times the scenes between them 
 were very violent. 
 
 And though, except for these occasions, they 
 seldom quarrelled, Lilly loathed Aunt Lisbet with 
 an instinctive, imperious loathing. 
 
 And this afternoon, as she drove home in the 
 dog-cart by Maurice's side, her hatred for her 
 aunt seemed fiercer than it had ever been before. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The horse's hoofs rang clear on the hard, white 
 road, as they sped swiftly along, Lilly leaning 
 against Maurice's shoulder,pIunged in a brown study. 
 
 7
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Presently she said, meditatively : "What is the 
 earliest date on which your father can arrive ? " 
 
 "Well, he won't leave Bombay for another 
 fortnight, then he'll not hurry himself on the 
 journey, so it will be at least a month before he 
 reaches England. It's a beastly long time, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Oh, Maurice! What's the good of waiting? 
 He will never consent, let's get married at once." 
 
 Recklessly he dropped the reins and taking her 
 face in his gloved hands, held it up to his. Their 
 lips met, and putting both his arms round her, he 
 strained her to him. The kiss was a long one; at 
 last she gave a little moan ; he let her go. 
 
 "You don't know the old gentleman, you see," 
 he continued. " My infernal busybodies of relations 
 have been writing all sorts of tales about you— at 
 least, not about you, but about your aunt and your 
 father, and about — well, a lot of damned rot." 
 But directly he's seen you, I shall be able to make 
 it all right with him. Of course, if you really wish 
 it, we could get married next week, but I think it 
 would be more prudent to wait. The very fact 
 that I had not waited till his return might put his 
 8
 
 Trofiles 
 
 back up, and he might cut off my allowance on the 
 spot." 
 
 " Of course, Maurice, we'll wait. It was selfish of 
 me to think of it. But — but " 
 
 " Well ? 
 
 " I do hate Aunt Lisbet so." 
 
 " I know ; iDut it's not so very long now." 
 
 They were entering the town. 
 
 " Shall I drive you to the door ?" 
 
 " No, drop me at St. Luke's. I'll walk home 
 from there." 
 
 He pulled up and she got down. 
 
 " Be at Mrs. Newton's in good time to-morrow 
 afternoon," he called out, as, smartly flicking the 
 horse, he rattled away down the street. 
 
 IV 
 
 The solitary candle flickering on the dressing- 
 table made the shadows of the coming night creep 
 back into the corners of the room, as Lilly, with 
 swollen eyelids, and red patches on her cheeks, 
 looked out through the window-pane.
 
 Wreckage 
 
 All was still. The earth slept. 
 
 The moon poured her white light on the meadows 
 opposite ; a few fleecy clouds lazily chased one 
 another across the sky. In the distance a dog 
 barked, then all was again still. 
 
 Lilly threw herself on the bed, burying her face 
 
 in the pillow. 
 And presently the cool linen began to soothe her 
 
 burning forehead. 
 
 It had passed, the wild impulse to throw herself 
 out of the window that people might know to what 
 Aunt Lisbet had driven her. Now the resolve 
 never to see her again ousted all else from her 
 mind. Absolute, irrevocable was this resolve ; any 
 departure from it was as a physical impossibility. 
 Only she must wait till morning, and she turned 
 to a cooler spot on the pillow. 
 
 And as she did so, a vivid vision of the scene 
 in the kitchen below started before her eyes. Aunt 
 Lisbet leaning against the dresser, her hair slipping 
 down on one side, and in her voice a hissing 
 sound. 
 
 It was the first time that she had said things 
 
 lO
 
 Trofks 
 
 about Maurice ; that was what had made it worse 
 than it had ever been before. 
 
 A blind desire to silence her, to stamp the life 
 out of her, swept over Lilly. Seizing the parasol 
 which lay on the kitchen-table, with all her strength 
 she hit Aunt Lisbet across the side of the head. 
 
 And over the thought of that blow she lingered, 
 recalling it again and again, repeating it in her 
 mind with a strange, exquisite pleasure. For into 
 it she had put the hatred of years. 
 
 Aunt Lisbet uttered a low, plaintive moan— the 
 curious moan of sudden pain — and fell, dragging 
 with her on to the floor a pile of plates. 
 
 The crash sent every nerve in Lilly's body 
 tingling, but when, a moment later, Aunt Lisbet 
 moved to get up, the blind, murderous desire 
 returned. Another brutal blow of the parasol, and 
 she knocked her back again. 
 
 With a dull thud her head bumped on the floor ; 
 and that thud was the point of reaction. 
 
 Its hideous sound seemed to pierce Lilly through 
 
 and through ; in a fit of hysterical sobbing she 
 
 sank into an armchair. 
 
 n
 
 JVreckage 
 
 Slowly Aunt Lisbet rose to her feet, and mutter- 
 ing incoherently under her breath, staggered out of 
 the room. 
 
 Round and round all these incidents Lilly's 
 thoughts revolved, dwelling on them, brooding over 
 them, unable to escape from them. 
 
 And each time that she thought of the hissing 
 sound in Aunt Lislset's voice, the l^lind, murderous 
 feeling swept over her, and each time that the thud 
 of Aunt Lisbet's head on the floor sounded in her 
 ears, the tears welled up in her eyes. 
 
 V 
 
 The Charing Cross platform was alive with 
 people, some hurrying hither and thither, others 
 standing together in groups or sauntering up and 
 down. 
 
 Suddenly the fierce panting of an engine echoed 
 through the building, and a cloud of dense smoke 
 rose to melt away under the curved roof. 
 
 It was nearly a quarter to one, for when Lilly 
 had awoken in her little bedroom at Aunt Lisbet's,
 
 Trofiles 
 
 weary and unrefieshed through having slept in her 
 clothes, the morning was already half gone. Down- 
 stairs and out of the house she had crept, meeting 
 only the servant-girl, who told her with a smirk 
 that her aunt was still sleeping. 
 
 Her first impulse had been to go straight to the 
 " Barracks " to ask Maurice to take her away and 
 marry her at once. It seemed the only alternative, 
 for never again would she set foot in Aunt Lisbet's 
 house. 
 
 But, as she hurried through the town, there came 
 upon her, like a spasm of physical pain, a feeling 
 of irresolution. She remembered what Maurice 
 had said yesterday — " It's not for so very long." 
 She foresaw that he would advise her to go back 
 and put up with it for a few weeks more, and that 
 she would have to argue with him about it. The 
 courage to face such a prospect was wanting. 
 
 No, there was only one thing, take the train for 
 London, telegraph to Maurice to meet her there. 
 Then he vmst understand how impossible it was 
 for her to go back. 
 
 And this she had done. 
 
 13
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Three hours and three quarters to wait till the 
 next train from Guildford, even if Maurice got the 
 telegram in time. He might not be at the barracks 
 when it arrived. At four, of course, he would go to 
 Mrs. Newton's, as they had arranged yesterday. 
 But would he go back home beforehand? And if 
 not, would his servant send on the telegram, or 
 keep it till his return ? These and many other 
 possibilities whirled through Lilly's brain as 
 anxiously she paced the platform. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Four hours had passed. The porters lined the 
 platform edge as rapidly the train drew up. 
 The doors flung open ; out swarmed the 
 crowd. 
 
 But Maurice was nowhere to be seen. Eagerly 
 Lilly looked for him, up and down ; once she fancied 
 that she saw him talking to a porter at the other 
 end of the train. 
 
 Desperately she pushed through the crowd, only 
 to find herself face to face with a stranger. 
 
 There was not another train till five, and then 
 not another till half-past seven. 
 H
 
 Troji/es 
 
 With a numb feeling of hopelessness she wan- 
 dered out into the Strand. 
 
 It had just stopped raining. Noisily the omni- 
 buses splashed past, while the hansoms, one after 
 another, crawled along the edge of the pavement. 
 
 Some hungry-looking boys were yelling the con- 
 tents of an evening paper, two flower-girls and an 
 old man selling bootlaces, stood in the gutter. 
 Along the pavement, brown, and a-glimmer with 
 the wet, poured a continual stream of men and 
 women. 
 
 No one took any notice of Lilly, they only jostled 
 roughly past her. And somehow the sight of all 
 these strange faces and the movement of this 
 seething turmoil made her feel sick and faint. 
 
 For the first time she realised her absolute 
 lonehness. 
 
 •3«- * ifr * * 
 
 The five-o'clock train and the seven-o'clock train 
 had both come in, but still no signs of Maurice. 
 
 The last train was due at twenty minutes past 
 nine. 
 
 Lilly sat staring lifelessly before her. She had
 
 Wreckage 
 
 scarcely eaten anything all day ; exhausted, she was 
 suffering- much, but so great was her nervous 
 tension, that she did not know that it was 
 hunger. 
 
 What she would do if Maurice did not come she 
 never considered. All her energy was occupied in 
 counting the minutes till the train was due. 
 
 At last ! That must be it ! She had not the 
 strength to move, but intently watched the pas- 
 sengers as they poured out through the barrier. 
 
 Yes ! Maurice ! — hastening towards her, yet 
 somehow not looking as she had expected him 
 to look. 
 
 VI 
 
 Maurice, rising abruptly from the breakfast- 
 table, and throwing open the window, looked down 
 on to the crowded street, for their rooms in the 
 hotel faced the Strand. 
 
 Delicate, grey-blue streaks of smoke curled rest- 
 lessly upwards ; in streamed the morning sunlight, 
 bathing Lilly in its full flood. 
 
 A newspaper lay before her on the sofa; but she 
 i6
 
 Trofih 
 
 es 
 
 was observing Maurice with stealthy glances from 
 under her dark eyelashes. 
 
 Solemnly the clock ticked, while, with obvious 
 constraint, he hummed discontentedly to himself. 
 
 An instant ago their voices were raised in angry 
 dispute — not the first, though they had been but 
 three days together. And Maurice, as he gazed out 
 on to the sea of roof-tops, recalled the trivial inci- 
 dent from which their quarrel had sprung. The 
 thought formed a central spot of pain amid the 
 monotony of his gloom. 
 
 For the twentieth time he was aimlessly brooding 
 on the change that had come over her. 
 
 Never for a moment had he treated her dislike 
 for Aunt Lisbet seriously, though he had sym- 
 pathised with it, vaguely, distantly. Lilly was to 
 blame for this he thought : beyond occasional 
 references, she had told him nothing, and, in his 
 blind contentedness, he had never troubled to 
 question her. Besides, instinctively, even in thought, 
 he had shrunk from that side of her life. It jarred 
 upon him. 
 
 They had spent the night after his arrival to- 
 
 B 17
 
 Wreckage 
 
 gether ; it had seemed the more natural thing. 
 Maurice only had hesitated for an instant with an 
 indefinable shrinking. And when in the morning 
 Lilly suddenly sat up in bed, and began the ex- 
 planation of her flight, he listened impatiently to 
 what seemed a series of clumsy and unnecessary 
 exaggerations. He had imagined, with a subtle 
 tickling of vanity, that somehow slie had been 
 driven to it out of love for him, and he felt an 
 annoyance, vague but real, at learning that it was 
 not so. 
 
 But in a minute or two this had passed ; in be- 
 wilderment he lay watching her. 
 
 Tremulously, with a look of passionate fierceness, 
 her face was working as if some strange light were 
 playing on it. 
 
 She had done. He knew that every word was 
 
 true. 
 
 And afterwards, if, at odd moments, the im- 
 probability of it all flashed upon him, the recollec- 
 tion of that look would at once drive all doubt from 
 his mind. 
 
 No longer could he love her lazily as before. 
 i8
 
 Trojiks 
 
 The half-girl, half-child, simple and heedless, with 
 occasional moods of confiding, dreamy gravity, and 
 fits of charming pettishness, the easy dispelling of 
 which he had enjoyed, was gone. 
 
 The events of the past few days had broken 
 down the barrier, behind which the strong passions 
 of her nature had laid dormant, and now, let loose 
 for the first time, they mastered her ; she w>is their 
 slave. 
 
 Capricious and irritable, with outbursts of nervous 
 exasperation, followed by hot tears of remorse and 
 a desperate sensuality that disturbed and almost 
 frightened him. 
 
 And strangest of all, when he had proposed yes- 
 terday that they should be married at the end of 
 the week, with an evasive reply she had at once 
 started another topic. 
 
 As he turned to throw away his cigarette, he 
 saw that she was by his side. How silently she 
 had crossed the room ! Putting both hands on his 
 shoulders, she murmured : 
 
 " Maurice, dear Maurice, kiss me ; don't be 
 angry with me." 
 
 19
 
 Wreckage 
 
 VII 
 
 " We must go back to Guildford, to-morrow," he 
 said, after a pause. " I can't get any more leave, 
 and there are all kinds of arrangements to be made 
 down there — fresh quarters, servants, and heaps ot 
 things. You can stay at Mrs. Newton's till every- 
 thing is ready," he went on hurriedly, " it will only 
 take a few days and then we will come back here 
 and get married. I will keep on the room, so that 
 there will be no difficulty about a licence." 
 
 " I don't want to go back. I hate the place," she 
 muttered sullenly. 
 
 " But, Lilly dear, do be reasonable. There's 
 nothing else to be done.'' 
 
 "You can go alone, I ihall stay here till you 
 come back." 
 
 Angrily he was on the point of replying, but the 
 words died away on his lips. Expostulation, he 
 saw, would be worse than useless. 
 
 He went on to tell her about a red-tiled house 
 just outside the town, on which he had had his eye
 
 Profiles 
 
 for months, but catching sight of her face, he 
 stopped short, and burst out despairingly : 
 
 "Why, Lilly, doesn't it interest you?" 
 
 " I don't think I could ever go back," she 
 answered slowly. 
 
 " But we can't live anywhere else, unless I ex- 
 change, and that would take time." 
 
 A pause, during which she was nervously tearing 
 strips off the edge of the newspaper. 
 
 "How long will you be away?" she asked at 
 length. 
 
 " Let's see, to-day's Wednesday. If I go to- 
 morrow morning, I ought to be back by Friday 
 night or Saturday morning. Rut what on earth will 
 you do with yourself? " 
 
 " I don't know, but I can't go back there. You 
 don't know how impossible it is." 
 
 " But after we are married ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it will be different then," she answered 
 musingly. 
 
 He drew her to the sofa, and putting both arms 
 round her, began with infinite tenderness : 
 
 " Lilly, darling, what is it? Tell me. Is it that
 
 Wreckage 
 
 you don't care for me as you did ? What is it ? 
 Tell me, little woman. Oh ! I can't bear the 
 thought of leaving you here all alone by yourself" 
 
 " Maurice, I don't know what it is. Only 1 feel 
 very miserable. Everything seems in such a 
 tangle. I feel as if something strange were going 
 to happen to me. I want to think about lots of 
 things. That's why I want to be alone, quite 
 alone." 
 
 VIII 
 
 Eight o'clock had just struck ; a continuous hum 
 resounded through the restaurant, a Babel of 
 voices and a clatter of knives and forks. 
 
 " I do love the crowd, the bustle, and all that," 
 exclaimed Lilly, excitedly. 
 
 Then, 
 
 "Oh ! Maurice, who's that? I'm sure he knows 
 you ; look ! " 
 
 Against the pillar in the centre of the room a 
 powerfully built, dark-faced man was leaning. His 
 face, in contrast to the whiteness of his shirt-front, 
 seemed copper-coloured, and there was a singular
 
 Trof/es 
 
 massiveness about it ; bushy eyebrows, heavy, 
 black moustache and vermilion lips. 
 
 Dominating the whole room, he stood leisurely 
 casting his eyes over the crowd of diners. 
 
 "That man by the pillar?" answered Maurice. 
 " Yes, I know him a little. His name is Adrian 
 Saftord. Some more soup?" And he went on 
 with his dinner. 
 
 Safford's eyes were on them now, travelling fiom 
 one to the other with a deliberateness that was 
 nlmost insolent. 
 
 Lilly's eyelids dropped ; she hurriedly crumbled 
 a piece of bread. 
 
 But the temptation was irresistible ; nervously 
 she glanced up. Quite close now, his back to- 
 wards her, both hands in his pockets, and a crush 
 hat tucked under one arm. 
 
 " Maurice, he can't find a seat." 
 
 " Can't find a seat — who can't ? " 
 
 "That big man— Mr. Safford. Tell him that 
 there's room next you." 
 
 In the glass opposite she could see the reflection 
 of his face. As she spoke he made a sudden, half- 
 
 23
 
 Wreckage 
 
 arrested movement of his head. He had over- 
 heard. 
 
 Maurice touched him on the shoulder. And, as 
 shaking hands they exchanged greetings, Lilly 
 noticed the prickliness of his eyebrows, and the 
 strong muscles on each side of the bull-like 
 throat. 
 
 And Maurice intrc duced him to her ; under the 
 stare from his lustrous black eyes she flushed hotly. 
 
 He was speaking, his voice sounded blow, drawl- 
 ing almost. 
 
 But she scarcely heard what he was saying, she 
 was watching his hands, as they smoothed the 
 cloth in front of him — white and fat, tipped with 
 pink finger-nails, carefully trimmed to a point. 
 
 IX 
 
 All the mornincc and during luncheon Maurice 
 had been gloomily taciturn ; this had induced in 
 Lilly a strained, nervous gaiety. 
 
 The moment of parting drew near and the tension 
 became more and more painful. 
 24
 
 Trofiles 
 
 Yet it did not snap till they were slowly pacing 
 the platform before the departure of the train. 
 Then, of a sudden, he turned his face, contorted as 
 in acute physical pain, and witli a dryness in his 
 v'oice, passionately implored her to return. 
 
 But he did not touch her. Strange that she was 
 observing him, curiously, for the first time conscious 
 of distinct antipathy towards him. He looked — 
 yes, ridiculous, as if ashamed of havin;^ betrayed 
 his emotion. The sight of this emotion sent a 
 spasm of irritation through her. Next she 
 felt an almost uncontrollable inclination to 
 laugh . 
 
 But he did not press her any longer, for he dimly 
 saw how it was. The porters began to slam the 
 doors ; in silence he entered the train. 
 
 After it had gone she sauntered about the streets, 
 staring at the people, reading the posters on the 
 hoardings, gazing into the shop windows, now and 
 then buying with the money he had given her 
 little objects that took her fancy. 
 
 At last, hot and dusty, she found htrself back at 
 the hotel. Tired out, she stretched herself on the 
 
 25
 
 Wreckage 
 
 sofa, and, closing her eyes, let thoughts float aim- 
 lessly across her brain. 
 
 There passed visions of a woman with yellow 
 hair indolently reclining against the cushions of a 
 victoria ; of the red-bearded policeman who had 
 told her the way to the hotel ; of the stare of a thin 
 man in frock coat pinched at the waist; of the gold- 
 spotted veil, and of the brooch set in imitation 
 pearls, which she had carried home with her. 
 
 Then the bronzed countenance of Safford, his 
 bright, red lips, and fat, white hands appeared as 
 he leant against the central pillar of the restaurant. 
 
 And now Maurice was there too. Side by side 
 they disputed for her. Maurice troubled, with 
 tears in his eyes ; Safford still, massive as a 
 statue. 
 
 " Which loves her best 1 " cried the crowd. 
 
 " I do," nnswered his slow tones. He encircled 
 her cheeks with his hands, wliich were soft and 
 warm, and his bright, red lips kissed her softly on 
 the eyes. 
 
 26
 
 Trof/es 
 
 X 
 
 Abruptly, without effort, her eyes opened. And 
 immediately their gaze fell upon Safford. For an 
 instant, the impression of her dream remained 
 vivid; to see him there seemed natural. But before 
 the returning sense of reality, it faded quickly ; 
 bewilderment sweeping in, arrested all thought. 
 
 Astride of a chair, the broad expanse of his back 
 blocking the light, he sat, looking out of the win- 
 dow, apparently absorbed in the street below. 
 This unconcernedness alarmed her. 
 
 How did he come there ? 
 
 A minute or two slipped by, then he shifted 
 his chair, as if to rise. Her eyes shut hastily, 
 involuntarily ; she pretended to be asleep. He 
 came to her, so close that his breath played on 
 her cheek, but in spite of the loud throbbing of 
 her heart, she never stirred. He moved away : 
 his heavy tread sounded about the room. Then 
 silence. 
 
 Had he gone ? No, she would have heard the 
 
 27
 
 Wreckage 
 
 click of the door-handle. The darkness, the sus- 
 pense became intolerable, yet it was a full minute 
 before she couUl summon courage to reopen her 
 eyes. 
 
 Her gaze met his. 
 
 " I say, if I couldn't sham better than that, I 
 wouldn't try at all," and his broad teeth gleamed. 
 
 Somehow his voice calmed her. His self- 
 possession communicated itself to her, giving her 
 confidence. 
 
 " I wasn't shamming." 
 
 " I could see it." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Your eyes were trembling." 
 
 She smiled, almost frankly. 
 
 " Weren't you surprised to see me ? " 
 
 "Yes, no — I mean yes." 
 
 " Where's Radford ? " 
 
 "Maurice? He's gone." 
 
 " Gone ? Where ? " 
 
 " To Guildford." 
 
 "And you're here all alone?" 
 
 She nodded.
 
 Trojiles 
 
 A moment's pause — he thoughtfully jingling some 
 money in his trouser-pocket ; she, wondering that 
 he looked so much darker than he had done in 
 evening dress. 
 
 "When is he coming back ?" 
 
 " I'm not sure, either to-morrow night or Saturday 
 morning. 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " What did you do last night— after I went away .^" 
 
 " We went to the theatre." 
 
 "Did you like it?"' 
 
 "Yes, awfully." 
 
 " You're fond of the theatre ? " 
 
 " I've only been twice — in London at least." 
 
 " Would you like to go again to-night?" 
 
 " I couldn't." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "Maurice — I promised him." 
 
 " What a pity ! You'd have liked it." 
 
 " Yes, I should." 
 
 " Look here, it will be all right ; he won't mind, 
 
 he knows me well enough." And again the broad 
 
 teeth gleamed. 
 
 29
 
 Wreckage 
 " I don't know— perhaps 
 
 But as she spoke, his soft, warm hands encircled 
 her face, his bright, red lips kissed her on the eyes, 
 just as in her dream- 
 
 The blood rushed to her face, in hot gasps her 
 breath came and went, everything but Safford 
 swam in a mist and was gone ; impulsively she 
 lifted her burning face to his and murmured : 
 
 " Tell me that you love me. Then I'll come." 
 
 XI 
 
 Adrian Safford's chambers were sombre ; even on 
 this summer morning shadows lurked in the 
 corners of the lofty spacious room. There was no 
 window ; the light struggled in as best it could, 
 through a ground glass skylight. On the walls, 
 maroon-coloured hangings ; from the fireplace to 
 the ceiling reached a huge overmantel of black, 
 carved oak. The rich scent of a burning pastille 
 struck a note of sensuous mystery. It was all 
 curiously characteristic of the man. 
 
 Amid the dark tints, a single patch of colour — 
 30
 
 Trofiles 
 
 the white table-cloth on which an exquisitely 
 fresh breakfast was laid. Safford had just seated 
 himself before it, a scowl deepening the bronze 
 of his face. Yet he ate in a vigorous, business- 
 like way. His appetite was always splendidly 
 regular. 
 
 The girl asleep in the next room was the cause 
 of his scowl. 
 
 Something about the crispness of her hair ; 
 something about the modelling of her chin ; some- 
 thing in the questioning look that darted out from 
 the liquidness of her big eyes ; something — he 
 knew not what — had haunted him, ever since their 
 first meeting. A spark of caprice fanned into fitful 
 flame by the offensiveness of Radford's ill-concealed 
 pride of possession. 
 
 And so the day before yesterday he had gone to 
 the hotel. To find her alone was more than he 
 had hoped for, but directly he saw her lying asleep 
 on the sofa, he knew instinctively that she was his. 
 Women were so easy. 
 
 The rest had been the old story, only this time 
 more commonplace than ever — a dinner at the 
 
 31
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Cafe Royal, a box at the Empire, and back to his 
 chambers afterwards. And yet she was different 
 from the others ; she remained ; he kept her for 
 her mutinous freshness. 
 
 He had asked nothing about her relations with 
 Radford. He bad made a rule never to question 
 them about themselves ; the tedious monotony of 
 their stories bored him immensely. 
 
 It was she who, in her wilfulness, had blurted it 
 all out. He saw it coming and did his best to stop 
 her. But it was not to be. And when he heard 
 that she and Radford were to have been married in 
 a day or two, his feeling was one of pure disgust — 
 not disgust at her treachery, but disgust at the 
 blunder he had committed — blunder ahead of 
 which he foresaw a whole series of unpleasant 
 complications. 
 
 And in that instant he tired of her — her passion, 
 from being a thing to be toyed with complacently, 
 suddenly filled him with active dislike. The very 
 searching gaze which had amused him before now 
 seemed merely stupid. With the exasperation of 
 a trapped animal, he realised that she was one of 
 32
 
 Trofiies 
 
 the clinging sort, whose dismissal was generally 
 difficult, always disagreeable. 
 
 " Damn," he muttered, savagely biting the end of 
 a cigar. 
 
 XII 
 
 Safford, his huge frame stretched on two chairs, 
 from time to time carefully inserted the cigar 
 between his teeth. He smoked thoughtfully, 
 deliberately, yet the cigar had nearly burnt to an 
 end before Lilly ran in, with the fresh morning 
 bloom upon her. 
 
 " Why, how late ! Ten o'clock," she cried. " And 
 you've eaten nearly all the breakfast. For shame ! 
 I believe that's why you got up without waking 
 me." 
 
 " There's some left under the cover. Ring for 
 more if it's cold," he answered, without removing 
 the cigar from his mouth. 
 
 But she, in her radiant unconsciousness, did not 
 notice his gloom. 
 
 " Do come and cut this bread for me," she called 
 out presently, " it hurts my fingers, it's so awfully 
 c 33
 
 Wreckage 
 
 hard." He did as she asked ; then flicking the 
 ash from his cigar, stood looking down at her as 
 she ate. 
 
 " Sugar, please. I say, what shall we do to-day ? 
 It's so splendid out. I can't stop inside. Besides, 
 it's so stufty in here. Safford shifted his feet 
 uneasily. " I tell you what — I know. We'll go down 
 to Kingston and go on the river. It's awfully 
 jolly down there. I went once last summer." 
 
 "With Radford, I suppose?" 
 
 " Why, I believe you're jealous of him — yes, you 
 are, else you wouldn't look so solemn. Come, 
 aren't you ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 She rose, and both hands toying with the lapels 
 of his coat, said hurriedly : 
 
 " But I don't care for him — not a bit. He seems 
 like a stranger now. It seems months since I saw 
 him. I love you— oh ! I can never tell you how I 
 love you. I want to be with you always— you know 
 I do. Come kiss, kiss me agam like the first time." 
 Her voice, though rapid, had great earnestness in it. 
 
 With an impatient movement he repulsed her. 
 34
 
 Trofles 
 
 " You must go back this morning," he said, more 
 brutally than he had intended, but his exasperation 
 had got the better of him. " When I sent for your 
 things yesterday, they said he would return this 
 morning." 
 
 She stepped back, as if he had struck her ; the 
 light went out of her face ; her eyes blinked quickly 
 as she tried to grasp his meaning, her unuer-lip 
 began to twitch. 
 
 "You're joking! Oh! don't! Say it's a joke ! 
 You don't know how it hurts ! " 
 
 " No, I'm quite serious. Now be sensible and 
 listen. I should never have brought you here if 
 I'd known about you and him. You must go back 
 — at once." 
 
 " You really mean it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I mean it." 
 
 " Then you don't love me any more," she burst 
 out. " I don't beheve you ever did. It was only 
 just to amuse yourself that you brought me here. 
 You made me love you, and now that you've had 
 enough of me you want to send me back to him. 
 
 You " 
 
 35
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Unheeding, he went on slowly : 
 
 " Besides, I'm going away." 
 
 " It's a lie ! You only want to get rid of 
 
 me." 
 
 " Do as I tell you, and don't make a fuss." 
 There was an imperiousness in his voice that cowed 
 her. The passionate fierceness left her. " And if 
 you are careful," he went on, "it will be all right ; 
 not a soul knows where you've been. Very likely 
 he won't find out that you'\-e been away. And 
 even if he does, he's quite fool enough " — and 
 with a grim smile at the words that were rising to 
 his lips, he checked himself. 
 
 But she did not hear what he was saying. Like 
 some nightmare procession, the incidents in her 
 life since her departure from Guildford were passing 
 before her. 
 
 " I sha'n't tell any lies. I shall tell him straight 
 out," she said half to herself. 
 
 Impatiently he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "And then, when I've told him, I may come 
 back, mayn't I ? '' 
 
 "Comeback? Here?" 
 36
 
 Trofiles 
 
 " Yes, when it's all over with him. I mean when 
 he's gone away again.'' 
 
 " It's quite impossible. Just understand that.'' 
 
 " But what am I to do, then ? " It was the cry 
 of concentrated despair. 
 
 "You've got to do what I've told you. It will be 
 all right. I know what I'm talking about. If you 
 don't choose to — well, then, it's your lookout. You 
 can't come back here, that's certain. I'm going 
 away." 
 
 She was not looking at him ; her big eyes, wide- 
 open, were staring vacantly at something beyond. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " she said faintly, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Never mind. Nowhere where you can come." 
 
 " Oh ! for God's sake, don't send me away." 
 The vacant expression had given way to the fever- 
 ish pleading of her childish passion. " You will 
 kill me if you do. Can't you see how I love you. 
 There seems to be nothing else in the world for me 
 but you. Perhaps you think that I shall be in the 
 way. But I promise you that I will do whatever 
 you tell me ; I will be no trouble ; I will not speak 
 
 37
 
 Wreckage 
 
 to you if you do not want me to — I will do any- 
 thing." And down streamed the tears. 
 
 " Poor little devil," he muttered under his breath. 
 
 He drew her towards him and her frail body 
 shook convulsively on his chest. 
 
 " Lilly, dear, you must go, you really must. It's 
 for your own good. There are lots of reasons why 
 you must, that you don't uncierstand^you will soon 
 forget all about this. Now come, kiss me, and say 
 you will go quietly." 
 
 Her sobbing had ceased. His slow tones had 
 mastered her. 
 
 She looked up through her tears and nodded. 
 " I will go," she said through her teeth, "because 
 I can't help doing what you tell me. But I shall 
 come back." 
 
 So absorbing was his sense of relief that he did 
 not hear her last words. 
 
 " Make haste and get your hat. I'll see you into 
 a hansom. I'll get your things packed and sent 
 after you at once. And remember all that I told 
 you. You've only got to play your cards well, and 
 it will be all right." 
 38
 
 Trofiles 
 
 So fearful was he lest she should resent her sub- 
 mission, that the unnatural calm which had come 
 over her passed unnoticed. 
 
 XIII 
 
 " Lieutenant Radford has just come back ; he 
 was asking for you just now ma'am," said a waiter 
 as she mounted the staircase. 
 
 Pushing past him, she laid her hand on the door 
 of the room. As she did so, it opened suddenly 
 from within, and a man, whom she recognised as 
 the manager of the hotel, held it open for her to 
 pass. 
 
 Maurice was seated at the table, writing. 
 
 " Lilly," he cried as she entered. " Thank God'!" 
 
 Wildly he poured kisses on her hair and face 
 She submitted passively, quite white, her teeth set, 
 in her eyes a stony stare. 
 
 The first rush of emotion passed, he let her go. 
 
 " But where have you been ?" 
 
 She made no answer, only a dangerous light— 
 a light that boded mischief— suddenly animated 
 
 39
 
 Wreckage 
 
 her face. He was so different from him whom she 
 had just left. And, as she recalled Safiford's 
 massive frame and bronzed countenance, she found 
 herself looking at Maurice, critically, as at some 
 stranger, each detail of whose person was acutely 
 repulsive. But for him Safford would never have 
 sent her away. She hated him for it. 
 
 " Lilly, they tell me that you've been away since 
 Thursday. What have you been doing?" 
 
 She had expected anger ; but there was none in 
 his voice, only a tone of tender entreaty that made 
 her wince. An irresistible, evil desire to wound 
 him came to her. 
 
 " I've been with Adrian." 
 
 "Adrian.? Who? Safford?" 
 
 " Good God !" and as the truth dawned on him, 
 with a gradual, ugly contraction, his face turned a 
 greyish colour. 
 Sinking into a chair, heburied his head in hishands. 
 
 •Some minutes passed, but he did not stir. The 
 silence soon became intolerable to Lilly ; fiercely 
 she fidgeted with her glove, pulling at a button, 
 trying to wrench it off. 
 40
 
 Trofiles 
 
 At last she could bear it no longer. She spoke, 
 and as she did so, the sound of her own voice 
 startled her. 
 
 " Have you anything more to say to me ?" 
 
 He looked up, tears were in his eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " I'm going if you haven't anything more to 
 say." 
 
 " Going ? Where ? " 
 
 " Back. I only came to tell you." 
 
 In supreme unconsciousness of his suffering, she 
 spoke quite naturally, as if the matter was of no 
 consequence. 
 
 His lips moved, but he uttered no words, only a 
 choking, gurgling sound. 
 
 Again dropping his head in his hands, he sobbed 
 audibly. 
 
 The sobs rose, and fell regularly, harshly. It 
 was the first time that she had seen a man cry. 
 And an element of contempt entered into her 
 bitterness. 
 
 Then for one short moment she pitied him. 
 Vaguely, as one pities an animal in pain. 
 
 41
 
 Wreckage 
 
 She stepped forward, as if to say something, but 
 almost immediately the impulse died away. She 
 went quickly out through the door, closing it softly 
 behind her. 
 
 And Maurice, blinded by his grief, did not know 
 that she was gone. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Lilly was now alone. Maurice and she had 
 parted — probably for ever. And Safiford had dis- 
 appeared. They had told her at his chambers that 
 he was gone. At first she believed that they were 
 lying, and obstinately waited for him during long- 
 hours. But it was in vain. Then she searched for 
 him in the streets, wandering hither and thither in 
 the hope of meeting him. But amid the crowd 
 there were no signs of his massive frame. 
 
 So for several days. And then the seething 
 turmoil of the great city, ruthless in its never- 
 flagging lust, caught up the frailty of her helpless 
 beauty, and playing with it, marred it, mutilated it. 
 Like a flower, frost-bitten in the hour of its bud- 
 ding, she drooped and withered.
 
 'Profiles 
 
 Against the inevitable she made no continuous 
 resistance. How could she? Only for a while; 
 with the feeble struggles of a drowning creature she 
 clung to the memory of her great love for Safford, 
 and to every little thing that reminded her of it. 
 
 First, it was a dark-faced foreigner about Safiford's 
 build and height. He was kind to her — at least he 
 treated her with no selfish brutality— and listened 
 indulgently when she opened her heart to him. As 
 he listened she would feverishly strive to delude 
 herself into believing that he was the lover she had 
 lost. But even this consolation of self-deception 
 was denied her. 
 
 After a while, she somehow lost sight of him, and 
 then it was any one who by some detail of his 
 person recalled Safford to her— a drawling voice 
 heard one night in a restaurant ; two prickly eye- 
 brows caught sight of one night under a lamp-post 
 in Piccadilly ; a red and black necktie like the one 
 he wore the afternoon that he had come to the 
 hotel. 
 
 Fierce, fitful loves, prompted by curious twistings 
 of caprice, born to die within an hour or two. 
 
 43
 
 Wrecktige 
 
 She grew careless of her dress and of her person, 
 r.nd at last callous to all around her. She sunk 
 into the irretrievable morass of impersonal prosti- 
 tution. She ceased to live ; mechanically she 
 trudged on across the swamp-level of existence. 
 
 One evening, before starting out, as she dragged 
 through the ceremony of her toilet, wearily staring 
 in her glass, there flashed across her murky brain 
 a resemblance between her own wasted, discoloured 
 face, and the hard angularity of Aunt Lisbet's 
 features. 
 
 After that the recollections of her girlhood — 
 Aunt Lisbet, Maurice and even Safford faded into 
 the twilight of the past. With no common speed, 
 the end v/as drawing near. 
 
 XV 
 
 Pain beyond a certain degree of intensity ceases 
 to be pain. Thus it was with Maurice. In a state 
 of mental numbness he went back to Guildford. 
 His mind, stunned as it was, could only feebly 
 revolve about these words of Lilly's : " I'm going 
 44
 
 Trofiles 
 
 back to him. I only came to tell you." All else 
 was blurred ; this alone, and the vision of her 
 white, set face, and stony stare stood out distinct 
 and sharp. 
 
 It was many days before consciousness began to 
 return, before his thoughts, emerging from their 
 torpor, started to explore the extent of his pain. 
 
 But when the awakening came, with a morbid 
 craving for self-inflicted torture, he lingered over 
 every detail; starting from the very beginning, he 
 lived once again through the events of the last 
 three months. 
 
 Now and then, the memory of some happy day 
 they had spent together would come back so 
 vividly as to drive away the dull pain, but it was 
 only for an instant. With a quiver like that caused 
 by the turning of a knife in an old wound, he heard 
 the words ringing once more in his ears : " I'm 
 going back to him. I only came to tell you." 
 
 And yet, realising the grim hideousness of it, he 
 felt no resentment against her. 
 
 Of a sudden, an infinite pity for her filled him. 
 From that moment all was changed. His love for 
 
 45
 
 Wreckage 
 
 her, which had lived on in spite of it all, and the 
 new-born pity, each nourishing the other, lessened 
 the sense of his pain, lifting him above it. 
 
 For the first time the mechanism of her nature 
 was laid bare before him. He saw many things 
 that he had never heeded before, passing them 
 over as of no significance, things that now, with 
 cm'ious intuition, he understood. 
 
 And the exaltation of his love and of his pity 
 
 rose. 
 
 The tragedy was no longer his, but hers. It 
 was not his life that was spoilt, but hers. Pitilessly 
 he upbraided himself — to have left her in the hands 
 of a brute like Safford (the very thought of the 
 man's swarthy skin made his blood boil) — Lilly — 
 his Lilly — who was to have been his wife. How- 
 had he ever done it ? How contemptible, what a 
 weak creature he was I Poor little child ! 
 
 And the exaltation of his love and his pity rose 
 still higher. 
 
 Yes, he must save her. It was not too late. All 
 the fine elements in his nature forced their way to 
 the front in support of this resolve. 
 46
 
 Profiles 
 
 This resolve was the outcome of no blind im- 
 pulse ; he knew to the full the extent of the sacri- 
 fice he was about to make. His eyes were opened ; 
 he had counted the cost, but he never wavered. 
 
 On the contrary, the very sense of her unfitness to 
 be his wife only strengthened his determination to 
 do what was right. 
 
 XVI 
 
 A small servant-girl, slatternly in her dress, led 
 the way up some narrow stairs, and Maurice 
 stumbled once or twice, catching his feet in the 
 torn stair-carpet, which was colourless \\ ith dirt. 
 
 "This is the room," she said, and he followed 
 her in. 
 
 The first thing that struck him was its shameless 
 disorder — on the talkie, in the centre, a great litter 
 of old newspapers; some tattered, yellow-backed 
 novels ; a half-linished cup of tea, stale and greasy ; 
 the remains of a cake, with crumbs scattered on 
 the floor ; a packet of cigarettes, two almost empty 
 glasses. There were only three chairs, and on 
 each some article of clothing had been thrown, a 
 
 47
 
 Wreckage 
 
 bonnet, a petticoat, or a pair of stockings. On the 
 mantelpiece lay a bunch of withered roses, and 
 opposite the mantelpiece stretched a curtain which 
 evidently divided off the bedroom. 
 
 Presently a voice — her voice, just the same as in 
 the old days — called out from behind the curtain. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 " It's some one to see you," answered the servant- 
 girl. 
 
 "All right. I'll be out in a minute." 
 
 A sound of splashing water, and the strained 
 humming of a music-hall song. 
 
 " I say, who are you ? " she called out. 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " Speak up, don't be shy. You're Dick? Ned 
 Chalmers, then ? Eh ? Well, I give it up. Just 
 wait till I've brushed my hair a bit, and I'll come 
 and see for myself." 
 
 At each fresh word revealing the extent of her 
 downfall, he winced. 
 
 But his resolve was as strong as ever. 
 
 The curtain moved. In a gaudy, pink dressing- 
 gown, stained and torn, she stood before him. 
 48
 
 Profles 
 
 Lilly, and yet not Lilly — like, but different with a 
 difference that chilled him. 
 
 At the sight of him, her whole body stiffened in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Maurice ! " she gasped. 
 
 Face to face they stood, looking; into each other's 
 eyes, " Lilly," he heard himself saying at last, 
 " come away." He could find no other words, so 
 imperious was the desire to remove her imme- 
 diately out of these loathsome surroundings. 
 
 "Come away," he repeated, "away from all 
 this." 
 
 " Yes, it is rather messy," she assented, looking 
 round the room with a forced smile. " But I'll get 
 the girl to tidy up a bit. Sit down, chuck those 
 things on to the floor. How it took me aback seeing 
 you all of a sudden like that ! Fancy your finding me 
 out. I never expected to see you again. I thought 
 you had forgotten all about me." (.She spoke 
 hurriedly to conceal her agitation.) "Just look at 
 this table, did you ever see such a beastly mess ? 
 The people here never think of cleaning out the 
 
 49
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Lilly," he heard himself saying again, " you must 
 come away with me at once. You shall make a 
 fresh start with me. I will marry you, and together 
 we will forget all this awful time." 
 
 "You're quite serious?" she asked slowly. 
 " You want to marry me now — after all that has 
 happened?" 
 
 '• Yes," he answered steadily, yet with the abso- 
 lute futility of it quite clear before him. 
 
 " Well, you're more curious than I thought you 
 were," was all her reply. 
 
 " What have you been doing all this time ?" she 
 added presently. 
 
 " I've been back at Guildford. But you must 
 come away from here first. I can't talk things over 
 with you in this horrible place." 
 
 " All right, I'll come if you like. But it's no good." 
 
 "What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean about your marrying me. I could never 
 marry a man I didn't care for." 
 
 He took a full minute to grasp her meaning. 
 The possibility of this had never crossed his 
 mind. 
 5°
 
 Trofiies 
 
 "But you can't go on like this." He was so 
 staggered that words failed him. " Do you know 
 what the life you're leading means ? Don't you see 
 how it must all end? " 
 
 " Oh ! I know all that as well as you do. You 
 don't suppose I find it so extra pleasant, do you ? " 
 she burst out bitterly. " But they say it won't last 
 long ; that's one comfort. I'm done for, and the 
 sooner it's over the better." 
 
 Her voice was hard and reckless. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake don't talk like that." 
 
 "Look here," she interrupted almost fiercely. 
 " It's no good your going on about it. I could 
 never marry a man I didn't love. And I don't 
 love you. I thought I did once. But it was 
 all different then." 
 
 "Is there any one else then ? " 
 
 " Any one else," and there was a savageness in 
 her voice as she caught up his words. "They're 
 just a lot of beasts, the whole lot of them. And if 
 you go on talking about it you'll make me just mad 
 — yes, they're all beasts — I hate them— every one 
 of them, and the sooner it's all over the better.
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Have a cigarette, there's some on the table. For 
 God's sake do something, say something ; don't 
 stand staring at me like that— you've seen me 
 often enough. I'm a precious fright, I know. 
 But how's a girl to keep her looks in this liell of a 
 life ? " 
 
 " But it's not too late to mend it all." 
 
 " Oh ! don't go on saying that over and over 
 again. Just get the idea out of your head, once 
 and for all. That's my last word." 
 
 And he saw that she meant it. Somehow an 
 immense relief that it was not to be came to him 
 and struggled with his pity for her. 
 
 "At least give up this life. Here's some money. 
 Go away somewhere, where you can make a fresh 
 start." 
 
 She took the sovereigns from his hand, quickly, 
 with an angry movement as if to fling them on the 
 floor. But, instead, she poured them into a china 
 box on the mantelpiece. 
 
 " I'll see about it," she answered. 
 
 But he saw the deceit written on her face, 
 and he could bear the strain no longer. An 
 52
 
 Trofiks 
 
 irresistible longing to escape from the stifling- 
 atmosphere of the room, to be once more in the 
 street, swept over him. 
 
 And as he groped his way down the dirty stair- 
 case he felt physically sick. 
 
 XVII 
 
 The next day Maurice went back to her lodg- 
 ings. 
 
 She was gone, leaving no address behind. He 
 set to work to trace her, and found her at last, 
 late one rainy night, in the Charing Cross Road, 
 but slie passed by without recognising him. 
 
 And when he entreated her, she was sullenly 
 obdurate. 
 
 In despair he went back to \\\i regiment. 
 
 For some time more she was seen at intervals 
 in a little public-house at the back of Regent 
 Street. Then she disappeared. What had become 
 of her, no one knew and no one cared. 
 
 Maurice alone remembered her, but he never 
 saw her again. 
 
 53
 
 A CONFLICT OF EGOISMS 
 
 I 
 
 The sun must have gone down some time ago, for 
 the room was darkening rapidly. Still Oswald 
 Nowell went on writing, covering page after page 
 with a bold, irregular scrawl. .Since breakfast he 
 had been there, and large sheets of paper littered 
 the table and the floor around it. In front of him, 
 by the inkstand, was a plate filled with half-burnt 
 cigarettes. 
 
 Of a sudden he became aware that the light was 
 very bad ; so he laid down his pen, rose and paced 
 up and down impatiently, his canvas shirt un- 
 buttoned at the throat, his coat discoloured, and 
 worn quite threadbare at the elbows, his thin, 
 grey hair dishevelled as after a sleepless night ; his 
 eyes with the dull look of brain exhaustion in 
 them. 
 
 55
 
 Wreckage 
 
 For some moments he stood blinking thought- 
 fully down at the sheets on the floor, and passed his 
 fingers roughly across his forehead, and once more 
 sat down at the writing-table ; with the reckless 
 pluck of a blood-horse, struggling on for a few 
 minutes longer. But in vain. He was dead beat. 
 
 This was how he always worked — a brief spell 
 of magnificent effort following weeks of listless 
 idleness. 
 
 For twelve years he had been writing. la all, 
 he had published five novels and a volume of short 
 stories. The work was singularly unequal, now so 
 dreamy and vague as to be almost unintelligible, 
 now grand with largeness of handling and a power 
 of vision that lifted it at once into the front rank. 
 He had learnt nothing from modern methods, 
 neither French nor English ; he belonged to no 
 clique, he had no followers, he stood quite alone. 
 He knew nothing of the disputes that were raging 
 in the world of letters around him : when they told 
 him that a popular critic had set him up as a chief 
 of the idealist school, to do battle with an aggres- 
 sive and prosperous band of young realists, he 
 56
 
 ^ Confiict of Egoisms 
 
 puckered his eyebrows and smiled a faint, ex- 
 pressionless smile. For in reality, he had grown 
 accustomed to his own ignorance of what was 
 going on around him, and, when people talked to 
 him of such things, he never expected to under- 
 stand. And so, day by day, his indifference grew 
 more and more impregnable. His books achieved 
 a succes cVestime readily enough, but the figures of 
 their sale were quite mediocre : the last one, how- 
 ever, probably owing to his having been labelled 
 chief of a school, had run through several editions. 
 All by himself, in a quiet corner of Chelsea, he 
 lived, at the top of a pile of flats overlooking the 
 river. And each year the love of solitude had 
 grown stronger within him, so that now he 
 regularly spent the greater part of the day alone. 
 Not that he had not a considerable circle of 
 acquaintances ; but very few of them had he 
 admitted into his life ungrudgingly. This was not 
 from misanthropy, sound or morbid, but rather the 
 accumulated result of years of voluntary isolation. 
 People sometimes surmised that he must have had 
 some great love trouble in his youth from which he 
 
 57
 
 Wreckage 
 
 had never recovered. But it was not so. In the 
 interminable day-dreams, which had filled so many 
 hours of his life, no woman's image had ever long 
 occupied a place. It was the sex, abstract and 
 generalised, that appealed to him ; for he lived as 
 it were too far off to distinguish particular members. 
 In like manner, his whole view of human nature 
 was a generalised, abstract view : he saw no detail, 
 only the broad lights and shades. And, since he 
 started with no preconceived ideas or prejudices 
 concerning the people with whom he came in con- 
 tact, he accepted them as he found them, absolutely ; 
 and this, coupled with the effects of his solitary 
 habits, gave him a supreme tolerance — the 
 tolerance of indifference. This indifference lent a 
 background of strength to his artistic personahty. 
 It was for this reason perhaps, and also because 
 no one knew much about him, that every one 
 spoke of him with respect. 
 
 Just now his power of work was exhausted : 
 
 stretching himself on a sofa and shutting his eyes, 
 
 he loosened the tension which was causing his 
 
 brain to ache. His thoughts^ as if astonished at 
 
 S8
 
 t,/ Confiict of Egoisfns 
 
 their sudden liberation, for a minute or two flitted 
 about aimlessly ; then sank to rest as he fell into a 
 dull slumber. 
 
 II 
 
 Below, in a tiny sitting-room, daintily, but in- 
 expensively furnished, a woman, broad-shouldered 
 and large-limbed, was stirring a cup of tea, with 
 the unconstraint of habitual solitude. She sat 
 facing the light, which exposed the faint wrinkle- 
 marks about the eyes and mouth and made her 
 seem several years older than she probably was ; 
 and these, coupled with the absence of colour in 
 her cheeks, gave to the whole face a worn look, as 
 if the effort of living had for her been no slight one. 
 
 And so indeed it was. 
 
 Eight of the best years of her life had slipped 
 away in a hard-fought, all-absorbing struggle for 
 independence. At last, a year and a half ago, it 
 had come, and ever since, the emotional side of her 
 nature, hitherto cramped and undeveloped, had 
 been expanding with a passionateness tliat was 
 almost painful. 
 
 59
 
 fVreckage 
 
 Her childhood and her girlhood till she was 
 nineteen, had been spent with her father, who was 
 sub-editor of a halfpenny evening daily — a joyless, 
 homeless existence, moving from boarding-house 
 to boarding-house. Then one dirty November 
 evening brought the first turning-point in her life. 
 An omnibus knocked down her father as he was 
 crossing the Strand, and the wheels passed over 
 his chest. Death was quite instantaneous. Letty 
 gave way to no explosion of grief, only she uttered 
 a little gasp of horror at the sight of the distorted, 
 dead face. 
 
 She had never cared for her father, the outbreaks 
 of whose almost uncontrollable temper were the 
 only dark incidents that relieved the dreariness of 
 her colourless memories ; and she had never learnt 
 to pretend what she did not feel. 
 
 Old Stephen Moore, thriftless and dissolute all 
 his life, left behind him nothing but a month's 
 unpaid salary. 
 
 A couple of days after the funeral, she appeared 
 at the office, and doggedly demanded to be given 
 something to do. The manager peered suspiciously 
 60
 
 •A Conjlict of Egoisms 
 
 through his glasses at this gawky, overgrown girl 
 and put one or two questions to her. Her apparent 
 friendlessness and her determined spirit touched 
 him ; he promised to see what could be done. 
 
 The next day, and every day for the following 
 six years, she spent in and out of the narrow, grimy 
 building in Fleet Street, doing all manner of odd 
 jobs, carrying messages, copying and answering 
 letters, after awhile working up paraL;raphs and 
 even writing leaderettes. Into whatever she was 
 set to do, she threw her whole soul, always bright- 
 faced and quick of intelligence, always eager to 
 learn. And three or four times her salary was 
 raised. 
 
 Then the sub-editorship of a ladies weekly was 
 offered her. She accepted it eagerly, for, though 
 it meant but a little more money, there seemed 
 good prospect of promotion. Here, as before, 
 she was indefatigable. Two years later the editor 
 died ; the post was at once given to her. 
 
 The new sense of authority and of responsibility 
 was a source of great pleasure to her ; she liked to 
 recall the old Fleet Street days, when she was at 
 
 6i
 
 Wreckage 
 
 every one's beck and call, to remind herself that no 
 one had helped her, that her exertions alone had 
 done it all. This thought repeated itself constantly, 
 never failing to send through her a warm thrill of 
 self-satisfaction. Hitherto she had had no desire, 
 no interest outside her work ; in complete uncon- 
 sciousness of self, in complete ignorance of her own 
 emotional possibilities, she had lived on, day after 
 day. 
 
 Little by little, she began to realise herself in 
 her relation to the corner of the world in which she 
 mixed ; insensibly to compare herself with others ; 
 dimly to perceive that life had perhaps many things 
 in store for her, that were not included in the daily 
 routine of work. And this process of awakening, 
 once begun, proceeded with a curious rapidity. 
 
 Formerly she had always spent the couple of 
 hours between her dinner and bed-time typewriting 
 or doing other light work, making or mending her 
 own clothes. 
 
 Now the necessity for this was gone, and at first 
 she found the filling of the daily gap by no means 
 easy, for she had never learnt how to be idle. She 
 62
 
 e^ Conjiict of Egoisms 
 
 could, of course, hiive found plenty of \\oik for 
 herself in connection with the paper, but when she 
 thought of it, she became aware that somehow the 
 idea was distasteful. In reality an undefinable but 
 growing longing for something — what she knew 
 not — was unsettling her. 
 
 One evening the dinginess of her lodgings struck 
 her, and from that moment she took a violent 
 dislike to them. A week later she moved into the 
 rooms she now occupied, half-way up the pile of 
 flats overlooking the river. 
 
 The choosing of the furniture gave her a fortnight 
 of excitement, for she set about it, as she set about 
 everything, with an intense seriousness. 
 
 Next followed a period of restless arranging and 
 rearranging ; directly the dinner was cleared away, 
 hammering in nails and wrenching them out again, 
 pushing chairs and tables from one corner of the 
 room to another, the whole accompanied by pro- 
 tracted consultations with the newly engaged ser- 
 vant-girl. 
 
 Sometimes on her way back from the office, it 
 would occur to her that the looking-glass ought to 
 
 63
 
 Wreckage 
 
 be hung higher or lower, or that the table-cloth 
 on the square table would look better on the round 
 one ; hastening home, and without waiting to take 
 off her hat and gloves, she would at once try the 
 effect of the alteration. 
 
 And, when everything was done, the clean, new 
 chintzes, the stiff, white musHn curtains, the Japanese 
 fans, and the hundred and one other bright-coloured 
 knick-knacks on the walls, all, instead of delighting 
 her, as she had expected, made her feel awkward 
 and ill at ease. Her well-worn work-a-day'clothes 
 seemed out of place in this new interior, which 
 made their deficiencies appear all the more glaring. 
 In her daily work she had of necessity acquired a 
 considerable knowledge of the fashions, but to use 
 that knowledge for the adornment of herself had 
 never occurred to her before. 
 
 The new elegancies in her dress led her to self- 
 admiration, and to the delicious discovery of her 
 own beauty. It came one afternoon, through a 
 glimpse caught of the reflection of her own profile 
 in a shop window. She stopped, turned and passed 
 before itfive or six times, examining herself anxiously. 
 64
 
 •A Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 Then, as she walked on homewards, she found her- 
 self eagerly comparing her own appearance, which 
 remained clearly visualised, with that of the pas- 
 sers-by. 
 
 About this time, too, she became infected with a 
 passion for reading— chiefly inferior, sentimental 
 novels. A considerable number of these were sent 
 each week to the office for review. One afternoon, 
 when things were slack, she happened to open one 
 of these volumes that was lying on her table. 
 Before long her attention was absorbed, and, in the 
 evening, she carried the book home with her. All 
 through her dinner, and on till nearly twelve 
 o'clock, she pored over it, till the three volumes 
 were finished. 
 
 The habit, once set going, rapidly ate its way 
 into her life, so that, soon, she never sat down to a 
 meal without a novel before her. And directly 
 one book was finished, she would start on another ; 
 hence she remembered scarcely anything of what 
 they contained, but their incidents, piled up and 
 jumbled together in her mind, inflamed her imagi- 
 nation and brought en inexplicable fits of dissatis- 
 
 E 65
 
 Wreckage 
 
 faction and depression. Her thoughts took to 
 dwelhng on man's love ; vaguely she marvelled 
 that it had always been divorced from her life, that 
 no one had ever whispered softly to her, " Letty, 
 darling, I love you." 
 
 But surely one day, now that she was well 
 dressed and smart — yes, it seemed that it must be, 
 when she thought of the others, dull and ugly, who 
 were married. And the care with which she 
 dressed herself each morning was for the sake 
 of this unknown new-comer, for whom she was 
 waiting with vague expectation. 
 
 This evening however, as she sat over her half- 
 finished cup of tea, her expression — sensitive reflec- 
 tion of all that was passing in her mind — started 
 to fluctuate from radiancy to perplexity, from per- 
 plexity to despair, 
 
 III 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, " but may I 
 offer you half of my umbrella ? It's not quite so 
 bad now." 
 
 The shower had been a fierce one covering the 
 66
 
 •A Confict of Egoisms 
 
 roadway with a thick crop of rain spikes, tilling 
 the gutters with rushing rivulets of muddy water ; 
 now, through a rift in the ink-coloured clouds, the 
 sunlight was filtering feebly, and the swirl of the 
 downpour had subsided to a gentle patter. 
 
 Under a doorway they stood, side by side. 
 Having no umbrella, she had fled there for shelter, 
 when the shower had overtaken her on her way 
 home from the office. And as soon as she had re- 
 covered her breath, she saw that he was there too, 
 leaning against the wall, staring absently before him, 
 puffing at a short pipe, his hat pulled over his eyes, 
 his clothes hanging loosely about his large frame. 
 She knew him well by sight from having passed him 
 often on the stairs of the flat ; but they had never 
 exchanged a word. 
 
 When she had first learnt who he was, she had 
 bought his books, and had set about reading them, 
 not as she usually read, but attentively, almost re- 
 ligiously, because the fact that she was constantly 
 meeting him, and that he lived overhead, gave her 
 an almost personal interest in them. And hence, 
 
 though there was much in them that she did 
 
 67
 
 Wreckage 
 
 not understand, they remained distinct in her 
 memory. 
 
 She encouraged her servant to repeat to her all 
 sort of gossip about the inmates of the flats, and in 
 this way she learnt much concerning him. And all 
 that she so learnt, coupled with his picturesque 
 appearance, only set her imagination working the 
 more. So that, insensibly,, she slipped into the 
 habit of thinking a great deal about him. 
 
 As he spoke, she flushed under her veil, and en- 
 deavoured by an anxious scrutiny of the sky to dis- 
 guise her nervousness. 
 
 " Thank you," she answered. " Thank you very 
 inuch ; but I think it would be better to wait a 
 few. minutes longer. It looks, over there, as if 
 it were going to cjuite stop." 
 
 Two or three minutes passed. She was waiting 
 for him to speak ; but he said nothing. She was 
 growing angry with herself for not having gone with 
 him at once : the silence oppressed her. A dozen 
 different ways of breaking it passed through her 
 mind, but she rejected them all as soon as they 
 occurred to her. Why did he not say something 1 
 68 
 
 I
 
 Jt Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 She glanced at him— back in the listless attitude, 
 gazing vacantly across the street ; the sight of 
 this unconsciousness considerably relieved her em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 Presently he seemed to become aware that she 
 was looking at him ; rousing himself, he took the 
 pipe from his mouth and said : 
 
 " I think you should be getting home ; you ought 
 not to stand here in your wet clothes." He spoke 
 easily, with a quiet familiarity, as if he had known 
 lier for a long time. 
 
 They started out togetlier: quite slowly, for in 
 order to keep herself out of the rain, she was obliged 
 to accommodate herself to his pace. And as they 
 strolled along through the drizzle, he clumsily 
 pecked at her hat from time to time with the points 
 of his umbrella. .She longed to ask him to walk 
 quicker, or to let her hold the umbrella; but she 
 dared not, on account of his self-possession. He 
 was talking leisurely, questioning her about herself, 
 about her life, with a directness that would have 
 been presumptuous but for the half-disguised in- 
 difference of his tone. Then gradually the uncom- 
 
 69
 
 Wreckage 
 
 fortable edge of the strangeness wore off and his 
 calm communicated itself to her. 
 
 She was not listening attentively to what he was 
 saying; she was thinking about him as the author 
 of his books, vaguely wondering that he did not 
 talk as she had expected him to talk. 
 
 There was a pause ; he had done speaking and 
 she had nothing to answer. 
 
 Suddenly, almost with surprise, she found her- 
 self saying : 
 
 " I've read your books." And immediately she 
 felt a sense of relief flowing through her, as if the 
 weight of some heavy thing had been all at once 
 removed. 
 
 He started and answered with a change of 
 tone : 
 
 " Which ones ? " 
 
 "All of them." 
 
 For the first time he seemed embarrassed, un- 
 certain what to say. Surprised at his silence, she 
 looked, and saw that his lips were moving hesita- 
 tingly ; but he said nothing. Then a crash, just 
 beliind her— a heavy dray-horse fell, and lay help- 
 70
 
 »/ Confiict of Egoisfns 
 
 lessly floundering on the slimy pavement. They 
 turned and stood watching its vain efforts to rise. 
 
 " What a shame not to put down some sand ! " 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 But he answered : 
 
 " Did you like the last—' Kismet ' ? " 
 
 Smiling a little at the irrelevancy of his question, 
 she answered him at first with trite, meaningless 
 phrases ; but as she tried to explain how it had 
 affected her, she found herself talking as she had 
 never talked before, as it were inventing ideas that 
 sounded astonishingly clever and well expressed. 
 And, one after another, they rose to her lips. 
 
 She was unconsciously charmed by this new 
 pleasure of listening to her own talk ; oblivious of 
 all else, she walked on by his side, till the sight of 
 the familiar, red-brick doorway abruptly brought 
 back the sense of reality. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said hurriedly. " Thank you 
 so much. I hope," — she wanted to apologise for 
 her outburst of garrulity — she wanted to express 
 a hope that he would come to see her — to tea 
 sonie afternoon ; but somehow she did neither, and 
 
 71
 
 IVreckage 
 
 without finishing her sentence, mounted the stairs. 
 He waited till she was gone ; then fiUing his pipe 
 again, lit it, and went out slowly, his large figure 
 growing more and more indistinct as it receded 
 down the brown pavement. 
 
 The rain was over : the countless little streams 
 that trickled down the roadway gleamed yellow in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 IV 
 
 On the morrow, as Letty, hastening homewards, 
 approached the spot in the Strand where she had 
 met him yesterday, she became aware of a thrill of 
 expectation ; for she was half counting on seeing 
 him leaning against the doorway, his hat pulled over 
 his eyes, his short pipe in the corner of his mouth. 
 She even stopped and looked about her. lUit the 
 crowd flowed thick on the pavement ; there was 
 no sign of him. And, since he was not there, just 
 as she had imagined he would be, her expectation 
 died away, her thoughts drifting to other 
 things. 
 
 And so till she was home ; then, by tlie entrance 
 72
 
 v/ Conjiict of Egoisifis 
 
 to the flats, she caught sight of him — how she liked 
 the loose way his coat hung from his shoulders ! 
 
 " Won't you come up and have some tea ? " she 
 said nervously. 
 
 " Thank you," he answered, and they mounted 
 the stairs together. 
 
 She had been scheming the evening before, as 
 she lay awake in bed, how she should get him to 
 come to tea with her ; she had imagined him sitting 
 in her armchair, consulting her about his books, or 
 admiring her yellow silk curtains and the plush 
 hangings behind the door. But with their entry into 
 the room, a constraint seemed to come over both of 
 them. Without even glancing around him, he sat 
 down and drank his tea, awkwardly, obviously not 
 accustomed to holding his cup in his hand. And 
 when he spoke — and he said but little — it was with a 
 slight stammer that she had not noticed before. .She, 
 ton, was ill at case : it had been easy enough to talk 
 to him in the street, now she could think of nothing 
 to say. And more and more keenly she resented 
 her disappointment, growing quite indignant with 
 him because it was all so difterent from what she 
 
 73
 
 Wreckage 
 
 had expected. So that, when at last he rose to go 
 it was almost a relief, and her petulance was 
 scarcely concealed. And he, noticing her change 
 of manner, gave her a look half-puzzled, half- 
 pained. 
 
 ***** 
 
 During the week that followed, she met him 
 almost every day on her way home : each time it 
 was in the same, absent, almost casual manner that 
 he accosted her. But she knew that he came out 
 expressly to meet her. All day, as she went about 
 her work in her little room at the office, she would 
 look forward to the walk home by his side ; in the 
 evening she would sit, as it were, living every in- 
 cident of it over again. Beyond his books they had 
 found no common interest, so they talked of little 
 else ; but this alone seemed to her full of possibi- 
 lities, indefinable but endless. 
 
 One evening she was sorting a bundle of letters 
 she had brought home from the office, when her 
 servant opened the door and he walked in. 
 
 " I can't get on with that chapter ; I want to 
 talk to you," he said abruptly. 
 74
 
 J^ Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 She saw the yellow look on his face ; she 
 noticed, too, that his shirt was unbuttoned at the 
 throat, and that there were inkstains on his fingers ; 
 it was as if he had risen from his wriling-table and 
 had come straight down to her. 
 
 " I can't get on with it at all," he repeated, half 
 to himself. 
 
 There was something in this appeal which, out- 
 side her own personal feeling for him, went straight 
 to her heart, and put her quite at her ease. 
 
 He began to talk, walking up and down the room, 
 and, in a minute or two, she perceived that he had 
 forgotten all about her. For he was not talking to 
 her, but to himself, thinking aloud ; now blurting 
 cait headless, tailless phrases, now breaking 
 into long, rhythmical sentences which he recapitu- 
 lated and corrected as he went along. She was 
 listening, a little impatiently, waiting till he should 
 stop, anxious to turn the conversation. But when 
 nt last there was a pause, it seemed impossible for 
 her to break the silence with any other topic, so 
 impregnated did the very air of the room seem with 
 his words. 
 
 75
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " And after that, what happens ? " she asked, not 
 really wanting to know, but only to hear him speak 
 again. 
 
 He gave her a sudden glance, as if surprised that 
 she should ha^•e overheard him ; then, picking up 
 the thread of his thought, continued as before. 
 
 Presently he stopped al^uptly, just in front of 
 her. 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 She held out her hand : he took it in both of 
 his. 
 
 " Good night," he repeated absently, " things 
 are much clearer now.'' 
 
 "Then I have really helped you?" Her eyes 
 fell on her hand which he still held, and she flushed 
 a little, drawing it away. P>ut he never noticed her 
 movement : he was staring straight in front of 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, things are much clearer. I think I'll go 
 up and put them on paper. I'm afraid I've dis- 
 turbed you," he added, glancing at the papers on 
 the table. " It was good of you to listen to me 
 for so long." And with his hand on the door he 
 76
 
 jt Conflict of Egoiif/is 
 
 continued ; " It is all well marked out in my mind 
 now," 
 
 She stood listening to his footsteps, as they died 
 away up the staircase. Then glancing down at her 
 right hand, as it hung by her side, she flushed again, 
 more d'.eply this time, and moved almost impa- 
 tiently to tiie chair by the table. She took up the 
 paper again, but it was only for a minute or two. 
 The loneliness of the little room struck her : the 
 knick-knacks that brightened it irritated her, and 
 this for the first time. Her head sunk on her hands. 
 " I have really helped you ? " 
 " Yes, things are much clearer now." 
 The question, the answer, and the faint smile 
 which had accompanied it were repeating them- 
 selves in her mind over and over again. 
 
 ****** 
 
 How long she had been there she did not know, 
 for she was thinking of him, silting at his writing- 
 table upstairs, putting it all on paper as he had 
 said he would do. What was his room like, she 
 'wondered, for she had never seen it. Of a sudden 
 — a step — his step — coming down the stairs. In- 
 
 77
 
 JVreckage 
 
 stinctively she felt that he was coming back to her ; 
 so she rose and opened the door. Without a word 
 he walked in, she following him. So continuously 
 had she been thinking of him that the strangeness 
 of his proceeding never struck her : it seemed quite 
 natural that he should return. 
 
 "Well?" she said inquiringly, as he did not 
 speak. 
 
 " I've done it, it's all come splendidly. Thank 
 you, thank you." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " But I came down again because I want to ask 
 you something, Miss Moore." He spoke with the 
 slight stammer that she had noticed once already, 
 and he called her by her name, which sounded 
 strange, as if he had never done so before. 
 
 " Well ? what is it ? " 
 
 " Would you care to be my wife?'' He said it 
 quite easily. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, quite easily also, not real- 
 ising the situation, but knowing by instinct that 
 there was no other answer possible. 
 
 " I haven't much, only a few hundreds a year 
 78
 
 e// Cofiflict of Egoisf/is 
 
 about four or five I think. I don't suppose I spend 
 half of it myself. There will be enough for l^oth of 
 us." 
 
 At the sound of this bald statement of the prac- 
 tical side of the matter, she winced ; but almost 
 immediately, with a woman's quick intuition, she 
 saw that the words had not come naturally, that he 
 had only said them in a blundering endeavour to 
 rise to the situation. 
 
 " I don't see many people," he went on in the 
 same, clumsy way, " but I think it would help me 
 having you — with the work, I mean. Would you 
 really care to live with me ?" 
 
 " Yes." The word came back through her set 
 teeth with a little hissing sound. Her joy struggled 
 with the disappointment she could not help feeling 
 at the way he had said it, and the struggle hurt 
 her considerably. 
 
 He crossed the room and stood quite close to 
 her. 
 
 "May I kiss you?" 
 
 In answer she held up her face ; the light of the 
 lamp fell on it, and there was no colour in it. As 
 
 70
 
 Wreckage 
 
 he bent down, with a sudden movement she clasped 
 both arms round his neck and dragging his face 
 down to hers, said : 
 
 " You will love me, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 There was a silence painful to each of them. At 
 last with an evident effort he broke it. 
 
 " Good night once more." 
 
 But she had caught his hand and was holding it 
 tightly, looking anxiously into his face. 
 
 " Please,'' she whispered. 
 
 " I— I don't understand." 
 
 The blood rushed to her face. 
 
 " Please," she repeated under her breath. 
 
 He underslood ; and when he had kissed her, he 
 went slowly out. On the landing he stumbled 
 heavily over the mat, for the gas on the stairs had 
 been turned off. 
 
 Mechanically, in a state of unnatural passivity, 
 drifting on as if impelled by some invisible outside 
 force, she lived through the ne.\t few days. 
 So
 
 e/ Confict of Egoisms 
 
 Some great thing was about to happen to her, but 
 somehow she shrank from questioning herself con- 
 cerning it. Outwardly there was little change in 
 her daily life. She went down to the office as usual, 
 for to throw up her situation at a moment's notice 
 was impossible ; besides, she clung to the old life 
 instinctively ; partly because at the thought that 
 soon it would all be gone, a feeling of dismay, 
 almost of terror, would creep over her ; partly 
 because its daily routine enabled her to ignore her 
 own suppressed excitement. 
 
 She saw him a good deal oftener now, for every 
 evening he would come down and sit with her. He 
 no longer talked to her about his work since that 
 strange night, now far receded into the past, when 
 he had asked her to marry him ; all his fever for it 
 seemed to have passed away. And so, for the first 
 time, their conversation drifted to other things, to 
 the insignificant incidents of their daily existence. 
 Then came the first half- realisation of her ignorance 
 of him, which bewildered her. 
 
 For he was quite different now — so different that 
 at times on looking back over the old days she 
 
 F 8l
 
 wreckage 
 
 could scarcely believe that he was the same man. 
 The abrupt self-absorption had given way to a 
 simple kindliness, with a trustful look in his eyes, 
 which sent all her love for him leaping up within 
 her. He had no variation of mood, his easy 
 familiarity, at once gentle and respectful, was always 
 the same. 
 
 And, as for Letty, her feeling for him, sprung at 
 first out of her own overwrought sentimental ima- 
 gination, soon Ijegan to grow each day in strength 
 and richness. Into this newborn love for him her 
 whole being fused itself in impetuous rebellion 
 again the life of solitude which had cramped it for 
 so long. With a rapidity, that at first sight seemed 
 startling, she absorbed every detail concerning 
 him, till the whole perspective of her life veered 
 round, everything being subordinated to its rela- 
 tion to him. And all these new things accumu- 
 lated themselves within her, till their accumulation 
 was painful to endure. For through his easy kind- 
 liness of manner she soon divined his supreme 
 unconsciousness of all that the marriage meant to 
 her, and thus her yearning to bring herself at once 
 82
 
 e/ Confiict of Egoisms 
 
 quite close to him became anguish ; looming in front 
 of her, as it were, she began to dimly perceive the 
 barrier of his own personality, a barrier which was 
 the outcome of years of accumulated habit, and 
 which had grown so natural to him that he ignored 
 its very existence. Yet, following a common para- 
 dox of human nature, the further she felt herself 
 from him, the more she loved him. 
 
 As the days went by her listlessness concerning 
 practical details became almost wilful, so that he 
 was driven to making most of the arrangements 
 for the marriage, foreign though it all was to his 
 nature. Of course there was to be no ceremony ; 
 everything was to be as simple as possible. One 
 morning they were to walk together to the Regis- 
 trar's office in the King's Road — that was all ; and 
 there was no need to hunt for fresh lodgings, for 
 Oswald's flat contained two empty rooms. When 
 he suggested this as he sat with her one evening, 
 she assented without a word of comment. Next, 
 the matter of the moving up of her furniture arose. 
 
 "I should think it could all be done in a day,'' 
 he murmured, looking vaguely round the room. 
 
 83
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Yes, while we're away." 
 
 He looked up, puzzled. 
 
 " Away .'' " he repeated after her. 
 
 "Yes, we're going away, aren't we — for — for — 
 the honeymoon," and her voice quavered a little. 
 
 "Of course — of course," he answered hurriedly, 
 " but where ? " There was a despairing accent in 
 his voice, so dismayed was he at this new, unfore- 
 seen difficulty. 
 
 The comic side to it never struck her, only she 
 continued, staring vacantly before her : 
 
 " I should like to go where we could walk 
 together under tall pine trees, where the bracken 
 grows high and thick, where there are mossy banks 
 to rest oneself upon, and a little inn by the roadside 
 with a gabled roof" 
 
 " But I don't know where it is," he said blankly. 
 
 " Nor do I," she answered. " I must have read 
 about it in some book." 
 
 So they never left London ; but on the marriage 
 day, he took her down to Greenwich by steamer 
 instead. And to her that was all the honeymoon. 
 
 84
 
 <A Cofiflict of Egoisms 
 
 VI 
 
 'Ihe crowd, black and restless, swarmed aim- 
 lessly round the flaring kiosque, from whence rose 
 and fell the sensuous cadence of a Strauss waltz ; 
 behind, amid the tress, winked yellow and sea-green 
 lights, lending an air at once weird and fascinating ; 
 while beyond, the buildings of the Exhibition lifted 
 their fire-rimmed roofs. 
 
 Oswald and Letty were sitting a little apart from 
 the rest. Since they had come there, the band had 
 played, and ceased, and played and ceased again 
 several times ; but, as yet, neither of them had 
 spoken. At last, howevei^, Letty began, realising 
 as she spoke, the length of their silence. 
 
 " Look at the people. How silent and sad, all 
 of them ! Why is it ? Why is every one so sad 
 to-night ? " 
 
 But not a muscle of his face stirred ; he had not 
 heard her. 
 
 " Tell me, why is it ? Why is every one so sad 
 to-night?" she continued, a shrill note of exaspera- 
 tion in her voice. 
 
 8s
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Still his lips did not move, and she began 
 moodily to dig up the gravel with the point of her 
 umbrella. 
 
 After a pause, with perverse determination to 
 make him speak, she broke out again : 
 
 " I wonder if any of them are as unhappy as 
 I am." 
 
 This time at her words he started ; he did not 
 know to what she was referring, but the tone of her 
 voice made the anger rise within him. He resented 
 this unhappiness of hers which he saw she was 
 trying to force under his notice. And now he 
 remembered how soon after their marriage it had 
 begun — reproachful generalities, fits of inexplicable 
 irritability, of exacting affection, or of studied 
 coldness. They had been married several weeks ; 
 how many he scarcely knew, only the old life 
 seemed to have receded far, far into the past. 
 
 Since the night when he had asked her to marry 
 him he had done no work. There was nothing 
 strange in this, for in between the outbreaks of 
 work-fever, he had always been accustomed to 
 spend weeks without once putting pen to paper — 
 86
 
 i/1 Confiict of Egoisms 
 
 unbroken weeks of eventless peace, as it seemed to 
 him to-night. lUu now she was always there, wiih 
 her air of suppressed discontent, from which he 
 shrank, never meeting it openly, pretending to 
 ignore il. To arrive at an explanation of it he 
 never attempted. The ncessary effort, and a 
 vague dread of consec^uences were more than 
 sufficient to deter him. 
 
 It had been a strange thing this marriage of 
 his— a thing so sudden, so impulsive, that, as he 
 thought, he marvelled at it. This woman by his 
 side, her full-lipped mouth quivering with an 
 expression that he disliked— all at once, she 
 seemed no longer near him ; but, from a distance, 
 as it were, he was looking at her as one looks upon 
 a stranger — a stranger who had come into his life 
 and who was changing it all for him. 
 
 Back his thoughts drifted to his unfinished book, 
 and the craving for work returned, coming as a 
 great relief To-morrow morning he would start 
 again. There were passages, especially in the last 
 chapter, that sadly needed revision. Yes, to-night 
 he would begin. And, all at once, a whole muhi- 
 
 87
 
 Wreckage 
 
 tude of ideas, leaping up, chased one another 
 across his brain. Expressionless his eyes stared 
 out across the crowd, while a wonderful intuition 
 seemed for a moment to lay bare the whole secret 
 of his life. But it was for a moment only, gloriously 
 It all flitted past and was gone. 
 He rose. 
 
 " Shall we go home .^" Letty asked. There was 
 a note of penitent tenderness in her voice. 
 
 " Yes, I want to look over a manuscript. I'm 
 going to begin work again to-morrow morning. 
 Come, this is the shortest way. We can get a cab 
 at the entrance." 
 
 " Oh ! my Oswald," she exclaimed, " I ant glad. 
 You will talk it all over with me, just as you used 
 to do before, in the old days, won't you 1 That will 
 be splendid. And I will help you— ever so much. 
 Listen, I've thought of something. Do you re- 
 member how once you said to me that ideas came 
 to you in talking, but that when you tried to write 
 them down, they all slipped away? Well, you 
 shall talk to me, I will write it all down. I can 
 write quite quickly enough, I'm sure. I used to
 
 Jt Conjllct of Egoisms 
 
 take down articles like that years ago at the office, 
 when they were in a hurry. That will help you, 
 won't it ?" 
 
 They had left the gardens and were walking 
 rapidly down the main hall, she, her face lit up to 
 excited radiancy, he, preoccupied, frowning a 
 little. 
 
 VII 
 
 The next morning, when she awoke, he was 
 already dressed and gone. Should she slip on a 
 dressing-gown and go to him? Not just yet — 
 presently ; for she shrank from the reality that 
 awaited her. So she lay on in bed, and closing her 
 eyes, half asleep and half awake, dreamed that 
 they were together on a desert island and that he 
 was loving her in a new, wonderful way. After 
 awhile she awoke more completely, and she grew 
 restlessly curious to find out what he was doing. 
 
 Breakfast was ready in the little dining-room, 
 but only a single place was laid. 
 
 " Mr. Nowell's writing in his room, ma'am, and 
 
 89
 
 Wreckage 
 
 he said he shouldn't want no breakfast, and that he 
 mustn't be disturbed," explained the servant. 
 
 She sat down ; but beyond a cup of tea and half 
 a slice of dry toast, she could eat nothing. 
 
 A mental pain, dull at first, growing in intensity 
 as she brooded over it, was settling down upon her. 
 This was the first time that she had breakfasted 
 alone since their marriage : so he did not want her 
 — yet last night, when she had proposed that she 
 should help him- no, it struck her now that he had 
 made no movement of assent. And she had some- 
 how taken for granted that he would like it. How 
 happy the thought of it had made her. For a long 
 while as he slept heavily by her side, she had lain 
 awake thinking of it in a state of excited happiness. 
 "He mustn't be disturbed "—that was his mes- 
 sage. All at once, tumultuously, her wounded 
 pride rose within her. He did not want her — she, 
 who had loved him— ah ! how she had loved him. 
 There was nothing she would not have done for 
 him ; and he scorned it all— who was he to treat 
 her in this way ? She had thrown herself away on 
 him— he did not care for her, not a bit ; a dozen 
 
 yo
 
 . / Conjlict of Egoisms 
 
 small signs of his indifference occurred to her. 
 
 Why had he married her, then ? Oh ! why had he 
 
 made her love him, since he did not care for her ? 
 
 And in bitter, reckless desire for self-inflicted pain, 
 
 she strove to conjure up all the silly day-dreams she 
 
 had had about him. 
 
 Then, of a sudden, her mood changed. Her 
 
 love for him, pent up and unsatisfied, cried out in 
 
 anguish, " Oswald, Oswald," and big teardrops 
 
 rolled down her cheeks. " Come to me, my Oswald, 
 
 you are the whole world to me." Yes, she 
 
 would go to him and tell him all ; she would break 
 
 down this barrier that lay between them. But not 
 
 now. He was at work. She must not disturb 
 
 him. He would not like it. Perhaps he would 
 
 answer her crossly. And, with a rush, her pride 
 
 broke forth again, fiercer this time. Thus, while 
 
 the hands of the clock slipped round, they wrangled 
 
 together, her wounded pride and her wounded 
 
 love. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Mr. Nowell says you needn't wait lunch for 
 him, ma'am ; I've just taken him some coffee and 
 
 9^
 
 Wreckage 
 
 bread-and-butter, and he says he won't want any- 
 thing more till tea-time, ' 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Tea-time — so he meant to stop work at tea-time 
 — nearly four hours to wait. A quarter of an 
 hour of it she killed, trying' to cat some luncheon. 
 After this she fetched her bonnet and went out, 
 wandering disconsolately down the Embankment. 
 Unconsciously she took the way along which she 
 had walked so often with him. And her thoughts 
 were very bitter. 
 
 ***** 
 
 With Oswald hour after hour was slipping by — 
 only the scratching of the pen, and the tick-tick of 
 the clock. How good he felt, as two or three 
 times he leant back, stretching his arms, back to 
 the regular grind after the nerve-. xasperating 
 idleness of the past weeks I Then he would turn 
 to again. 
 
 As for Letty, her image never once crossed his 
 mind. Outside the work in which, with the ex- 
 hilaration of new-found freedom, he was revelling, 
 he had forgotten everything ; all things were alike, 
 92
 
 e/ Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 When he had finished, he strolled downstairs 
 and out into the street^ never looking to see what 
 she was doing. The summer evening was clear 
 and cool, the roadway glowed like a track of beaten 
 gold, and his brain, lazily drinking it all in, sank 
 into a delicious torpor. 
 
 ***** 
 
 About five o'clock he came in. Letty was already 
 drinking her tea; she had not waited for him. 
 She gave him no word of greeting ; only a look 
 expressive, as a woman alone can give. 
 
 But he noticed nothing ; he did not even re- 
 member that he had not spoken to her before that 
 day. 
 
 " It's been splendid," he broke out. " Splendid. 
 I feel a different man." 
 
 " Your tea is getting cold," she answered in icy 
 exasperation. 
 
 " I've written that last chapter from beginning to 
 end, and nearly finished another one,'' he went on, 
 taking up the cup, "there's a real rhythm about the 
 last three pages." 
 
 " The muffin is down by the fire." 
 
 93
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Look here," putting down his tea untasted, 
 " I'll just fetch them and read them." 
 
 In a minute he was back again, the manuscript 
 in his hand. 
 
 He walked up and down, trying the sound of the 
 sentences sometimes over and over again before 
 passing on to the next, or appealing to her as to 
 the justness of a word or continuing without wait- 
 ing for her verdict. 
 
 The scene in her own old little room underneath, 
 the evening that he had asked her to marry him, 
 came back to Letty. She felt that she could bear 
 it no longer, but, with a last effort, clenching her 
 teeth, she restrained herself. 
 
 When he had finished he turned to her : 
 " Well ? " 
 
 But there was no answer from the white, set 
 face. 
 
 "Come, say something," he went on almost 
 roughly. 
 
 Slowly her head began to droop, the lips pressed 
 tighter and tighter together, till they were quite 
 bloodless. Suddenly, burying her face in her 
 94
 
 J^ Confiict of Egoisms 
 
 hands, she burst into a passionate fit of 
 sobbing. 
 
 "What on earth's the matter with you?" he 
 exclaimed, making no attempt to conceal his 
 annoyance. 
 
 "Can't you see?" she burst out. "Are you as 
 heartless as that ? " 
 
 " Heartless ! What do you mean ? Whatever 
 do you want ? " 
 
 " Oh ! nothing," she answered in a hard voice, 
 and there the c nversation ended ; a few minutes 
 afterwards he went back to bis study. 
 
 VIII 
 
 After this, in grim serenity, a whole month 
 passed, while the breach Ijetween them steadily 
 widened. On Letty's part all signs of the smoul- 
 dering fire within her disappeared beneath a per- 
 manent attitude of chilly apathy. By a mutual, 
 tacit understanding neither spoke to the other, 
 beyond attempting now and then some forced 
 commonplace remai-k, when the tension of silence 
 
 95
 
 Wreckage 
 
 became especially intolerable. But even this pre- 
 tence of intercourse was rare, for, except during the 
 evening meal, they were never together. And, as 
 often as not, Letty would sit with an open book 
 before her plate, taking refuge in the old habit 
 of reading, which she had dropped since her 
 marriage. 
 
 All this while, the fever of creation was consuming 
 Oswald more rapidly than it had ever done before. 
 In a sort of blind recklessness, fostered, at first, to 
 a considerable extent by an instinctive striving to 
 forget the strain of the daily life w^ith Letty, he 
 would shut himiself up in his study every morning, 
 and struggle on till evening, with scarcely any food, 
 till his eyes throbbed and it seemed that endless 
 regiments of heavy soldiers were tramping across 
 his brain. When he had done, he would lie in his 
 armchair, a helpless prey to fits of depression, 
 inexplicable as it seemed to him, but which were in 
 reality the reaction that inevitably followed the 
 long hours of cerebral excitement. The effort 
 required to seat himself each morning at his writing- 
 table grew greater and greater, and the progress 
 96
 
 e// Confict of Egoisms 
 
 achieved was each clay less and less. His brain 
 under the continual, accumulated strain, became 
 impotent with exhaustion, and he would sit for 
 hours, feebly grappling with a single sentence. 
 
 Letty never appeared to observe that anything 
 was the matter with him ; she made no comment 
 when his appetite grew smaller and smaller. Only 
 once, as he furtively glanced across the table at 
 her, he perceived that she was scrutinising him 
 with a strange, searching look that he did not 
 understand. 
 
 And, with the acute sensitiveness of an over- 
 strained nervous system, he grew to hate this half- 
 hour face to face with her over the evening meal ; 
 in her presence he felt painfully uneasy, as if there 
 were hanging over his head a storm, which, at any 
 moment, might break and overwhelm him. So that 
 every time she began to speak to him, he was 
 conscious of a spasm of alarm ; and all through 
 the day, the dread of meeting her was present in 
 his mind. 
 
 One evening — he had been working later than 
 usual — when the servant came in to tell him that 
 c 97
 
 Wreckage 
 
 dinner was ready, and that Lctty had already 
 begun, he felt that he could bear it no longer. He 
 waited till the girl was gone back to the kitchen ; 
 then crept stealthily along the passage, took down 
 his hat from the peg behind the door, and hurried 
 out down the stairs, into the street. 
 
 from the river came a fresh breeze. Before he 
 had walked a dozen yards, his brain began to reel, 
 and a black mist floated before his eyes. He 
 clutched at a raihng to steady himself, and crawled 
 on to an eating-house round the corner. 
 
 The place was sordid-looking and far from cleanly, 
 and a hot smell of cooking pervaded it. Oswald 
 found his way to one of the narrow tables covered 
 with greasy and yellow oilcloth and sat down. 
 Presently a young man, in his shirt-sleeves, fetched 
 him from the counter at the far end a steaming 
 plateful of hot food. Oswald began to eat feebly, 
 glancing up at the door between each mouthful^ 
 Letty ! if she should come and find him out here ; 
 and he fancied she was standing before him, 
 beckoning to him to follow her. His fork slipped 
 from his hand. He was asleep over his food. 
 98
 
 e/ Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 He awoke with a start ; some one was shaking 
 him roughly by the shoulders. It was the young 
 man in his shirt-sleeves who had waited upon him. 
 The room was empty, and all the lights but one 
 had been extinguished. With a shiver, Oswald 
 rose and went home, slinking up the stairs of the 
 flats. All was dark ; Letty had gone to bed. For 
 the first time since their marriage, he unlocked 
 the door of the room where he had always slept in 
 the old days. And, fetching some blankets from a 
 cupboard, he arranged them, as best he could, on 
 the narrow bedstead. 
 
 So that now they were separated day and night, 
 
 The next day Letty expressed no surprise at his 
 behaviour, and that evening and each following 
 evening, he went out to the eating-house round the 
 corner, sitting there stupidly over his food, till the 
 young man in his shirt-sleeves turned out the 
 lights. 
 
 And as time went on the thought of death began 
 to haunt him till it became a constant obsession, 
 in the daytime, fascinated by it, he would lay down 
 his pen and sit brooding on it ; at night, he would 
 
 99
 
 Wreckage 
 
 lie tossing feverishly from side to side, with the 
 blackness that was awaiting ever before him. And 
 with the sickly light of the early morning, there 
 met him the early relief of having dragged on one 
 day nearer the end. 
 
 IX 
 
 " Don't go out this evening. I ask you to stay 
 in to dinner. I have a particular reason." 
 
 She was standing in the doorway of his study, 
 on her face a look of infinite pleading, strangely 
 out of harmony with the stiffness of her phrases. 
 
 All day he had been writing, squandering in a 
 sort of fierce delight the last desperate rally of his 
 brain, and now that he felt his strenj^th to be 
 running low, goading himself on wiih pitiless 
 obstinacy. 
 
 After she had spoken, there was silence, for he 
 could not immediately transfer his thoughts to what 
 she had said. When at last he did so, it was in 
 savage irritation that he answered : 
 
 " I can't — I don't know— I'm busy " 
 
 •x- * * * * 
 
 lOO
 
 e/ Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 An hour and a half later the servant came in 
 to tell him that his wife was waiting dinner for 
 him. The phase of irritability was gone. With 
 weary docility he collected the scattered sheets 
 of paper and followed her into the dining-room, the 
 manuscript in his hand. 
 
 He was unaware whether the expression with 
 which she greeted him was angry or pained, for he 
 never looked at her. Without a word he walked 
 straight to his place and sat down. Putting the 
 manuscript on his plate, he began mechanically 
 to turn over the pages. In a few minutes he 
 ceased, and leant back wearily in his chair. 
 ■X- * * -x- * 
 
 A long while, a short while, he knew not which, 
 and consciousness began to return. A white table 
 before him — a half finished pudding. He was 
 alone ; she had gone. The manuscript ! — surely he 
 had had it in front of him. Where is it ? — gone ! 
 He looked up, and the first thing that met his 
 glance was Letty, her face half turned away from 
 him, evidently unaware that he was awake, on her 
 lap the manuscript. Presently the crackling sound 
 
 lOI
 
 Wreckage 
 
 of crumbling paper, next, the harsh noise of tear- 
 ing ; she was tearing it, slowly, deliberately. Then, 
 again and again ; it was with a sort of frenzied 
 fierceness that she was tearing now, and the frag- 
 ments were fluttering on to the floor. She stood 
 upright, and quickly, without heeding him, went 
 past. 
 
 It was dead; she had killed it — this was the end. 
 He picked up some of the fragments, handling 
 them gently, tenderly ahnost. A wild look came 
 into his face : he followed her out of the room. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Softly he pushed the door open, and stood, in 
 hesitation, on the threshold. From below, through 
 the open window, came the rattle of wheels and an 
 instant after the distant wail of a steam-tug. The 
 room was almost dark, only the dim night-light 
 from outside. Yet he was quite familiar with its 
 arrangement, and this somehow astonished him a 
 little. Almost simultaneously two thoughts occurred 
 to him. That it was a long time since he had been 
 inside the room, and that he had slept there with 
 her many nights. Where was she ? Suddenly, 
 1 02
 
 Jt Conflict of Egoisms 
 
 quite close to him, so close that he shuddered, 
 the sound of heavy breathing. It was she. He 
 could see her huddled form, shapeless in the dark, 
 crouching by the bedside. The rumble of wheels 
 died away, the noise of her breathing grew in in- 
 tensity till it filled the whole room. 
 
 Holding his breath in dread lest she should 
 discover him, he peered through the obscurity at 
 her. By degrees he perceived that she was kneel- 
 ing with her head buried between her two arms, 
 whicii were stretched out straight on the bed in 
 front of her. Then, a queer muffled sound, break- 
 ing in upon the stillness — she was speaking, and his 
 fingers closed on the door handle. 
 
 " Oh God ! Merciful God ! Listen to me ; 
 hear me. Almighty God ! They say that Thou 
 helpest people who are in trouble. Surely it 
 cannot be much to Thee just to help me. Dear 
 God ! (heie she began to sob) I cannot bear 
 it any longer, indeed I cannot. Bring him back 
 to me, God, just for a moment. I wanted him. 
 Oh, how I wanted him ! And I will give up my 
 whole life to Thee. I swear it, my whole life shall 
 
 103
 
 Wreckage 
 
 be Thine. I have been wicked, very wicked in the 
 past. Give me this one thing, and I will do what- 
 ever Thou wishest. Almighty, merciful God, say 
 that Thou wilt help me ! " 
 
 For a while her sobs choked her utterance. 
 Oswald's fingers pressed tighter and tighter on the 
 door-handle. She broke out again : 
 
 " Oswald, my Oswald, come back to me. Oswald, 
 Oswald, my husband, speak to me — oh ! speak to 
 me, just one little word. What have I done that 
 you will not speak to me? What is it that has 
 taken you from me ? Oh ! I want you, I want your 
 love. Oswald, my Oswald, I cannot live without 
 it. Come back to me, come back to me. I can- 
 not bear it any longer. It is killing me. Oh ! it is 
 kilhng me. If only it could be." 
 
 104
 
 e/f Conflict of Egoisjfn 
 
 X 
 
 He stood in the middle of the suspension bridge, 
 peering down through the iron-work at the river. 
 
 A long fall through the air — the water black, 
 cold and slimy, the rush down his throat, the 
 fight for breath, to sink down, down at once, and 
 the yearning for the peace of cieath swept through 
 him. 
 
 Could he crawl through the iron-work? No, it 
 was too small. And some one might see him. He 
 must clamber over, quickly. As he looked round 
 him to see if he were obsen^ed, his eyes fell on a 
 heap of flints a few yards oiT, where the road was 
 under repair. He went up to it, and stooping down, 
 began, with the feeble slowness of an old man, to 
 fill his jiockets with the stones. Then he went back 
 to the bridge edge, and gripping the stanchions, 
 prepared to swing himself on to the top of them. 
 As he did so, a blackness filled his eyes ; a dull 
 thud ; his body dropped back on to the roadway — 
 dead. 
 
 105
 
 THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE 
 
 It was a chilly October night in a notorious "den" 
 beyond the water — since closed by the police. 
 
 Half a dozen gross gas-jets lit up the long, low 
 room, making a procession of queer-shaped shadows 
 dance restlessly about the walls : here and there, 
 dotted about, crudely coloured chromos of the 
 Queen, the Prince of Wales, and one or two half- 
 naked prize-fighters. 
 
 It was a Saturday night, so the place was quite 
 full — bargemen with grimy furrows across their 
 bronzed faces ; plenty of typical river casuals suck- 
 ing stumpy clay-pipes; in a corner a group of 
 pasty-f;\ced youths quarrelling over their greasy 
 cards ; and scattered about the room some river- 
 side prostitutes, their cheap finery all bedraggled 
 with mud. A veritable Babel rose from these dregs 
 
 107
 
 Wreckage 
 
 of a population — hoarse laughter, snatches of songs 
 and oaths. 
 
 It was hot, a foul, unhealthy heat ; the very walls 
 were sweating, and a bluish haze was filling the 
 room up to the blackened ceiling. 
 
 I was vainly looking about me for a seat, when a 
 mason, whose corduroys were still white with lime, 
 pulled my arm and motioned me to a place next 
 him, at the same time lifting the woman who was 
 occupying it on to his knees. 
 
 Then he began again to beat tlie table, with an 
 empty pewter-pot, to the refrain of a popular song. 
 At intervals he would stop, grin across at me, and 
 hug his companion. 
 
 She, too, was young : perhaps she had been 
 striking-looking once ; at least her eyes were still 
 fine, but the lips were shapeless, the voice was 
 hoarse and overpitched, and the complexion was 
 muddy-coloured. I was watching this typical 
 couple, when suddenly I heard a plaintive voice 
 behind me. 
 
 A girl stood there, death-white, with dark rings 
 round her eyes. The corners of her bloodless lips 
 
 io8
 
 The Struggle for Life 
 
 were quivering, as though she were in great 
 pain. 
 
 " Jack,' murmured the plaintive voice, " ain't yer 
 comin' back ? " 
 
 The mason looked across at her with drunken 
 solemnity, shrugged his shoulders, and put his arms 
 round the woman on his knees. 
 
 In one flash the eyes of the two women met ; of 
 a sudden the whole expression of the young girl's 
 face changed. Like wild beasts, they glared at each 
 other : the one, with all the e.xasperated fury of 
 interrupted appetite ; the other, with the instinctive 
 desperate hatred of a mother defending her 
 young. 
 
 She clutched at a pewter-pot as if to fling it in 
 her rival's face, but the impulse passed away, and 
 letting it fall listlessly, she turned again to the 
 mason and said in the same, plaintive voice : 
 
 "Jack, come along, do." 
 
 "'Ee knows when 'ee's well off, my dear," said 
 the prostitute, pursing up her heavy lips and offering 
 them to her companion. 
 
 " At least give us some money," went on the other, 
 
 109
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " the kids ain't touched a bit since morning, and 
 I've nothing." 
 
 The; mason, by this time exasperated, burst out, 
 bringing his fist down on the table : 
 
 " Go to hell ! " 
 
 "But baby '11 die, if she don't get something," 
 persisted the girl. 
 
 A hoarse laugh from the prostitute was all the reply. 
 
 This little scene was beginning to attract the 
 attention of the occupants of the surrounding 
 tables — the gambling group in the corner threw 
 down their cards at the prospect of a fight ; two 
 women opposite began to jeer. 
 
 Whiter than ever, the girl stood there, braving 
 them all ; then dropping her head, she ran out of 
 the room like a hunted animal. I had already left 
 my seat and was watching the scene from the 
 doorway. When the girl passed out, I followed 
 her, curious to see the end of it. 
 
 She hurried along, through the ill-lit streets till 
 she came to the river. 
 
 It was a starless night, but the full moon had 
 just risen from behind the thin, headless necks of
 
 The Struggle for Life 
 
 a cluster of chimneys which stood out black against 
 the lurid glow reflected by the lights of the city ; 
 across the river lay a ragged pathway of quiver- 
 ing, silver light. 
 
 There was an uncanny stillness about the spot. 
 The water flowed sluggishly, stealthily by ; not a 
 sitrn of life on board the black hulks moored to 
 the banks, only from the distance came the feverish 
 rumble of the great city. 
 
 A cab was crawling up, its yellow lamps gleam, 
 ing like the round eyes of some great night beetle ; 
 nearer, at the street corner, a policeman and a 
 woman stood talking. The girl, crossing the road, 
 made straight for the river; and the policeman 
 turned to follow her. She stopped \\ hen she came 
 to the edge, for she saw the policeman was close 
 behind her; leaning against the parapet she 
 stared down at the water, her head between her 
 hands, 
 
 I passed close by her. The moonlight made 
 her pinched face seem whiter than ever, the tears 
 were dripping on to the pavement. I sat down on 
 a bench a few yards off and waited.
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Presently, the small, black figure of a man came 
 slinking along under the wall. When he saw the 
 girl leaning over the parapet, he stopped and went 
 slowly up to her. 
 
 He passed behind her, turned, and passed again. 
 She had not stirred. He was now standing by her 
 side, examining her from head to foot, cynically, as 
 a horse-dealer examines a horse. Presently he put 
 his hand on her arm and spoke to her. 
 
 I could not hear what they were saying; but I 
 saw the girl shake her head several times, while 
 the other seemed to be speaking very fast. 
 
 After a while, they moved away together, and as 
 they passed in front of the bench were I was sitting, 
 I heard her saying in a broken voice : 
 
 " Half a crown then, and I can go home in an 
 hour." 
 
 112
 
 DISSOLVING VIEW 
 
 In a low, roomy armchair, pufifing gently at a long- 
 stemmed pipe, Vivian Marston was listening to the 
 wail of the wind as it swept fitfully down the street, 
 complacently pitying the wretches who, cut by its 
 blast, were shivering outside, this bleak November 
 evening. Slowly his eyes travelled round the 
 luxuriously furnished room, every detail of which 
 reminded him of his own cosiness, and he became 
 conscious of a vague glow of internal satisfaction. 
 Resting his feet on the fender-bar, he began to 
 think of himself. 
 
 Leisurely he recapitulated all that conduced to 
 his self-satisfaction. His silky hair, which one 
 woman had liked to stroke ; his large, grey eyes, 
 " expressive," another had called them ; his money 
 it pleased him to remember that he was rich, 
 richer even than most rich people ; next, how his 
 H 113
 
 Wreckage 
 
 new hunter, thanks to the excellent line he had 
 taken, had shown the whole field the way on 
 Saturday, and how, last week, he had crumpled up 
 pheasant after pheasant in a tearing wind, when 
 the others couldn't touch them ; last, of Gwynnie, 
 the biggest triumph of all, Gwynnie, his Gwynnie, 
 whom he was going to marry in the spring. And 
 before him defiled, in a grotesque procession, all 
 the men who wanted to marry her ; each one, as 
 he passed, looking up in jealous admiration. 
 
 From Gwynnie, his thoughts wandered to the 
 others to whom he had made love before her. 
 And a gentle, sentimental melancholy, which was 
 delicious, stole over him. The images of most of 
 them were blurred, half-efifaced by time ; one alone 
 remained clear-cut. Many weeks it was since he 
 had thought of her, for there was nothing in his 
 life now to remind him of her. She was only a 
 little chorus-girl, yellow-eyed and freckled, with a 
 cracked voice that grated on the ear. He wondered, 
 looking back over it all, what had been the link 
 between them. Perhaps her splendid masses of 
 hair, dark chestnut shot with gold ; perhaps her 
 114
 
 Dissolving View 
 
 quaint, clinging winsomeness. Towards the end 
 she had grown capricious and fretful, and he had 
 tired considerably of her ; but that he did not 
 remember. Only he heard once again the small 
 imperfect voice raised in anger, as they stood 
 together the last evening in the narrow, theatre 
 corridor, with the single gas jet flaring behind. 
 The next day she was gone, with a Frenchman who 
 played third fiddle in the orchestra, so they said. 
 And Vivian, the first moment of pique over, forgot 
 her. With curious ease she dropped out of his 
 life. At the end of a week the gap she had left 
 was scarce perceptible. All that happened ten 
 months ago. 
 
 He unlocked a drawer in the writing-table, and 
 took from it a packet of letters— ten or perhaps a 
 dozen in all, and three of them much longer than 
 the rest. These last she had written in the autumn 
 when he was away in the Mediterranean yachting. 
 One after the other he read them, and, as he did 
 so, a curious uncomfortable feeling crept over him. 
 The vision of the thick, rich hair, encircling the 
 yellow eyes, and little freckled face, seemed to 
 
 115
 
 Wreckage 
 
 change, charged with new meaning. Between the 
 Hnes he began to read all that the mis-spelt scrawl- 
 ings on these cheap, shiny half-sheets of note-paper 
 had meant for her. He remembered how their 
 illegibility had used to amuse him, and he was 
 puzzled that he had not understood them then as 
 he did now. There was one, worse written than 
 the others, full of reproaches, that she had not seen 
 him for three days. After that he read no more, 
 but impatiently threw the packet into the blazing 
 grate. 
 
 He lit another pipe, and for some little time 
 more sat on exasperated, trying to force his thoughts 
 into another channel. 
 
 ■X- * ■X- * * 
 
 96 Paxton Street, W.C. 
 Sunday. 
 
 " Dear Viv, 
 
 " i am very ill the Dr says i shall get 
 better but it is not true, i have got a little boy he 
 was born last tusday you are his farther so you 
 will see to him when i am ded will you not dear 
 Viv. Louis is gone to Parris he was mad because 
 116
 
 'Dissolving Viezv 
 
 of the child. Viv dear for the sake of old times 
 com and see me gest once it is not a grand place 
 were i am but I do long to see your dear face 
 again. Plese Viv forgiv me for going of with Louis 
 but i thought you did not care for me anny more 
 and it made me mad i am sending this to the old 
 adress i hope you will get it alright. 
 
 " Your loving 
 
 " Kit." 
 
 Motionless, he was staring at the sheet of paper 
 in his hand. He could not think ; stunned, his 
 brain refused to function. Thus a whole minute 
 passed. At last, mechanically, he picked up the 
 envelope which was lying on the breakfast-table. 
 He turned it over, absently at first, but, with re- 
 turning consciousness, he noticed that there were 
 two addresses on it ; it must have been forwarded 
 from his old lodgings, and, looking closer, he saw 
 that one of the postmarks was nearly a month old. 
 Once more he read the letter through, then again, 
 and then a third time. Gradually a dizzy faintness 
 and a sickening feeling in his stomach came over 
 
 117
 
 Wreckage 
 
 him. The air seemed close and stifling, but he 
 had not the strength to cross the room to open the 
 window. He sat down feebly by the fire, and, as 
 he did so, he became aware that his hands were 
 clammy with perspiration. 
 
 A moment or two and it passed. His thoughts 
 were liberated ; he was able to think again. 
 
 Kit was dying ; by this time perhaps dead. Kit 
 dead — stiff and cold between white sheets, lying 
 flat all but her feet, which, upright, projected at 
 the foot of the bed, her face expressionless, the 
 freckles yellower than ever against the death- 
 pale skin. And the child? He felt a thrill of 
 exasperation against the useless, unwanted child. 
 
 But it was his child — then it was he who 
 
 Suddenly the door opened. He started, every 
 nerve in his body tingling. It was the servant 
 bringing in his breakfast. The man set down the 
 shining covers and steaming cofifee-urn, while 
 Vivian, half-dazed, watched him curiously, for 
 there seemed something strangely unreal about 
 his unconcernedness. 
 
 At last he moved towards the door. 
 ii8
 
 ^Dissolving Viezv 
 
 " Get me a cab," said Vivian, huskily. Tiien 
 perceiving the astonished look on the man's face, 
 he added hurriedly : 
 
 " I have to go out — at once — important business." 
 * * * * -Jf 
 
 As the hansom rolled along, Vivian's thoughts 
 rushed back over the past. Incident after incident 
 crowded up in his memory, and this hideous sequel 
 to his love for Kit gave to each a new, ugly signi- 
 ficance. It was the culmination towards which all 
 the rest pointed. The cab shot past an omnibus 
 lumbering city-ward, and he found himself marvel- 
 ling at the difference between the people seated in- 
 side it and him. Surely they had never had things 
 like this in their lives. And his thoughts wridied 
 under the increasing pain — then, a quick twinge of 
 hunger, reminding him that he had had no break- 
 fast. Back came the object of his journey. He was 
 going to see Kit. It was as if he and she had never 
 had anything in common, as if he only knew of her 
 by hearsay — but somehow, slie and her child had 
 spoilt everything for him. And he understood how 
 he hated going, how he shrunk from bringing her 
 
 119
 
 Wreckage 
 
 back into his life. But for the irresistible force in- 
 side him, urging him forward, he would have turned 
 homeward again. Gwynnie, how could he marry 
 her after this ? Strange that he felt no anger against 
 Kit, for having come between them, only he won- 
 dered vaguely if it would be easy to get rid of her. 
 But perhaps she was dead— oh ! to know for 
 certain that it was so ; and the sense of relief, 
 which he knew to be a delusion, was so keen 
 that it hurt him. But the child ?— the child— that 
 would live on. They always did. Gloomily, inco- 
 herently, he brooded over what was to be done 
 with it. 
 
 The cab turned into a side street, scattering some 
 squalid children from off the narrow, asphalted road. 
 There was an untidiness about the neighbourhood, 
 an untidiness that was almost indecent, the untidi- 
 ness of a bed that has been slept in. Here and 
 there, in the doorway^-, lounged slatternly women 
 in dirty, colourless petticoats. As the cab passed 
 they looked up, and under their gaze, Vivian 
 winced. All the repulsive features of the neigh- 
 bourhood stared him brutally in the face. Surely
 
 dissolving View 
 
 it must be close now ? Here ? The hansom pulled 
 up before a dingy Italian restaurant : the driver 
 was asking the way of some men smoking 
 cigarettes before the door. They were foreigners, 
 and answered him, all speaking at once, with ges- 
 tures. A spasm of impotent rage passed over 
 Vivian : he could almost have struck them. The 
 cab moved slowly along: then stopped again at 
 the end of the street. Vivian got out. 
 
 He knocked, and, before the narrow seedy- 
 looking door, stood waiting. His excitement made 
 his teeth chatter as with cold. This annoyed him, 
 and, in the struggle to divert his thoughts, he 
 forced himself to take stock of the house. There 
 was nothing peculiar about it ; its sordidness was 
 neither greater nor less than that of those next to it 
 or opposite to it. Only across the ground-floor 
 window there stretched a card bearing the words 
 " Apartments." 
 
 Kit was inside this house : perhaps in the very 
 room into which he could almost see from the door- 
 step. He imagined himself arguing with her, per- 
 suading her, reminding her of the old days, giving
 
 JVreckage 
 
 her money — a large sum of money, the loss of 
 which he would not feel — enough to make her and 
 the child comfortable for life— doing anything and 
 everything to get her to go away at once, to some 
 spot where he would never even hear of her again. 
 Surely she would agree to that. It would be for 
 her own benefit, quite as much as for his. Yes, 
 after all, he would be doing the handsome thing by 
 her, and for an instant, he deluded himself into a 
 glimmer of self-satisfaction. 
 
 The sound of a voice, breaking the train of his 
 thoughts — in the area below a grimy woman, her 
 sleeves rolled back over her red arms. 
 
 "Well, what d'yer want?" she asked, defiantly. 
 
 " I want to see Miss Gilston." 
 
 "Thur ain't no Miss Gilston livin' 'ere," she 
 called back fiercely, evidently angry at having been 
 disturbed for nothing. She prepared to re-enter 
 the house. 
 
 "But," Vivian went on, "didn't she — about a 
 month ago." 
 
 " No, I tell yer, I ain't 'ad no Miss Gilston 'ere. 
 Thur was a Mrs. Marston" — at the sound of his
 
 'Dissolving Viezv 
 
 own name shouted up through the area railings, 
 Vivian's hands clenched and instinctively he 
 glanced up the street to see if any one was within 
 ear-shot — "a few weeks back, but she was took ill 
 with a baby, and she died, poor soul.'' 
 
 Mrs. Marston — his name — she had taken it then, 
 — and his head began to swim a little — but she 
 was dead — dead — gone— dead ! 
 
 " What's become of the child ? " he heard himself 
 asking. The sound of his own voice startled him, 
 for he did not recognise it. 
 
 "The baby died along with 'er," shouted the 
 woman. "She didn't leave a blessed sixpence 
 behind 'er. Two week and a arf rent she owed 
 me, besides 'er food, all sorts of dehctasses I used 
 to git for 'er." Then with a change of tone, perhaps 
 desirous of a gossip, perhaps struck by Vivian's 
 prosperous appearance, "Jest wait a minute. I'll 
 come up and tell yer all about it." 
 
 He was leaning against the area railings, scarcely 
 hearing what she was saying, conscious only of the 
 immense relief that was creeping over him. The 
 child dead too. Both of them gone for ever. He 
 
 123
 
 Wreckage 
 
 became aware that the high-pitched voice had 
 ceased ; the woman had left the area. And he 
 looked feebly around for her, the iranotonous 
 squalor of the close-packed, brown-brick houses 
 hurt him more than before — oh ! to get out of it, 
 away from it, quickly, at once. Kit — it was as if 
 she had never existed. It was like an episode in 
 another man's life. 
 
 With a sudden, imperious mipulse, he left the 
 doorstep and walked rapidly away down the 
 street. 
 
 Twenty minutes later he was seated before his 
 breakfast-table, eating voraciously ; for the morning 
 excursion had given him a splendid appetite. 
 * -x- * * * 
 
 A month afterwards, Gwynnie and he were 
 married. It was a smart wedding. There was a 
 fashionable crowd, and the couple started to spend 
 their honeymoon in Italy. 
 
 124
 
 A DEAD WOMAN 
 
 I 
 
 "Mary, two bitters and a small Scotch to the 
 Commercial Room, and a large Irish for Mr. Hays 
 here." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Rushout," answered the girl, measur- 
 ing out the spirit and swinging down the silver- 
 knobbed handles. 
 
 Then she whisked herself out of the room, and 
 the two men were alone. Neither spoke, but their 
 silence evidently resulted from no constraint ; it Avas 
 quite natural that each should be all content with 
 his own thoughts. 
 
 There was no mistaking the dejection of Rushout, 
 the landlord. His corpulent and unwieldy frame 
 lay inert ; the features of his smooth, congested 
 face hung limp in gloomy abstraction. 
 
 Opposite him, stiffly upright on the edge of his 
 chair, sat Jonathan Hays, bony and gaunt in his 
 
 125
 
 Wreckage 
 
 rough frieze coat, corduroy leggings and iron-bound 
 boots, while his bushy, red hair and untrimmed 
 beard added not a little to the uncouthness of his 
 appearance. 
 
 One end of the room gave on to the entrance of 
 the inn, through a window, across which stretched 
 the broad, brown shelf that did duty for the bar. 
 On either side of this opening were ranged row 
 upon row of glasses, of all shapes and sizes, and all 
 along the edges of the shelves were suspended 
 glistening pewter mugs. Sporting prints, a rack- 
 full of walkingsticks and hunting crops, a large 
 coloured almanack, some pictures of fattened sheep 
 and cattle, illustrating the results of using certain 
 artificial foods, adorned the rest of the room. In 
 the grate glowed a lavish fire, before which a cat lay 
 curled. 
 
 "Are ye takin' nothin' yeself?" asked Jonathan, 
 as he filled up his glass from the water-bottle. 
 " Have a drop o' port : it'll cheer ye, maybe." 
 
 Rushout made a faint sign of dissent. 
 
 " Ye're for a smoke then," persisted the other, 
 producing a battered tin box, half full of tobacco. 
 126
 
 tA Dead Woman 
 
 " Nay, I've lost all inclination for't." 
 
 The farmer pulled out a blackened pipe and filled 
 it with slow precision. He had all but finished 
 when there burst down the passage a strident gufiaw 
 of laughter. 
 
 "That'll be Mike, I'll swear." 
 
 "Ay," Rushout replied listlessly. 
 
 "How's t' house doing, Richard?" asked 
 Jonathan. 
 
 " Middlin'." 
 
 The other drank and sucked his moustache 
 appreciatively. 
 
 "Jonathan," Rushout began. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " It'll be a twelvemonth to-day." 
 
 "Ay, sure, that it be," and he started all at once 
 to puff vigorously at his pipe. " Ay, jest a twelve- 
 month. Lord, how time flies ! It don't seem as it 
 was last back end, do it ? Ye'U best be soon look- 
 ing about ye, Richard. T' house can never prosper 
 while there be no missus, and jest look at that 
 broomstick woman ye've got now is sufficient lo 
 drive even Mike over the way. I tell ye mnn, ye'U 
 
 127
 
 Wreckage 
 
 have to bestir yeself," he continued, raising his 
 voice as he saw that his words had produced no 
 effect on the other's apathy, " the custom '11 go to 
 pieces, right off, mark my words." 
 
 And, with an air of profound conviction, he re- 
 peated, " Mark my words, Richard." 
 
 "Jonathan," said Rushout presently, " I'm partin' 
 with the white mare." 
 
 " What ?— not " 
 
 " Ay, Iicr mare. She be jest spoilin' herself in 
 stable and I can't abide drivin' her myself." 
 
 "Who's for buy in' her.?" 
 
 "Dr. Wilkinson. He was in this mornin' about 
 her." 
 
 " What're ye askin' ? " 
 
 " Forty-five." 
 
 Once more they both relapsed into silence. It 
 was again Rushout who spoke first. 
 
 "Jonathan, it's a twelvemonth to-day. I'm goin' 
 to drink to her soul." He drained the wineglass to 
 the dregs and set it down again with almost reverent 
 precaution. The other stared at him in stolid 
 astonishment ; then mutely iMised his glass to his
 
 t-f 'Dead Woman 
 
 lips and did likewise. The glances of the two men 
 met, and parted again hastily. It was as if the one 
 had detected the other in some secret deed. The 
 pubHcan obstinately examined the fire ; the farmer 
 toyed with his glass, rinsing the spirit round and 
 round. 
 
 " Did ye part with them ewes .'"' asked Rushout. 
 He was obviously struggling to appear uncon- 
 cerned ; but the huskiness of his utterances be- 
 lied the effort. 
 
 "Every one of them. 'Twas a good job too; 
 they were always a troublesome lot." 
 
 "Jonathan, do ye believe in ghosts ?" A shout 
 of laughter from down the passage followed nnme- 
 diately on the question which was delivered in 
 impressive solemnity. 
 
 The farmer took time before answering : the 
 matter was too serious to be settled off-hand, 
 
 " I don't know but what 1 should, if I se'ed one," 
 he said at last. 
 
 " It'll be near eleven likely ? " 
 
 " It wants half an hour." 
 
 " I believe she'll come to-night." 
 
 I 129
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Jonathan started violently ; his clay pipe fell to 
 the floor, smashing into a dozen pieces. 
 
 " Ye're a fool, Richard," he exclaimed, stooping 
 forward and ruefully picking up the fragments. 
 
 " Ye never knew her when that likeness was 
 taken," Rushout continued, pointing to a photograph 
 surrounded by a deep black border, which hung on 
 the wall. "I had it done jest after we were married. 
 It's simply magnificent. That was when we kept 
 the ' King's Head ' at Dewston. She 7vns a beauty 
 in them days. Why the whole place was jest wild 
 about her. And we'd ha' been married thirteen 
 years come Martinmas. God ! it do take the life 
 out of a man ! " he concluded. His speech had 
 grown thick, and the gurgle of a stifled sob sounded 
 through the room. 
 
 Jonathan was engaged in fitting together the frag- 
 ments of his broken pipe. Gradually his fingers 
 stiffened, his eyebrows contracted, a sullen look 
 swept over his face. He never raised his eyes but 
 kept them fixed on his fingers. Next he blurted 
 out, pushing back his chair roughly : 
 
 '' I'll ha' to be gettin' home." 
 130
 
 e// Dead Woman 
 
 "Good night, okl man," answered the other 
 feebly, without moving. 
 
 Jonathan went out. In the passage he stumbled 
 over his dog who lay across the doorway; with a 
 vicious kick he sent him yelping into the street 
 The night was clear and frosty, and his footfall over 
 the cobbles, as he strode away, broke with strange 
 brutality the silence of the sleeping village. 
 
 II 
 
 The village shops were drowsily divesting them- 
 selves of their shutters, and the two or three loafers 
 hanging about the parapet of the bridge over the 
 river, their hands thrust deep in their trouser 
 pockets, were stolidly watching the rickety one- 
 horsed omnibus as it rattled past on its way to meet 
 the early train^ when Jonathan, his collie at his heels, 
 swung round the corner. 
 
 One of the men on the bridge jerked a " marnin ' " 
 at him as he strode by ; then he had passed, and 
 through the swing door of the " Bear," disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Inside the discordant note of a woman's angry 
 
 ^31
 
 Wreckage 
 
 voice met his ear. "It was that 'broomstick 
 woman ' giving it to the girl," he guessed. And so 
 it was. 
 
 The flow of her wrath ceased when she caught 
 sight of him ; screwing up her ill-conditioned coun- 
 tenance into a caricature of a smile : 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Hays ; grand mornin' 
 this,'' and turning to the girl cried : " Now 
 what're ye standin' gapin' there for? Get along 
 and see after that breakfast for the coffee-room." 
 
 "Ye do let her have it," remarked Jonathan 
 dryly. 
 
 " Let her have it," she retorted, " let her have it. 
 I should like to know who wouldn't let her have it, 
 lazy, good-for-nothin' hussy. Her goin's on 'ud try 
 the patience of a saint, and as for her impudence, 
 why '' 
 
 " Is t' master in .?" interrupted Jonathan. 
 
 " In ! In ! Gracious ! In ! where d'ye think 
 he'd be ? In, indeed ! Why it 'ud be a wonder if 
 he's out o' bed yet. And for all the trouble he 
 gives himself he might jest as well stay there. Jest 
 settin' and mopin', the whole blessed day. Senseless, 
 132
 
 ef T)ead Woman 
 
 downright senseless. I call it. Ye'd think his wife 
 had been a sort of female paragon, to see the way 
 he behaves himself. She wasn't such a lot to 
 mourn over, by all accounts. No better than she 
 should be, and there he sets, moonin' and soakin' 
 like a great baby." 
 
 " Stop that jabberin'," shouted Jonathan, banging 
 his stick down flat on the bar. " Ye know nouglit 
 agin' her." 
 
 " Oh ! I know nothin', don't I ? Oh ! very well, 
 I know nothin'. No, of course I don't. How should 
 I ? Only let folks as pretends to have nothin' on 
 their conscience and can't keep a civil tongue in 
 their heads — let 'em look out, I say. I'll teach 'em 
 to march in here with their airs and graces." 
 
 But of a sudden the rest died away on her lips, 
 and snatching up a tray, bhe bounced down the 
 passage into the kitchen. Jonathan faced about 
 seeking the reason for her precipitate departure ; 
 behind him stood Rushout. 
 
 The landlord's vitality had perceptibly bettered 
 since last night, for he sent an angry glance in the 
 direction of the kitchen-door. 
 
 133
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Mornin'. I thought ye were off to the auction 
 mart." 
 
 " Nay, I thought better on't. There's scarce bit 
 doin' jest now." 
 
 "Ye'll take a drop to warm ye. It's raw." 
 
 "Nay. I've come for a bit o' business." 
 
 " Ye're welcome, business or no business. Step 
 inside." 
 
 He led the way into the room where ihey had 
 sat the night before. 
 
 " Well," said Rushout, when he had settled down 
 in his chair. 
 
 " I've come to buy t' mare." 
 
 "Not the white one?" 
 
 " Ay, that's her." 
 
 Rushout reflected : " What, in the name of good- 
 ness, d'ye want with her?" 
 
 " I want her," answered the farmer doggedly. 
 
 " But what for ?" testily retorted the other. 
 
 " Maybe I've taken a fancy to her." 
 
 Rushout's face broadened to a smile. 
 
 " Are ye lookin' for a bit of blood to spank ye to 
 church ? " 
 134
 
 ./ T)£ad Woman 
 
 " Never ye mind, Richard. It's none o' your 
 business why I'm wantin' her," repHed Jonathan, 
 nettled. 
 
 "Well, it don't make much odds, anyway, be- 
 cause ye can't have her." 
 
 "She's not gone yet .?" 
 
 " Nay, she's not gone, but she's promised. I told 
 Dr. Wilkinson he should have her. Ye know 
 that." 
 
 " He's givin' ye forty-live .'' " 
 
 Rushout nodded. 
 
 " I'll give ye fifty." 
 
 " I tell ye man, it's no good. The affair's con- 
 cluded. Ur. Wilkinson's to have her. Why if I'd 
 advertised her, I'd have got half that price again, 
 and many a time over, easy. She's jest about the 
 bonniest mare, for her size, I ever saw. And I'm 
 determined Dr. Wilkinson shall have her, and 
 cheap too ; for (lowering his voice) there's not 
 another doctor in the neighbourhood as would have 
 done what he did for Jane." 
 
 " Settle yer own figure then, I'll give it ye. I'll 
 make it a hundred," persisted Jonathan. 
 
 X3S
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Are ye crazy ? " 
 " I tell ye I want her," 
 " And I tell ye, ye can't have her." 
 "When's she goin' ?" 
 " To-morrow mornin'." 
 
 " I'll come back this afternoon. Maybe ye'llhave 
 changed yer mind." 
 
 And, with that, he marched out into the street. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But neither that afternoon nor that evening did 
 Jonathan return to the *• Bear." For about sun- 
 down, while he was re-penning some sheep in a 
 bare field all strewn with half-gnawed turnips, he 
 heard the stride of the white mare pounding down 
 the road towards him. Ay, t'was she : many a 
 time had he waited before, listening for her action 
 along the road. Behind, in his mustard-coloured 
 ulster, sat Dr. Wilkinson. On perceiving Jonathan, 
 he reined up and called out over the hedge : 
 " How are the sheep doing, Hays ? " 
 But the question fell unheeded on Jonathan's 
 136
 
 ^4 Dead Wojnan 
 
 ears. He was surveying the mare — her legs, 
 straight, slender, sinewy ; her lithe and gracefully 
 rounded body ; her undersized head erect, neck 
 arched, and ears cocked, while at regular intervals 
 she shot out bars of breath from her quivering 
 nostrils. 
 
 " Isn't she a beauty ?" said the doctor, following 
 Jonathan's gaze. "By Jove, she does take some 
 driving, too. She hasn't been between the shafts 
 these ten days. By the way she rushes at her work, 
 you'd think she hadn't stretched her legs since poor 
 Jane Rushout's death." 
 
 Jonathan did not answer, so the doctor con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Ah .' there wasn't a prettier whip this side of 
 the county than poor Jane Rushout. It was a sad 
 thing ! And Richard's getting in a very bad way. 
 I wish something could be done for him. He's got 
 no spirit left — ^just as cut up as if it all happened 
 yesterday. When I sent my man just now to fetch 
 the mare, he was as overcome as if he were parting 
 with an only child. It was a pity they never had 
 any children." 
 
 137
 
 Wreckage 
 
 The mare, who had been fidgeting with her bit, 
 now began to paw the ground. The doctor, poking 
 the rug under his legs with the whip-stock, Hfted 
 the reins preparatory to starting again. 
 
 " Hold hard, doctor," broke in Jonathan. He 
 pushed fiercely through the hedge and laid one 
 hand on the mare's neck, pressing his cheek 
 against her nose and speaking softly and sooth- 
 ingly to her. This for a few seconds, till she 
 tossed up her head, and he was forced to let her 
 
 go- 
 
 " Good day, doctor." 
 
 " Good day to you, Hays." 
 
 Jonathan watched the retreating gig till it was 
 gone round the corner ; then, roughly brushing the 
 back of his hand across his eyes, climbed back 
 into the field. The sheep lifted their heads a 
 moment and fell to nibbling the turnips again. 
 Folding his arms across the top of a hurdle, he 
 rested his chin on them, gazing straight out before 
 him. His ruddy beard glowed as the light from the 
 setting sun caught it, and the look of suppressed 
 suffering on his face lent a curious refinement to 
 138
 
 e/ T>ead Woman 
 
 its ruggedness. And the fantastic tracery of a 
 couple of gnarled oaks stood out against the glare 
 as of some burning city on the horizon. 
 
 IV 
 
 After this an obstinate combination of calamities 
 made a busy time for Jonathan — an outbreak of 
 sickness among his sheep, coupled with the un- 
 expected departure of his shepherd, and the de- 
 struction of fence after fence by a sudden rising of 
 the river ; and as his energy, dogged, desperate 
 almost at times, overcame one difficulty, a fresh 
 one would discover itself 
 
 Two miles away, in the village, the procession 
 of eventless days defiled in sluggish regularity. 
 Rushout rose from his bed in the morning only to 
 lie torpid for hours before the fire in the little 
 room behind the bar, now staring into the glowing 
 coals, now sunk in stupid slumber. 
 
 At all hours the shrill voice of the " broomstick 
 woman,'' as Jonathan had nicknamed her, grated 
 on his ears, till he agreed with himself that she 
 
 139
 
 Wreckage 
 
 must go. Yet he took no step, procrastinating, 
 first for one reason, then for another. Every hour 
 saw his indifference to the mechanism of the little 
 world around him take deeper root. 
 
 One morning, however, he was conscious that the 
 wrangling voices in the kitchen waxed higher than 
 usual, and presently Mary, the maid stood before 
 him, her cheeks aflame, and her voice tremulous 
 with emotion. " She couldn't stop to be treated 
 like dirt. She desired to give warning— she had 
 put up with it long enough." And when Rushout, 
 remonstrating, endeavoured to soothe her, the girl, 
 bursting into sobs, poured an elaborate, though 
 spasmodic, category of the abuse, tyranny and 
 insults to which she had been subjected. " It 'd 
 never ha' been so if the poor missus were here." 
 And, at these words, Rushout felt all his apathy 
 lift, like a curtain of fog, and the momentary 
 recovery of his old self, stirred him strangely. 
 
 " There, there, lass ; ye needna' fash yerself so," 
 he said. " I'll not part with ye. Faiih ! I'd sooner 
 give her the sack this forenoon right oft", than 
 lose ye." 
 140
 
 A Dead Woman 
 
 And at the end of three or four such speeches 
 the girl, pacified, returned to the kitchen. 
 
 She had not been gone a moment before the 
 wrangle of \oices recommenced, as fierce, nay 
 fiercer, than before. Then the door burst open 
 violently, and the other woman, her soured face, 
 grotesque with passion, stalked into the room. 
 
 " I jest want to ask ye, Mr. Rushout, if ye told 
 that girl just now that ye intended me to go sooner 
 than her ? " 
 
 "Ye're quite correct." He spoke with quiet 
 determination that was not without dignity. 
 
 For nearly a minute she was unable to articulate 
 a word. 
 
 "Then ye mean to signify that I'm to clear out 
 to suit that chit of a gal." 
 
 "If ye can't give over frtttin' agin her from 
 mornin' till night," he answered. "She's a down- 
 right good girl, that she is ; she's been with me 
 these three years and a half, and I've had scarce a 
 fault to find with her, and my wife had never a 
 word agin her." 
 
 " Oh : that's it, is it ? It's for that that ye're 
 
 141
 
 Wreckage 
 
 wanting to turn me off — me that's slaved my soul 
 out to keep the custom in the house, while ye lie 
 soakin' over the fire. Yer wife never had a word 
 to say agin' her — nothin' to say agin' her (mimick- 
 ing Rushout's intonation). Where's the wonder? 
 I'm not surprised. Of course she hadn't — she was 
 too busy gaUivanting about the country." 
 
 Rushout struggled to his feet, and advanced 
 threateningly towards her. 
 
 " By God ! ye dare to say another word agin' 
 her. Ye jade, why ye aren't fit to scrape the dirt 
 off her gig-wheels." 
 
 " Ay, ye great, louting coward ye — ye'd be for 
 strikin' me, wouldn't ye ? But jest lay so much as 
 yer little finger on me, and I'll have the law agin' 
 ye. Who be ye to call me names ? Jade, indeed I 
 D'ye mean to insinuate that I'm not what 1 should 
 be?" 
 
 " Nay, it 'd be powerful curious if ye'd ever had 
 the chance." The adroitness of his retort pleased 
 Rushout, restoring his self-possession. 
 
 The woman craned her neck, as if to break into 
 a torrent of abuse ; but her impulse changed. 
 
 I(|2
 
 e/ T>ead Woman 
 
 With deliberate and concentrated venom she 
 began : 
 
 " Ye poor dehided fool, Richard Rushout ! Ye 
 little think how that doll-faced minx hocussed ye 
 the minute yer back was turned. Ye little reckon 
 the proper laughin'-stock she made of ye." 
 
 " Shut that sewer of a mouth," thundered Rush- 
 out. His wrath had trebled in intensity with its 
 return flow, and the hue of his face darkened to an 
 apoplectic purple. 
 
 But the woman was not to be silenced. 
 
 " I'll teach ye to throw mud at honest respectable 
 women," she cried back, " a giddy, wanton thing 
 she was, I tell ye. Did ye fancy she'd be satis- 
 fied with the boozing good-for-nothing that ye 
 are." 
 
 "It's a blasted lie!" 
 
 " A lie, is it ? Ye can spare me your filthy lan- 
 guage, Richard Rushout. Ask Jonathan Hays if 
 it's a lie. Ask Jonathan Hays if he never had his 
 arms round her. Ask Jonathan Hays if he 
 never " 
 
 A spasm of atrocious suffering convulsed Rush 
 
 143
 
 IVreckage 
 
 out's face — the poison was doing its work. Snatch- 
 ing at both her wrists, he wrenched her on to her 
 knees. 
 
 " Ye'll not stop me — nay, not if ye beat my head 
 in," she hissed. " I'll teach ye to throw mud at 
 me. Ask Jonathan Hays, I tell ye. Ask him where 
 she used to drive that high stepping horse of hers, 
 when ye sat soakin' yeself with a roomful of sots. 
 Ask Jonathan Hays, I " 
 
 " Ye she-devil," shouted Richard, with a guttural 
 cry of anguish, as he flung her into the passage. 
 
 Then dizzy and dazed, he dropped into a chair. 
 
 V 
 
 Rushout ne\er saw the woman again, though 
 her voice resounded outside several times. He 
 sent her out her wages and her railway fare back 
 to Newcastle, from wlience she came, by Mary, 
 with a message that the omnibus would call to 
 convey her luggage to the station. After which he 
 ate his lunch, cold beef, beer and cheese, which 
 was all quite tasteless. And early in the afternoon 
 144
 
 e// ^Dead Woman 
 
 he heard her depart. The rumble of the omnibus 
 died away in the distance bringing him real relief, 
 for as long as her presence in the house continued 
 to irritate the activity of his rage againit her, he 
 felt himself unable to settle down and grapple, 
 face to face, with the new anguish of his doubt. 
 And this he longed to do. 
 
 But now that all was still again, he unhooked 
 the photograph from the wall and stood looking 
 into the eyes, long and earnestly. They told him 
 nothing. The guileless candour of their gaze seemed 
 to exhale first tenderness, then mockery. Which 
 was the truth ? He set the photograph down on 
 the table, and, going back to his chair, started to 
 ransack the incidents of the past. " Where did she 
 go when she went out driving?" the woman had said. 
 " The white mare." And the first time that they 
 had sat together behind her, the day after he had 
 bought her, came back to him— a crisp, frosty 
 morning, with the sunlight sparkling coldly on the 
 whitened hedges. Next, another time, the week of 
 the Agricultural Show ; after lunch they had set otf 
 along the North Road to a farm where he had 
 K 145
 
 Wreckage 
 
 some business, she holding the reins, he smolcing 
 by her side. When they arrived, she had declined 
 to come in, declaring that the mare was too hot to 
 stand, and he, with a glow of pride at her work- 
 manlike solicitude for the animal, why, he himself 
 had asked her to take a message up to Jonathan's 
 about some heifers he was entering for the Presi- 
 dent's prize. Perhaps — God I — and in his mind's 
 eye he saw the two, locked in each other's arms. 
 He watched the whole scene as it was played before 
 him; she, giving herself with all the gestures and 
 caresses with which he was familiar, till its vivid- 
 ness became almost unbearable. He lifted up the 
 photograph once more. But underneath the faint 
 smile lurked a wealth of smothered corruption ; on 
 the half-parted lips he detected the imprint of 
 Jonathan's kisses. Hemmed in, as it were, on 
 every side, he appealed as a last resource to the 
 memories of all their common life ; but these, ob- 
 stinately blurred and confused, came not to the 
 rescue, and his belief in her, losing foothold irre- 
 vocably, tumbled headlong into the abyss. Then 
 by sheer intensity his desire to establish the certi- 
 146
 
 ./[ 'Dead Woman 
 
 tude of her faithlessness was fulfilled. Fragments 
 of conversations, chance meetings and exclamations, 
 all were pregnant with damnatory clues. Even 
 meaningless remarks he interpreted as fresh proofs 
 of her guilt. 
 
 And if Jonathan, why not with others ? With 
 Mike, who was in and out of the house all day — 
 with this and that acquaintance. On, on, the 
 Satanic extravagance of his imagination whirled, 
 till at the zenith of his agony, he was conscious 
 that he loathed her virulently. This discovery 
 made him uneasy, and hy some quick, unaccount- 
 able process his mind wandered off to the advisa- 
 bility of giving a trial to a new blend of whisky, a 
 prospectus of which had reached him that morning. 
 For the moment, all else, receding into the back- 
 ground, was forgotten ; outside this fresh track of 
 thought his mind was a blank. The spirit was 
 cheaper, certainly ; but that would be balanced by 
 heavier carriage, unless indeed, he ordered a large 
 quantity. But he was not certain concerning the 
 flavour. As he debated the matter with himself, 
 the idea occurred to consult Jonathan. Immedi- 
 
 147
 
 Wreckage 
 
 ately the full strength of his paui was upon him 
 once more. And once more the whole round of 
 self-torturing doubt recommenced, each time with 
 a fresh crop of detail, new pretexts for suffering. 
 That night in his longing for forgetfulness he 
 went to bed drunk. And he had been sober for 
 years. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He made no effort to acquire fresh proofs. The 
 seed of suspicion sprouted in his mind with the 
 luxuriant growth of a noxious weed ; and at the 
 same time his devotion to his dead wife reasserted 
 itself in all the earnestness of its profundity, so 
 that he would turn without transition from the 
 contemplation of her faithlessness to tender recollec- 
 tions of her personality. There was no lifting of 
 the gloom of existence without her ; day and night 
 he longed for her; could she have returned he 
 would have shared her with Jonathan willingly. 
 In the sluggish meanderings of his mind he often 
 faced such a contingency, and the consideration of 
 it was in nowise painful. Jonathan — he had never 
 148
 
 ../ 'De^id m 
 
 omun 
 
 settled with himself what attitude he should adopt 
 when next they met ; indeed, whether he felt any 
 vindictivcness against him or not, he did not know. 
 It was that he simply never considered him in the 
 present, apart from his connection in the past with 
 her who still was everything to him, connection of 
 which now his certitude was quite absolute. 
 
 After a while it began to seem many days since 
 he had seen him, and he fell to expecting that he 
 would be in, day after day. That it was because 
 Dr. Wilkinson had got the white mare, he guessed, 
 and he resented no longer the other's anxiety to 
 possess her, though the reason for it was now 
 quite clear. And the thought that the doctor had got 
 her, ceased to give him satisfaction ; for he under- 
 stood how carefully Jonathan would have treated 
 her. He was sorry he had spoken so sharply to 
 him about it. 
 
 In the mornings when he woke, then the de- 
 pression lay heaviest, the fatigue at the joyless 
 prospect of the day in front of him. He cared not 
 a jot that the custom of the house was dwindling 
 daily, that every corner revealed some sign of dirt 
 
 149
 
 Wreckage 
 
 and slovenliness. Everything outside his own 
 bodily wants was growing indifterent to him. And 
 the expectation of seeing Jonathan was the solitary 
 daily event that remained. 
 
 One Sunday evening, about six o'clock, there 
 began to fall, slowly, silently, big flakes of snow, so 
 that by the time the congregation trooped out of the 
 square-towered church the white carpet lay soft 
 and thick on the ground. Rushout elbowed his 
 way through the group, loitering in the porch, and 
 buttoning up his coat, hurried down the street, as 
 briskly as his ungainly gait permitted. As he 
 pushed through the swing door of the " Bear" the 
 first sound that struck his ear was Jonathan's 
 voice : 
 
 " Ye can cart the load Tuesday forenoon," he was 
 saying. 
 
 " Right, Mr. Hays, that'll suit," answered another 
 voice. 
 
 Rushout walked straight into the commercial 
 
 room, whence the sound came. As he entered the 
 
 third man greeted him with the cordiality due to 
 
 the landlord, but Jonathan remained silent. Rush- 
 
 150
 
 ./ Deaa Woman 
 
 out stood irresolute : the sight of his beard and 
 pale face caused him an unexpected agitation. 
 It brought back the past with, as it were, a 
 change of perspective, that filled him with excite- 
 ment. He discovered that there was something 
 about Jonathan's physiognomy offensive, violently, 
 imperiously. Yet it was not all at once that he 
 realised this impression, so overwhelming was its 
 unexpectedness. 
 
 Presently the third man bid them good- night, 
 and the door banged behind him. 
 
 .-\lmost immediately Jonathan, awkward-looking 
 in his ill-fitting Sunday suit and stiff, black hat, 
 prepared to depart also. 
 
 " A wintry evening," he mumbled. 
 
 " Nay, ye cannot go,'' said Richard in a voice at 
 once low and full of determination. And he blocked 
 the doorway. " Sit ye down again.' 
 
 The farmer obeyed. He turned his hat round 
 and round on his lap : a twinge shot across his 
 face and was gone. It was evident that he had 
 guessed what was coming. 
 
 Then he waited, stolidly resigned. Rushout was 
 
 151
 
 Wreckage 
 
 still too agitated to determine where to begin. At 
 last, when for a moment his astonishment got the 
 better of his anger, he broke the silence with : 
 
 " How did she come to be fond of ye?" 
 
 Jonathan shifted his feet in noisy uneasiness. 
 
 *' It commenced with the Foresters' picnic, three 
 years ago." 
 
 " Where did ye used to see her ?" 
 
 " At Coney Standish's old cottage, along the 
 North Road." 
 
 The blow was a heavy one ; l)ut Rushout never 
 winced. All outward signs of his agitation had 
 vanished. 
 
 " Ye might have let me have the mare," Jonathan 
 went on, powerless to keep back the bitter thought 
 that lay uppermost in his mind. 
 
 "How often did ye use to meet her?" asked 
 Rushout, entirely ign^iring the other's remark. 
 
 Jonathan paused to consider. 
 
 "On Mondays and Fridays, mostly." 
 
 A sudden thought struck Rushout. 
 
 " Did she go there that time I was away at my 
 father's funeral ? " 
 152
 
 ./ T>rnd Worn mi 
 
 Jonathan nodded. 
 
 For a long time they remained silent, as if 
 oblivious of each other's presence. Of a sudden 
 Rushout looked up ; from around his eyes all the 
 blood had retreated, leaving broad, white rings, and 
 making a deep-toned patch of red on either cheek. 
 He seemed to have come to some great resolution, 
 for the whole expression of his face was different. 
 
 "Jonathan Hays," he said solemnly, "there'll 
 not be rooni for both of us." 
 
 The farmer did not answer. And there was 
 nothing in his face to reveal whether he had heard. 
 
 This time the silence was longer than ever, then 
 Rushout continued : 
 
 " I'll be at Helton cross-roads at ten." 
 
 Jonathan slowly uncrossed his legs, and walked 
 to the door. And, as he crossed the threshold, he 
 blurted out : 
 
 " Ye'll find me there. 
 
 153
 
 Wreckage 
 
 VII 
 
 After the darkness of night had descended, 
 savage gusts of wind started to sweep across the 
 country, mysterious-looking, clad in tatters of 
 ghostly white. And the myriad snow-flakes, which 
 had ceased awhile previously, appeared again, 
 fleeing before the wind ; the big trees moved their 
 limbs as if racked with pain ; the little trees writhed, 
 taking queer, fantastic shapes. 
 
 Inside the "Bear," each time that the wind 
 passed in its frenzied passage down the village 
 street the windows rattled, and the smoke burst 
 into the room from under the mantelpiece in dense 
 puft's, as if it shrank from facing the storm outside. 
 Rushout raised the tumbler to his lips, unsteadily, 
 knocking the edge of the glass against his chin. 
 
 The hands of the slow-ticking clock pointed to 
 close upon ten. Presently he must set off to meet 
 Jonathan at the cross-roads. He was quite hazy 
 as to what would happen there ; but he had a 
 vague notion that something was to be settled 
 154
 
 ,4 T)ead Woman 
 
 between them — and, indeed, he cared but little. 
 Jonathan had wronged him, and the consciousness 
 of injury begat a spirit of quarrelsomeness within 
 him amounting to pugnacity, fitfully violent. 
 
 The rush of the wind gave way to a crooning 
 wail of distress : the window shook furiously in its 
 casement. Too stupefied to heed the storm, he 
 added some more spirit to his glass. 
 
 It was half-past ten before he had put on his 
 great-coat and crammed his hat all awry on to his 
 head. He stepped into the street and immediately 
 the blinding force of the wind and driven snow 
 struck him : he tottered, and only kept on his legs 
 by clutching at the wall. Catching at his breath 
 he paused. His senses were sufficiently dulled to 
 render him indifferent to the cutting cold of the 
 blast and the icy wet of the snow : besides, the 
 strain of maintaining a foothold demanded all his 
 attention. 
 
 By the parapet of the bridge he halted, hopelessly 
 struggling to rally his faculties. The strangeness 
 of the storm completed his bewilderment. Behind 
 him, out of the blackness, trooped the multitude of
 
 Wreckage 
 
 snow-flakes : in front of him, back into the black- 
 ness, they disappeared. Where was he ? Had he 
 crossed the bridge ? Then he knew that the night 
 air had made him drunk. It was a vague sense of 
 unfulfilled purpose that roused him again — he must 
 avenge the memory of Jane. And he started for- 
 ward once more. He crossed the bridge and even 
 mounted the ascent on the other side, though the 
 journey took him a long time. 
 
 Now the cold was beginning to penetrate him. 
 The cross-roads were scarcely a hundred yards 
 distant ; but he was completely ignorant of his 
 whereabouts. Then his foot tripped against 
 something, and he floundered headlong in the 
 
 snow. 
 
 ■X- * * * * 
 
 " I jest catchdd seet o' him, leein' all o' a heap 
 by t' road-side : ef I had'na stopped he'd ha bm 
 leein' there yet," said the carter. 
 
 " Lift him on to the sofa — here," called the ostler. 
 " Get your arms under him — now then." 
 
 " He be na featherweight," the carter remarked, 
 as they deposited the body. 
 156
 
 . / 'Dead Woman 
 
 " However did he come there ? '' asked the 
 maid. 
 
 The three figures stood grouped together. The 
 cartel's lantern was on the table : there was no 
 other Hght. 
 
 " Light one of them candles ; let's have a look 
 at him," said the ostler. 
 
 The maid did so. 
 
 But the draught blew the flame to a tiny spark. 
 
 " Shut the door— the outside door. Hark to the 
 wind ! "' 
 
 " There's a nasty place on his forehead,'' said the 
 carter. 
 
 " Ye'd best run for the doctor," suggested the 
 maid. 
 
 The ostler went out. 
 
 " He be jest stupified-like," remarked the carter. 
 " I reckon I'll loose him at t' throat." 
 
 Five minutes later Dr. Wilkinson was in the 
 room, directing the two men how to carry him 
 upstairs to bed. And when that was done, the 
 carter went on his way. 
 
 IS7
 
 Wreckage 
 
 VIII 
 
 All traces of the snow were gone ; the sun glinted 
 warm on the house-tops opposite ; inside, a red hot 
 fire was piled up in the little room behind the bar, 
 and before it, extended in his accustomed arm- 
 chair, lay Rushout. His half-grown beard trans- 
 formed his whole physiognomy, veiling the coarseness 
 of it here, adding vitality to it there. Since his illness 
 the ruddiness of his face had paled considerably. 
 After the fever-tossed deHrium had come the gentle 
 lassitude of convalescence. 
 
 Mary was bustling about the room, retailing 
 divers scraps of village gossip which had accumu- 
 lated during the past fortnight. 
 
 "And Mr. Hays, too," she was saying, "he's 
 been in most every day to ask how ye was doin'. I 
 bid him come upstairs many a time ; but he was 
 frightened to disturb ye. He'll be around this 
 afternoon sure ; I told him ye were for coming 
 downstairs." 
 
 Unreal, shadowy as a dream, the past — the 
 is8
 
 ^ Dead Woman 
 
 storm, the white snow, the slippery road, the story 
 about Jonathan and Jane— came back to Rushout. 
 Jonathan and Jane — his thoughts lingered over 
 them— not angrily, not bitterly, not sadly. His 
 bodily weakness rendered his emotions indolent, 
 and this indolence precluded any feeling but that 
 of passive good-will. Only he wondered lazily 
 concerning it all. 
 
 Then he heard the triple slam of the swing door 
 outside, and Jonathan was before him. 
 
 " There, Mr. Hays," cried the girl, " ye see he's 
 come downstairs after all." 
 
 "Jonathan, I'm downright glad to see ye," Rush- 
 out found himself saying, and just for an instant it 
 seemed a little odd that he should speak so. 
 
 The farmer gripped him by the hand with un- 
 feigned cordiality ; as their eyes met his red beard 
 and pale face looked at once strange and familiar. 
 
 " I scarce should ha' known ye, Richard, the 
 beard makes ye look different." And he seated 
 himself opposite, adding : 
 
 " Mary, jest a drop of Scotch — the same that I 
 had yesterday." 
 
 ^59
 
 Wreckage 
 
 "What's your opinion of the spirit?" asked 
 Rushout." 
 
 " It's just to my taste. Ye'll be feelin' feeble- 
 hke?" 
 
 " Ay, I do a bit." 
 
 " It was a close touch of it ye had." 
 
 " I reckon it was." 
 
 " By God ! it was a wild night." 
 
 Richard shot across an inquisitive glance, but he 
 did not speak. And simultaneously there appeared 
 to both of them a vision of the dead woman — to 
 Jonathan clear-cut and living, to Richard half- 
 effaced by time. And each remembered that she 
 had belonged to the other, and, at that moment, 
 they felt instinctively drawn together : each was 
 conscious of a craving to talk about her, to hear the 
 other mention her name. All this was keener with 
 Jonathan, hence it was he who began : 
 
 " Richard, she was a grand woman." 
 
 " That she was — sich splendid hair." 
 
 "Nay, but t'was her eyes that were the tinest." 
 
 " Black— jet-black." 
 
 " Did you ever take notice of the lashes ?" 
 1 60
 
 jt Dead Woman 
 
 " And a dresser — more style than any lady. And 
 the cleverest understander of horseflesh ! " 
 
 Here they paused. 
 
 " Richard," Jonathan began again at last in an 
 altered tone, " the white mare's gone lame." 
 
 " Lame ! " Rushout sat of a sudden upright as 
 he repeated the word after him. " Lame ! " 
 
 " It's a nasty strain on t' hind fetlock. The doctor 
 says she's been kickin' in the stable." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense," Rushout retorted angrily. 
 " Kickin' in the stable — she's as quiet as a sheep. 
 He's been drivin' of her too hard, that's what it is. 
 A hammerin' of her over the stones. He isn't fit to 
 sit behind her." 
 
 " I'm goin' to put her out to grass." 
 
 "Yegoin'to! But the doctor ? Isn't he for usin' 
 of her?" 
 
 " He's parted with her. He reckoned she would 
 na stand his work." 
 
 " And it's ye that have bought her ? " 
 
 Jonathan assented. 
 
 Rushout reflected, then : 
 
 "Jonathan, I'm powerful glad. I've always 
 L i6i
 
 Wreckage 
 
 regretted ye didn't have her first. I reckon Jane 
 would ha' sooner that ye had her, if she was to go." 
 
 "And to mind that on her death-bed she bade ye 
 be tender with the animal. I'd ha' given most any- 
 thing for her to ha' kept sound," returned Jonathan 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "Ay, I know ye would," answered Rushout 
 repentantly. 
 
 Yet a moment later he began again : 
 
 " D'ye mind how wild she was the day I was for 
 lettin' young Will Dykes drive the mare?" 
 
 " That I do." 
 
 " Were ye sweet on her then ? " he put the 
 question in hesitating timidity. 
 
 " 'Twas the first occasion I had a kiss from her," 
 answered Jonathan, defiantly. 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Whilst ye were fetchin' the new skin rug." 
 ***** 
 
 '' What made ye fix on that old house of Coney 
 Standish's?" 
 
 " I canna rightly say. There was a great amount 
 o' reasons — it's a long tale. Yet I don't know but 
 162
 
 e/ T)ead Woman 
 
 what I've any objection to relating it to ye. I 
 reckon it'd be best out." 
 
 " Ay, ye're right. Ye know I bear ye no mahce. 
 Hold on though till the girl fetches me a drop more 
 of this barley-drink. It's grand coolin' stuff when 
 ye're feverish." 
 
 163
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 I 
 
 "Why don't you say at cnce that you hate me? 
 Of course you do. What have you to do with a 
 poor, broken-down devil hke me?" and the con- 
 centrated exasperation of his sneer was ugly. 
 
 He stood planted on the hearth-rug, his face 
 flushed, and a swollen vein standing out across his 
 forehead. He had finished speaking, and there was 
 silence in the room now ; yet the figure of the girl 
 opposite remained motionless. Seated in the far 
 corner of the room, she was but an indistinct mass 
 of shadow, for the feeble light of the shaded lamp 
 ciid not reach her. 
 
 There was no freshness on the man's face — the 
 battered skin, wrinkling at every corner, was 
 stretched as loosely as an old man's, and hung in 
 folds under the chin ; the hair, scanty on the 
 
 i6s
 
 Wreckage 
 
 temples, was here and there strongly streaked with 
 grey ; but the moustache, with its slender waxed 
 points, was coal black, and the frame, despite the 
 stoop in the shoulders, had all the spontaneous 
 elasticity of youth. Fifty or thirty? Which was 
 nearer the mark ? 
 
 Duncan Ralston had lived a long time in India. 
 Those in England who had known him before he 
 had gone out as a young subaltern, freshly commis- 
 sioned, talked vaguely of his brilliant bravery in the 
 Afghan War, though no one could say exactly the 
 manner in which he had distinguished himself. 
 Then, about three yeai^s ago, selling out under 
 apparently disadvantageous conditions, he had 
 come home for the first time. When he appeared 
 in London, some said that the climate had aged him 
 strangely ; but others, who knew him better, hinted 
 that hard living had done as much as unhealthy 
 heat. Now and then there were ugly rumours of a 
 scandal with the wife of a Government officer up at 
 Simla ; but since no one spoke with certainty on 
 the subject, they never attained any definite form. 
 
 After a minute or two, the girl came and stood 
 i66
 
 When (jreek ^eets Qreek 
 
 by his side before the fire, stretching out one foot 
 towards the grate. The flickering light which 
 played about her face revealed that the violence of 
 his words had not affected her self-possession ; 
 there was only a tired, weary look, as if she had 
 pl.iyed the same scene many times before, and it 
 palled upon her. 
 
 Her hair was drawn into a single coil on the top 
 of her head, and her black evening dress revealed 
 her warm-tinted throat and breast and her deli- 
 cately modelled arms : she wore no ornament of 
 any kind, and this enhanced the purity of her 
 charm. Though she stood almost as high as he 
 did, she was little more than a child. 
 
 The contrast between the two was a violent one, 
 the man, with infinite possibilities of one kind in 
 tiie past , the girl with infinite possibilities of 
 another kind in the future. 
 
 And to Duncan the sight of her seemed to bring 
 the bankruptcy of his own life very near at hand. 
 Gradually the hardness went out of his face, all his 
 anger fading as it had come, quickly. A glance of 
 almost abject self-abasement and he laid one hand 
 
 167
 
 Wreckage 
 
 on her baro shoulder, while with the other he lifted 
 her fingers to his Hps, slowly, almost reverently. 
 
 *' I'm sorry, Pearl," and he kissed her fingers 
 again ; " I couldn't help it. 
 
 But on her part there was no movement in 
 response to his, passive with the same dreary 
 look she let her arm fall limp to her side agiin ; 
 and he, all occupied with his own emotion, noticed 
 nothing. 
 
 Duncan Ralston was a ruined man. Eighteen 
 months ago he had fancied himself within a few 
 days of the crash ; yet, week after \\ eek, month 
 after month, he had managed to stave off the 
 disaster, till he accepted his difficulties as a natural 
 part of his life, and, a victim to the almost incredible 
 blindness of self deception, imagined that, sooner 
 or later, by some means or other, he would emerge 
 from them all. Perhaps, but for his passion for 
 Pearl, despair would have taken the place of this 
 reckless hopefulness ; perhaps it was her presence 
 alone that encouraged him to go on living. Yet it 
 was only occasionally that he resented, as he had 
 done just now, that she made no pretence of 
 i68
 
 When (jreek SVIeets (^reek 
 
 returning his love, and it was very rarely that the 
 whole extent of his degradation betrayed itself in 
 her presence. The scattered remnants of a craving 
 for religion or its equivalent, which years of loose 
 living had not been able to eradicate, had centred 
 themselves in his worship of her, so that there were 
 moments when he could have knelt down before 
 her, and prayed to her as a child prays to God. 
 Once, nay twice, when he was absolutely penniless, 
 she had given him money to go on gambling with, 
 and on each occasion her money had brought him 
 remarkable runs of luck. Hence there grew up 
 in his mind a superstition that when the worst 
 came, she would be there to save him, and this 
 superstition was a source of considerable comfort 
 to him in his worst moments of dread. 
 
 In the beginning, when his passion for her was 
 purely selfish, he had determined to become her 
 lover, cost what it might ; but as, with each fresh 
 batch of losses, he sank deeper and deeper into 
 the mire, the reality of this resolve dwindled, and 
 now the idea, had it been put before him, would 
 have seemed little short of sacrilege. The ficrce- 
 
 169
 
 Wreckage 
 
 ness with which the passion for gambhng — become 
 of late an ahiiost nightly sti'uggle for existence — 
 had fastened upon him, had chastened his love for 
 Pearl, making of it a haven wherein all the better 
 part of his nature took refuge ; and he had 
 enough moral sense left to recognise his own en- 
 slavement. 
 
 "Pearl," he said in a low voice, "can you let me 
 have another hundred ? I must have it," he went 
 on, speaking more rapidly. " I haven't five pounds 
 left, and I must play to-night. Your husband's 
 banking, and it's my last chance." 
 
 " Simon's banking ? " she murmured after him. 
 She spoke with a foreign accent that made the 
 words very musical. "Simon's banking," and a 
 change came over her face, whether of anger, or 
 of dread, or of pain, it would be difficult to say. 
 
 S!ie crossed the room, and unlocking a drawer, 
 handed him some notes. 
 
 He took them, counted them, and gave her in 
 return a long look of hungry gratitude. 
 
 Pearl went back to her old position before the 
 fire, gazing vacantly into the flames. 
 170
 
 When (^reek (Meets (jieek 
 
 " I shall come to-morrow," said Duncan, briskly, 
 moving towards the door. 
 
 " Yes, come to-morrow," she answered absently. 
 
 The door shut. She was alone. And, as the 
 twilight creeps over the earth, steadily, stealthily, a 
 feeling of loneliness crept over Pearl. Everything 
 grew greyer and greyer, blacker and blacker. She 
 was ignorant of the reason for her gloom, and in- 
 deed it would have been vain for her to attempt to 
 arrive at its subtle and complex causes. There 
 was, too, at the back of it all, a sense of un- 
 easiness, the dread of some nameless disaster. 
 " Simon's banking to-night," she repeated to herself, 
 and at once the dread doubled in intensity. Then 
 the reaction. How often had she not felt like this 
 before, and there had been nothing .? Besides, after 
 all, what did she know? perhaps it was all right. 
 Yes, it must be all right. But, as if by command, 
 a crowd of incidents leapt up in her memory to 
 remind her of the truth of her suspicion. To speak 
 to him about it never occurred to her ; to implore 
 him to give up playing was more than she would 
 have dared. Once or twice indeed she had thought 
 
 171
 
 Wreckage 
 
 of it, but almost immediately, appalled at her own 
 audacity, she had rejected the idea. For how could 
 they live ? He could not work, that was out of the 
 question. Besides had he not saved her? Did 
 she not owe everything to him? And for the 
 fiftieth time the conflict between right and wrong 
 distracted her, till from sheer weariness she gave it 
 up, as she had done many times before. Already 
 eight o'clock, why was he not yet back ? 
 * * * * * 
 
 Three years, and several months of the fourth 
 year had come and gone, since that early morning 
 when Simon Alvary, on his way home, after a 
 heavy night at the Ccrcle dii Mont cfOr, Nice, was 
 attracted down a narrow side street by a sound of 
 muffled moaning. The figure of a man was stoop- 
 ing over a' black mass lying in the roadway. It 
 was a girl crouching all huddled in a heap on the 
 cobbles, her elbows raised across her face to pro- 
 tect her eyes. The man was hitting at her with a 
 piece of rope. As Simon came up, he paused before 
 swinging the rope above his head and bringing it 
 down heavily on the girl's neck. In an instant 
 172
 
 When greek (Meets (jreek 
 
 Simon's gloved fist was in his mouth, the fellow 
 reeled and dropped with an incoherent oath. The 
 girl lay on a moment ; but presently, surprised that 
 the blows had ceased, she cautiously lowered her 
 arms. Next she crawled up to the groaning body of 
 her assailant, and when she saw the blood trickling 
 from his mouth, she whispered hoarsely to Simon : 
 
 '■'■ Merci, monsieur. II allait me titer si votis 
 iit'tiez pas ve7iu. Merci" then turned over in a 
 faint face downwards. 
 
 Simon ran for a cab, took her home in it to his 
 lodgings, sent for a nurse from the hospital, and the 
 best doctor in the town, gave her his own bed, and 
 slept that night on a sofa in the dining-room. It 
 was three weeks before she was able to get up 
 again, and during that time he did everything that 
 could be done for her, waiting on her himself, as 
 anxiously and as tenderly as if she were his own 
 child. Two nights even when her fever was 
 runnmg dangerously high, he was absent from the 
 card room of the Cercle, though the luck was with 
 him, and he had been winning largely. 
 
 He made cautious inquiries and discovered that 
 
 173
 
 Wreckage 
 
 the man from whom he had rescued her was her 
 father, an ancien professeur dc lycce, whom absinthe 
 was fast driving into the gutter. This and the fact 
 that he led his daughter a dog's Hfe was all that 
 Simon could learn, for the man was not a native of 
 the town, and the day after the encounter he dis- 
 appeared — either afraid that he would be arrested 
 for ill-treating his daughter, or anxious to take the 
 opportunity of ridding himself of her. 
 
 Meanwhile Simon was exercising the faculty for 
 secretiveness, which in him amounted almost to 
 genius, inducing the doctor, the nurse and the 
 concierge^ all, by different means, to keep their 
 tongues from wagging, so that the incident was kept 
 absolutely quiet. And since for certain reasons it 
 was necessary, that his life, when he was not at the 
 Cercle or locked up by himself as was his wont for a 
 certain number of hours each day, should be as 
 retired as possible, afternoon upon afternoon he 
 would relieve the nurse by her bedside, smooth her 
 pillows, mix her medicines, shift her poultices, and 
 often, when she grew stronger, read aloud to her in 
 his hard, English voice, chapters from a dog's-eared 
 174
 
 When Qreek iMeets (^reek 
 
 copy of the Lc Capztai?ie Fracasse, which he found 
 lying in the room. 
 
 At first this playing the nurse amused him, vary- 
 ing as it did the forced monotony of his life ; after 
 a while, as the fascination for her blanched, child- 
 like face and of the big, brown-ringed eyes, wide 
 open in wondering gratitude, grew, he came to re- 
 gard her as belonging to him absolutely. This 
 sense of proprietorship was especially pleasant — 
 he liked to think of that straight, clean blow — he 
 had never delivered a better — by which she had 
 come into his possession ; and of her hundred and 
 one charming little ways of showing her gratitude, 
 not one jarred upon him. From the moment when 
 she had first realised what he had done for her, she 
 had started to worship him, with a sort of wondering 
 superstition, telling herself that he had been sent by 
 Providence to save her. This idea when she told 
 it to him charmed him and strengthened the bond 
 between them. The first morning that she was well 
 enough to leave the house, it occurred to him that 
 he should like to keep her, so with the promptitude 
 of action that was habitual with him, he took her 
 
 ^7S
 
 Wreckage 
 
 back with him to London. It was not till a full 
 year later that he had consented, with a smile of 
 good-humoured indulgence, to go through the mar- 
 riage ceremony with her. For months before this 
 they had been living as man and wife, and any rati- 
 fication had seemed to him quite superfluous. 
 
 This was the story of their marriage — a strange 
 enough binding together by chance of two indivi- 
 dualities. 
 
 Pearl — for so Simon always called her, though her 
 real name was Marie — was now nineteen, ripening 
 every day from a quaint, winsome child into a finely 
 built beautiful woman. The cowed look had gone 
 from her face — or rather it had developed into an 
 air of delicious gravity, the mysterious thoughtful- 
 ness of one for whom the task of living had some 
 hidden meaning. 
 
 The many months of their life in common had 
 dulled but little the vividness of her gratitude to 
 Simon. She had felt that the least she could do in 
 return for what he had done for her was to give 
 herself up to him, body and soul, studying all his 
 tastes and habits that she might the more easily 
 176
 
 When (jreek [Meeti (^reek 
 
 merge in them all her own desires and aspirations. 
 And this she had accomplished with no ordinary 
 single-mindedness, till her submission was so com- 
 plete that he was never aware of it. Yet, in spite 
 of it all, there was not that close sympathy between 
 them which would have made of this sense of duly 
 a source of joy. 
 
 Simon was kind to her — more than kind lo her 
 - — ^just as he had always been. Ah ! that was it, 
 it was the perpetual monotony of his kindness 
 that at times maddened her, stirring up within her 
 a fierce desire to break out into bitter reproaches 
 against him. She was conscious of a distantness in 
 his indulgence towards her, that he was consta tly 
 " thinking apart " from her, as if he were never quite 
 oft" his guard in her presence. It was not of a sud- 
 den that this impression had flashed upon her, it 
 had grown up, built bit by bit from the observation 
 of subtle changes of manner, look, tone. And yet, 
 strong as the temptation to pour out her heart to him 
 was, an indefinable dread had up till now pre- 
 vented her from yielding to it. 
 
 Once she had imagined that it was the memory, 
 M 177
 
 Wreckage 
 
 of some other woman over which he was brooding; 
 but something— what she had forgotten — banished 
 this idea from her mind. 
 
 Then appeared the suspicion, which at certain 
 moments crystalHsed itself into a certainty — it was 
 the card-playing. Wherever they went, London, 
 Paris, or the various fashionable resorts on the Con- 
 tinent — and they were constantly moving from one 
 place to another — Simon played. Even this she 
 did not learn all at once ; for when he started out 
 late at night, he never vohmteered where he w'as 
 going. At first in the full flash of her gratitude she 
 had given but little thought to this, the idea that he 
 was playing for large sums never entered her head. 
 But once, when he came back in the middle of the 
 night, she watched him, as she lay in bed, take 
 from the pocket of his ulster a leather bag, and 
 lock it away in a drawer of the writing-table. And 
 as he carried it across the room she heard the 
 muffled chink of money. When the morning 
 came, and he was still sleeping heavily, she slipped 
 out of bed and, unlocking the drawer, loosened 
 the string round the mouth of the bag. Inside lay 
 178
 
 When greek fleets Qreek 
 
 gold and silver, and a bundle of papers — notes ? 
 — yes, notes. The sight of all this money — thou- 
 sands of francs, as it seemed to her— scared her. 
 Hastily she tied up the bag again and, locking the 
 drawer, crept back into bed. 
 
 After this, though she had never dared say a 
 word to him about it, she began to spy upon him. 
 She had always taken for granted that he possessed 
 rentes — the word to her meant something at once 
 vague and reassuring. How much she had never 
 stopped to calculate ; but that it must be a gbod 
 deal she felt sure, for they always lived at the best 
 hotels, and he gave her more money than she knew 
 how to spend. 
 
 Now, frequent spyings on the writing-table 
 drawer made her understand that all the money he 
 gave her came from the card-playing, and that he 
 had nothing but what he brought home at nights. 
 
 At the beginning of the third year after their 
 marriage they went back to London, to the set of 
 rooms in a little hotel near King's Cross, where he 
 had first taken her. This was a great change from 
 the lavish living to which he had accustomed her 
 
 179
 
 Wreckage 
 
 on the Continent ; but meekly she accepted as final 
 his curt explanation — they must reduce their ex- 
 penditure. 
 
 For a whole fortnight he never once went out at 
 night-time ; but after eleven o'clock, when she had 
 gone to her bed-room, he would remain by himself 
 in the sitting-room till past midnight. 
 
 Now, since the solitude of her life caused every 
 trivial incident to as-ume the proportions of an 
 important event, this change in his habits inflamed 
 her curiosity to fever heat. Seated on the bed, or 
 standing in the doorway of the bed-room she would 
 wait listening. Presently a scraping as of the gentle 
 turning of a key. Then for a long while, sometimes 
 an hour, sometimes two hours — nothing— only the 
 movements of the other inmates of the house as they 
 retired for the night. At last the scraping sound 
 again and his tread in the passage. 
 
 One night she had worked herself up into such a 
 state of nervous excitement concerning this mystery 
 that she stole out in her stockinged feet to listen at 
 his door. All was still. What could he be doing ? 
 She put her eye to the key-hole. Yes, there ! he was 
 i8o
 
 Whti Qreek Meets greek 
 
 sitting at the table. There was no one else in the 
 room. He was muttering to himself then. What 
 was he doing with his hands ? Cards ? Yes, cards ! 
 He was lifting them from a heap in the middle of 
 the table, and was scattering them over the table. 
 For a long while she remained watching breath- 
 lessly, till the draught against her eye became very 
 painful : stealthily she slunk back again. 
 
 From that moment the great suspicion lived with 
 her, at times attaining the definite proportions of a 
 certainty, at limes fading to the indistinctness of 
 a blurred shadow. 
 
 Not long after this the little hotel saw them no 
 more. They had moved to a house in Maida Vale. 
 And here, excepting a month spent in Paris towards 
 the end of the last year, they had been ever since. 
 In reality her life remained as retired as before, 
 though outwardly it was much less so. There came 
 to the house a ceitain number of men — yet with not 
 one of them did she feel she had anything in com- 
 mon. It was certainly not their low standard of 
 taste before which she recoiled, for many of the 
 chance acquaintances with whom she had been 
 
 lai
 
 Wreckage 
 
 thrown on the Continent could boast of but little 
 refinement, but rather as if a portion of her 
 husband's secretiveness had communicaled itself 
 to her, teaching her to retreat more and more 
 within herself. To Duncan Ralston alone was she 
 at all accessible ; but even with him it was little 
 more than a passive tolerance of his presence, 
 partly on account of his dog-like devotion to her, 
 partly because the pathos of his wrecked life 
 touched her sentimentality. 
 
 And so he was with her constantly. And Simon, 
 reticent as usual, made no comment : only when 
 he remembered the soundness of her fidelity, 
 he smiled inwardly, and the smile was entirely 
 pleasant. 
 
 Women friends she had none. Barely half a 
 dozen acquaintances — the wife of an actor in whose 
 house (next door) she had met all the others — 
 mostly mere names. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Well, Pearl, how are you ? " 
 
 A rotund figure, insignificant in height, but 
 sturdily built, curly, black hair, no moustache or
 
 When (^reek [Meets Qreek 
 
 beard, a healthy pink and white complexion, the 
 eyes small and metallic, the mouth thin-lipped, 
 the chin full and heavy. But for his voice, a hard, 
 mechanical voice, with no modulation of tone, the 
 last word sounding the same level note as the first, 
 he would have seemed a mere boy. And when he 
 spoke every feature of his face remained impassive, 
 as if he had noconsciousnessof whathe was saying. 
 Thus the first impression that Simon Alvary con- 
 veyed was one of well-fed, crass stupidity. But to 
 Pearl he was the all-important centre of her tiny 
 world ; and the hardness of his voice — of course 
 she had never heeded it, for it had always been the 
 same. 
 
 As he came in she ran towards him, saying 
 impulsively. 
 
 " Oh ! I thought you were never coming." 
 
 "Poor little Pearl!" and he patted her on the 
 cheek. " Has it been very dull all the afternoon ? 
 Well, little woman, you shall have a treat this 
 evening, and we'll go to the theatre." 
 
 " C/ie'ri" she answered, nestling her head on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 183
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Presently he moved away from her, arranging his 
 white tie, which she had crumpled, in the mirror. 
 
 " By the way," he said (his back was still turned 
 towards her), " just give me back those notes I 
 gave you yesterday. I shall want them to-night. 
 You shall have them again in the morning." 
 
 " Give you them back ! " she repeated. 
 
 He said nothing, only went on straightening 
 his tie. 
 
 " I— I haven't got them." 
 
 " Haven't got them ? Haven't got them ? What 
 have you done with them ?" His voice was a tone 
 louder, and every syllable sounded with ruthless 
 distinctness. 
 
 " Where are they ?" he repeated, facing her. 
 
 "I — I gave them away — to Ralston," she 
 faltered. 
 
 His face was unmoved, but he snapped his 
 fingers once or twice, and this movement, which 
 she knew, made her still more frightened. 
 
 " What did he want them for ?" he went on. 
 
 " For to-night — he said it was his last chance — 
 I am so sorry — forgive me — Je iic savais pas." 
 184
 
 Whefi (jreek SVLeets (jreek 
 
 " Sotte" was all his reply. 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 "/fc' ne savais pas^'' she cried. 
 
 " It's no good making a fuss. But this is the last 
 time." 
 
 '■'■Je te jiirc^^ she interrupted. 
 
 "All right. Now let's come to dinner. Stop! 
 How often have you done this before ? " 
 
 " Twice. Once a long time ago, and once after 
 we came back from Paris." She answered him 
 eagerly, hoping by the fulness of her confession to 
 atone for her fault. 
 
 "How much ? " 
 
 " Twenty the first time, and fifty the second." 
 
 " Was that the fifty I gave you on your birth- 
 day .? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He laughed a short, contemptuous laugh, and 
 then they went in to dinner. 
 
 II 
 
 It was half-past twelve before Simon entered 
 the card-room of the Athenian Club. Still and
 
 Wreckage 
 
 silent stood the shapeless mass of figures which 
 crowded the far end of it. So still, so silent, that 
 the ticking of the clock was distinctly audible. 
 Then, suddenly, the brutal outburst of a fierce 
 gabbling of voices, incoherent and indescribable, 
 and the crowd started to sway to and fro, 
 feverishly. 
 
 Simon handed his overcoat and crush hat to an 
 attendant, leisurely bit the end from a cigar, and 
 sauntered up to the table ; that quick glance of his 
 scanning the crowd, it flashed across his face and 
 was gone. But so high ran the game that no one 
 heeded his arrival. It was indeed a full night — not 
 only was every seat round the oval table occupied, 
 but on both sides they stood huddled together, two 
 or three deep, some grey-headed, some bald ; sorne 
 stout and horsey-looking ; some boyish, beardless 
 and flashily dressed ; some with dark skins, coarse 
 lips and hooked noses ; some insignificant like the 
 people one meets every day in the street, a few 
 in evening dress, several with their hats on ; 
 most smoking cigars or cigarettes ; each and all 
 craning over the table and the disorder of counters, 
 i86
 
 When C^reek (Meets Qrcek 
 
 white, gilt, and silvered, which lay strewn up and 
 down it. 
 
 Simon stepped on to the dais which skirted the 
 room, and stood there, a little apart, stolid and 
 expressionless, revealing nothing of the quickening 
 glow that was stealing over him — the deliciously 
 exhilarating glow of fine expectation, coupled with 
 a sense of entire satisfaction with himself. 
 
 " Gentlemen, please make your stakes." 
 
 (The chink of counters, accompanied by a 
 shower of the disjointed remarks which form the 
 gambler's ritual.) 
 
 '•'■ Rieii lie va phis^' called a voice. 
 
 " Cards ? " 
 
 "Cards?" 
 
 " Six," and a fresh outburst of hubbub drowned 
 the voice of the banker. 
 
 Simon was not a constant visitor at the Athenian 
 — the scene of his operations was usually laid else- 
 where — most of the faces were unknown to him ; 
 yet he was at once conscious from the demeanour 
 of the crowd that something unusual was taking 
 place. But the gap in the wall of bodies surround- 
 
 187
 
 Wreckage 
 
 ing the table was now closed, and, from where he 
 was, he could see nothing of what was going on. 
 " HuUoa ; good evening." It was Duncan. 
 Simon nodded shortly, and after a pause : 
 " The bank's low." 
 
 "A devil of a run," the other answered excitedly. 
 " The German started at three hundred and was 
 broke in half an hour. This chap took one at five 
 hundred and he's only been on about ten minutes." 
 At that moment the voice of the croupier was 
 heard. 
 
 " Gentlemen, there are only twenty-three pounds 
 in the bank." 
 
 A sullen murmur of grumbling, a reckless laugh 
 or two, not a few astonished oaths, an expansion 
 of the crowd, and a noise of the shifting of chairs 
 as the punters rose from their seats. The buzz of 
 conversation swelled till it filled the room, there 
 was a popping of coiks, and waiters, armed with 
 glasses, glided in and out of the various groups. 
 The croupier was sweeping away the mess of cards 
 by his side ; gazing at him absently, bald and flabby- 
 faced, sat the banker. Presently, however, he swept 
 i88
 
 W/:ni gnck Elects greek 
 
 the little pile of counters before him into the palm 
 of his hand, rose and was lost in the crowd. It 
 was the merchant Stendermann. 
 
 The buzz of conversation flagged and rose, flagged 
 and rose again. The croupier had cleared the 
 table, and now was idly examining a crack in his 
 rake. 
 
 So the minutes slipped by. But the chairs re- 
 mained untenanted. No one would risk another 
 bank. A few anxious-looking punters, excited by 
 their gains, were wandering restlessly about, others 
 were moving towards the door, a group was form- 
 ing round a couple of ccarte players, who had just 
 seated themselves at the other end of the room. 
 
 Simon was biding his time ; he loved to toy with 
 the temper of the crowd. At last he stepped for- 
 ward and, without a word, seated himself in the 
 banker's chair. Instantly there was a rush for seats 
 at the table ; those who were on the point of going 
 divested themselves of their overcoats ; the two 
 ecarte ^\?c^^x?, were left almost alone. 
 
 "A thousand," he said, throwing a bundle of 
 notes on the table. The croupier ran his fingers 
 
 189
 
 Wreckage 
 
 through them with the precision of a bank clerk, 
 and the light from the chandelier glinted on the 
 counters which he poured on the table in return. 
 
 Then he began to dexterously churn together the 
 six packs of cards. Simon, calling for a match, 
 relit his cigar, disguising with admirable skill his 
 keen scrutiny of the punters. On his right sat 
 Duncan, the swollen vein standing out across his 
 forehead as it always did when he was excited — 
 meddling fool ! — he at least should go to bed that 
 night with empty pockets ; next to him, a hollow- 
 cheeked, filmy-eyed fellow, whose straggling black 
 beard he remembered having seen before in other 
 gaming rooms ; beyond, three young " bloods " in 
 evening dress, all chattering in noisy excitement 
 over their winnings off the last two banks. (Simon's 
 eye lingered almost lovingly on this little group, 
 and he observed that two more of the same 
 party stood behind.) Of the punters seated on the 
 other side of the table, three at least, by the quiet 
 determination of their demeanour, were players of 
 calibre, and, next the croupier, a seedy-looking 
 individual, whose fingers were tremulously sorting 
 190
 
 When Qreek Meets <^reek 
 
 his small pile of counters — a broken-down speci- 
 men, lettering on the brink, without one of which 
 at least no gaming-room is complete. Ah 1 there 
 in the crowd behind, the fat Stendermann (he had 
 come back then) — a noble loser he, for, during 
 Simon's la^t visit to Paris, had the merchant not 
 written him out a cheque for sexenteen hundred 
 without a murmur after an hour's piquet ! 
 
 A few minutes later the game was in full swing. 
 Simon had not yet begun to work ; as yet he was 
 only playing. For fine as was the pleasure of con- 
 trolling chance, he was epicure enough to render 
 it quite exquisite by a period of preliminary 
 deliberation. Playing was to him what the Jiors- 
 (Tceiivre is to the glutton — and what are the joys of 
 the gambler compared with the joys of the Greek ? 
 Besides, in spite of, or rather on account of, the pre- 
 vious runs against the bank, all were staking in 
 small sums, except the three young " bloods " in 
 the corner, and Stendermann, who threw down a 
 heap of ten-pound counters before each deal. 
 Nothing makes the veteran gambler so cautious as 
 heavy winnings.
 
 Wreckage 
 
 As yet there were no signs of a run. The hesita- 
 tion of the cards, declaring first in favour of the 
 punters, then in favour of the bank, had been up 
 till now almost complete, as if, conscious that the 
 straggle had not begun in real earnest, they feared 
 to commit themselves to one side or the other. 
 It was nearly five weeks since Simon had had the 
 chance of a serious game at the Athenian — one of 
 the few clubs open to him where the banker was 
 allowed to handle the cards. Hence the ridiculous 
 proportion of the stakes to the amount of his bank 
 irritated him, or rather provoked that almost im 
 perceptible rufiling which was all he ever allowed 
 himself to indulge in. He determined to raise 
 them by a method all his own, which, though dan- 
 gerous, was rarely unsuccessful. Waiting till the 
 cards were almost exhausted, he called for three 
 fresh packs. Directly they were placed on the 
 table, he exchanged them, all but the last dozen or 
 so, for a " poultice " which he carried concealed in 
 his waistcoat pocket. In this "poultice" every 
 figure-card, every eight, every nine, and a cjuan- 
 tity of combinations making up these two numbers 
 192
 
 When Qreek [Meets Qreek 
 
 were delicately cogged, so that by passing his 
 fingers along the edges of the pack, he could at 
 once detect their whereal'jouts. Next, he proceeded 
 to "slip" in favour of the punters five " naturals,' 
 three to one side and two to the other. The man- 
 oeuvre cost him over a hundred pounds, but it accom- 
 plished his object. At the beginning of the tenth 
 deal there was more money on the table than there 
 had ever been before, and henceforward with each 
 deal the stakes rose higher and higher. The blood 
 of the players was warmed. He could now begin 
 to work. Yet for a while he continued to dally 
 with the game ; that was the weak spot in his 
 strength. How he loved to refine upon the thrill 
 that the consciousness of his power sent through 
 him. So, if he still led the punters on, first to the 
 right, next to the left, it was only to render the joy 
 of plundering them in the following deal all the 
 more acute. The preliminary operation of deposing 
 the " poultice " successfully accomplished — and in 
 truth, for him, this was no difficult feat — all was 
 secure ; for the indentations on the cogged cards 
 were so delicate as to be invisible to the naked 
 ^ 193
 
 Wreckage 
 
 eye, and imperceptible to any but his exquisite 
 touch. So absolute was his control over the cards, 
 that any moment he could have dealt fifteen 
 " naturals," or fifteen baccarat hands running, had 
 he been so minded. His whole being was con- 
 centrated on the game, and he made no attempt 
 to disguise it. The assumption of carelessness, 
 or of nervousness, of high spirits, of loquacity, 
 of bluster, or of extreme civility — the hackneyed 
 devices of a modern Greek — he scorned them 
 all. For to-night at least, he was on a higher 
 plane ; he could afford to dispense with them ; 
 no salad-shuffle, no churning together of the 
 cards, however conscientious, could impair his 
 omnipotence. 
 
 Meanwhile Duncan, whirled along by the savage 
 tide of the vice, won and lost, lost and won again in 
 blind senselessness, only alive to the fluctuation of 
 the pile of counters before him. Off the first two 
 banks he had taken eighty pounds, and his mad- 
 ness wrought in his mind out of this sum the 
 annihilation of all his difficulties. Tradesmen's 
 debts, overdue promissory notes, miscellaneous 
 194
 
 IVken (jreek [M.eets Qreek 
 
 debts of honour, all vanished, lost to sight amid the 
 magnificent vista of possibilities now stretching 
 before him. 
 
 Before now, in a single night, men had won 
 fortunes — fortunes, ay, fortunes large enough to 
 enrich them for life. And he ? Why not he ? The 
 luck was with him. And did not Pearl's money 
 always bring him luck ? The sight of the masses of 
 counters strewn up and down the table fed the 
 fierceness of his lust, intoxicating him, causing him 
 to plunge more and more desperately. He was 
 losing now, but a couple of " naturals," at the rate 
 at which he was staking would right him again ; 
 then in real earnest he would start to bieak the 
 bank. Alvary — little sleek-face J devil !— he had 
 always hated him — he would break him )-et, down 
 to his last farthing. And when he had broken his 
 bank to-night, he would dog him from gaming-room 
 to gaming-room till he had stripped the very clothes 
 from off his back. He sent a glance of hatred at 
 the stolid, round face. Pearl, when he was rich, he 
 would take her from him, and Alvary, he would kick 
 him into the gutter. And, when all these things 
 
 19.S
 
 Wreckage 
 
 were done, he would never touch a card again. He 
 would settle down to enjoy life. Ha ! there were 
 two winning cards, and as the croupier pushed half 
 a dozen counters towards him, the glow of self- 
 sufficiency that accompanied the vision of a new life 
 of unbroken enjoyment was as vi\'id as if it had 
 been real. Yet he was losing again. Two 
 "baccarat" hands shattered his castles in the air. 
 His eyes ran rapidly over the counters — thirteen 
 gilt ones, ^ 1 30 : eleven silvered ones, ;{J 1 5 5 ; about a 
 dozen white ones. Barely two hundred. Damn 
 these cursed cards ! ! Why he had only won twenty 
 pounds on this bank. 
 
 Six and a figure card. 
 
 " Seven," sounded Alvary's clear voice. 
 
 While the croupier swept away five of his gilt 
 pieces, Duncan gave vent to a smothered exclama- 
 tion of fury, and the vein across his forehead 
 swelled as if it would burst. He was a bad loser. 
 
 The next deal saw five more disappear. He 
 swore a foul oath between his teeth. 
 
 '■'' 11 faiit savoir perdre^ iiio/i a)iii^'^ said Simon, his 
 teeth g eaming 
 196
 
 When Qreek Meets greek 
 
 The blear-eyed owner of the stragghng beard 
 laughed nervously; but Duncan heard nothing. 
 
 The following hand was a winning one, but the 
 next two, four and five against Alvaiy's seven and 
 six, brought him back to where he was before. And 
 for a while he plunged on, neither winning nor 
 losing. Once he possessed at least half a dozen 
 gilt counters, then a run of four losing hands in 
 succession, and they were gone every one. A 
 couple of five pound counters and a small heap of 
 white ones were all that remained. With the 
 caution of despair, he refrained from staking them 
 all, pushing only the silvered ones over the line. 
 Knave— six — thank God ! 
 
 " Stand," he gasped. 
 
 " Seven," called Alvary. 
 
 And the last of the silvered pieces went to swell 
 the mass in front of the banker. Unconscious of 
 all around him, as if stunned by a heavy blow, he 
 forgot to ;take. In the agony of his despair, he was 
 trying to recollect whether, when he had left her, 
 Pearl was wearing the coral necklace he had given 
 her. Then gradually his thoughts came back to 
 
 197
 
 Wreckage 
 
 the game, and mechanically he pushed forward 
 three white counters. They followed the others, 
 and he sank to staking in sovereigns. One by one 
 they were swept away, and, as they disappeared, the 
 lust of his greed waxed imperious within him, at 
 the sight of the enormous mass heaped within a few 
 feet of him in front of Alvary. Once more he 
 staked again, and, as he lifted his cards, the players, 
 the table, everything seemed blurred and distant. 
 Nine ! God ! and he only had a sovereign on. 
 Swiftly, like a wild beast from its lair, sprung 
 up the impulse — passionate, ungovernable — the 
 poiissettc. There was no time to lose, now, at 
 once. Instantly all his self-possession returned. 
 Coolly he looked round the table, and dropped 
 four counters by the side of the ones he had 
 already staked. 
 
 Then Alvary turned up his cards— seven ! — and 
 immediately a loathsome terror swept through 
 Duncan. Some one must have seen him — he would 
 be exposed — and he fell to wondering whether they 
 would let him get his hat, or whether they would 
 198
 
 When greek Meets ^reck 
 
 hound him bareheaded into the street. He dared 
 not look up. He felt the gaze of the whole room 
 upon him. But last he mustered courage. Strange! 
 no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. 
 Alvary, surely he ? but no— and look 1 the croupier 
 unmoved was pushing a gilt piece towards him. 
 Then he was not discovered. He was free ! ha ! 
 ha ! and a wild spasm of joy swept through him. 
 When it was gone his head swam, and tossing off 
 a brandy and soda, let three deals pass, while he 
 struggled lo calm himself. 
 
 He was better now. Good God ! what an escape. 
 Never again as long as he lived. It fell to him to 
 hold the cards. Eight ! — "natural." In an instant 
 he had pushed a second gilt counter over the 
 line. This time a cold sweat came out over his 
 body, and his mouth grew suddenly quite dry. 
 He made a supreme effort to conceal his agitation 
 by beckoning the waiter to bring him another 
 brandy and soda. Twenty pounds he had won. 
 He had three shining gilt pieces. 
 
 After this he was wild to win. In the reckless- 
 
 199
 
 Wreckage 
 
 ness of his intoxication he had lost all self-control. 
 It was with a clumsiness that was quite pathetic 
 that he was cheating. 
 
 He noticed nothing. Alvary whispered to the 
 croupier, the croupier to a man standing behind 
 him ; there was a hushing of the hubbub ; the 
 game suddenly flagged. But still he noticed 
 nothing. He was staking three gilt counters on 
 each deal now, increasing them to five if the 
 cards were favourable. All fear of detection had 
 vanished. He only knew that he was winning. 
 It was as if some strange force within him were 
 driving him on — as if he were performing some 
 task, imposed upon him by some unknown authority. 
 Half the room was watching him. But he was 
 aware of nothing. 
 
 Yet for a while no one made any comment. 
 Each shrank from Ijeing the first to speak. At 
 last a nervous laugh, burst from one of the young 
 bloods in the corner. 
 
 " I say, this is a bit too thick ! " 
 
 The spell was broken. The storm burst. 
 
 " Good God ! " 
 200
 
 Whe?i ^reek (Meets (^reek 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " He must have been at it all night." 
 
 " I know him. Ralston— army man." 
 
 " No— retired." 
 
 " Kick him out." 
 
 "Yes, out with the skunk," 
 
 "The window!" yelled the young "bloods," 
 leaping to their feet. 
 
 Then above the uproar, quelling it with its harsh 
 imperious note, rang Alvary's voice : 
 
 " Gentlemen, gentlemen I " 
 
 By degrees there was silence. He was the 
 banker. He had a right to be heard. They waited 
 for him to speak. 
 
 " Let the poor devil go," was all he said. 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 '• Out with him." 
 
 " Open that window," yelled a sallow-faced youth. 
 
 But from the other side of the room arose a 
 murmur of dissent. Some of the older men made 
 themselves heard. 
 
 " No violence."
 
 Wreckage 
 
 "Shut the window.'' 
 
 " Don't shout." 
 
 And again every one began to speak at once, till 
 the uproar grew quite incoherent. The sallow- 
 faced youth was disputing violently with a man 
 who was trying to shut the window. 
 
 " Now's your chance," said Alvary to Duncan. 
 " Out you get." 
 
 But the wretched man sat limp, helpless, amid 
 the storm that was raging around him. 
 
 " Come, man." And Alvary, gripping him by 
 the shoulder, shook him. "They'll chuck you if 
 you don't run for it." 
 
 " Here get him out of the way or those fellows 
 over there will kill him, if they once get at him," 
 called the fat Stendermann. 
 
 Duncan rose and two attendants, at a sign from 
 Alvary, half pushed, half dragged him out of the 
 room. 
 
 When those who were for summary measures 
 learnt that he was gone — so great was the uproar 
 that it was fully a minute before they did so — they 
 shouted the louder. 
 202
 
 Wke7i <^reek Meets Qreek 
 
 "Who let the blackguard go?" howled the 
 sallow-faced youth, 
 
 " I did, young man," thundered back Stender- 
 mann, shouldering his way through the crowd. The 
 threatening attitude of the merchant's bulky frame 
 had its eftects on the other. Changing his tone 
 considerably, he stammered : 
 
 " Why did you let him go .'' " 
 
 " Because we're not going to have an infernal 
 shindy because some of you fellows can't play with- 
 out getting drunk," interrupted Alvary. The con- 
 trast between the heat of his words and the cool- 
 ness of his demeanour was very striking. The 
 crowd was impressed, for, as he finished speaking, 
 a chorus of approval went round the room. 
 
 " Drunk ? What the .? Who are you ? " 
 
 burst out the other. 
 
 " Look here, stop it," thundered the merchant, 
 seizing him roughly by the arm, while two or three 
 bystanders instantly put themselves menacingly 
 between Ahary and his antagonist. 
 
 '• There's been enough for one night," remarked 
 
 one. 
 
 203
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " Yes, the young idiot. What does he want ? '' 
 
 " Something to settle the drink inside him," 
 facetiously answered a third. 
 
 Alvary stood, his face absolutely unmoved, wait- 
 ing while the croupier counted his bank. 
 
 ■' Come, let's get out of it," said some one. 
 
 And there was a general move towards the 
 door. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Pearl had not gone to bed. Outside the rain pat- 
 tered against the window-pane ; inside the fire was 
 dying, slowly but surely. She wrapped the shawl 
 closer about her shoulders ; the book that lay on 
 her lap glided on to the ground. And the rain 
 beat against the window-pane a little louder than 
 before. 
 
 After Simon had brought her back from the 
 theatre, and, going out again into the night, had 
 left her to herself, the old sinking sense of uneasi- 
 ness had come upon her. Vain were all her attempts 
 to beat it back. " It is only because I am unwell,'' 
 
 she kept on insisting lo herself. But against the 
 
 204
 
 When greek Meets (jreek 
 
 advance of the growing dread she was helpless. 
 Waiting, waiting, waiting, listening for the sound 
 of his key in the door, she sat on. 
 
 Her father ! what had become of him ? Dead — 
 a round, green, nameless grave, or perhaps still 
 alive, sitting in a dingy cafe, with the yellow-green 
 drink before him Simon ! oh, why did he not 
 come? 
 
 Duncan! Was he winning to-night. Those notes ! 
 How angry Simon had been when he had snapped 
 his fingers. What was he doing ? Perhaps at this 
 moment, now at this ver>' moment, he was taking 
 their money. Oh ! why did he not come ? 
 
 Ah ! Stop ! What was that ? A noise — a 
 knocking— muffled, as if something soft against the 
 door. Ah I there It was again. What could it be ? 
 Simon ! // had come then. She rushed into the 
 hall and struggled to unfasten the door. 
 
 Outside the figure of a man. Not Simon— he 
 was too tall. No hat, wet through, his clothes 
 were clinging to his body 
 
 " Who are you ? What do you want ? " she gasped, 
 
 hoarse with terror. 
 
 205
 
 Wreckage 
 
 " It's me." 
 
 "Ralston. O\\_\coiii;nc 7'oi/s vi' aver, fait pcnr ! 
 Que faites-voiis la ? Ou'est-il arrive? Speak, for 
 God's sake ! Come in out of the wet." 
 
 She seized his dripping sleeve and pulled him in- 
 side the door. 
 
 " Here, in here ; there's a light here," as he 
 stumbled in the dark. 
 
 She still held him by the sleeve. He dropped 
 heavily into a chair. His matted hair clung close 
 to his forehead : the water dripped from his finger- 
 tips on to the carpet. 
 
 " Simon — where is he ? Difes^ je vans siipplie ! 
 Where is he ? What has happened ?" 
 
 He sent her back a dull stare : he had not 
 understood. 
 
 " Speak ! for the lo\e of God, speak ! " she cried. 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " He's — he's at the club," he answered, grasping 
 her meaning with a visible effort. 
 
 "There's no danger. Nothing's happened to 
 him.?" 
 
 " Nothing's happened," he repeated mechani- 
 206
 
 When Qreek [Meets (^reek 
 
 cally. "No, I suppose nothing's happened to 
 him." 
 
 "But why are you so wet? Where's your hat? 
 and your coat? See! your trousers are covered 
 with mud." 
 
 " Are they ? " he asked Hstlessly. 
 
 For an instant neither of them spoke. She, lost 
 in wonder at his woeful appearance ; he, stupidly 
 examining the mud on his boots. 
 
 " Pearl, I'm done for at last ! " 
 
 " Done for. How much have you lost ? Are they 
 all gone ? " 
 
 " Lost ! worse than lost. They all went. I had 
 only five left, white ones. I tried to win, but — the 
 cards were awful, I was mad — poussette. I couldn't 
 help it ; it was stronger than myself. At first I 
 won, fi\'e times I think. Then they saw. I had to 
 go out — into the street — pouring rain,'' and he 
 shivered as he spoke the last words. 
 
 She tried to stir the dying fire to a flame. 
 
 "Come near," she said. "It's not a grand fire. 
 You must take off those wet things. You'll catch 
 cold." 
 
 207
 
 Wreckage 
 
 "No," he answered, "leave it." 
 
 " And Simon ? What did he do ? " 
 
 "Simon? He won a great pile, I don't know 
 how much.'" 
 
 " But when you were discovered ?" 
 
 " He told me to go out. He and a big, fat man. 
 Don't know his name. German, I think." 
 
 " But you mustn't sit in those wet things. You 
 will kill yourself." 
 
 " I'm going home." 
 
 " Let me get you a coat." 
 
 "No, good-bye." 
 
 " Why good bye ? An ?-c'-J0ir, liest pas ? " 
 
 " It's good-bye." 
 
 " What are you going to do ? You're not going 
 to " 
 
 " No, I've thought of that ; I'm going away, 
 abroad. I shall start to-morrow. Good-bye." 
 
 ''AdiejiP 
 
 An instant later, he came back and said, " Give 
 me a couple of shillings to get home with." 
 
 She handed him her purse. 
 
 " Have you got any brandy open ? " 
 208
 
 When (^reek Meets C^reek 
 
 She pointed to a decanter and glasses by the door. 
 
 He drank a wineglassful, greedily, as if it were 
 water, then went out again, quickly, without looking 
 behind him. 
 
 An instant later the hall door slammed, shaking 
 the whole house. 
 
 And Pearl, burying her face in her hands, burst 
 into tears. 
 
 In the distance a rattle of wheels, louder and 
 louder — before the house it stopped. She ran to 
 the window and, pushing aside the blind, peeped 
 out. Through the murky atmosphere she perceived 
 that it was a hansom cab. Bang ! bang ! the doors 
 flew open. A man stepped out on to the foot- 
 board, and stood there, paying the driver. Simon ! 
 at last. Now he was opening the door ! Now he 
 was in the hall ! She did not go to meet hun. 
 
 There he was 1 To her surprise, he was un- 
 changed. There was nothing unusual about him— 
 his hair was unruffled, and his shirt-front was 
 spotless and un crumpled. 
 
 "Hulloa, little woman, not gone to bed !" The 
 hard, toneless voice was the same as ever. 
 
 o i>09
 
 Wreckage 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " Has my little Pearl been sitting up all alone 
 for me? But she mustn't do such silly things. 
 Why it's nearly three o'clock." He put his arms on 
 her shoulders, drawing her towards him. 
 
 A slight shudder ran through her ; she wrenched 
 
 herself away. 
 
 "A^^ me louche pas." 
 
 He stepped back, surveying her critically, 
 puzzling for the reason of her anger. 
 
 "What's up?" he asked, not interrogatively, but 
 rather to gain time. 
 
 Still she made no answer. 
 
 " Come," he said, taking both her hands in his 
 and softening the hardness of his voice. " Come, 
 you may as well tell me." 
 
 "> sais lout:' 
 
 " Ah ! " The exclamation was deep-drawn, but 
 the slightly theatrical form of her reply had not 
 escaped him. "That fellow has been here," he 
 added rapidly. 
 
 She nodded, and something in that nod betrayed 
 to him her weakness. There would be no battle, 
 after all, he saw. 
 
 210
 
 When (jreek fleets (^reek 
 
 Instinctively, he divined what to do. Picking 
 up the novel that lay on the floor, and holding it to 
 the lamp, he turned over its pages. Presently his 
 eye travelled to the mud on the carpet. His eyes 
 blinked briskly, as he sought the interpretation of 
 this sign ; as its meaning came there was an almost 
 invisible twitching of his nostrils. 
 
 He turned and faced her. Their eyes met. He 
 had calculated the strength of his influence. She 
 made one step towards him, and threw both arms 
 round his neck. 
 
 " Simon, je suis si nialheiircusc ? she sobbed. 
 
 " There, there," he said soothingly, stroking her 
 on the back. " Don't take it so to heart. Don't 
 cry. There, ma petite Pearl. Why, you'll make 
 your eyes all red. Now sit down here on my knee 
 and tell me all about it." 
 
 He dropped into an armchair and drew her on 
 to his lap. 
 
 "/^ fiiiine^^ she murmured, burying her face in 
 his shoulder. 
 
 He sat quite still, waiting, till she should grow 
 calmer. At last she lifted her head. He wiped 
 away her tears and kissed her on both eyes. Then
 
 Wreckage 
 
 with parted lips, he looked her full in the face. 
 She smiled. 
 
 But immediately her face clouded again; the 
 vision of Ralston's bedraggled figure had come 
 back ; but it had lost much of its vividness. 
 
 " Now tell me all about it," said Simon. " What 
 did he want?" 
 
 " Nothing ; he was wet through, and he had no 
 hat— he said good-bye. He said he was going 
 abroad. Que deviendra-i-il ? Dis?" 
 
 " He'll find something to do. They always do." 
 ''Maisc'estqfrciix?'' 
 " Well, but if people will do these things." 
 " Mais tot. Cest la meme chose, tiest-ce pas ? " 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Je Vai soitpconni depiiis—oli .' // y a bieii 
 des mois—dis, je Ven siipplie. Cest vrai, liest- 
 ce pas ? J^aimerais viieux savoir. Esi-ce la meme 
 chose?'' 
 
 "You're hurting me— sit a little higher, more to 
 one side. That's it. No, by Jove ! it's not quite 
 the same thing— not by a long chalk," and he 
 laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 " Mais tu gagiies ioujours ? "' 
 
 2T2
 
 When Qreek Selects (^reek 
 
 " And where would the little Pearl be if I didn't ? ' 
 
 This indirect reminder of all she owed him 
 touched her ; she drew a little closer to him. 
 
 " Mais si tu gagiics ioujours" 
 
 " Yes, I always take good care of that." 
 
 " Lc danger. Ccs doit tire terrible ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Afais liiiP 
 
 " That's different. He lost his head." 
 
 '■'• II n^y a pas de danger, niors.'''' 
 
 " No, not for me." 
 
 " Mais si in ciais dtrouvert? " 
 
 " I never shall." At the absolute decision in his 
 voice, her face brightened. The movement was 
 not lost upon him. 
 
 " Now, little woman, are you reassured ?" 
 
 She did not answer, yet he could see the conflict 
 within her was practically at an end. 
 
 " Combien as-iu gagne ce soir?" 
 
 " Six hundred and thirty-four." 
 
 "Pounds?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 She caught her breath in astonishment 
 
 '■^ Moil Dieii /" she exclaimed. 
 
 213
 
 Wreckdge 
 
 Then she looked up at him, and there was ad- 
 miration in her eyes. 
 
 "You won't hide things from me now. Promise, 
 when you are away, you will tell me what has hap- 
 pened—everything. Won't you? You can trust 
 me. I swear you can trust me." 
 
 '•'■X&s, via petite Pearl. In the future you shall 
 know everything. You shall be ihe banker and 
 keep all the money for me. Would you like that ? " 
 
 " Oidr The word shot out quickly between her 
 teeth. 
 
 " Six hundred and thirty-four pounds ! " she 
 repeated, half to herself. " How much is that in 
 francs ? " 
 
 " Nearly sixteen thousand." 
 
 " And my Pearl isn't angry any more ? " 
 
 "y^? fatiiic" she murmured in reply. 
 
 Their lips met. 
 
 214
 
 EMBERS 
 
 The room was small, but the twilight shadows 
 made it appear larger. An iron bedstead ; two 
 tables, one covered with papers, the other with a 
 white cloth ; a chair by the door, and on it a mud- 
 splashed pair of trousers and a dirty shirt, with a 
 pair of old slippers, trodden down at the heels, 
 underneath ; a black, shiny armchair, its horsehair 
 stuffing protruding in places ; a deal chest of 
 ■drawers — this was all the furniture. No kind of 
 ornament, bare walls, not a spot of colour to relie\e 
 the cheerlessness. 
 
 Yet presently, as one looked, two or three 
 details betrayed something of the individunlity of 
 the occupant. 
 
 The papers on the writing-table were arranged 
 in neat stacks ; the shirt on the chair had been 
 carefully folded ; the slippers lay side by side ; but 
 
 2IS
 
 Wreckage 
 
 it was the mechanical precision of habit, and not a 
 love of tidiness ; for the room was far from clean, 
 and looked almost squalid. 
 
 But when he came in, he noticed none of these 
 things. 
 
 A lean young man, with a hesitating gait and 
 tired stoop ; lank hair streaked with grey ; a yellow, 
 parchment-like skin that puckered in wrinkles 
 round the eyes, and ga\'e a shrivelled look to the 
 whole face ; and in the eyes a startling dulness. 
 
 He lit the little lamp with the green cardboard 
 shade, hung up his hat and his overcoat behind the 
 door, took off his boots and laid them together, just 
 as he had done every evening for the last five years. 
 
 He lifted up the dirty shirt, and, after looking- 
 closely at the cuffs folded it again, and replaced it 
 on the chair. Then he fetched a brush from off the 
 chest of drawers, and began carefully to clean the 
 mud-splashed trousers. 
 
 When he had nearly finished, the servant-girl 
 brought in his dinner. 
 
 " Good evening," he said, without looking up. 
 
 " Crood evening, Mr. Gorridge," she answered. 
 216
 
 Embers 
 
 And he began to eat the cold mutton and the 
 boiled potatoes methodically. 
 
 As a rule, when his dinner was finished, he 
 seated himself at the writing-table, to copy 
 manuscripts at a half-penny a folio or to address 
 envelopes at fourpence a hundred. It wns not so 
 much for the sake of the money, for he had but few 
 wants, and his salary was more than enough to 
 supply them. He had taken to it long ago, when 
 the mechanical work had kept him from brooding 
 over his trouble ; and gradually the habit had 
 grown upon him, till it was an inseparable part of 
 his existence. Narrower and narrower had become 
 the groove in which his life ran, and now each day 
 was a counterpart of the preceding one. 
 
 But to-night, when the servant girl had taken 
 away the half-finished leg of mutton, he turned 
 round his chair and stared into the empty grate. 
 
 February i8th, said the almanack on the wall 
 opposite. February iSth, the day on which she 
 had gone. With a yearning, dull and immense, like 
 the yearning for home of the solitary traveller, he 
 was thinking of his married life — quite hazily : for 
 
 217
 
 fVreckage 
 
 five years of unconscious retrospective crystallisa- 
 tion had vaguely beautified them for him. 
 
 And then he lived over again the moment when 
 he had come back from the City to find her gone, 
 gone with not a word of explanation. 
 
 Most of that night and all the next day he had 
 spent in wild search for her. The next three days 
 he was in bed, unable to get up. On the morning 
 of the fourth day, fearing to lose his place, he had 
 dragged himself down to the City as usual. And 
 afterwards, for weeks, every evening as he mounted 
 the stairs, his heart thumped excitedly with the 
 hope that he would find her back again. But she 
 never en me. 
 
 He changed his lodgings, for the hundred and 
 one little things that brought her back to him 
 made the rooms unbearable. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Outside, a drizzling rain. The gas lamps shone 
 a dim, filthy yellow, =treaking the sliniy pavement 
 with their reflections. There was no sky, only a 
 murky atmosphere overhead. And save for a 
 woman creeping along, the street was deserted. 
 218
 
 Embers 
 
 Her slatternly clothes hung loosely about her ; her 
 skirt trailed in the mud. She was quite wet, for 
 she had no umbrella. 
 
 Underneath his window she stopped, and for a 
 moment she stood in the doorway out of the rain. 
 
 During that moment, the thoughts of the man in 
 the little bedroom above, sitting staring into the 
 empty grate, andthethoughtsof the bedraggledfigure 
 in the doorway below, went out towards each other. 
 
 She could only think in a foggy sort of way, for 
 she had already had a drink or two. There were 
 many things which were blurred ; many things 
 about which she was not sure. Her recollection 
 of their separation was dim ; she scarcely under- 
 stood how it had come about. She wondered 
 feebly where he was, what he was doing. Yet her 
 cunning instinct told her he would take her back, in 
 spite of it all, and that once more she could do 
 with him what she would. It seemed that they were 
 together. He was so simple, so confiding, that 
 during the day when he was down at the City, she 
 did what she liked. She was careful, of course, 
 so tliat he ne\er found out anything. 
 
 219
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Then she mo\ed out again into the wet, and 
 stumbled along towards the lights of the public- 
 house at the corner. 
 
 * if * * * 
 
 It was inevitable that it would come, sooner or 
 later, for she slept over the public-house at the end 
 of the street, and he passed it every day on his way 
 to the City. Yet it was several days before she saw 
 him. When he went by in the morning, she was 
 seldom out of bed, and when he came back in the 
 evening, she was generally drunk. 
 
 But once she woke early, and looked out through 
 the grimy window-pane. 
 
 There he was ! She could see his back, as he 
 hurried away down the street. But there was no 
 mistaking the narrow, sloping shoulders, the jerky, 
 nervous gait, with the head thrust forward. She even 
 remembered the black overcoat ; he had bought it 
 just after their marriage. It used to be a shiny one, 
 several sizes too large for him, and to hang in baggy 
 wrinkles about the armpits. And she fell to dream- 
 ing, recalling vague, half-blurred little incidents. 
 
 He was found now. A quarter to nine. He was 
 220
 
 Embers 
 
 on his way to the City ; well she knew that, when 
 evening came, he would return by the same way. 
 All she had to do was to wait for him, and to keep 
 her head clear. So back she went to her dirty bed 
 and fell into a litful sleep. 
 
 About three o'clock, with a low, sickly feeling, she 
 awoke. But as she slipped into her tawdry garments, 
 her spirits rose. This was the last day; to-morrow 
 she would be a respectable married woman in com- 
 fortable lodgings, with a man to earn money for her. 
 She went down to the bar, and ordered a large 
 pewter of beer. She always lunched off a large 
 pewter, never having any appetite till evening. 
 
 Presently two women, one of whom she knew, 
 came in. She felt in her pocket. Half a crown. 
 Her last. But what odds ? To-morrow he would 
 give her plenty more. So she recklessly stood 
 drinks to the new-comers. 
 
 And thus through the afternoon, and with the idea 
 that she must catch him on his return increasing 
 in force as she grew more and more drunk. 
 
 She talked loudly and volubly, explaining to the 
 two others all about him, and dilating on all the 
 
 221
 
 Wreckage 
 
 things she would do when he had taken her back. 
 They Hstened stupidly, nodding gravely at 
 intervals. 
 
 About six o'clock they found themselves with no 
 more money and with nothing more to drink, so, 
 holding each other by the arm, they sallied forth 
 into the street to wait for him. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He was hastening home, thinking of the bundle 
 of manuscript which bulged his pocket, whether 
 he would be able to copy it all before eleven, the 
 hour when he always went to bed. 
 
 Of a sudden something clutching at his arm — a 
 woman ! — looking up into his face, with the glare of 
 the gas-lamp lighting up her senseless leer. She 
 did not speak, only leered the more, and hung 
 heavier and heavier on his arm. 
 
 He made a half frightened, half indignant move- 
 ment to shake her off. Next he recognised her. 
 She did not know that he had done so, for he did 
 not start, nor make any sound. Only first his 
 features, then his whole body stiffened, till he stood 
 as if petrified. 
 
 222
 
 Embers 
 
 *' Don't you know me Frank ? " she stuttered 
 
 There was no reply, and it dawnei upon her that 
 he did. 
 
 "What are you looking so scared at? One 
 would think you'd never seen me before," she con- 
 tinued with a sickly smile. " I'm not as I was, I 
 know that. I've had a hard time of it, a cruel 
 hard time of it," she whined ; " but I've come back 
 to be your dutiful wife once more," and she leered 
 the same, senseless leer. " Where are your digs ? 
 Somewhere along this way, eh ? " And pulling him 
 by the arm, she dragged him down the street. His 
 feeble resistance only lasted an instant. 
 
 When they reached the door, his hand shook so 
 violently, that it was nearly a minute before he 
 could lit the key into the keyhole. Automatically 
 he lit the little lamp with the green cardboard 
 shade, hung up his his hat and overcoat behind 
 the door, and was about to take off his boots, when 
 his eyes fell on her. With a start he stopped 
 short. 
 
 She was lying in an armchair, looking round 
 
 the room. 
 
 223
 
 Wreckfige 
 
 " No great shakes, this drawing-room of yours. 
 Just you wait till I've been here a day or two, and 
 see how I'll smarten it up. It's beastly cold and 
 no fire." 
 
 At this moment the servant-girl came in to lay 
 the cloth. On seeing the stranger, she stepped 
 back, looking in astonishment from one to the other. 
 
 " Well, stupid, what are you staring at ? Look 
 sharp. I'm hungry. Let's see. Soup — soup to 
 begin with. Fish, no, no fish — beastly smelly stuff, 
 I can't stomach it. Tripe and baked potatoes to 
 follow, and here, fetch a bottle of beer, look alive ; 
 don't stand there like a blasted lamp-post." 
 
 The servant-girl fled, slamming the door behind 
 her. And the two relapsed into silence, he, stand- 
 ing staring at her, in terror-stricken rigidity. 
 
 Exasperated, she turned to him. 
 
 " What the devil's the matter with you ? A nice 
 way to receive back your loving wife, after all 
 these years. Good God I man, you look like a 
 blooming mummy ! " 
 
 The door opened violently. In burst a heavy, 
 stout woman, her face flushed with passion. 
 224
 
 Embers 
 
 Now, Mr. Gorridge," she cried. " Whai's the 
 meaning of this ? I'm not going to stand it, d'ye 
 hear ? What are you looking so dazed at ? Why, 
 God bless my soul, I believe the man's off his 
 head ! " And raising her voice still louder : " Now 
 then, hussy, clear out quick. What do you take me 
 for, I should like to know .' I've always kept a 
 respectable house, and I ain't goin' to begin to have 
 the likes of you about now ! " 
 
 " Dry up your damned impudence," stuttered the 
 other, staggering to her feet. " Why, I'm his law- 
 ful wife. We were married in church. I've been 
 away on business, these last three years. And it's 
 a hard time of it that I've had," and she wound up 
 with a whine. 
 
 " Get out, you drunken beast," shouted the elder 
 woman, "or if you don't I'll soon make you." 
 
 And, seizing her by the shoulders, she began to 
 push her towards the door. The other kicked and 
 struggled, but it was of no use. There was a scuftle 
 on the staircase, an oath from the drunken woman, 
 a crash as of something falling, and the front dcor 
 banged.
 
 lVreckt!ge 
 
 "If you ever dare to set foot inside my house 
 again," called the landlady through the door, " I'll 
 send the police after you." 
 
 And, as she re-entered the room : " Mr. Gorridge, 
 just you understand this, I'll have none of these 
 goings on in my house. You ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself, at your age." 
 
 But he lay in a heap in the armchair, staring 
 fixedly into the empty grate. 
 
 Seeing that he paid no heed, she bounced out of 
 the room with a snort of contempt. 
 
 Quite still he lay, his limbs huddled together) 
 while the servant-girl, openly casting indignant 
 glances at him, prepared his dinner. 
 
 Half an hour passed. The food was untouched. 
 He had not moved. 
 
 ' Ain't you going to have no dinner, Mr. Gor- 
 ridge?" asked the girl, with a touch of compassion 
 in her voice. 
 
 He made no sound, so she took away the things. 
 How long he had been there he did not know. He 
 was cold ; the cramped position had stiffened his 
 legs ; the lamp had i:one out ; it was quite dark. 
 226
 
 Embers 
 
 He struck a match, and clumsily lit it again. 
 Then, undressing, crept into bed. 
 
 * * ■)«■ * -x- 
 
 When he awoke his mind was blank. Mechani- 
 cally he looked at the chair on which his clothes 
 always lay folded. It was empty. In a heap, there 
 they were on the floor. 
 
 A quick spasm, contracting his features, and he 
 remembered, and, with a gesture of indescribable 
 weariness, began to dress. 
 
 That day he did his work at the office as usual, 
 only he looked more yellow and more wizened than 
 ever. But no one noticed it. 
 
 In the evening, he no longer hurried along the 
 street towards home, absently with his head thrust 
 forward. Slowly he crept, with cautious, cat-like 
 movements. 
 
 From a doorway, out burst a boy with a basket. 
 He started aside like a frightened animal. 
 
 It was only when he had passed the spot where 
 she had met him yesterday, that he seemed re • 
 assured. Quickening his pace, he fell again into 
 his accustomed, jerky gait.
 
 Wreckage 
 
 But presently, he caught sight of something 
 coming in the distance. By instinct he knew that 
 it was she. On he hastened, his eyes on the pave- 
 ment, till they came face to face. 
 
 " Frank," she began in a voice broken by maudlin 
 sobs, " don't you think that I'm going to bother you 
 any more. I'm a miserable, lost creature. I know 
 I am. ril never trouble you again, Frank ; only 
 give me something to keep body and soul together. 
 I haven't a blessed sixpence," here she stopped, 
 watching him intently. 
 
 He had pulled out his purse, and was emptying 
 its contents into his hand. Three half-crowns, a 
 shilling and four coppers — he handed them all to 
 her, and, without a word, turned to go in. 
 
 " Good-night, Frank my darling," she called 
 after him. " You're a trump, you are." 
 
 * * * * -x- 
 
 The next three days passed, and she never 
 appeared. 
 
 Back his life dropped into the old groove, till it all 
 seemed like a bad dream, and sometimes he 
 wondered whether it had really happened. 
 228
 
 Embers 
 
 Then she met him again, with the same maudlin 
 tears. He gave her a sovereign, for that morning 
 he had received his salary. 
 
 After this she took to waylaying him almost 
 every evening. Sometimes, he could only give her 
 a copper or two, sometimes half a crown, some- 
 times—on Saturdays— gold. He scarcely ever 
 spoke to her, and seemed relieved when she left 
 him on the doorstep. Once she spoke of coming 
 up. 
 
 "To-morrow is Saturday," he said in a hurried 
 voice. She understood, and went away. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, he was unable to pay 
 his weekly bill. This was the first time since he 
 liad lodged there, and the thought gnawed him 
 night and day. 
 
 His landlady said nothing, but when at the end 
 of the second week no money was forthcoming, 
 she grumbled sullenly. 
 
 And he began to age strangely, thinner and 
 thinner his hair became, till he was almost quite 
 
 bald. 
 
 * -x- * * -sf- 
 
 229
 
 Wreckage 
 
 . . . About three weeks later — night-time — the 
 little street was black and still — on the doorstep, 
 two figures. 
 
 " I am going on Saturday," said he. 
 
 " Going ? Why ? Where ? " she answered. 
 
 " I can't pay the rent," he said simply. 
 
 Face to face they stood. In his eyes the 
 vacant stare of complete weariness ; in hers a 
 look of silent suffering. Quicker and quicker 
 her face quivered. Big tears rolled down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 And as he watched her, his vacant stare passed 
 away ; in its place came the soft light of com- 
 passion. 
 
 " Don't cry, Mag," he said gently. 
 
 At the sound of this little pet name, coming 
 again for the first time at the end of all these years, 
 she broke down. 
 
 It was the hysterical sobbing of a ruined nervous 
 system ; it was very painful to hear. 
 
 " Don't cry, Mag," he repeated. 
 
 But she sobbed on, her frame rocking with con- 
 vulsive throbs. 
 230
 
 Embers 
 
 Bewildered he looked about him. Then 
 timidly, he put his arm round her saying once 
 more : 
 
 " Don't cry, little Mag." 
 
 By degrees the fit spent itself. She stood quite 
 still at last, her head resting on his shoulder. 
 After a moment, she stepped back and looked 
 again into his eyes. 
 
 The features were quite composed, but the lips 
 were bloodless. 
 
 " Frank," she said with an intenseness that 
 revealed the tumult within. " Frank, will you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 The old spasm of pain, contracting the features, 
 came back. 
 
 She saw it. 
 
 " I don't mean that,'' she said hurriedly. '• I'm 
 too bad for that. Only say that you forgive me." 
 
 He pondered a moment perplexed, his eyes 
 blinking rapidly. 
 
 Then looking at her, and seeing that she was 
 waiting for his answer : 
 
 " I forgive you," he murmured. 
 
 231
 
 Wreckage 
 
 Holding out her hand — "good-bye," she said. 
 " Good-bye," he answered mechanically. 
 And she stepped on to the pavement, and moved 
 slowly away down the street. 
 
 1S91-1892 
 
 Pfinicd by BallANIYNi;. HAN'tfON &■ Co. 
 Londo}i a}iii Edi}ibu}'gh
 
 "CcUgrapbtc Bbftresa: 
 
 SnnlocJcs, London, 
 
 21 Bedford street, w.c. 
 
 October iSgs. 
 
 A LIST OF 
 
 Mr WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S 
 
 Publications 
 
 AND 
 
 Forthcoming Works 
 
 T/if Books inenfioned in this List can 
 be obtained to order by any Book- 
 seller if not in stock, or will be sent 
 by the Pitblisher post free on receipt 
 of price.
 
 MR. WILLIAM IIEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 5nDej of Butbors. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Alexander i^ 1 
 
 Jager 7, 15 
 
 Arbuthnot . 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 JeafFreson . 
 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 Atherton . 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Kimball 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Balestier . 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Kipling and Bale 
 
 stier 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Barrett 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Lanza . 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Behrs .... 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 Le Caron , 
 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 Bendall 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Lee . 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 Bjornson 
 
 
 3. " 
 
 12, 15 
 
 Leland 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Bowen 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Lie . 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Brown and Griffiths 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Lowe . 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Buchanan . 
 
 
 .8,9 
 
 ID, 14 
 
 Lynch . 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Butler 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Maartens . 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 Caine .... 
 
 
 
 8, 12 
 
 Maeterlinck 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 Cambridge . 
 
 
 
 9, 12 
 
 Maude 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Chester 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Maupassant 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 Clarke 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Maurice 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Colomb 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Mitford 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Compayre . 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Murray 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Couperus . 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 Norris 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Davidson . 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Ouida . 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Dawson 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Palacio-Valdc's 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 De Quincey 
 
 
 
 4, 7 
 
 Pearce 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 Dilke .... 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Pennell 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Eeden 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Philips 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 Ellwanger . 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Phelps 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Ely . 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 Pinero 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 Farrar . 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Rawnsley . 
 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 Fitch . 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Richter 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Forbes 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Riddell 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Fothergill . 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Rives . 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 Franzos 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 Roberts 
 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 Frederic 
 
 
 
 . 6, 13 
 
 Roberts (V ) 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Garner 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Robinson . 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 Garnett 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Salaman 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Gilchrist . 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Scudamore . 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Gore . 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Serao . _ . 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 Gosse .... 
 
 
 
 7. 9 
 
 Sieukiewicz 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Gray .... 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Tasma 
 
 
 
 9. 
 
 10, 13 
 
 Grav (Maxwell) 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Terry . 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Griffiths . 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Thurston . 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Hall . 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 Tolstoy 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 , II, IS 
 
 Harland 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Tree . 
 
 
 
 
 IS 
 
 Hardy 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Valera 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Heine . 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 Warden 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 Henderson . 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Weitemeyer 
 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 Henderson . 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 West . 
 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Howard 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 Whistler . 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Hughes 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Whitman . 
 
 
 
 
 3,3 
 
 Hungerf(jrd 
 
 
 
 • 1O1 13 
 
 Williams . 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 Ibsen . 
 
 
 
 IS 
 
 Zangwill 
 
 
 
 
 6,9 
 
 Irving . 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Zola . 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 IngersoII , , 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 
 
 

 
 I\[R. WILLIAM HEINE MANN'S LIST. '. 
 
 VICTORIA: 
 
 QUEEN AND EMPRESS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN CORDY JEAFFRESON, 
 
 Author of "The Real Lord llyron," etc. 
 In Two Volumes, 8vo. With Portraits. [In October. 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE YEARS IN THE 
 SECRET SERVICE. 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A SPY. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAJOR LE CARON. 
 
 In One Volume, 8vo. With Portraits and Facsimiles. 
 
 [/« October. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 COUNT LEO NICHOLAEVITCH 
 
 TOLSTOI. 
 
 BY 
 
 C. A. BEHRS, 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 
 
 PROFESSOR C. E. TURNER. 
 
 In One Volume, Crown 8vo. \Jii October. 
 
 THE REALM OF THE HABSBURGS 
 
 BY 
 
 SIDNEY WHITMAN, 
 
 Author of" Imperial Germany." 
 In One Volume. Crown 8vo. \ In November.
 
 4 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 THE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE. Translated 
 by Charles Godfrey Leland, M.A., F.R.L.S. (Hans Breitmann). 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, ^s. per Volume. 
 
 I. FLORENTINE NIGHTS, SCIINABELEWOPSKI, 
 THE RABBI OF BACHARCAH, and SHAKE- 
 SPEARE'S MAIDENS AND WOMEN. \Ready. 
 
 Times.—" We can recommend no better medium for making acquaintance 
 at first hand with 'the German Aristophanes' than the works of Heinrich 
 Heine, translated by Charles Godfrey Leland. Mr. Leland manages pretty 
 successfully to preserve the easy grace of the original." 
 
 XL, III. PICTURES OF TRAVEL. 1823 -1828. In Two 
 Volumes. \_Ready. 
 
 Daily Chronicle.—" Mr. Leland's translation of ' The Pictures of Travel ' 
 is one of the acknowledged literary feats of the age. As a traveller Heine is 
 delicious beyond description, and a volume which includes the magnificent 
 
 Lucca series, the North Sea, the memorable Hartz wanderings, must needs 
 
 possess an everlasting charm." 
 
 IV. THE BOOK OF SONGS. lln the Press. 
 
 v., VI. GERMANY. In Two Volumes. \Ready. 
 
 Daily Telegraph.—"' Mr. Leland has done his translation in able and 
 scholarly fashion." 
 
 VIL, VIH. FRENCH AFFAIRS. In Two Volumes. 
 
 \ln the Press. 
 
 IX. THE SALON. {In preparation. 
 
 *»* Large Paper Edition, limited to 100 Nnmhered Copies. Particulars on 
 
 nf'f'tication. 
 
 THE POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THOMAS BE 
 
 QUINCEY. Edited with IntioJuction and Notes from the Author's 
 Original MSS., by Alexandkk H. Japp, LL.D, F.R.S.E., &c. Crown 
 8vo, cloth, 6s. each. 
 
 I. SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS. With Other E-says. 
 
 Times. — " Here we have De Quincey at his best. Will be welcome to 
 lovers of De Quincey and good literature." 
 
 II. CONVERSATION AND COLERIDGE. With other 
 
 Essays. ^In preparation.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 ^be Great £bucator0. 
 
 A Series of Vohmies by Eminent Writers, presenting in their 
 entirety "A Biographical History of Education.''^ 
 
 The Times. — " A Series of Monographs on ' The Great Educators ' should 
 prove of service to all who concern themselves with the history, theory, and 
 practice of education." 
 
 The Speaker. — " There is a promising sound about the title of Mr. Heine- 
 mann's new series, ' The Great Educators.' It should help to allay the hunger 
 and thirst for knowledge and ciiUure of the vast multitude of young men and 
 maidens which our educational system turns out yearly, provided at least with 
 an appetite for instruction." 
 
 Each subject will form a complete volume, crown 8vo, $s. 
 Now ready. 
 
 ARISTOTLE, and the Ancient Educational Ideals. By 
 
 Thomas Davidson, M.A., LL.D. 
 The Times. — "A very readable sketch of a very interesting subject." 
 
 LOYOLA, and the Educational System of the Jesuits. By 
 Rev. Thomas Hughes, S.J. 
 Sattirday Review. — " Full of valuable information If a school- 
 master would learn how the education of the young can be carried on so as to 
 confer real dignity on those engaged in it, we recommend him to read Mr. 
 Hughes' book." 
 
 ALCUIN, and the Rise of the Christian Schools. By 
 Professor Andrew F. West, Ph.D. [/« October. 
 
 In preparation. 
 
 ABELARD, and the Origin and Early History of Uni- 
 versities. By Jules Gabriel Compavre, Professor in the Faculty of 
 
 Toulouse. 
 
 ROUSSEAU ; or, Education according to Nature. 
 HERBART; or, Modern German Education. 
 PESTALOZZI ; or, the Friend and Student of Children. 
 FROEBEL. By H. Courthope Bowen, M.A. 
 
 HORACE MANN, and Public Education in the United 
 
 States. By Nicholas Mukrav Butler, Ph.D. 
 
 BELL, LANCASTER, and ARNOLD; or, the English 
 Education of To-Day. By J. G. Fitch, LL.D., Her JNlaJesty's In- 
 spector of Schools. 
 
 Others to/oUoiu.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 THE GREAT WAR OF 189-. A Forecast. By Rear- 
 
 Admiral Colomb, Col. Maurice, R.A., Major Henderson, Staff 
 
 College, Captain Maude, Archibald Forbes, Charles Lowe, 
 
 D. Christie Murray, F. Scudamore, and Sir Charles Dilke. In 
 
 One Volume, 410, Illustrated. 
 
 In this narrative, which is reprinted from the pages of Black and fK/jizV^, 
 
 an attempt is made to forecast the course of events preliminary and incidental 
 
 to the Great War which, in the O]nnion of military and political experts, will 
 
 probably occur in the immediate future. ... 
 
 The writers, who are well-known authorities on international politics and 
 strategy, have striven to derive the conflict from its most likely source, to 
 conceive the most probable campaigns and acts of policy, and generally to give 
 to their work the verisimilitude and actuality of real warfare. The work has 
 been profusely illustrated from sketches by Mr. Frederic Villiers, the well- 
 known war artist. [Nearly ready. 
 
 THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES. As 
 
 pleasingly e.xemplified in many instances, wherein the serious ones of this 
 earth, carefully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions 
 and unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right. By 
 J. M'Neil Whistler. A New Edition. Pott 4to, half cloth, loi. 6d. 
 
 [Just ready. 
 Punc/i.—" The book in itself, in its binding, print and arrangement, is a 
 
 work of art A work of rare humour, a thing of beauty and a joy for now 
 
 and ever." 
 
 THE JEW AT HOME. Impressions of a Summer and 
 Autumn Spent with Him in Austria and Russia. By Joseph Pennei.l. 
 With Illustrations by the Author. 4to, cloth, 5^. [Just ready. 
 
 THE NEW EXODUS. A Study of Israel in Riis.sia. By 
 Harold Frederic. Demy 8vo, Illustrated. 16^. [/"sl ready. 
 
 PRINCE BISMARCK. An Historical Biography. By 
 
 Charles Lowe, M. A. With Portraits. Crown 8vo, 6j. [Just ready. 
 
 The Times.—" Is unquestionably the first important work which deals, 
 fully and with some approach to exhaustiveness, with ihe career of Bismarck 
 from both the personal and the historical points of view." 
 
 ADDRESSES. By Henry Irving. Small crown 8vo. 
 
 With Portrait by J. M'N. Whistler. [/« the Press. 
 
 STRAY MEMORIES. By Ellen Terry. 4to. With 
 
 Portraits. [In preparation. 
 
 LITTLE JOHANNES. By Frederick van Eeden. Trans- 
 lated from the Dutch by Clara Bell. With an Introduction by 
 Andrew Lang. Illustrated. [In preparation. 
 
 *** Also a Large Paper Edition. 
 
 LIFE OF HEINRICH HEINE. By Rich.\rd Garnett, 
 
 LL.D. With Portrait. Crown 8vo (uniform with the translation of Heine's 
 Works). [In preparation. 
 
 THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS. By Professor R. L. 
 
 Garner. Crown 8vo, ts. 6d. [J"st ready. 
 
 Daily Chronicle.—" A real, a remarkable, contribution to our common 
 knowledge." ,, 
 
 Daily Telegraph.— " An entertaining book. 
 
 THE OLD MAIDS' CLUB. By I. Zangwill, Author of 
 
 " The Bachelors' Club." Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth, 3i. 6d. , ■ , • • 1 
 
 National Review.—" Mr. Zangwill has a very bright and a very original 
 
 humour, and every page of this closely printed book is full of point and go, and 
 
 full, too, of a healthy satire that is really humorously applied common-sense." 
 
 Aihenaum.—" Most strongly to be recommended to all classes of readers."
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 WOMAN— THROUGH A MAN'S EYEGLASS. By 
 
 INIalcolm C. Salaman. With Illustrations by Dudley Hakdy. Crown 
 8vo, cloth, 3i. f>d. 
 Daily Giafhic, — "A most anuising book." 
 
 Daily yV/f^ra/A.—" Written with brightness and elegance, and with 
 touches of hot' caustic satire and kindly hnniour." 
 
 Daily Chronicle.— " It is the very thing for a punt cushion or a garden 
 hammock." 
 
 GIRLS AND WOMEN. By E. Chester. Pott Svo, cloth, 
 
 2S. M., or gilt extra, 3^. dd. 
 Literary )Kor/i/.—" We gladly commend this delightful little work to the 
 thoughtful girls of our own country. We hope that many parents and daughters 
 will read and ponder over the little volume." 
 
 GOSSIP IN A LIBRARY. By Edmund Gosse, Author of 
 
 " Northern Studies," &c. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 
 
 ^M£«<s«;«.— "There is a touch of Leigh Hunt in this picture of the book- 
 lover among his books, and the volume is one that Leigh Hunt would have 
 delighted in." . 
 
 *»* Large Paper Edition, limited to 100 Numbered Copies, 25J. net. 
 
 THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. By Henrik J.eger. 
 
 Translated by Clara Bell. With the Verse done into English from the 
 Norwegian Original by Edmund Gosse. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 Academy.— "'^^ welcome it heartily. An unquahfied boon to the many 
 English students of Ibsen." 
 
 DE QUINCEY MEMORIALS. Being Letteis and other 
 Records here first Published, with Communications from Coleridge, The 
 WoRDSWORTHS, Hannah More, Professor Wilson andothers. Edited, 
 with Introduction, Notes, and Narrative, by Alexander H. Jai'P, LL.D. 
 F.R.S.E. In two volumes, demy 8vo, cloth, with portraits, 30^. net. 
 Daily Telegraph.—" Few works of greater literary interest have of late years 
 issued from the press than the two volumes of ' De Quincey Memorials.' They 
 comprise most valuable materials for the historian of literary and social England 
 at the beginning of the century ; but they are not on that account less calciilaled 
 to amuse, enlighten, and absorb the general reader of biographical memoirs." 
 
 THE WORD OF THE LORD UPON THE WATERS, 
 
 Sermons read by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Germany, while 
 at Sea on his Voyages to the Land of the Midnight Sun. Composed by 
 Dr. RiCHTER, Army Chaplain, and Translated from the German by John 
 R. McIlraith. 4to, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 Times. — "The Sermons are vigorous, simple, and vivid in themselves, and 
 well adapted to the circumstances in which they were delivered." 
 
 THE HOURS OF RAPHAEL, IN OUTLINE. 
 
 Together with the Ceiling of the Hall where they were originally painted. 
 By Mary E. Williams. Folio, cloth, £1 2s. net. 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890. 
 
 By F. W. Farrar, D.D., F.R.S., Archdeacon and Canon of Westminster 
 &c. &c. 4to, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 .S"/^c^<si'o>-.—" This little book will be read with delight by those who have, 
 and by those who have not, visited Oberammergau." 
 
 THE GARDEN'S STORY; or, Pleasures and Trials of an 
 Amateur Gardener. By G. H. Ellwanger. With an Introduction by the 
 Rev. C. Wolley Dod. i2mo, cloth, with Illustrations, 5^-. 
 Scotsm.iii.-" It deals with a charming subject in a charming manner." 
 
 IDLE MUSINGS: Essays in Social Mosaic. By E. Conder 
 Gray, Author of "Wise Words and Loving Deeds," &c. &c. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth. 6s. 
 Saturday A'tviezf.—" Light, brief, and bright."
 
 8 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN S LIST. 
 
 THE COMING TERROR. And other Essays and Letters. 
 By Robert Buchanan. Second Edition. Demy 8vo, cloth, lis. ()d. 
 Daily Chronicle.— "Th\i amusing, wrong-headed, audacious, 'cranky' 
 book should be widely read, for there is not a dull line in it." 
 
 ARABIC AUTHORS: A Manual of Arabian History and 
 Literature. By F. F. Arbuthnot, M.R.A.S., Author of" Early Ideas," 
 " Persian Portraits," &c. 8vo, cloth, los. 
 
 Manchester Examiner. — " The whole work has been carefully indexed, and 
 will prove a handbook of the highest value to the student who wishes to gain a 
 better acquaintance with Arabian letters " 
 
 THE LABOUR MOVEMENT IN AMERICA. By 
 
 Richard T. Ely, Ph.D., Associate in Political Economy, Johns Hopkins 
 University. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5^. 
 
 Saturday Review. — " Both interesting and valuable. 
 
 THE LITTLE MANX NATION. (Lectures delivered at 
 the Royal Institution, 1891.) By Hall Caine, Author of "The Bond- 
 man," "The Scapegoat," &c. Crown Svo, cloth, 3^. 6d.; paper, 2^. 6d. 
 World.— "Mr. Hall Caine takes us back to the days of old romance, and, 
 
 treating tradition and history in the_ pictorial style of which he is a master, he 
 
 gives us a monograph of Man especially acceptable." 
 
 NOTES FOR THE NILE. Together with a Metrical 
 Rendering of the Hymns of Ancient Egypt and of the Precepts of Ptah- 
 hotep (the oldest book in the world). By Hardwicke D. k avvnslev, M. A. 
 i6rao, cloth, 5^. 
 The Times.— " Ail visitors to Egypt will find much instruction and enter- 
 tainment pleasantly conveyed." 
 
 Saturday Review. — " A pleasant and useful little companion for the culti- 
 vated traveller." 
 
 DENMARK: Its History, Topography, Language, Literature, 
 Fine Arts, Social Life, and t inance. Edited by H. Weitemeyer. Demy 
 Svo, cloth, with Map, 12^. 6d. 
 
 *** Dedicated, by permission, to H.R.H. the Princess 0/ Wales. 
 Ar^r«2«^/'c'^^— "An e-xcellent account of everythingrelating to this Northern 
 country." 
 
 IMPERIAL GERMANY. A Critical Study of Fact and 
 Character. By Sidney Whitman. New Edition, Revised and Enlarged. 
 Crown Svo, cloth is. (>d. ; paper, ■zs. 
 Prince Bismarck. — " I consider the different chapters of this book masterly." 
 
 THE CANADIAN GUIDE-BOOK. Part I. The Tourist's 
 
 and Sportsman's Guide to Eastern Canada and Newfoundland, including full 
 descriptions of Routes, Cities, Points of Interest, Summer Resorts, Fishing 
 Places, &c., in Eastern Ontario, The Muskoka District, The St. Lawrence 
 Region, The Lake St. John Country, The Maritime Provinces^ Prince 
 Edward Island, and Newfoundland. With an Appendix giving Fish and 
 Game Laws, and Official Lists of Trout and Salmon Rivers and their 
 Lessees. By Charles G. D. Roberts, Professor of English Literature in 
 King's College, Windsor, N.S. With Maps and many Illustrations. 
 Crown Svo, limp cloth, 6^-. 
 
 Part II. WESTERN CANADA. Including the Peninsula 
 and Northern Regions of Ontario, the Canadian Shores of the Great 
 Lakes, the Lake of the Woods Region, Manitoba and " The Great 
 North-West," The Canadian Rocky Mountains and National Park, 
 British Columbia, and Vancouver Island. By Ernest Ingersoll. With 
 Maps and many illustrations. Crown Svo, limp cloth. {In preparation.
 
 iMR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 jfictioiu 
 
 In Three Volumes. 
 THE HEAD OF THE FIRM. By Mrs. Riddell, Author 
 
 of " ( '.Lor-c G.;iih," " Maxwell Drewett," &c. \Jnst ready. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO. By I. Zangwill, 
 
 Author of " The Old Maids' Club," &c. W'^i ready. 
 
 THE TOWER OF TADDEO. A Novel. By Ouida, 
 Author of "Two Little Wooden Shoe^," &c. \Iti October. 
 
 KITTY'S FATHER. By Frank Barrett. Author of 
 
 '' Lieutenant B.irnalias, ' &■:. [/« November. 
 
 THE COUNTESS RADNA. By W. E. NORRIS, Aiithor of 
 " Matrimony," &c. \^In January. 
 
 ORIOLE'S DAUGHTER. ANovel. By Jessie Fothergill, 
 
 Author of " The First Violin," &c. [/» February. 
 
 THE LAST SENTENCE. By Maxwell Gray, Author of 
 
 " The Silence of Dean Maitland," &c. [In March. 
 
 In Two Volumes. 
 
 WOMAN AND THE MAN. A Love Story. By Robert 
 
 Buchanan, Author of "Come Live with Me and be My Love," "The 
 Moment After," "The Coniiii',; Terror," &c. \_lii preparation. 
 
 A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE FEATHER. By " Tasma, " 
 Author of "The Penance of Portia James," "Uncle Piper of Piper's 
 Hill," &c. S_Jnst ready. 
 
 A LITTLE MINX. By Ada Cambridge, Author of "A 
 
 Marked Man," " The Three Miss Kings," &c. 
 
 In One Volume. 
 THE NAULAHKA. A Tale of West and East. By Rudyard 
 Kipling and Wolcott Balestiek. Crown Svo, cloth, ds. Second 
 Edition, Vh'st ready. 
 
 THE AVERAGE WOMAN. By Wolcott Balestier. 
 
 With an Introduction by Henry Jajies. Small crown Svo, 31. dd. 
 
 \Just ready. 
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL and Other Sketches 
 
 of War. By Emtle ZoL.\. With an essay on the short stories of M. 
 Zola by Edmund Gosse. Small crown Svo, 3^. dd. \Just ready. 
 
 DUST. By Bjornstjerne Bjornson. Translated from the 
 
 Norwegian. Small crown Svo. 
 
 THE SECRET OF NARCISSE. By Edmund Gosse. 
 
 Crown Svo. [/« October. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MISS and Other Stories. By Henry 
 
 Harland, Author of " Mea Culpa," S:c. Small crown Svo. [/« the Press. 
 
 THE DOMINANT SEVENTH. A Musical Story. By 
 Kate Elizabeth Clarke. Crown Svo, cloth, 5.1. 
 Speaker. — "A very romantic story." 
 
 PASSION THE PLAYTHING. ANovel. By R. Murray 
 Gilchrist. Crown Svo, cloth, 6s. 
 Athenteum. — "This well-written story must be read to be appreciated."
 
 lo MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 Ube Crown Cop^uiobt Series. 
 
 Mr. Heinemann has made arrangements with a number of the First and 
 Most Popular English, American, and Colonial Authors which will 
 enable him to issue a series of New and Original Works, to be known as 
 The Crown Copyright Series, complete in One Volume, at a uniform 
 price of Five Shillings each. These Novels will not pass through an Ex- 
 pensive Two or Three Volume Edition, but they will be obtainable at the 
 Ci:;culating Libraries, as well as at all Booksellers' and Bookstalls. 
 
 ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN. By Am^lie Rives, Author 
 
 of "The Quick or the Dead." 
 
 5c^/iWi«.—" The literary work is highly artistic It has beauty and 
 
 brightness, and a kind of fascination which carries the reader on till he has read 
 to the last page." 
 
 THE PENANCE OF PORTIA JAMES. By Tasma, 
 
 Author of " Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill," &c. 
 
 Atlicnauiii. — "A powerful novel." 
 
 Daily CA?-(?«/<:/e.— " Captivatmg and yet tantalising, this story is far above 
 
 the average." . „,.... 
 
 Vanity Fair.—"K very niterestuig story, morally sound, and flavoured 
 throughout with ease of diction and lack of strain. " 
 
 INCONSEQUENT LIVES. A Village Chronicle, shewing 
 
 how certain folk set out for El Dorado ; what they attempted ; and what 
 
 they attained. By J. H. Pearce, Author of "Esther Pentreath," &c. 
 
 Saturday Review. — " A vivid picture of the life of Cornish fisher-folk. It 
 
 U unquestionably interesting." 
 
 Literary World.—''' Powerful and pathetic .... from first to last it is 
 profoundly interesting. It is long since we read a story revealing power of so 
 high an order, marked by such evident carefulness of workmanship, :uch skill in 
 the powerful and yet temperate presentation of passion, and in the sternly 
 realistic yet delicate treatment of difficult situations." 
 
 A QUESTION OF TASTE. By Maarten Maartens, 
 
 Author of " An Old Maid's Love," &c. 
 National Oise>-7'er.—" Th&is is more than cleverness; there is original 
 talent, and a good deal of humanity besides." 
 
 COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. By 
 
 Robert Buchanan, Author of " The Moment After," "The Coming 
 Terror," &c. 
 Globe. — " Will be found eminently readable." 
 
 Daily Telegraph.—" We will conclude this brief notice by expressing our 
 cordial admiration of the skill displayed in its construction, and the geni.al 
 humanity that has inspired its author in the shiping and vitalising of the indi- 
 viduals created by his fertile imagination." 
 
 THE O'CONNORS OF BALLINAHINCH. By Mrs. 
 Hungerforu, Author of " Molly Bawn," &c. [/« the Press. 
 
 A BATTLE AND A BOY. By Blanche Willis Howard, 
 
 Author of "Gueiui," &c. IHi. preparation. 
 
 VANITAS. By Vernon Lee, Author of " Hauntings," &c. 
 
 [In preparation.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 11 
 
 fljeineinaiin's international Xibrav^* 
 
 Edited by EDMUND GOSSE. 
 New Review. — " If you haveauy peri)icioub remnants of literary chauviiiisin 
 I hope it will not survive the series of foreign classics of which Mr. William 
 Heinemann, aided hy Mr. F.dmund Gosse, is publishins translations to the great 
 contentment of all lovers of literature." 
 
 Tillies.— " h venture which deserves encouragement." 
 Each Volume has an Introduction specially -written by the Editor. 
 Price, in paper covers, is. 6d. each, or cloth, 3.?. 6d. 
 IN GOD'S WAY. From the Norwegian of Bjornstjerne 
 
 BjORNSON. 
 
 Athcnc^tivi.—" Without doubt the most important and the most interesting 
 
 work published during the twelve months There are descriptions which 
 
 certainly belong to the best and cleverest things our literature has ever produced. 
 Amongst the many characters, the doctor's wife is unquestionably the first. It 
 would-be difficult to find anything more tender, soft, and refined than this 
 charming personage." 
 
 PIERRE AND JEAN. From the French of Guy de Mau- 
 passant. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette.— "So fine and faultless, so perfectly balanced, so 
 steadily progressive, so clear and simple and satisfying. It is admirable from 
 beginning to end." 
 
 Athenceutn.—" Ranks amongst the best gems of modern French fiction. ' 
 
 THE CHIEF JUSTICE. From the German of Karl Emil 
 
 Franzos, Author of " For the Right," &c. 
 
 New Review.—" Few novels of recent times have a more sustained and 
 vivid human interest." 
 
 Christian IVorld.—" A story of wonderful power .... as free from any- 
 thing objectionable as ' The Heart of ISIidlothian.' " 
 
 WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT. From the 
 Russian of Count Lyof Tolstoy. 
 
 Li7'er/'Ool Mercury.— " Marked by all the old power of the great Russian 
 novelist." r , • . 
 
 Manchester Guardian.— '* ResidMe and well translated; full of high and 
 noble feeUng." 
 
 FANTASY. From the Italian of Matilde Serao. 
 
 National Observer.— " The strongest work from the hand of a woman that 
 has been published for many a day." 
 
 Scottish Leader.—" The book is full of a glowing and living realism. ■ • • • 
 
 There is nothing like ' Fantasy ' in modern literature It is a work of elfish 
 
 art, a mosaic of light and love, of right and wrong, of human weakness and 
 strength, and purity and wantonness, pieced together in deft and witching 
 precision." 
 
 FROTH. From the Spanish of Don Armando Palacio- 
 
 Valdes. 
 Daily Telegraph.—" Vigorous and powerful in the highest degree. It 
 abounds in forcible delineation of character, and describes scenes with rare and 
 graphic strength." 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF FATE. From the Dutch of Louis 
 
 COUPERUS. 
 
 Daily Chronicle.— " A powerfully realistic story which has been excellently 
 translated." 
 
 Gentlewoman.— "T)\f^ consummate art of the writer prevents this tragedy 
 from sinking to melodrama. Not a single situation is forced or a circunibtance 
 exaggerated."
 
 12 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 HDCineinann's international Xibrar^. 
 
 PEPITA JIMENEZ. From the Spanish of Juan Valera. 
 
 New Review (Mr. George Saintsbury) : — " There is no doubt at all that 
 it is one of the best stories that have appeared in any country in Europe for the 
 last twenty years." 
 
 THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS. From the Nor- 
 wegian of Jonas Lie. 
 Athenceum. — " Everything that Jonas Lie writes is attractive avvd pleasant ; 
 the plot of deeply human interest, and the art noble." 
 THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS. From the Norvvegiap 
 
 of BjORNSTJERNE BjORNSON. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. — " A most fascinating as well as a powerful book." 
 National Observer. — " It is a book to read and a book to think about, for, 
 incontestably, it is the work of a man of genius." 
 
 Ill the Press. 
 
 LOU. From the German of Baron v. Roberts. 
 
 DONA L.\JZ. From the Spanish of Juan Valera. 
 
 WITHOUT DOGMA. From the Polish of H. Sienkiewicz. 
 
 popular 3s. 6b. Morels. 
 
 CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON, The Blind Mother, 
 and The Last Confession. By Hall Caine, Author of " The Bondman," 
 "The Scapegoat," &c. 
 
 THE SCAPEGOAT. By Hall Caine, Author of "The 
 
 Bondman," 8.C. 
 Mr. Gladstone writes : — " I congratulate you upon ' The Scapegoat ' as a 
 work of art, and t pecially upon the noble and skilfully drawn character of 
 
 Israel." . 
 
 Times. — " In our judgment it excels in dramatic force all his previous efforts. 
 For grace and touching pathos Naomi is a character which any romancist in the 
 world mi;;ht be proud to have creat>ed." 
 
 THE BONDMAN. A New Saga. By Hall Caine. 
 
 Twentieth Thousand. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone.— ""Th.s Bondman' is a work of which I recognise the 
 freshness, vigour, and sustained interest no less than its integrity of aim." 
 
 Standard. — " Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with a power that is 
 almost marvellous." 
 
 DESPERATE REMEDIES. By Thomas Hardy, Author 
 
 of "Tessofthe D'Urbervilles," &c. 
 Saturday Review. — " A remarkable story worked out with abundant skill." 
 
 A MARKED MAN : Some Episodes in his Life. By Ada 
 Cambridge, Author of "Two Years' Time," "A Mere Chance," &c. 
 Morning Post. — "A depth of feeling, a knowledge of ihe human heart, and 
 an amount of ta. t that one rarely finds.' Should take a prominent place among 
 the novels of tht season." 
 
 THE THREE MISS KINGS. By Ada Cambridge, Author 
 
 of "A Marked Man." 
 Athenceuiii. — "A charming study of character. The love stories are ex- 
 cellent, and the author is happy in tender situations." 
 
 NOT ALL IN VAIN. By Ada Cambridge, Author of "A 
 
 Marked Man," " The Three Miss Kings," &c. 
 Guardian. — " A clever and absorbing story." 
 Queen.—" All that remains to be said is ' read the book.' "
 
 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 Ipiopular 3s. 6t)» 1Ro\>els. 
 
 UNCLE PIPER OF PIPER'S HILL. By Tasma. New 
 
 Popular Edition. 
 Guaj-dir.ii. — " Every page of it contains good wholesome food, which demands 
 and repays digestion. The tale itself is thoroughly charming, and all the 
 characters are delightfully drawn. We strongly recommend all lovers of whole- 
 some novels to make acquaintance with it themselves, and are much mistaken if 
 they do not heartily thank us for the introduction." 
 
 IN THE VALLEY. By Harold Frederic, Author o!" 
 
 "The Lawton Girl," " Seth's Brother's Wife," &c. With Illustrations. 
 Times. — "The literary value of the book is high ; the author's studies of 
 bygone life presenting a life-like picture." 
 
 PRETTY MISS SMITH. By Florence Warden, Author 
 
 of "The House on the Marsh," "A Witch of the Hills," &c. 
 Punch. — " Since Miss Florence Warden's ' House on the Marsh,' I have 
 not read a more exciting tale." 
 
 NOR WIFE, NOR MAID. By Mrs. Hungerford, Author 
 of "Molly Bawn," &c. 
 
 Queen. — " It has all the characteristics of the writer's work, and greater 
 emotional depth than most of its predecessors." 
 
 Scotsmaii. — " Delightful reading, supremely interesting." 
 
 MAMMON. A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander, Author of "The 
 Wooing O't," &c. 
 Scotsman.— " T\i<t present work is not behind any of its predecessors. 
 'Mammon ' is a healthy story, and as it has been thoughtfully written it has the 
 merit of creating thought in its readers." 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF MEN. By Hannah Lynch, Author of 
 
 " The Prince of the Glades," &c. 
 Daily Telegraph. — " Singularly clever and fascinating." 
 Academy. — " One of the cleverest, if not also the pleasantest, stories that 
 have appeared for a long time." 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE CAPE FRONTIER. By Bertram 
 
 MiTFORD, Author of "Through the Zulu Country," &c. 
 Ol'serz'O: — '' This is a rattling tale, genial, healthy, and spirited." 
 
 'TWEEN SNOW AND FIRE. A Tale of the Kafir War of 
 1S77. By Bertram Mitford. 
 
 THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. By Elizabkth 
 Stuart Phelps and Herbert D. Ward. 
 Athenirttin. — "A thrilhng story." 
 
 LOS CERRITOS. A Romance of the Modern Time. By 
 Gertrude Franklin Atherton, Author of " Hermia Suydani," and 
 " What Dreams may Come." 
 AthentBttm. — "Full of fresh fancies and suggestions. Told with strength 
 and delicacy. A decidedly charming romance." 
 
 A MODERN MARRIAGE. By the Marquise Clara Lanza 
 
 Queen. — "A powerful story, dramatically and consistently carried out." 
 Black and U/iite. — " A decidedly clever book."
 
 14 MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S LIST. 
 
 {popular SbtlUno BooUs. 
 
 MADAME VALERIE. By F. C. Philips, Author of "As 
 
 in a Looking-Glass," &c. 
 
 THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen. By 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 Athenceiim. — "Should be read— in daylight." 
 
 Obsemer. — "A clever tour deforce." 
 
 Guardian. — " Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful." 
 
 CLUES ; or, Leaves from a Chief Constable's Note-Book. 
 
 By William Henderson, Chief Constable of Edinburgh. 
 Mr. GladstoJie.—" I found the book full of interest." 
 
 A VERY STRANGE FAMILY. By F. W. Robinson, 
 Author of "Grandmother's Money," " Lazarus in London," &c. 
 
 Glasgoiu Herald.—'' An ingeniously devised plot, of which the interest is 
 kept up to the very last page. A judicious blending of humour and pathos 
 further helps to make the book delightful reading from start to finish." 
 
 S)ratnatic Xitei*ature» 
 
 THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO. 
 
 With Introductory Notes by Malcolm C. Salaman. i6mo, Paper Covers, 
 \s. 6d. ; or Cloth, 2^. 6d. each. 
 
 THE TIMES: A Comedy in Four Acts. With a Preface by 
 
 the Author. (Vol. L) 
 
 Dai/y Telegraph.— '" Th& Times 'is the best example yet given of Mr. 
 Pinero's power as a satirist. So clever is his work that it beats down opposition. 
 So fascinating is his style that we cannot help listening to him." 
 
 .Morning Post. — "Mr. Pinero's latest belongs to a high order of dramatic 
 literature, and the piece will be witnessed again with all the greater zest after the 
 perusal of such admirable dialogue." 
 
 THE PROFLIGATE : A Play in Four Acts. With Portrait 
 of the Author, after J. Mordecal (Vol. IL) 
 Pall Mall Gazette. — " Will be welcomed by all who have the true interests 
 of the stage at heart." 
 
 THE CABINET MINISTER: A Farce in Four Acts. 
 (Vol. in.) 
 
 Obsemer. — " It is as amusing to read as it was when played." 
 
 THE HOBBY HORSE: A Comedy in Three Acts. 
 (Vol. IV.) 
 
 .St. James's Gazette. — "Mr. Pinero has seldom produced better or more 
 interesting work than in ' The Hobby Horse.' " 
 
 LADY BOUNTIFUL. A Play in Four Acts. (Vol. V.) 
 
 THE MAGISTRATE. A Farce in Three Acts. (Vol. VL) 
 
 To be followed by Dar.dy Dick, The Schoolmistress, The Weaker Sex, Lords and 
 Commons, The Squire, and Sweet Lavender.
 
 MR. WILLIAM HE INEM ANN'S LIST. 15 
 
 2)rainatic literature. 
 
 A NEW PLAY. By Henrik Ibsen. Tran'^lated from the 
 
 Norwegian. Small 4to. 'iln preparation. 
 
 A NEW PLAY. By BjOrnstjerne Bjornson. Translated 
 from the Norwegian. \^[n preparatioti. 
 
 THE PRINCESSE MALEINE: A Drama in Five Acts 
 (Translated by Gerard Harry), and THE INTRUDER: A Drama in 
 One Act. By Maurice Maeterlinck. With an Introduction by Hall 
 Caine, and a Portrait of the Author. Small 4to, cloth, 5^. 
 
 A t/ienaum. — "In the creation of the 'atmosphere' of the play M. Maeter- 
 linck shows his skill. It is here that he communicates to us the noiiveau frisson, 
 here that he does what no one else has done. In 'The Intruder' the art 
 consists of the subtle gradations of terror, the slow, creeping progress of the 
 nightmare of apprehension. Nothing quite like it has been done before— not 
 even by Poe— not even by Villiers." 
 
 THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT: A Comedy in 
 
 Four Acts. By Count Lyof Tolstoy. Translated from the Russian by 
 
 E. J. Dillon. With Introduction by A. W. Pinero. Small 4to, with 
 
 Portrait, 5^. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette.— "The. whole effect of the play is distinctly Molieresque; 
 
 it has something of the large humanity <-if the master. Its satire is genial, almost 
 
 gay." 
 
 HEDDA GABLER: A Drama in Four Acts. By Henrik 
 
 Ibsen. Translated from the Norwegian by Edmund Gosse. Small 4to, 
 cloth, with Portrait, 5.?. Vaudeville Edition, paper, li". Also a Limited 
 Large Paper Edition, 21.?. net. 
 
 Times.—" The language in which this play is couched is a model of brevity, 
 
 decision, and pointedness Every line tells, and there is not an Incident 
 
 that does not bear on the action immediate or remote. As a corrective to the 
 vapid and foolish writing with which the stage is deluged ' Hedda Gabler ' is 
 perhaps entitled to the place of honour." 
 
 STRAY MEMORIES. By Ellen Terry. In one volume. 
 
 Illustrated. [/« pre/>aration. 
 
 SOME INTERESTING FALLACIES OF THE 
 
 Modern Stage. An Address delivered to the Playgoers' Club at St. 
 James's Hall, on Sunday, 6th December, 1891. By Herbert Beerbohm 
 Tree. Crown 8vo, sewed, 6ci. 
 
 THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN. By Henrik J^ger. 
 
 Translated by Clara Bell. With the Verse done into English from the 
 Norwegian Original by Edmund Gosse. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 St. James's Gazette.— " Aiimira\Ay translated. Deserves a cordial and 
 emphatic welcome." 
 
 Guardian. — " Ibsen's dramas at present enjoy a considerable vogue, and 
 their admirers will rejoice to find full descriptions and criticisms in Mr. Jaeger's 
 book."
 
 1 5 MK. WILLIAM HEINEMAISIN'S LIST. 
 
 IVY AND PASSION FLOWER: Poems. By Gerard 
 
 Bendall, Author of " Estelle," &c. &c. 121110, cloth, zs. dd. 
 
 Scnismnn.^" WM be read with p!ea<;ure." 
 
 Aljisicnl U'orM.—" The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful and 
 polished." 
 
 VERSES. By Gertrude Hall. i2mo, cloth, y. 6d. 
 
 Manchester Guardian.— "\^\\\ be welcome to every lover of poetry who 
 takes it up." 
 
 MAGONIA: A Poem. By Charles Godfrey Leland (Hans 
 Breitmann). Fcap. 8vo. [/« the Press. 
 
 IDYLLS OF WOMANHOOD. By C. Amy Dawson. 
 Fcap. 8vo, gilt top, 5^. 
 
 Ibefnemann'5 Scientific *([^an^boof?s. 
 
 MANUAL OF BACTERIOLOGY. By A. B. Griffiths, 
 
 Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated. 
 
 [/« the Press. 
 
 MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, 
 
 and Lead Ores. By Walter Lee Brown, B.Sc Revised, Corrected, 
 
 and considerably Enlarged, with a chapter on the Assaying of Fuel, &c. 
 
 By A. B. Griffiths, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S. Crown 8vo, cloth, 
 
 Illustrated, 7.?. 6d. 
 Colliery Guardian.— " h delightful and fascinating book." 
 Financial World.—" The most complete and practical manual on everything 
 which concerns assaying of all which have come before us." 
 
 GEODESY. By J. Howard Gore. Crown 8vo, cloth. Illus- 
 trated, 5 J. 
 
 St. James's Gazette.— "The. book may be safely recommended to those who 
 desire to acquire an accurate knowledge of Geodesy." 
 
 Science Gossip. — " It is the best we could recommend to all geodetic students. 
 It is full and clear, thoroughly accurate, and up to date in all matters of eavth- 
 measurements." 
 
 THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES. By 
 
 Arthur L. Kimball, of the Johns Hopkins University. Crown Svo, 
 
 cloth, Illustrated, 5^-. 
 Chemical News.—" The man of culture who wishes for a general and accurate 
 acquaintance with the physical properties of gases, will tiud in Mr. Kimball's 
 work just what he requires." 
 
 HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY. By Professor R. H. 
 
 Thurston, of Cornell University. Crown Svo, cloth, Illustrated, 51. 
 Manchester Examiner.— "Be^rs out the character of its predecessors for 
 careful and correct statement and deduction under the light of the most recent 
 discoveries." 
 
 LONDON : 
 WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 
 
 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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