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VANITY !

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3Lon^on
T. FISHER UNWIN

VANITY !

trbe Confessions of a Court /IC)o&iste

'RITA'

AUTHOR OF ' PEG THE RAKE,' * THE SINNER,' ' A HUSBAND OF
NO IMPORTANCE,' 'a GENDER IN SATIN,' ' AN OLD
rogue's tragedy,' ETC., ETC.

LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN

PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1900

[Al/ Rights rese^^ed]

O
CO

VANITY!

CHAPTER I
ft With grave doubt I regarded it.

-J

^ That was all. My new sign. My new signa-
,V ture, ready to be afifixed to my new premises in
V Bond Street.

^ It had to be Bond Street, whether I liked the

^ rent or could afford it. My inability to discharge

^^either obligation was not of much importance, I

^ had so many things to consider just then. It was

s all risk, a pure speculation, but Di Abercroft

^ had advised it, and she was one of the successful

Vanity !

modistes of London, and dressed all the principal
actresses, who called her gowns Worth, and Paquin,
and Felix, and thereby delighted and imposed
on the guileless British public.

Dear public ! How very guileless it is in some
things, and how easily deceived, and how dearly
it loves the gilt on its gingerbread. How it
worships millionaires and titles, and the magni-
ficent success of Dishonesty ! It was in order to
test its gullibility and prove the truth of much
that cynics and wise men had said and written on
the subject that I had ordered this sign upon
which I was now gazing.

I stood on the bare boards of what was shortly
to be my Emporium of Fashion. At present it
was only furnished with this sign, and the assertion
of Court Modiste was merely a playful jest on
my part. I had never made a Court gown,
but I meant to. I was therefore only fore-
stalling my intentions by announcing them as
a fact.

' A good beginning is everything,' said Di
Abercroft. ' Make a bold plunge, and the splash
will attract notice. Once get noticed and youVe
all right.'

Vanity !

So I went straight to the heart of the matter
and chose my name, in itself an advertisement of
purpose. For vanity lies at the root of every
female heart to which I appealed. A desire to
be beautiful, to be admired, envied, remarked.
Oh ! I knew my sex very well, and had served
them a long apprenticeship since misfortune and
I were ^ first acquaint' I thought of that ac-
quaintanceship as I looked round at my empty
walls, my vacant shelves and presses.

I thought of my drudgery as a daily governess,
ill paid, imposed upon ; forced to accept starvation
pay and put up with sneers and insults. Hiding
the instincts of a lady under shabby gowns, wear-
ing cleaned gloves, and cheap boots, and home-
trimmed hats.

The room before me became suddenly a picture-
gallery of memories, in all of which I moved and
suffered, and endured. My youth flashed out
stormily — a rebellion against discipline, hardship,
poverty. I loved all things beautiful and artistic.
Form and colour were a delight. Circumstances
forbade my interpreting them as I wished. My
eyes might feast, but my heart could only envy.
For youth does not love to take its joys

Vanity !

second-hand ; to look at love, beauty, wealth,
success through other eyes while its own grow
dim with bitter tears, and the Unattainable
is the ever-present mirage in its dreary life-
desert.

I roused myself suddenly from these reflections.
I had lived through suffering, and now I was going
to avenge it The past was behind me — thank
heaven for that ! I was still young — not thirty.
I had a face and figure that were eminently
serviceable for the purpose in view. I had worked
hard at this business, both in shops and privately.
I had studied its minutest details under Di Aber-
croft's able guidance. I had a genius for 'cut,'
and an eye for colour and combination. But my
capital was small, and the Semitic friend who had
advanced it was not more generously disposed
towards me than many of his fellows. However,
he had faith in me and in Di's promised assistance.
She made thousands a year, and could send me
hosts of customers. The fact of my having been
with her for three years was in itself an introduc-
tion, and as for the rest, audacity must win the
day or —

Well, of course, there was a reverse side to

Vanity !

the picture, even as there was a blank side to
my sign, but I had pinned my colours to the
masthead of vanity, and vanity it should be by
which I triumphed !

Once more I gazed at my empty showroom.
I peopled it with living figures — alive with the
rustle of silken skirts, perfumed flounces, gay
voices. Lace, and satin, and fur, and all the dainty
and useless fripperies of a woman's toilet over-
flowed the shelves, and were heaped on the tables
and decorated the stands. Colour and beauty
shone out of the now dusky twilight. Life and
motion stirred briskly in the empty rooms.
Orders were pouring in, business was flourish-
ing, and I — prime mover, organiser and con-
troller of it all — smiled gleefully as I read on
all sides and on every face the one word —
* Success.'

A knock at the door interrupted me at this
moment. I opened it to admit a tall, graceful
woman, about whom the only qualifying adjective
of description would be ' distinguished.'

It was my friend Di Abercroft — the famous Mrs
Abercroft, the designer and executioner of some

Vanity !

of the loveliest and most wonderful costumes ever
seen in London drawing-rooms, or on the stage
of fashionable theatres.

^ I thought I should find you here/ she said.
' But how dark and gloomy. Can't you light
up?'

* The fittings aren't here yet/ I said. ' You
know what workmen are. But the board has
come. There's light enough to see that. What
do you think of it?'

She surveyed my sign critically. Gold on
white — a very good imitation of my own hand-
writing.

' I never liked the name, you know,' she said.
* But you would have it. Still, it really looks very
well and may " catch on." People are so odd, and
it's certainly novel. One gets tired of those eternal
"Marguerites," and "Paulines," and "Juliettes."
By the way, two of my travellers will call on you
to-morrow. One is from Paris. He is an Irish-
man who went over to a firm there some years
ago and has worked it into quite a big concern.
I mention it because he's the only one of all I
employ whom it's safe to trust. His taste is
absolutely perfect, but he's the most audacious

Vanity !

creature. He absolutely tells you what you are
to take, and in the end I have to give in. It's no
use to say " no.'' Fortunately he can be depended
on, and the things he brings are lovely. If it
weren't for that — '

She paused and laughed. ' Well, I can't wait,'
she went on ; * I've a hundred things to do. When
does your furniture come in ? '

* To-morrow.'

^ Poor thing ! I pity you. What a day you'll
have. You won't open for a week, of course ? '

* No. I want the showroom to be quite
perfect.'

' And you'll give that afternoon reception, as I
advised ? '

' Of course. I sent out the cards a fortnight
ago.'

' They've done the decorations very well,' she
said, glancing round. ^ Now, be wise, and make
friends of the Mammon of Unrighteousness in the
shape of little Abrahams. He can do you a lot of
good, or harm, as it suits him. They say half of
the " smart set " are in his hands.'

' I hope he'll pass them unto mine. But tell me,
Di, how long credit ? '

Vanity !

* Half-yearly accounts, and six months' waiting.
Charge it on, you know. And — one caution — never
be induced to lend money to a customer. They'll
try it on. They always do. YouVe no idea how
mean great ladies can be. They'll ask for a five-
pound note sometimes, and forget all about it, and
then fight over a shilling in the bills. However,
you'll find all that out for yourself By the way,
Fm sending you Lady Farringdon. She wants a
Court gown for the first Drawing-room, and some
evening dresses. Says I'm too expensive — so I
passed her on. Ask her seventy-five pounds for
the Court gown. She'll give her own lace and
think it's a bargain. Her money's safe. Her
husband's an M.P., so he won't have a
^'show up." Your women are all right, I
suppose ? '

* I hope so. Miss Jacks was at Lewis &
Allenby's, and the bodice hands are well
recommended. I shall see to the fitting my-
self

* That's wise. Your "cut" is an inspiration.
I should make that a speciality. Jacks is very
good ; I know her. Are you taking on Mrs
Underwood ? '

Vanity !

* Yes. She's such a good supervisor.'

* Oh ! she's right enough when she's sober. But
mind there's not a break out. I wouldn't put up
with her at last, good as she was, and Valerie
sent her off at a moment's notice.'

We were at the door now. Her little brougham,
perfect in all its appointments, stood under the
gaslight, waiting. A small youth, who combined
the offices of * tiger' and page, held the door
open.

^ Can I drop you anywhere ? ' she asked.

' No, thanks. I'm going to walk and do a little
shop-gazing.'

*Well, good-bye. I wish you well over to-
morrow. Let me know when you're straight. I'll
send you over some gowns for the showroom.
You must have some on view, and you can copy,
with "variations," as we say.'

The door closed. The small liveried attendant
sprang up on the box. The brougham dashed off,
and I closed the door of my new premises and
walked slowly and thoughtfully along in the dim
wintry night.

I had plenty of food for meditation. My new
venture, the possibilities of failure, the quickest

Vanity !

and most original method of bringing myself
into public notice — feminine, of course.

I gazed at the brilliantly-lit windows, loitering
sometimes to admire an effective setting of some
material, or the style of some Paris novelty — made
in England. The best and most artistic confec-
tions are more adaptations of ' across-the-Channel '
fashions than copies. For whether it be treason
or not to say it, French taste is more eccentric
than perfect, and French style is altogether too
outre and pronounced for the true elegante.
Myself I like the fashions of Vienna better than
those of Paris, but the English modification of
both is the best taste of all.

I let myself in with my key and went upstairs.
My little French domestic — a veritable treasure of
usefulness, ingenuity and good temper — whom I
had picked up at Ostend, a matter of two or three
years back, had everything ready for dinner ; and
although we were on the eve of flitting, the room
and the table looked as cosy and inviting as she
generally managed they should look.

Babette was extraordinarily interested in the
new venture. She was to take all housekeeping and
catering off my hands, provide meals for the work-

Vanity !

girls, superintend the servant I had engaged, and
fulfil the duties of maid to myself when I needed
her.

I knew her value and had taken her from the
household drudgery of a small private hotel.
For this she was absurdly grateful, and twenty
pounds a year seemed to her as the wealth of
Croesus. Her skill, quickness and ability
rendered her of inestimable value to me. Be-
sides, she was trustworthy.

Over a cutlet, a sweet omelette and a half-pint
bottle of claret I talked to her of the affairs of
the morrow, and the prospects of the opening
campaign. She was elated, very voluble, very
sympathetic.

How is it one can be so much more confidential
with a French servant than an English one?
Perhaps because one suffers no loss of respect by
so doing. Their interest is genuine, and they do
not presume upon it. Of very few of our English
domestics can that be said.

* Madame is sure to succeed,' she answered hope-
fully. * Oh ! it is certain she will. So gracietise,
so gentille as she is, and with taste all that is
of the most perfect ! '

Vanity !

I laughed.

' I hope my future customers will think my
taste "of the most perfect,"' I said. *And now,
Babette, clear away these things. I don't want
any dessert, and Tm going to my room to pack
up.'

CHAPTER II

Who does not shudder at a ^ move ' ? The early

advent of vans ; the persistent manner in which

the men bring first everything you don't want

and nothing that you do ; the hopeless muddle ;

the impossibility of a seat or a meal during the

whole day. The arrival of carpets after furniture

instead of before. The pleasant little joke of

leaving bedroom articles in the sitting-rooms, and

taking what should be in the kitchen, to the attics !

All this in a modified form befell me, and drove

me to distraction, while men were fixing blinds

and curtain poles, and laying down carpets. My

premises were small and incommodious, but the

frontage was good. I had, of course, to pay a

ruinous price for the address.

The waiting-room was my own sitting-room as
13

Vanity !

well, and Di had advised me to make it as artistic
as possible in order to produce a good impression
on visitors. So valuable etchings in artistic
frames hung on the pale terra-cotta walls, and
tapestry screens broke up a hard square into cosy
nooks where low cushioned chairs and dainty
tables (destined to be littered with fashion plates
and Ladies' Journals) stood in happy dis-
order.

The carpet was an Aubusson square of richly
glowing hues, the only dash of bold colour
among subdued tints. I was standing surveying
the general effect after five hours' labour and
misery, when Babette came to me with a
card.

' Monsieur says he is of Madame Abercroft's
recommendation. He is of Paris. It is important
he see madame to-day.'

I glanced at the name.

MoNS. Alphonse Wildash,
Marchand et Cie.,
Paris.

This must be the French traveller Di had
spoken about. I resolved to see him despite

Vanity ! 1 5

confusion, and told Babette to bring him up-
stairs.

I had often interviewed travellers while serving
my apprenticeship to business. As a class I did
not hold them in favour.

I gave a cursory glance at the intruder and
addressed him in French. He was tall, very
good-looking, and had the manner and address
of a gentleman, so I saw in one quick glance.
Also — his hands were empty of the usual
travellers' paraphernalia.

* I am only just moving in, as you see,' I
observed. 'You must excuse confusion. What
is it you have brought?'

* Nothing — at present/ he answered in English.
I noticed as I met his eyes that they were blue,
and had a sort of twinkle, or rather sparkle in
them indicative of humour. They gave one
rapid glance around. * I heard you were only
just establishing yourself, so I came to see what
you would be likely to require.'

He drew a chair up to one of the small tables
and offered it to me, and then drew a note-book
from his pocket.

* As a friend of Mrs Abercroft's,' he went on,

Vanity !

'you will probably model yourself on her. My-
self — I should advise you to be quite original.
There is nothing more difficult, but also nothing
that so succeeds. Now, I thought of sending you
some rather exclusive things for your showroom.
They won't be seen anywhere else, I promise you,
except at our Paris establishment. Trimmings,
materials, novelties of various kinds.'

* I should like to see them first,' I said, not
caring for quite such haut en bas proceed-
ings.

* Oh ! you may quite depend on me,' he
answered with a smile.

The smile was so radiant, and the even teeth
so white, and the whole expression of the face
at once so audacious and good-tempered and
yet masterful, that I suddenly recalled Di's
words about him and wondered if I had
better leave myself in his hands, even as she
said.

* In a venture like this,' he went on, * the golden
rule is fearlessness. You must do the best thing
in the best way. You must rule your customers,
not be ruled by them. Never suffer dictation,
or you are lost. Believe me I have studied your

Vanity !

sex ever since I was thirteen years of age — studied
them from a point of vantage few men possess.
See how frank I am/

He smiled again, and put away the note-book
and took a chair opposite my own.

' I congratulate you on your name/ he went on.
* It is excellent, excellent ! It will catch on. It
means what it says. In three months' time I
expect to find you flourishing. In a year you will
be famous, or ought to be. Enterprise, courage,
force — I read them all in your face. Are you
married ? Of course Madame may be only
complimentary, as in France, but it is decidedly
better.'

* I scarcely see what that has to do with your
business — Mr — Mr — '

' Wildash,' he said, as I glanced at the card

before me. ' Not Alphonse, or monsieur, or any

of that nonsense. I have to do that for the firm,

of course, but I'll be frank with you — I'm really

an Irishman, by birth, and on my mother's side.

I inherit a great deal of her spirit, and manner,

so I'm told. She was rather a — well, a lively lady.

My father didn't get on very well with her. They

broke up the home — case of incompatibility of

Vanity !

temper, The harp that once," and all that. Tve
had a lot of knocking about, but I think it hasn't
done me much harm. I entered Marchand &
Cie.'s place when I was quite a boy, and Tve worked
them up splendidly. I get a good salary now, and
I like the business — especially the travelling/

' Do you always entertain customers with
your family history ? * I asked drily.

He flushed a little. * I beg your pardon. I
don't know what made me tell you all this —
only — '

Then I laughed outright. There was something
so frank and boyish about him, I couldn't help it.

' Never mind. I've a touch of Irish blood
myself

' 1 thought so. We were sympathetic directly.'
^Oh! indeed?'

^Well, I felt it, if you didn't. An Irish
friendship always starts with * tracing." See how
I told you all about myself.'

* I hope you don't expect me to be equally
communicative ? '

*Of course not. Only I should like to know
your name — your real name — if you would tell
me.'

Vanity !

* You will be concerned only with what my sign
conveys/ I answered coldly. * Meanwhile I will
place myself in your hands and give you a com-
mission. In a week from now I open. Can you
send me any of those novelties of which you
spoke, by that time ? '

' I return to Paris to-night. I will see to it at
once.'

' And — payment ? '

'Same terms as Mrs Abercroft, if they will
suit.'

* But I haven't an established business like
her*s — your firm — '

* My firm give me carte blanche to act as I think
best.'

'You believe you can trust me. I might fail
— what then?'

' You will not fail/ he said, and his smile was
positively illuminating. 'A brow, a chin like
yours never spelt failure, and your eyes are
truth itself

I rose abruptly, annoyed at the flattery, for I
disliked personalities introduced into business
matters, and yet — not so ill-pleased that I could
resent it on grounds of familiarity. But it was

20 Vanity l

new to me to have travellers speaking in this
fashion. However, this individual was a novelty
in that line, so I scarce knew whether to be
amused or offended.
He took up his hat.

' I shall see you at the end of three months/
he said. ' I wish you all success.'

He held out his hand — another unconventional
act on the part of travellers. I gave him mine, and
he ran down the stairs with an utter absence of
dignity, whistling softly.

For a week Babette and I, with spasmodic help
from the British workman, helped at arranging my
new quarters. The result was eminently satis-
factory, and on the afternoon of my reception I
walked through waiting-room, fitting-room and
showroom with well-warranted complacency.

If not as luxurious as some eminent modistes'
emporiums, they were all artistic, dainty and
comfortable. The shelves and presses of the
showroom held piles of lovely materials for the
forthcoming season. Dumb models stood about,
robed and garmented in exquisite gowns, and
crowned with ckefs-d^ceuvre of millinery.

Vanity !

Every costume could be turned out perfect in
every detail, with the exception of boots. Gowns,
mantles, hats, furs, laces, trimmings, all were on
view to-day. Sketches and original designs lay
about in artistic confusion. Some of the most
original had been sent by Mr Wildash, much to
my surprise, and the trimmings and embroideries
and dentelles forwarded by his firm were simply
dreams of beauty and extravagance. Happy
woman who could afford them !

I was consumed with momentary envy as I
gazed. Three gorgeous toilettes from Di Aber-
croff s workrooms were en evidence, and I myself
was gowned in turquoise blue cloth, edged and
trimmed with sable and lace. I had never looked
better, nor achieved a better ^ fit' My nervousness
abated as I looked at my own advertisement of
my capabilities, and while self-satisfaction reigned
supreme, the first carriage rolled up, and a stately
dame, tall, elegant, amber-haired, a modern Juno,
in fact, entered the shop.

Di Abercroft followed so closely that I learnt
she was Lady Farringdon almost before I had
recognised a first customer.

She was a very charming woman, if a little over-

Vanity !

laden with social minauderies. She wanted a
Court gown, and I listened deferentially to her
ideas on the subject.

They were not mine. I studied her face and
figure and possibilities, and knew instinctively
what would be effective. However, this was not
the occasion to assert my opinions, and I con-
tented myself with making an appointment
instead. Quite a crowd of women flocked in now.
They all seemed to know one another. They
chirped and gossiped, examined my various
confections, tried on hats and bonnets, drank
tea, and nibbled cakes and sweetmeats, pro-
fessed themselves delighted with everything,
asked innumerable questions, and left me with
more orders than I well knew how to
execute.

So far my afternoon had been a success. I had
heard a good many scandals, seen many wonder-
ful faces and figures, learnt something of great
ladies^ extravagances and the way debts were paid
in society, had been petted or patronised accord-
ing to the whim or necessity of those I promised
to oblige, and was at last left to my own reflections,
tired, yet elated, and ready for a confidential

V anity ! 2 3

chat with Di Abercroft, who had remained behind
for that purpose.

Di was a perfect encyclopaedia of fashionable
knowledge. She never forgot a face, or a scandal.
Yet she was too good-natured to rule by such
means, and had a suave, gracious manner that
made her a universal favourite. She was a tall,
graceful blonde, with innocent blue eyes, was
always wonderfully costumed, and had so large
and rich and important a clientele that she could
have spared half and not missed them.

We withdrew into my own little sanctum
when everyone had departed, and Babette
brought us black coffee, chartreuse and cigar-
ettes. Under their soothing influence Di's
worldly soul unburdened itself to me, and I
learnt many things that were needful, much
that was shocking, and little that tended to give
me a very high opinion of my own sex in
general.

* By the way,' I said at last, ' that French
traveller did call. At least he's not French
but Irish. Somewhat of a character, isn't
he?'

* Indeed, yes.' She laughed and lit a cigarette.

Vanity !

*A dear boy and so good-looking. Quite a pet
of mine. And the most perfect taste. He
never makes a mistake. And he has a genius
for what I call " faking " — you know — making
a thing up to suit a particular requirement.
Now, ril let you into a secret. Have you seen
"The Meddlesome Girl" at the Piccadilly
Theatre ? *

' No, not yet'

* ril take you. I have a box for to-morrow
night. You shall see Miss Ellery's gown.
Everyone is raving about it. Hand-painted
roses, natural as life, thrown in a trail over
palest pink satin, low bodice, black baby-ribbon
let in — exquisite. Well, my dear, she couldn't
possibly afford hand-painted satin, and she
wouldn't go into debt, and she is never
" obliged " by anyone. She s quite straight'

' Details d propos — of what ? '

'The roses. What do you think? It was
Harry Wildash's suggestion.'

'To the Irish all things are possible,' I said,
laughing, 'and he has a full share of his
nation's audacity/

' And ingenuity, you'll grant ? '

Vanity !

* And artifice ? ' I questioned, with a remem-
brance of Mrs Malaprop.

' Perhaps something of all these. Well, Kate,
don't whisper it beyond these four walls as you
value my reputation. Those roses are cut out
of chintz^ and gummed on the satin!

CHAPTER II I

I WAS still laughing over this disclosure, when
Babette appeared on the scene.

She handed me a card. I took it, and then
threw it act'oss to Di. 'You'd better see her,'
she advised. 'You'll have to advertise in the
paper, but they'll give you an interview, and
she'll do some sketches of your gowns. Myself
I never bother about these people, but you're
in a different line, and you'll want your Court
dresses described. Ask her in and we'll see
what she says for herself

I gave the necessary order, and Babette ap-
peared again, announcing a gaunt-looking female
with straggling wisps of hair, armed with a note-
book and spectacles.

* You have called from the Lady's Illustrated?^
I said sweetly.

Vanity !

*Yes; I do the fashions for them. They
thought you would like to advertise. Here is
our scale of charges. If you wish I'll take some
notes of your establishment. A notice in our
paper is very beneficial.'

* I have no objection/ I said. * I am sorry
you did not call earlier, I had a sort of open-
ing reception. However, if you care to have
an account of it I shall be happy to give it
you.'

*You would have to take a hundred copies
of the paper if I put in such a notice.'

I hesitated. * Is that — usual ? '

^ Oh ! yes. Then you would be expected to
advertise half a column weekly, and my com-
mission is two per cent, on what you expend,'

*Very well. But you will say nice things of
my establishment, won't you?'

' Depend upon that. Now, if you will give me
a few details I'll work up an article that will
please you. A lady, of course ; doing this out of
enterprise — they always like that — and with a
natural taste for the modiste's art. ... I quite
understand. Who were at the reception? Any
titles? . . . they love titles. , , . Thank you,

Vanity !

that will do. Now for the showroom and my
sketches/

I rose to accompany her. I rather admired the
business-like way she went to work.

She took down a description of the showroom,
sketched one or two models, then shut her little
book and turned to me.

' That tweed,' she observed, pointing to a
material on the table, 'would make a useful coat
and skirt. I never wear anything fanciful — tweed
in winter, linen in summer. When could you fit
me?'

I was somewhat taken aback. * Is that beside
your — commission ? *

' Oh ! yes, it's usual Madame Cross, Mrs Oliver,
all of them do it. It's a good advertisement for
you. I'll say it came from here.'

I could not help thinking that her face and
figure would not be likely to advertise any gown
we made her, but policy counselled politeness. I
therefore merely announced my willingness to fit
her gaunt frame the next afternoon, and promised
the gown within a week. She nodded approvingly,
held out a badly-gloved long hand, and then took
her departure.

Vanity !

I returned to Di and the cigarettes.

* How funny it all is ! ' I said, ' and how different
when one is behind the scenes. Do you furnish
the Press with costumes?'

'Has she been levying blackmail?' laughed
Di. * I thought her gown was very shabby.
Be sure she's done that on her own account.
They all try it on. Well, one can hardly blame
them, poor souls ! They get wretchedly paid, have
their meals at an A. B. C. shop, and are obliged
to watch any chance as keenly as a cat at a
mouse-hole. Are bullied by editors, worried by
the staff, hated for a success, despised for a
failure. All in all, a journalist's life is not a
happy one, and there are too many in the field.
They're in one another's way — consequently the
pay is bad and the competition enormous. We
live in an age of women workers, my dear, but
the age is none the better for it. The fashion
papers only pander to our vanity. The society
notes in the daily press are simply vulgar
advertisements of notoriety. You'll see the same
names appearing day after day. Mrs "Jack"
Nobody was seen driving or walking or lunching,
and Lady " Tom " Somebody was exquisitely

Vanity !

gowned at the Duchess of Lackland's reception.
Her Grace herself looked a picture, and wore
some fine diamonds. I call it offensive and
impertinent; I can't think why people tolerate
it. To have one's name, one's face, one's gowns
and jewels at the mercy of any penny-a-liner!
Well, after all, my dear, there's some satisfaction
in being a nobody. We escape personal in-
dignities of that sort.'

' Those people to-day,' I observed, ' didn't seem
worthy of any better fate. They simply were
Mrs "Jack" this, and Mrs "Tom" that, in
different gowns, but all living the same life,
talking of the same things and bent on being
seen at the same places.'

' Pleasure is not an inventive god. One dinner-
party or one ball does not differ very much from
another in glory. For my part, I think my stage
clientele get much more fun out of life than their
sisters of the great world. No one enjoys pleasure
or leisure until they know what work is. Society
has only caprices.'

' Who is Lady Farringdon ? ' I asked presently.

' Harmless enough. Her husband is in the
House. She is not in the best set, though I

Vanity ! 31

believe she gets a state concert or a Marl-
borough House garden - party now and then.
She is inclined to exaggeration. Don't let her
have her own way — I mean too much colour,
too many jewels, too much red and white, too
much bust and too compressed a waist. She
horrifies me. You will have two hours* trying
on of every gown she orders, and it will take
your fitter half an hour to pull in her corsets.
She sits down between every tug to get her
breath, and then tells you they're quite loose!'

' How foolish ! I hate to see a woman's figure
like an hour-glass. Why can't they see that
proportion is the true art of beauty ? Who
admires an exaggerated waist? I'm sure men
don't, and no woman could — because she knows
what suflTering it entails, and what injury it
does.'

* God knows ! It's one of the things past
understanding. But why should we criticise
our foolish sex, my child? It is on their
follies we flourish and make fortunes ; at least
I hope you'll make a fortune. Then you can
retire and live your life as seems best — or
marry.'

Vanity !

' I shall not do that. . . . You should know
better than to advise it/

* Oh ! I forgot that little contretemps. But
it's all so long ago . . . and no one knows/

* Isn't it sufficient that I know, and have to
suffer for it ? ' I asked bitterly.

* My dear, if I were you I wouldn't suffer.
Men aren't worth it, believe me. They have
their consolations. Why shouldn't we have
ours ? '

She rose and took my hands affectionately.
We were not very demonstrative as a rule, Di
and I.

^You'll come to the theatre to-morrow?' she
asked. * I'll call for you. Wear a pretty gown.
Our box is well placed. Shall I ask Burke
Mahoney to join us ? We could have supper
at the Savoy, or Cecil, if you like.'

'Very well,' I said. 'It will be amusing. And
as my days are likely to be busy, I may as well
enjoy my evenings.'

* Burke's very good fun, as you know. He's
just got on a new paper — The Cynic, Motto^ —
praise nothing, sneer at all things. And he's
just the very essence of good-humour and jollity.'

Vanity !

' Perhaps that's why he can write cynicisms
and enjoy them. Force of contrast/

^ Even as we enjoy the theatre because we
come to it from workrooms and fripperies/

'And chintz roses/ I said, laughing.

* My dear, society is very like my chintz
roses. It only requires effects, no matter how
startling or bizarre. All its satin passes for
hand-painted, if it's only worn by the right
person.'

I thought of that remark after Di had left,
and the showroom was closed, and I was re-
flecting on the day's experience.

* Worn by the right person! Yes. That was
the secret of social success. To be so far above
the crowd that what you wore was correct, how-
ever eccentric; what you said was witty, what
you did was not to be cavilled at. It must be
nice to be one of the elect. To be in the right
' set,' and know all the right people. Never to
wear that air of *not being in it' which is
impossible of disguise. Never to be in ignorance
of the latest mode in handshakes and slang, and

society shibboleth. And it looked so easy.

Vanity !

I had studied the world from many points of
view, and, as the * looker-on ' sees most of the
game, I had contrived to see a good deal, and
learn more. Paris, London, the Riviera, had
all played school board to my various educational
standards. I was by no means meanly equipped
for my battle with life and my own sex. I had
little to thank them for, and I owed many a
bitter grudge which I was well minded to re-
pay if fate gave me the chance.

But to get that chance I must become a
necessity; someone not easy to snub or ignore.
I must rule through their worst and lowest
passions. I must get to know their secrets, and
use them to my own advantage. It would not
be easy, perhaps, but it would be worth trying.
What I had learnt in Paris, and seen in Monte
Carlo, and studied in London might be of in-
estimable value. I knew it was a habit of great
ladies to * pet ' their dressmakers, in order to have
the first chance of novelty, the best attention,
and be sure of getting new gowns at a few
hours* notice, even in the height of the season.
Besides, there were so many other little services
we could render.

Vanity !

I went over the ' pros ' and * cons ' carefully.
I laid my plans, and surveyed my scheme of
action. A great deal — almost everything — would
depend on that first Court gown. It must be
my * sprat ' thrown into the great sea where the
shoals of mackerel swam and fought and
crowded with persistent energy. It must bring
me into notice even where all else would be
noticeable. The wearer was of secondary im-
portance in my estimation, although I knew that
art would make her more than presentable.
But she must be garbed in such fashion as
should win instant attention, and keep it. Here
was no question of costliness. It was more of
chic, that vague, untranslatable word which
means so little, yet so much.

I racked my brains. I drew designs. I could
have cursed the hampering clauses of Court direc-
tions — the arbitrary rules of cut and shape and
length ; but yet my gown lived and took form
and became a thing of exquisite beauty.

I cannot tell how or why it was that amidst
my designs there suddenly flashed before me the
laughing eyes of the young Irish traveller.
' I declare I will ask his opinion ! ' I cried

Vanity !

suddenly. ' I'm sure he has good taste. What
he sent me for the showroom was perfect ! '

Acting on the thought^ I drew writing materials
towards me and dashed off a hurried note to my
audacious friend. I described Lady Farringdon
exactly — colouring, height, general style and
appearance. I begged for his advice, by return
of post, at the same time submitting my ideas.

Then, much relieved in mind, I rang for Babette
and supper.

And so ended my first day as a professional

modiste^

CHAPTER IV

NOTES FROM MY . DIARY

Feb, 2nd. — I must jot down certain facts and
episodes of my new life if I am to come to a satis-
factory understanding with their results. Besides,
my memory is not so good as it might be. I have
resolved therefore to put down every night what
happens during the day.

I shall begin with this morning and the visit of
Lady Farringdon to discuss her dress for the
March Drawing-room.

As I had not yet heard from Wildash I kept
her off on generalities, saying that I expected
marvels from Paris and would defer our decision
until their arrival.

It was a very cold day, and she sat by the fire,

in a long, softly-padded chair designed for com-

Vanity !

fort and beguilement. I began to criticise her
cloth gown.

* Yes, it is an odious thing/ she said. * Til never
go to that man again. Since the Duchess of

Y patronised him, he's so puffed up he doesn't

care what he gives ordinary customers. And his
prices are ruinous. When I complained of this
gown he said my figure was out of proportion.
Did you ever hear such insolence ? '

* Your figure seems perfect/ I said. * Perhaps
the waist is a trifle too — too — '

* My dear creature ! not too large ? For good-
ness sake don't say that ! '

* Oh ! no. . . . Just the reverse. I was about
to suggest you should not lace quite so tightly.'

* Tightly ! I assure you my corsets are abso-
lutely loosCy and this gown slips about me. . . it's
no fit at all. Oh ! don't say I look tight-laced
like Mrs Wiltshire. She boasts, you know, that
she has the smallest waist of any woman
in London. Of course, you know her by
sight ? '

'Who does not? She makes me feel sick, I
always think she's going to break in half

* I'm so glad you don't admire her. It's really

Vanity !

too wonderful to be — nice. They say she sleeps
with a steel belt round her.'

* What does she gain by such penance ? '

* Admiration and envy.'

* Not from any sensible person — of that Tm
sure.'

* My dear Madame Frou-Frou, who cares about
being sensible in society ? Unless, of course, they
go in for fads like Lady Glasgow, and the
Duchess of Siltshire, and her set — Shetland
industries and Scotch plaids and factory girls
and things of that sort ! They're not in my line,
thank goodness ! But to return to business. Can
you make me a walking dress in a couple of
days ? '

* Certainly. Will you choose the material now ? '

* I may as well. What a treat it is to find
someone with leisure. Now, I wonder if I could
trust you to dress me without any bother on my
own part ? Fm not quite sure of my own taste.
My husband always says I wear too gaudy
colours. But Captain Calhoun — a friend of
ours, a great judge of dress — says I always look
a picture, so I don't know who to believe. What
would you say?'

Vanity !

^ I don't like that scarlet against your hair/
* It is rather audacious — that was the Conduit

Street people's idea ... to recall the waistcoat,

you see.'

^And that is altogether wrong. I would give
you black cloth and sapphire velvet'

' It sounds rather nice. And I've lovely sables.'
*The very thing. Toque to match, of course.'
^Yes. Will one fitting do?'
*I think so.'

I rang the bell, and ordered Miss Jacks to
come down to take measurements.

'Waist — twenty inches,' she began.

I stopped. ' That will never do, you know,' I
said. 'Take my advice — let out to twenty-two,
or three. You won't look any larger, and the fit
will benefit ever so much — no strain.'

She gave a sigh of relief. VWhat a sensible
creature you are. How I shall bless you ! But
are you sure I won't look clumsy ? '

' On the contrary, you will have elegance and
grace as well as comfort. The way I cut my
gowns makes your actual waist look quite one
inch smaller than it is, but I insist on proportion.
With your bust and hips your waist could not

Vanity! 41

look large. Tm sure you'll be satisfied when
you see yourself in the gown.'

'Well, I'll trust you/ she said. 'But, mind,
don't breathe to a soul what the measurement
actually is ! Mrs Fancourt and Lady Jocelyn
are coming to you, and we are deadly rivals.
If you'd make them let out their waists
posterity would have much to thank you for ! '

I smiled, and promised to do my best.
Almost on the promise the two ladies in dis-
cussion were announced.

The three greeted each other as dear friends,
and then commenced that shibboleth of names,
expressions, hints and scandals which only the
initiated may interpret.

But I was secretly elated. Lady Jocelyn
ordered two gowns, and Mrs Fancourt wanted
a dinner dress of ruby velvet and sable. She
was a handsome brunette with large dark eyes
and a bad skin. To atone for Nature's defects
she had called in liberal aid from art, but in
common with most Englishwomen, she made
art an advertisement instead of a suggestion.
The red and white were patent to the general gaze,
and the curved lashes had been too liberally

Vanity !

darkened. I wondered her maid could have
allowed her to go out so highly decorated.

I was glad when they took themselves off.

I at once set about cutting out Lady Farring-
don's bodice, and gave full instructions to skirt
and sleeve hands as to their respective duties.

* It must be finished and delivered to-morrow
night, mind, without fail. Every piece of work
I promise has to be ready when promised. It
is my principal rule and on no account to be
broken.'

The staff acquiesced meekly, and I left them
to their work.

More customers in the afternoon. Among
them an elderly dowager with a plain, attractive
face. She was a very great personage and
came to order a Court gown, also for the March
Drawing-room.

' I have a dispensation, owing to bronchial
troubles,' she informed me. ' I want it cut a very
narrow square and sleeves to the elbow. It is
cruel holding a Drawing-room at this time of
year. Even furs and hot bottles don't keep out
the cold.'

Vanity ! 43

* A velvet train, I suppose/ I suggested. ' I
have a beautiful shade of pansy. I should
suggest lining it with pale yellow, and the
petticoat yellow also. Have you your own
lace?'

' Yes ; my maid will bring it. Of course
you'll be very careful ? ' I promised faithfully.

She moved about, examining things with
evident curiosity.

*What is your real name?' she asked at
length. * Of course Frou-Frou is only for
business ? '

'Yes,' I said. *Costello is my name — Mrs
Costello.'
' A widow ? ' she inquired.
*Yes,' I said briefly.

Seeing I was not inclined to be communica-
tive, she confined herself to instructions and
orders, until I was weary.

I took half an hour's rest before dressing for
the theatre. I was wise enough to know that
neither cosmetics, paint, nor washes are half as
good a remedy for fatigue as Nature's restora-
tive. A douche of cold water when I arose
made me feel as fresh as ever.

Vanity !

Di's brougham was at the door at half- past
seven, and she ran upstairs to see me and
hear the news of the day.

She opened her eyes when she heard of two
Court gowns. She knew my old dowager very well.
' A dear, unsophisticated old thing/ she described
her. * Always administering charities and going
to missions. But not an idea about dress, and
will wear her hair like Mrs Gladstone. I've
seen her feathers hanging over her nose and
she smiling in serene unconsciousness. She's
going to present a daughter or niece, I believe,
otherwise she avoids Drawing-rooms. What
made her come to you?'

' I don't know. She didn't say.'

* She's an excellent customer and has any
amount of influence. ... So you've had a busy
day. You look none the worse for it. What
it is to be young ! '

She sighed and glanced at herself. Di is
forty, so she allows. She was wearing black
velvet, with a great deal of jet, and one large
pink rose nestled in the lace at her breast.
She was still a very handsome woman, but her
premiere jeunesse was over.

Vanity !

*You think Til do?' I questioned, glancing at
the shell-pink gleams of my lovely satin as
it shone through creamy tints of lace and
chiffon.

^ As if you weren't woman enough and artist
enough to know that yourself!' she answered.
' If I weren't fond of you I'd be envious. Tell
me, is that ripple in your hair — natural?'

* Perfectly. When it's undone it all curls.'

^ Enviable woman ! Take care of yourself,
my dear. Those charms don't last for ever. . . .
And now we'd better start. I suppose it will
take ten minutes to get to the theatre ? '

I gathered up fan and gloves, and she threw
my cloak over my shoulders.

* There are our men,' she informed me as the
carriage drew up before the entrance.

I was conscious of a tall figure and a short
one advancing to meet us. There was a hurried
introduction. Then we moved off to our box.
The curtain was just rising, and all the house
was in darkness as we took our seats. I turned
my attention to the stage, and was soon absorbed.
Not till the curtain fell did I bestow any notice
on my companions.

46 Vanity !

Then I glanced back and saw Burke Mahoney's
blue eyes watching me. So this was the cynic,
I thought, and proceeded to test his conversa-
tional powers.

' What do you think of the piece ? ' I asked.

' It is like a hundred others IVe seen. English
art is only copy, or adaptation. There's no
originality in it/

* That is quite a critic's phrase,' I said. ^ The
question is. What is originality ? A dramatist
can only play on the time-worn strings of love,
jealousy, hate, revenge. And Fm sure the
audience wouldn't understand anything else — at
a theatre.'

* They're not given the chance. No one takes
the trouble of educating them. A play that is
execrable from the point of art has been drawing
full houses for the last three months simply
because the hero dashes on the stage on a real
horse ! And when the horse once gave a genuine
kick, not set down in his part, how the " gods "
howled and yelled with delight.'

* But that proves my argument. They want
only what they can understand. It would be
a long and thankless task to train them to new

Vanity !

appreciation. Ibsen and the Independent Theatre
don't pay/

* No. The destruction of art is the public's
joy. They always hail the blot on the picture
with enthusiasm — I suppose because they can
understand that. Popular tunes are a success,
but they're not music, and popular plays are not
art, and popular books are not literature. The
British public is a dull ass who loves to have his
ears tickled. In reality they should be flayed
with nettles/

He said all this in a rich, melodious voice,
and his face was as grave as a clergyman's
over his sermon.

I wondered if he really meant it.

*You write, don't you?' I asked.

* I do. It's a sorry business — ^journalism ; and
what is good in it women are doing their best
to destroy. They worry editors, vulgarise inter-
views, turn news into a hash of personalities,
attempt to criticise what they don't understand,
and take miserable pay, and put up with any
amount of insults for the honour of airing " I'm
on such and such a journal." '

* How very hard you are on women.'

Vanity !

* Because I like them in their own place —
home, or society, or scenes of amusement. But
when it comes to elbowing them in Fleet Street,
listening to their wretched type-clicking in every
place of business one goes to, crowding with
them for " outside " places on 'buses in summer,
and fighting for an inside one in winter — faugh ! '

^You are no true son of Erin,' I observed.
'They are nothing if not chivalrous.'

'One can be chivalrous to the right woman,'
he answered, and so eloquent a glance swept
over my face that I was well assured he had
no fault to find with this particular ornament
to her sex.

Then the curtain went up once more and our
talk ended for a time.

The supper was a great success. Burke
Mahoney and I became great friends. When
he learnt I too claimed Irish descent, he
dropped much of his cynicism and became a
natural, genial human being. He showed great
interest in what he called 'my little venture.'

I could see, however, that he was less hopeful
than Wildash. Perhaps he knew more of Jews

Vanity !

and money-lenders, and the disastrous results
of high interest on borrowed capital. However,
I was in too good spirits to look upon affairs
in anything but a hopeful frame of mind, and
lobster salad, chicken cutlets and champagne
had never seemed so enjoyable.

Di flirted discreetly with her little man, who
seemed to know all the social celebrities by
sight and pointed out several ' emancipated '
beauties supping with kindred souls, while their
husbands were otherwise engaged. Also various
husbands enjoying themselves with companions
more noted for amiability than strict propriety.

It was all very amusing, if not exactly moral.
Burke Mahoney declared he was furnished with
various spicy Spars' for his society column —
where he only mentioned people by initials, and
skimmed the thin ice of probable divorce scandals
in a manner as ingenious as it was cruel.

' I could gibbet them as high as Haman did
I please,' he said once. And there was some-
thing in his face and voice so hard and pitiless
that it set me wondering what private wrong
was lending bitterness to the sting of his wit,

and souring a natural good temper.

CHAPTER V

Feb, $tk — A letter from Wildash this
morning.

He entered fully into the subject of ' ultra-
chic/ and sent me some designs of his own.
One was so exquisite I felt sorry our own lovely
and exclusive Princess could not see it. She is
an authority on the art of dressing and a
notable example of good taste. However, it
would be a satisfaction to know that her eyes
would rest upon this chef-doeuvre^ and perhaps
approve it.

I made an estimate of the cost of this
gown and found it far exceeded my limit. But I
was about to stake future reputation and success.

could not stick at trifles. It should be made
and executed, and Lady Farringdon must please
herself as to remuneration over and above the

Vanity !

Specified price. I worked hard as the time drew
near. Every stitch of that gown was under my
supervision.

It was a dream of beauty — a shimmering
mass of silver and lace, and the richest pearl-
hued satin. The train fell from both shoulders,
and was cut open to the waist to show the
contour of the figure. I knew my Juno's Titian
head and beautiful skin would carry it off
magnificently.

On the appointed day I myself went to dress
her. She was somewhat tired and cross, having
had to rise at eight in order to have her hair
dressed. When I arrived her maid was removing
the camelline from her throat and neck previous
to polishing the skin with chamois leather. Her
face was not yet made up. I had entreated her
to leave that to me.

^ Fancy having to pickle oneself like this at
such a time of day,' she said pettishly. *And
who could look anyway decent facing a March
wind, and all one's skin going into goose-flesh!
And oh ! my dear creature, did you think of
the bouquet? It hasn't come yet'

* I brought it myself on the way,' I answered

UBftARY

Vanity !

quietly, as I turned to the dressing-table for
the * make-up/

The maid, a somewhat supercilious French
damsel, watched me critically.

' Madame looks too pale for all that white,*
she observed.

' Not at all,' I answered. ' You must always
allow for a natural touch of colour coming up.
Heat, excitement, crowd, all will have their efifect
If she goes in like a peony she will come out
like a poppy. That faint blush-rose is exquisite.
And if it deepens it will only be more becoming.'

*Let me see,' said miladi herself, and studied
her face critically in a hand-glass.

* You are right,' she said gratefully. * I am
a perfect work of art, I know, but, at least, it is
art. F61icie always overpaints me. I look like
a dairy-maid generally. How beautifully you
have done it. Now — will it last? Mind there's
five weary hours still before me ? '

'You needn't be afraid,' I said, and then
we turned our attention to other matters.

Heavens ! What a business that toilet was !
I'm thankful it will never be my fate to attend
a Drawing - room. The innumerable details —

Vanity !

from feathers to shoe-buckles. The arranging
of dress and train, and jewels, and lace. The
weary hours, the inevitable fatigue even before
the long, slow drive, and longer waiting, to be
succeeded by fight and push and struggle for
the barriers. Well — let us hope the game is
worth the candle of energies, animosities, and
indignities, burnt at the playing of it !

My 'work of art' looked wonderfully lovely
when finished. Her tall, full figure showed to
its best in this semi-regal attire of flowing train
and waving plumes. Her skin shone like
polished marble under its glittering pendant of
pearls and diamonds. A faint flush of excite-
ment gave her face quite a natural tint, her
large violet-blue eyes sparkled under their care-
fully - darkened lashes, and her full scarlet
lips gave warmth and colour to the whole
countenance.

She was eminently satisfied with herself, and
made me come downstairs to be introduced to
her husband. He was a mild, inoffensive person,
twenty years older than herself, who was supposed
tp be of great service to his ' party.' His title
was comparatively new, and his great grief

54 Vanity !

was that he had no son on whom it might
devolve.

With him was the * family friend' Lady Far-
ringdon had mentioned — Captain Calhoun — a
strikingly handsome man with that languid air
of boredom which society deems well-bred.
Close upon our heels was announced a certain
Lady Henley, who was to accompany 'Juno' to
the Drawing-room. She made an admirable foil
to my work. She was short and stout. Her
dress was black velvet and purple satin, and
she carried an inartistic mass of purple orchids.

' I never saw you look so well ! What a
gown ! * she exclaimed half enviously.

' It will be hard to beat you, Cissie,' murmured
Captain Calhoun, pulling his moustache and
surveying her with languidly approving eyes.

* Who made it ? ' asked Lady Henley, putting
up long -handled glasses and staring critically
at the toilette.

* Behold the artiste,' smiled Lady Farringdon,
turning to me. ' Madame Frou-Frou zs an
artiste,' she went on ; 'a lady who is devoting
her talents to the benefit of her fellow-creatures.
You must visit her studio — it is really t/iat.

Vanity !

She has the most exquisite things in London,
and, what is better, knows how to employ
them/

* I shall certainly pay you a visit/ said Lady
Henley, with a discontented glance at her own
heavy and unbecoming gown.

'Jones & Allison did me, and they are most
dictatorial. One can't say a w^ord — and so
horribly dear — not that one minds paying when
the result is satisfactory ; but this — ' She took
up her heavy train bordered with funereal
feathers. * Now, does it suit me, I ask you ? '

' Certainly not. Too heavy, and too dark,' I
said frankly. ^The satin should have been of
lighter violet, and the train lined with it'

' Ah ! I see you understand. You shall make
my next gown if I ever go again. I always
declare I won't, till they hold them at a civilised
hour, and a decent time of the year. There's a
fog creeping up now enough to choke one. Its
all very well for Her Majesty, who has only to
move from one room to another, but if she had a
long, cold drive, and a dreary wait in weather
like this, I wonder what she'd think of Drawing-
rooms ! '

Vanity !

'Is it time to be off?' asked Lady Farring-
don, with a glance at the clock.

' Fm afraid it is/ announced Captain Calhoun,
taking up a wrap lined with white fox fur and
carefully enshrouding her lovely shoulders.

'You'll be here to tea? A lot of other pea-
cocks are coming in?' she asked him.

I noticed a glance, a whisper, which let me
somewhat 'behind the scenes.' Then he assured
her languidly he would try to come if he could
get away from some duty or other.

The two women gathered up their trains, gave
an envious glance at the warm comfort of the
room they left behind them, and passed through
the hall and down the crimson-carpeted steps to
the waiting carriage. The door banged, a crowd
of butcher-boys and nursemaids gazed enviously
after it. Then I turned away from the window
and asked if a hansom might be called for me.

'Won't you have a glass of wine, a sandwich,
or something?' asked Sir John, fussily. 'YouVe
been here hours, and had no luncheon. Every-
thing is topsy-turvy on these Court days.'

I accepted the wine and a biscuit, for I was
really tired and faint, and the old baronet trotted

Vanity !

about and opened the sideboard himself, and
made himself needlessly fussy over my comfort.
Captain Calhoun stood by, watching me out of
a pair of sleepy brown eyes.

* I say, are you really a dressmaker ? ' he asked,
dropping into a chair beside me. * You don't look
it, you know ; as tip-top as any of 'em. But
women do such extraordinary things nowadays.'

I laughed. 'Yes, Tm in very good company,'
I said. * There's a countess and a duchess in the
same street, and a " smart " tea-shop kept by a
well-known society woman opposite to me. Only
I'm afraid philanthropy is less my master than
necessity.'

* Awh ! shouldn't have thought so. Well, any-
thing I can do, I will. Know heaps of women,
you see, and they'll all flock if one leads the
way. But Lady Farringdon is a. first-rate adver-
tisement, and you've turned her out in first-rate
style, too. I must say that'

* I'm very pleased you approve,' I said demurely
* Naturally one values a man's opinion on such a
subject. But I thought you would have liked
more colour, more show.'

* I ? Hate it — hate it, I assure you. She's a

58 Vanity !

bit too fond of showy things herself. If you'll
tone her down you'll win my lasting gratitude/
I wondered which I was to believe — her
declaration that he approved her taste, or
his that he was offended by its somewhat daring
fantasies.

I foresaw I was to learn a great deal while I
dressed great ladies.

CHAPTER VI

The March Drawing-room brought me in as much

work as I could possibly desire. Strange to say,

two of the leading fashion papers gave a full-page

illustration of my two gowns, and voted Lady

Farringdon's the most chic and tasteful worn on

that occasion.

She told me the Princess had murmured

' exquisite,' as she bent before her gracious

loveliness, and after that I looked for Fortune and

Fame with eager hope. If only cheques had

poured in as lavishly as orders I should have been

quite contented, but while I had to be constantly

handing out ready money for weekly wages, for

materials, or trimmings at big shops, for rent and

taxes and repairs, and the thousand-and-one

expenses of my establishment, none came in to

me, and Abraham's rate of interest was very high.

(The entries in my diary are somewhat alarm-
59

6o Vanity !

ing, but Di assures me this is only the usual
experience of a first year. I shall be smoothly
floated ere another comes round. I will not
take these entries in detail. Only use them as
I have need.)

One of them brings me to a somewhat awk-
ward occurrence. It happened shortly after that
eventful Drawing-room. If I had a late * fitting'
or appointment I always ordered tea to be
brought up to the room where my customers
waited, or were received.

About five o'clock one dull afternoon, Lady
Farringdon arrived. She was accompanied by
Captain Calhoun, and they were both shown
up into the waiting-room by the page boy. I
was in the workroom at the time, and I suppose
five or ten minutes must have elapsed before I
went downstairs.

As I entered he was speaking very earnestly.
He was standing by the fireplace. She was
lying back in her favourite low chair. The room
was all dusk and shadowy, lighted only by fire
gleams, and fragrant with the scents of hyacinth
and narcissi which filled vases and flower bowls
in every available nook.

Vanity !

* Ask her/ the Captain was saying. ^ You may
be sure she has her price like the rest of 'em.'

I approached, and there was an embarrassed
silence. I thought they must have been speak-
ing of me. But serene unconsciousness was in
my expression and accent.

' You are all in the dark ! ' I exclaimed, and
touched the button of the electric light. Rosy
warmth flooded the room immediately, and
' Juno's ' ruddy hair and rich tints shone from
out that harmonious background with quite
enchanting charm.

^ You will have some tea, won't you ? ' I
urged.

' How well you do things, Mrs Costello,'
drawled the Captain. * I was just saying I had
never seen such a charming room. No wonder
your visitors like dropping in. Lady Farringdon
declares she positively lives here ! '

I laughed. * Have you come on business
to-day?' I inquired.

*Yes, I want another gown,' she answered.

I turned towards the tea-table. In my heart
I wished she would pay — even something on
account for those she had had. But I could

Vanity !

not imperil my reputation by seeming to want
money. I brought her some tea, and Captain
Calhoun handed her cakes and wafers of bread
and butter, remarking that he never touched
anything before dinner except a sherry and
bitters, or a cigar.

In glancing at my diary, I discover here an
entry — ' Chartreuse!

I remember now that that same evening a case
of various liqueurs arrived for me, enclosing a
card with ' Captain Calhoun's compliments.'

On subsequent occasions, when ladies were
accompanied by friends of the male persuasion,
I had liqueurs brought in, as well as tea.

From 7nj/ diary.

July 1 8th. — The season is nearly over and I
have had my hands full with orders. So far
' Frou-Frou ' has caught on. But, alas ! Frou-
Frou's finances are in a deplorable condition.
This morning there arrived to me an Ameri-
can millionairess. Everything about her spelt
'dollars,' and everything he said glorified them.
I heard more about oil springs, mines, railway

Vanity !

contracts and cattle exporting than I had ever
dreamt of in the whole course of my existence.

She was a big, heavy person with grey hair
carefully coiffured^ and a lovely young daughter
who had been introduced at the last Drawing-
room of the season, owing to the unlimited
influence of the aforesaid dollars. She told me
so much of her family history, position and
ambitions that I was fairly bewildered.

* Tm not quite happy in my mind,' she observed
to me. * IVe a notion I came over a bit too
late for the season and got fixed in a wrong set.
Our Consul did his best, but Josephine swears
that old Lady Fitzdufif, who introduced her, was
only a scheming old adventuress, and that every-
one " in the know " guesses it was a mere matter
of dollars. My ! you should have heard that girl
give your British Court away ! I just screamed
and so did her father. She asked a real duchess
at the Drawing-room why the Queen didn't con-
tract with Gunter for ices. She knew he'd do
'em for threepence a head, just to get into the
Palace, and she spotted ever so many holes in the
damask, and gilt off the chairs, and swore half
the diamonds were paste. My husband is next

Vanity !

richest man to Vanderbilt — he is so — and the
States knows it. Anyone in Amurrca would tell
you that Mark Aurelius B. Peck is just a four-
horse concern and no pumpkins ! And at our
ball (we live in Grosvenor Square, you know),
well, though the Prince couldn't come, his
brother did, and some of his relations by marriage,
and didn't they open their eyes at the cotillon
presents — thirty thousand dollars went in them
alone. We can show you folks how to do a
thing, you bet ! '

* Do you happen to want any gowns ? ' I asked
somewhat brusquely.

* I guess I do. You dress Lady Farringdon,
don't you ? '

* I have that pleasure/

' I was told so. They say, next to your
Princess, she's the best - dressed woman in
London. She's certainly stylish. She told me
to come to you. I've tried Jay, and Russell
& Allen, and Kate Reilly, and Mrs Aber-
croft, and now I'm going to see what you can
do. You can have cash down if you like, but
I must have my say, and as for trimmings,
wal, I do like them sumptuous. Now, I want

Vanity !

a dinner-gown — white satin ; a reception one
— orange and black ; orange suits me real smart
— and two for Cowes Regatta, and hats to match.
Then, there's my daughter Josephine — '

In the pause that followed, I heard the velvet
curtains behind me swept back. Someone entered
and put me aside with an air of authority.

^ Pardon me, madam, did I hear you say you
required some dresses?'

I looked at the intruder with astonishment.
It was Wildash.

* I guess you did, young man,' answered my
new customer. ' Say, are you in this business
too? You look smart set up enough.'

' My appearance has nothing to do with the
present question,' he answered haughtily. * I
came in to say that this establishment is con-
ducted on very different lines to what you
imagine. We do not allow our customers to
dictate to us what they will or will not have.
We cannot imperil our reputation by their
bad taste or ignorance. If you wish us to
dress you, we will do so, but you must have
absolutely no voice in the matter.'

If Mrs Mark Aurelius B. Peck's astonishment
E

Vanity !

was half as great as my own, it would have
been hard to beat.

^ I — I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought
it was only people like Worth and Felix who
had the authority — '

^ Madam, I am a far greater authority than
Messieurs Worth or Felix. I am the designer
of costumes worn by empresses and queens.
I dictate — what these people carry out. I have
been too much occupied with my Paris business
to attend to this London one as I should wish,
but I am about to concentrate my energies on
it now.'

He glanced at me and gave me a significant
flash of his audacious blue eyes. I was too
amazed to do more than stand listening to the
discussion.

He took out his watch.

*Ten minutes is all I can spare you, madam.
How many gowns do you wish to order?'

^ Four,' she faltered, and enumerated them again.

He took out a note-book and jotted some items
hastily down.

*One reception, one dinner, two for Cowes.
Nothing for Goodwood ? '

Vanity ! 67

' No-o, sir/ she stammered, all her bounce and
consequence effectually quenched.

* Thank you. Then will you walk across the
room ? *

She was much too nervous and upset to do
this with any sort of ease, and when she turned
he shook his head mournfully.

'Your figure is impossible, but, of course, you
know your own defects. I need not describe
them. We can only do the best possible.
Your waist is ridiculously pinched. You must
go to our corsetiere, I will give you her address.
Let her measure you for our Patent Irrational
Corset. As for the materials, I think you had a
preference for white satin. That is out of the
question. No, pray don't interrupt' — he held
up a peremptory hand — 'my time is valuable.
Black satin is what you must wear — black
slashed with orange, as you have a preference
for that colour. For Cowes navy-blue, and black
and white. Dinner — black lace and diamonds.
Of course you have diamonds?'

' Diamonds ! ' she bridled. ' Wal, now, that's
a joke, and my husband a millionaire.'

* I suppose that means you'd have them as big

Vanity !

as paving-stones if you could bear the weight,
ril call and see what you must wear with this
black lace. One touch of colour — no more,
if your life depended on it/
He closed the note-book.

' Cash is our rule for a first order. Two
hundred guineas for the reception gown, seventy-
eight for the lace dinner dress, fifty guineas each
for the Cowes costumes, including hats and sun-
shades. Thank you, madam. Madame Costello
will arrange a morning to fit you, but not till
af^er your visit to Mademoiselle Juliette, our
corse ^lere.^

He went to the door and opened it.

' Wrothesay,' he called, ' show this lady to
her carriage.'

And with a bow that held the grace of a courtier
he ushered the amazed millionairess out of the
room.

As the door closed I sank down in the nearest
chair.

' What on earth,' I gasped —
He broke into sudden laughter. ^ I'm afraid
I astonished you — allow me to explain.'

CHAPTER VII

He glanced round the room, drew the portieres^

then came back and took a chair.

^Dear Mrs Costello, I know I ought to

apologise, but I couldn't stand hearing that

vulgar person bully you. If you want your

business to be a supreme success, you must take

the high hand with your customers — reduce them

to powder, so to speak. A woman will bully her

husband, torment her lover, insult her inferiors,

snub or betray her friends, but she will lick

the dust off her dressmaker's shoes in order to

procure an original gown, or be pronounced

the best-dressed woman of her set. It is

ignoble, but then, your society dame has no

fine feelings. The world is her god, and the

world exacts the lowest form of homage. But

70 Vanity !

now to business. ... I have left Marchand
et Cie. for good. They refused to raise my
salary, and I have simply made their
business — made it. Canaille! . . . They will
soon find their mistake, so I returned to London
in order to' — he looked slightly embarrassed —
' well, you're a woman of the world, Mrs Costello.
I came across a very clever little corsetiere in
Paris and I thought Fd set her up here, I
remembered you at once and resolved to com-
bine the two businesses. It will do you no
harm, and be of inestimable benefit to her.'

*You seem to take a great deal for granted,
Mr Wildash,' I interrupted.

^ Yes,' he agreed smilingly, ^ I do. That is how
I get on so well. " Laudace^ et toujours Vaudace "
— you know that saying? It has been my
motto since I was sixteen years old. I'm only
twenty-six now — so I've not done so badly.'

' But all this—

* Exactly. All this doesn't explain why I
took upon myself to interfere with your
"American claimant." But you'll soon know
my reason. I correspond constantly with Mrs
Abercroft. Indeed, I furnish her with many

Vanity !

of her most original ideas. I heard from her
that you were getting on well — but not so
well as you ought. Also, that you were
troubled about money matters. An idea struck
me at once. You want a man at your back ! '
' A man ? ' I echoed.

* A man like myself/ he repeated, ' with ex-
perience, insight, artistic faculties, and what you
lack — supreme impudence. People say money
rules the world, Mrs Costello — not a bit of it —
impudence — impudence of speech — of manner —
of mind. Give me a chance of showing what
I mean, and if your business doesn't become the
greatest in London, my name isn't Harry
Wildash.'

' Do you think my customers will stand being
spoken to as you spoke to Mrs Peck?'

* They'll have to stand it if they want our
dresses. And they'll kave to want them.'

^ But suppose they don't ? '
' Altogether impossible. I'd stake my reputa-
tion on it.'

But I still argued. It looked too audacious
a scheme to enter upon in my present financial
crisis.

Vanity !

* Will you give me a trial ? ' he asked per-
suasively. * The season's almost over. But
they'll be coming to you for sea-side gowns
and country house visiting affairs. TU be bound
ril set them talking, and when the autumn
orders come in, you'll see if I haven't proved
my words.'

His eyes were as persuasive as his tongue.
And it is always dangerous for a woman to
parley with, temptation. There was a certain
amount of temptation in his offer, if only for
the amusement to be got out of it and his
own bright, audacious companionship. So, after
some more talking and hesitating, I finally con-
sented.

He was to attend every day from eleven till
six; interview customers and arrange orders.
I was to be comparatively passive, save in the
matter of cutting and fitting — ' And the parvenus
must pay cash down,' he insisted. ' Oh ! I
know the objection, and half the smart people
can't pay ; but they'll find the money quick
enough when it's the thing to have their gowns
from you. You shall be to London what Worth
was to Paris. Why, queens and princesses and

Vanity !

all the great ladies of Europe fairly trembled
at his word, and obeyed him like slaves, not
because his taste was infallibly good (some
of his creations were odious), but because he
had the genius of audacity. He cared nothing
whom he offended ; no king was more dictatorial.
He was the autocrat of Fashion, and Fashion rules
Woman, and Woman rules the world.'

* I thought it was men ? '

* We have changed all that/ he said airily.
' Your sex is the salt of the earth. You rule
the Court, the Boudoir, the Laws and the Litera-
ture, the Art and Religion of the country. But you
are also ruled by one god, and that is Fashion.
It is a foolish god ; its feet are clay and its
head a bladder, but its hands are of steel, and
never loosen their grip on its feminine idolaters.'
, * You seem to have studied the subject'

^ I have studied little else. There are some
things women do infinitely better than men,
but there are others that men do infinitely
better than women — when they take the trouble.
And one of these things is the treating of dress
as a fine art. Studying colour, form, design,
style. I have done it. But I don't understand

Vanity !

the A B C of dressmaking, and I couldn't cut
a gown to save my life.'

* Do you propose to give me the benefit of
your knowledge as a partner in the business,
or what?'

^ I should naturally expect a fair share of the
profits,' he said modestly. 'But I'll make a
conditional arrangement — twenty-five per cent,
on the first year's takings — thirty the second — if
my scheme succeeds, which I'm sure it will. Do
you agree ? '

' Yes,' I said. ' It's a risk, but if I go on as
I'm going I shall certainly fail.'

' Take the risk then,' he said, with that bright
smile flashing from eyes and lips. ' I'll be here
to-morrow — ten o'clock — I want to arrange this
room differently — you don't mind ? '

'Oh! dear no,' I said, with a sensation of
helplessness. 'You may as well do anything
you like while you are here.'

' You say that as if you considered the ar-
rangement a very temporary one.'

' It depends on how the people like being
ordered and controlled.'

'My dear child—'

Vanity !

I laughed.

* Oh ! you mustn't mind. That's my Irish
way. What was I going to say ? . . . Oh ! They
like it, I assure you — women, I mean. They
were intended to be ruled although they affirm
the contrary. Of course I sha'n't treat them all
as I did Mrs Julius Caesar — what was her name?
Well, no matter — Americans always have a
dozen or so. You can trust me to rule with
discretion — but it must be rule — mind that.
And now Tve taken up your time long enough
— I'll be going.'

* About those dresses ? ' I asked, rising also.
* It's very easy to say blue serge, and black
braiding, but are you not going to give me a
sketch of the costume ? '

'Yes — I'll do a design in rough. You'll catch
my meaning, I know. A great tub of a woman
like that wants careful dressing. Great Scot!
she ought to pay. Think of the trouble of
making her look any way presentable. As
shapeless as a feather-bed, and a face like a
full moon with a sick headache.'

' Well for her she can't hear you,' I said, laughing.

' Indeed, Mrs Costello, if women heard half of

76 Vanity !

what men say about them in clubs and smoking-
rooms, they'd have a good lot of conceit knocked
out of them. Do they suppose we like to see
them half naked at balls, or romping through
cotillons, or smoking with us after dinner, or aping
our dress, our manners and our slang? They
think it smart and chic — but we call it — something
very different. The cocotte of society is no less
objectionable to any decent man than her sister
of the pavement — only she is infinitely more
expensive, and has a knack of landing you in the
divorce court/

After he had left I sat for long brooding over
this new scheme. I counted its possibilities and
its dangers. I felt sure that if it was to succeed,
this audacious young Irishman would be the
author of such success. I could not put much
heart into the matter. I was not by nature a
bully, and shrank from playing the part — even at
second hand. But necessity is a hard task-
master, and necessity drove me to accept Harry
Wildash's proposal.

He probably knew society better than I did —
at least from a French point of view. French

Vanity !

women are apt to be confidential to their tailors
and modistes, and other appendages. They look
upon them as indifferently as they look at their
furniture. They are necessities, but necessities
brainless and without fine feeling. Having
studied in such a school, it remained to be seen
whether the lessons would bear fruit if tried in
another country, and on other pupils.

Ten o'clock next morning brought my new
partner in professional attire of frock coat, black
satin tie, and patent leather boots. Handsome,
alert, well groomed, he was a pleasant as well as
an inspiring figure in the foreground of my
establishment. As early as eleven o'clock Lady
Farringdon arrived. She had also come about
Cowes dresses.

I introduced Wildash and explained the
situation. He studied her approvingly.

* There will be some credit in making for you,'
he observed. Then — less dictatorially, but with the
most perfect confidence — he proceeded to order
her dresses for her as he had done with Mrs
Peck. She seemed surprised, and cast inquiring
glances at me. But I was passive — simply mak-
ing notes of what Wildash decided.

Vanity !

As she was leaving, he suddenly observed,
*By-the-bye, madam, permit me to say that,
in the interests of my partner and self, all this
season's accounts must be settled by end of
the month. We are going to conduct the
business on a more important and exclusive
footing. Naturally, alterations will be attended
with considerable expense. I have been looking
over the books and find that your account is
a very heavy one. Since February you have
had various costumes — including a Court gown.
The account will be sent you before we under-
take your present order.'

She coloured under her paint and powder. * I
know I must owe you an immense sum,' she
said to me. 'But it will be all right. Til
send you a cheque at once, and ' — she
stopped — ' What an exquisite gown ! ' she
exclaimed, glancing at one of the stands. *Is
it ordered ? '

' Yes, madam. It is for the Princess Olga —
daughter of Prince Malakoff. I used to design
her gowns in Paris. She will be dressed
entirely by our firm in London now.'

' The Princess Olga ! ' She looked at him

Vanity !

appealingly. ^ Oh ! no wonder it's so lovely.
What would you charge to copy it for me ? '

* I make it a rule never to copy. I could
arrange a modified version of it for ninety-five
guineas. But, excuse my saying so, it really
would not suit your style. The princess is
petite. You are built on grand lines.'

She smiled graciously. * I think she has the
advantage, unless you can design me something
as effective and original.'

* I shall do so with pleasure,' he said, and
then bowed and withdrew.

She turned eagerly to me. * My dear creature,
what an extraordinary idea ! I am more than
surprised ! But he is charming — do you think
it will work?'

* I hope so,' I answered. ^ It has been rather
hard on me to do everything. He is very clever,
and his taste simply perfect. By-the-bye,' I
went on carelessly, ' I had a visit yesterday from
that new American millionairess, Mrs Peck.'

* Not Mrs Aurelius B. Peck ? ' she exclaimed.

* Yes ; I am to dress her and her daughter.'

* Then, my dear, you are in luck. Why, she
absolutely rolls in money. Her toilet things are

Vanity !

all set in gold, and she has an umbrella with
her monogram in diamonds on the handle ! And
she's getting her dresses from fouP^

'Yes; Mr Wildash is to design them. I must
tell you of a very pretty compliment she paid
you by the way. She said that next to the
Princess you were the best-dressed woman in
London ! '

' Really ! '

Never did blush more becoming rise to the
cheek of a girl at some lover's flattery, than the
rose that mantled the cheek of this seasoned
woman of society.

That evening a cheque arrived paying her
account in full. Oh ! vanity, vanity ! Truly
thou art the prime ruler of every feminine
heart !

CHAPTER VIII

Mrs Aurelius B. Peck arrived in due course,
having had her figure arranged by Mademoiselle
Juliette, the little Parisian corset maker.

She had done all that was possible, but that
is not saying much. The good lady was laced
so tightly she could scarcely breathe, her neck
was hung with chains and lockets, and her large
fat hands were covered with rings. Wherever a
jewel could be stuck there glittered pin or brooch
of some sort. Gold bangles circled her wrists,
and gold buckles shone on her patent leather
shoes. I gazed at her with a sense of hopeless-
ness while awaiting Wildash's appearance.

'My daughter was to meet me here,' she
observed. ' Ain't she come ? '

* No. Perhaps she will look in later. Your

82 Vanity!

designs are ready, madam, and I will have your
measurements taken presently.'

I sounded the silver gong; and Wildash
appeared.

He frowned as he surveyed the large, ungrace-
ful figure before him, and I saw her turn pale
as she watched his face.

For a moment there was absolute silence.
Then with a sigh he turned to me.

^We must do the best we can,' he said in
French. ' When one arrives at that — it is hope-
less.'

I rang for Miss Jacks. At the same moment
the door opened, and there came in a small, slim
girl with a lovely, mutinous face, and sparkling
eyes.

^ Why, momma ! ' she exclaimed, ' you never
do say you're first ? '

' My daughter,' observed Mrs Aurelius, turning
to me, and waving her hand introductionally,
' Miss Josephine Marianne B. Peck.'

* Rather many of me, isn't there?' inquired
the young lady. Then her gaze rested on
Wildash.

' Do say ; was it you who put momma down

Vanity !

so surprisingly ? She told us when she got home.
Didn't poppa laugh ! We can't do anything with
her home, you know. Not that we'd have her
different anyway, but it keeps things a bit breezy
at times. Still, it's her make, and Providence
knows His own business best. But it was funny.
Are you going to try your hand on me ? Because
I'm dead set on havin' my gowns made here.'
Wildash looked at her critically.

* Goodwood, or Cowes ? ' he asked.

*0h, my! I guess we ain't good enough for
your swells at the races. Though the Duke of
Wharfshire did say he'd ask us. P'r'aps he
reckoned without his duchess — she is stuck up
— looks at me as if I was a scallyragi'

* You may find here and there a soul above
dollars, even amongst the English aristocracy,'
observed Wildash, thoughtfully. *Rare, I grant,
but still even the worst of us have our redeeming
points. Now, will you walk across the room as
gracefully as those high heels permit, and I'll
see what I can do for you ? '

She stared, then laughed and swept him a
mocking curtsey. After which she threw herself
into a chair, crossed her arms behind her head,

Vanity !

and swung the aforesaid heels to and fro with
an audacious display of open-work stocking, and
silk and lace frilling.

' Guess rU do so' she said. * Fm not momma/

He bowed gravely. 'Good morning/ he said,
and crossed to the door.

She gazed blankly after him. * Well, I never !
Here, Mr ... I don't know your name . . .
come back. Is this the way you do business?
My stars ! it's amazing funny ! But don't be
so short. I'll do what you want, though
Worth didn't ask me to walk, I assure you
I don't wobble.'

She drew up her slender figure, and moved
slowly from end to end of the room. Wildash
said nothing, but simply drew out his note-book,
made a few entries, then, with a curt 'good
morning,' left us.

Mother and daughter surveyed each other.
Surprise rendered both wordless for a moment,
and Miss Jack's entrance with measuring tape
and other paraphernalia kept them so while I
gave the necessary directions.

* How many gowns do you need ? ' I asked
Miss Peck.

Vanity !

* ril have two for Cowes/ she said curtly,
*and you may fix me up another couple for
evening as youVe about it. Blue and silver
for one — white the other. A billowy thing with
lots of chiffon. What about my waist?'

' It is quite right/ I said, turning to her
panting parent, whom Mademoiselle Juliette
appeared to have used with some cruelty.

I relieved her, and pointed out that the laces
had been wrongly adjusted. When she was more
at ease Miss Jacks tried on her pattern, and after
making another appointment I dismissed them.

The morning was full of surprises. At least
half-a-dozen new customers came in, all of
whom had heard of Wildash, and were anxious
to see him.

It astonished me to note the quickness with
which he summed up their various characteristics.
With some he was audacious, with others coldly
polite, but one and all were treated as I never
would have dared to treat any woman, and he
still refused them any voice in the selection of
their gowns.

'You need have no fear. It will be quite
correct,' he assured them. And then followed

Vanity !

an avalanche of names and titles that silenced
all remonstrance.

* I never permit my dressmaker to dictate to
me/ said one prim-looking dowager who wanted
gowns for an autumn house-party. *My taste is
considered perfect. Besides, one must know one's
own style best, and it is that alone which gives
originality to one's toilette.'

* I grant it, if you are sure you do know your
own style,' answered Wildash, coolly. * Judging
from your present attire I should say exactly the
contrary. You look stiff, angular, uncomfortable.
There is no grace — no dignity about you. Why,
you positively crackle with whalebone; and that
jet corselet gives you the appearance of Boadicea
going to fight the Romans.'

* Sir ! ' exclaimed the insulted dowager, becom-
ing purple with rage.

* I am only giving you my opinion. You are
at liberty to go elsewhere if you don't like it.
Even Princess Malakoff never presumes to dictate
to me. I have just finished that gown there for
her. She left the whole matter in my hands.'

The dowager looked at the fairy-like beauty of
the indicated gown, then at the cool, handsome

Vanity !

face of the designer. From these her glance
travelled to her own reflection in shiny moire and
glittering jet. Buckram and whalebone crackled
beneath a sigh of resignation.
She was vanquished.

The game thus begun went merrily on. All
the gowns ordered were fitted and completed, and,
strangest of all,/<^/^ for. Not in a single instance
was there a failure.

Wildash had, as he asserted, a perfect genius for
form and colour. Mrs Aurelius and her daughter
were enchanted with their Cowes costumes. Cer-
tainly the American autocrat looked for once
presentable, and the daughter so lovely that the
various society papers chronicled her appearance
in gushing terms. She wrote me pages on the
subject of her success.

' I guess Fm making a splash here,' she wrote.
* And Fm not sorry now I took your partner's
advice. That yachting gown does make some
of the girls mad. There's not such buttons in
all Cowes. I went on board the Prince's yacht
to lunch. Lord Wharfinger took me. And
H.R.H. was that gracious ! My stars ! I did feel

88 Vanity!

proud that day ! The evening gowns are just too
perfectly sweet for anything. Til never believe
in anyone again but you. Tell that dear man
so. Fm his humble slave. Won't you have
a time next season ! Everyone's talking about
him. They say he's a duke's son — doing this
for a lark. I don't care a red cent whose son
he is if he'll only keep on designing dresses for
me. — Yours gratefully, JOSEY M. Peck.'

I showed this to Wildash that evening. He
had dropped in to share my cutlet and
savoury, and discuss plans for the autumn
campaign. We were both going for a short
holiday. He to Homburg — for ideas — so he
said ; and I to recruit, after the fag and toil of
the hot summer, at a more primitive and less
fashionable resort on the English coast.

He smiled oddly as he read the letter. 'A
duke's son — well, she's a little wide of the mark.
But not so very far off. I've a chance of be-
coming heir to a baronetcy.'

I looked up from my plate in astonishment.

' Is that true?'

* Indeed yes. There's a possible Sir Harry

Vanity !

Wildash at your service. Two lives — one old —
one young and feeble — alone intervene. Not
that I covet the prospect. Fm a Bohemian,
heart and soul. I hate respectability as much
as I hate the ''good Christian family." You
know what I mean? The people with a
family Bible on a table by the window, and who
wouldn't go to a theatre for any consideration,
yet bally-rag the servant if she's five minutes
late in the morning, or leaves a bread crumb
on the carpet. Take a 'bus ride through any
London suburb and you'll see them by the
score. They're as common as their own red
brick villas with the garden plot in front, and
the plant and the Bible in the window.'

* It's a queer world,' I said.

* Indeed and it is. What's the meaning of it at
all ? I often wonder. And yet we're Christians
and civilised, and go to church every Sunday
(not that I ever do; I prefer a bicycle spin),
and look for the millennium and the Day of
Judgment. Lord, it's very funny, when you
think of it! Now, these women who come here !
Have they souls ? Fancy them taken out of a world
where they didn't change their gowns five times

Vanity !

a day, or gossip over tea and "nips" of cognac
in each other's boudoirs. Where there were no
scandals, no liaisons^ no intrigues, no Paris, or
Monte Carlo, no after-dinner card parties for
baccarat, or bridge — no cotillons, no rivalries — . . .
Great Scot ! What would they do ? '

I leant back in my chair and studied his face
with some amusement.

' I give it up,' I said. * But the puzzle has
actually made you look grave. It seems odd
that you should think about such things.'

* Oh ! Fm not so empty-headed as you fancy.'
'You have rather a contempt for women?'

* Small wonder if I have. Look at the speci-
mens we see. And in Paris it was worse. It is
a satisfaction to think one can live out of their
follies, but that doesn't prevent my despising
them.'

'Yet they treat you very well,' I said.

His eye fell on the letter I had handed to him.

* It wouldn't be bad fun,' he remarked, ' to
marry that girl.'

' Marry ? ' I felt as if I had received a sudden
shock. An odd sensation crept over me. Some-
how I had never thought of his marrying — of the

Vanity !

change it would make in our present life — of the
inevitable break in this pleasant camaraderie.

* Yes/ he said. * I don't care for marriage as
an institution, but it would be a fine revenge on
society if I did win that girl's dollars away from
the needy dukes and impoverished aristocrats
who are hunting her down.'

I drank off my glass of claret, still oddly
conscious of discomfort and perturbation of
spirit. I put it down to the idea of losing a
partner so enterprising and desirable.

He glanced at me as if surprised by my long
silence. * You look quite pale,' he said. ^ Don't
you like the idea? Of course I'd see you firmly
established first. Haven't I done all I promised
so far ? '

^ You have, indeed,' I said gratefully. * You've
saved me from ruin.'

^ Oh ! well, I don't know about that You're
a plucky woman. You'd have weathered the
storm somehow. Besides, I've really enjoyed it.
And this is only the beginning. You'll see what
next season will do for us.'

I smiled. ^ Us ? But if you take a matri-
monial partnership?'

92 Vanity !

' I sha'n't do that in a hurry. I was only
joking. I believe I prefer this. Besides, we hit
it off so well — you and I — don't we? And I've
always had an idea of a woman friend — no hum-
bug or nonsense, you know — just give and take —
chat and laugh and knock about together. I'm
perfectly happy, and perhaps the Peck dollars
wouldn't make me that. There's a deal to
swallow along with them.'

* She's very pretty,' I observed.

* Une poupee de modiste. Most American girls
are like that. And they carry their gowns too
appreciatively. To be well dressed is never to
feel one is well dressed. That little supercilious
self-satisfied air of Josey Peck's spoils her. It
is always calling attention to the real lace on
her gown, the real diamonds in her buttons. Her
extravagances are in bad taste, and she won't
allow one to forget it.'

I began to laugh.

^ I shall never forget,' I said, * the way you
spoke to her mother. I was terrified.'

*That shows how little you know of your sex.
But I often laugh at that scene myself What
a humbug I am ! '

Vanity !

He suddenly stretched a hand across the
table to me. * Do you believe in me at all ? ' he
asked.

I gave him my own hand, and looked frankly
back into the questioning blue eyes.
^Yes— I do.'

'Thank you, Mrs Costello,* he said softly.
' Some day I'll tell you — '

He broke off abruptly, released my hand, and
rose from the table.

I had not the courage to ask what he meant
to tell me — some day.

CHAPTER IX

Rest. Change. Peace.

The splash of waves on shingle, the cool breeze
of the salt sea. Red-brown cliffs, blue sky melting
into blue waters. How beautiful it all is, and
how I enjoy it !

I came here three days ago, and I have
spent those days in blissful idleness.

I had left heat and dust behind me. The
cry of the lavender-seller was in the streets.
Every self-respecting householder had blinds
down, or shutters up, and caretakers were
having a right good time in deserted man-
sions. I had seen six babies and as many
matrons at tea in a dining-room in Portman
Square, and aristocratic carriages that had
graced the Row held many strange freights
when the horses were out for * exercise.'

But for three days I have lounged, bathed

and slept away the hours in delightful lazi-

Vanity !

ness, trying to forget the existence of scissors,
the exigencies of *cut' and ^fit/ and pushing
out of sight the forthcoming troubles of the
winter season.

The society papers furnish me with news of
my fashionable customers. I follow them through
the winding mazes of foreign travel and so-called
^ cures.' I see them disporting themselves at
Homburg and Marienbad, and Ostend and
Trouville, still pursuing their flying fetish,
Pleasure. Still unable to enjoy existence with-
out the excitement of gambling, dining, flirting,
dancing — and rivalry.

Thank goodness I have still some simple tastes
left and can appreciate Nature and peace, even
alone, and with but myself and my various
books and journals for company. Better com-
pany and safer too than our friends at * Bads'
or Kursaals.

I learn that the Queen is taking donkey-drives
at Balmoral, and that various Royals are trout
or salmon fishing in the neighbourhood. That
a sedan chair has been utilised for the cotillon.
That rich Americans and ' amazing ' smart
women are giving the Prince a gay time of it

Vanity !

at Homburg during his wife's absence at her
girlhood's home.

I note that heroines of various causes celebres
have been whitewashed and reinstated in certain
sections of society, and intend to live chiefly
abroad. Wise proviso ! And I suffer much
indignation and annoyance at the pert person-
alities of *Bat' and * Tattle' of so-and-so, who,
in common with various ^ Myras ' and * Bellas '
and 'Violantes,' persist in describing people of
whom they know nothing, and furnishing an
inquisitive public with the information that
they looked remarkably smart, and wore some
fine diamonds (as if these penny-a-liners knew
the real thing from Parisian bijouterie).

Tired of this rubbish, I at last closed my eyes
and leant back, listening drowsily to the plash of
the waves and the sound of children's voices in
the distance.

I was wondering whether I should get tired
of solitude, tired of this unfashionable little
coastguard village where there was neither
pier, nor band, nor any amusement, and which
only offered health and peace and cheapness
to its visitors. I had taken two rooms at the

Vanity !

little hotel on the cliff. At present I was the
only lady visitor and naturally was excessively
comfortable.

As I lay in the dreamy beatitude of perfect
rest, I became conscious of voices close at hand —
one languid and betraying mental or bodily
weakness, the other pleasant, persuasive and
full-toned.

I opened my eyes and, glancing up from
the tilted umbrella stretched over my head,
saw an elderly woman and a somewhat feeble-
looking youth. He was leaning on her arm.
His pale face and vacant blue eyes met my
gaze and then were turned indifferently aside.
His companion, on the contrary, observed me
with some attention. They passed on and I
gave them but the languid curiosity one bestows
on newcomers at a seaside place.

Then I resumed my meditations until luncheon
time.

When I entered the coffee-room I saw to my

surprise that the table next my own was

occupied by these people. The lady had

removed her large shady hat and I saw a

worn, anxious face under thick bands of iron-

Vanity !

grey hair. She was dressed in black. The
boy — for he looked nothing else — would have
been good-looking but for the pallor of his
face, which melted into the pale tints of his
hair, and gave him that look of insipidity so
often noticeable in very fair men.

I discovered presently they were mother and
son, and from the extreme attention they re-
ceived at the hands of the waiter, I began to
think they must be people of importance.

When the waiter presently answered, * Yes,
my lady,^ to some remark, I wondered if he
was giving her more than a mere courtesy
title. I noted the boy scarcely touched any
food, but drank claret and water thirstily. She
seemed greatly distressed by his lack of appetite.

He did not speak much, and his voice was
low and languid, so were the movements of his
hands. He made me think of the young man
in The Green Carnation, His attitude was a
pose, and small as his audience was, I felt he
was acting for our benefit. Once he caught
my eye and favoured me with a long, deliber-
ate stare. Then he began to talk. His language
was stilted and affected, and his would - be

Vanity ! 99

cleverness wearisome after the first novelty had
worn ofif. But his mother listened enraptured.
Poor soul ! He was evidently the idol of her heart
— a very poor and meagre idol, to my thinking.

When I had finished my luncheon I retired
to my own room. It was too hot to go out.
I took a book and ensconced myself in a basket
chair in a shady corner of the balcony which
overlooked the sea. Presently the whiff of a
cigarette informed me I had a neighbour. I
glanced up and saw the interesting youth just
drawing a chair into the adjoining balcony, prepara-
tory to enjoying the afternoon in similar fashion.

He smiled faintly as I looked at him. * Have
you been staying here long ? ' he inquired.

* Only three days,' I answered.

* Anything to do?'

* Nothing, unless you mean to bathe — or row —
or fish.'

He shuddered affectedly.

' Bathe — ^kere.' His glance indicated publicity.
' Oh ! no, thanks, not for me. Public bathing
is the most indelicate of our many indelicate
nineteenth-century achievements.'

*Do you really think so?' I exclaimed. * Why,

loo Vanity!

I have a boat every morning and take a header
into the deep, and swim back a quarter of a
mile or so. It is delicious/

He surveyed me with his straw-coloured head
a little on one side like a meditative bird.

' How strong you must be ! ' he said
pathetically.

'That is more than you are to judge from
your looks/ I answered.

* Yes, Fm considered delicate. The mater
does fuss over me so, too. She's brought me
here because some old fogey of a doctor told
her it possessed the finest air in England. Just
as if they don't say that of every place where
they've an interest in the property. He's one
of the shareholders of this hotel, and has built
a bungalow up there.'

His glance indicated a red brick building I had
noticed beyond the sandhills.

* Oh ! indeed,' I said vaguely.

' Yes. And the mater thought it would be so
convenient to have him within call. . . . You
see my father's dead, and I come into the
property next year, and she's tremendously
anxious about me.'

Vanity ! i o i

I grew interested. * Are you very delicate ? '

' So they say.' A curious look came into his
eyes, and his white hand languidly flicked the
ash of his cigarette.

* It's a great bore being an only child, and an
only son. I'd change places with anyone. I
want merely to exist pleasantly. No troubles,
no worries. Books, wines, cigarettes, artistic
surroundings, and above all — calm. No one
understands the beauty of calm nowadays.
The philosophers did. But society is a series of
fireworks — bang — fizz — splutter. An endless
rush, an endless excitement. And they think
I'll do the same because I'm born into the set.
However, I've my own ideas.'

* May I ask your name ? ' I inquired gently.

' I've a good many. I'm known as Lord
Ernie to my friends — my father was the Earl of
Wrexborough. Next year I'll be that — if I live.'

' Surely there is no reason why you should
not?' I observed.

His face seemed to grow whiter, and a curious
dull film gathered over his eyes. He made no
answer. He threw aside his cigarette and leant
languidly back against his cushioned chair. I

I02

Vanity !

watched him with some wonder and some fear.
Presently his eyes opened again. He looked
furtively round, and then his hand went to the
breast pocket of his coat. He seemed to have
entirely forgotten my presence. I watched him
curiously, fascinated by his look and actions.
I saw him draw a small case from the pocket.
Then he drew back his cuff and exposed a
thin, blue-veined arm. With a swift, sudden
movement he applied what looked like a glass
needle to the exposed skin, withdrew it and re-
placed it in the case.

I rose hurriedly. * Whatever are you doing ? '
I exclaimed.

He gave a guilty start. 'Why — who the
devil ! I beg pardon — I had forgotten you ! '

Then suddenly the film cleared from his eyes.
The colour flushed his waxen cheeks, and his
face looked alive and alert. The transformation
was marvellous.

He rose and came towards me. Only a rail-
ing divided us. *You look a good sort,' he said
hurriedly. *Can you keep a secret? Don't say
a word to my mother — she doesn't know. But
the stuff keeps me alive, I couldn't do with-

Vanity! 103

out it. If s all right. The doctor knows. Why,
how scared you look.'

' It's — it's not morphia ? ' I gasped, feeling faint
and sick as I thought of his youth, his pro-
spects, and present mad folly.

* God bless you ! No. ... I tell you it's quite
safe. Only we don't tell the old lady because
it might frighten her. Promise you won't say
a word.'

' I'll act on my own discretion,' I said coldly.
' I've heard a great deal about these hypodermic
injections. I don't like them, and it seems dread-
ful to see a boy like you using drugs. Do you
suffer? Is there any special reason why you
should do this ? '

He gave a short, caustic laugh. * Every reason.
It doesn't hurt me, and it's a heaven within reach.
You're a woman. . . . You couldn't under-
stand. . . .'

* I don't wish to understand,' I said sharply.
*But I know those habits — morphia — opium —
absinthe drinking — they are the bane of modern
day civilisation.'

' Everything is pardonable that lends pleasure
to life,' he said. * An existence that is purely

Vanity !

material — eating — drinking — sleeping — how ab-
solutely terrible ! Any boor is our equal. A
habit that can lift us into a realm of ideal
beauty — can give us dreams that no mere
mortal obtains — is worth any sacrifice/

I shuddered. To stand here in the golden
calm of the afternoon, the blue serenity of sky
and sea about us, and hear such young lips pro-
claim such heresies. It was awful !

' Even the sacrifice of life ? ' I said at last.

* Life is only a phase, a passing moment, a
breath on a mirror. Even the clergy preach that
to us. They are only wise who beautify its
moments, and let imagination rule their passions
and their hearts.'

' Is that something you have learnt ? . . . the
cant of a set neither reputable nor useful.'

^ Useful ! What a dreadful word ! Meant for
clods and money-lenders. My dear lady, you
have a great deal to learn — yet.'

He leant forward and his eyes and voice grew
persuasive. *You won't say anything to my
mother ? ' he asked again.

^ It is none of my business,' I said. ^ But I
give no promise.'

Vanity ! 105

^ You are too beautiful to be obdurate/ he said.
* I shall trust you. Meanwhile, let us be friends.
This is a small place. We shall meet- con-
stantly. Perhaps I may convert you to my
theories of a beautiful existence in a common-
place world.^

' God forbid ! ' I ejaculated under my breath,
as his cool, slim hand touched mine.

It seemed, even there amidst the warm sun-
shine, as the touch of death.

CHAPTER X

With a sudden desire for fresh air, space, freedom,
I put on my hat and went out.

This boy and his history had horrified me.
So young, so old ; a slave to an enthralling and
dangerous habit. A cynic, yet an epicure. A
diseased mind controlling a frail body. There
was the essence of tragedy around him. I knew
and had heard enough of modern youth, but I had
never come face to face with such a specimen.

The bold sweep of sea and the fresh cool
breeze seemed doubly delightful after that un-
wholesome atmosphere. The sun was veiled by
clouds. There was a promise of rain or storm
in the leaden-coloured west, but I paid no heed to
it, I was too much occupied with my own thoughts.

The touch of heavy rain-drops on my face

warned me that I was far from shelter. I glanced

at my watch and found it was close on five o'clock.

Before I reached the hotel the storm burst.
io6

Vanity !

107

Peals of thunder resounded ; lightning flashed
from end to end of the broad horizon line.
The sea grew black save where the curling
waves lifted their crests of foam. There was a
grandeur and beauty about Nature's wrath that
I could not but admire. Everything looked small
and puny in comparison, and even when I reached
the hotel I stood in the entrance watching the
process of the storm instead of going to my own
room to change my wet gown. The air was
hot and sultry. The dense clouds, barred with
orange and crimson, seemed to touch the sea
as it rose and swelled beneath, and one sharp
rattling peal of thunder shook the sky and was
followed by a flash of light so wide and blinding
that involuntarily I stepped within. At the same
moment a piercing scream rang through the house.

I started, and rushed up the stairs. In the
corridor a group of frightened chamber-maids
and waiters crowded together.

' What is the matter — who screamed ? ' I asked.

* It's the young gentleman in there,' said one
of the men. * He's been doin' nothing else ever
since the storm came on. And the countess,
poor lady, is half distracted. She can't stop him.'

io8 Vanity!

I walked to the door and knocked sharply. I
heard stifled groans ; then a voice demanded who
was there.

* Let me come in ; perhaps I can be of use ; ' I
answered.

The door opened, and the white, agitated face
of Lady Wrexborough appeared.

^ Come in — if you will,* she said eagerly. * My
poor boy is quite hysterical. He cannot endure
thunder-storms. The electricity affects him.'

I entered, and closed the door upon the curious
group without.

The young fellow lay on a couch, with a rug
thrown over him. The blinds and curtains were
drawn as if to keep out the glare of the electric
flashes. His frame was convulsed with shudder-
ings, and he moaned like one in abject terror.

I went up and took his hand.

* Come, come, this is childish ! ' I said. * The
lightning can't hurt you, nor the thunder either.
The storm is far off" and it will soon be over.
What are you frightened about?'

* Oh ! it's horrible ! ' he moaned. ' It's torture !
Those flashes seem to set my brain on fire, and
every nerve is jarring.'

Vanity! 109

* You are weak and ill/ I said soothingly. ' Try
and control yourself. It can't last much longer.
Shall I sit here and talk to you ? '

' Oh ! do. You are so sensible ; mother does
nothing but cry.'

*Well, you must promise you won't scream
again/ I said. *YouVe alarmed the whole hotel.'

Another flash, less vivid than before, set him
trembling and shaking, but he made some effort
at self-control.

For half an hour I sat there beside him, holding
his hand, now talking soothingly, now scolding, as
he alternately gave way to weakness, or attempted
to control it. The poor old lady sat by us, moan-
ing and coaxing as if he were a baby. I could
see he was her idol, and that all her hopes were
bound up in him. I scarcely knew which I pitied
most.

As the storm abated and he grew calmer, I
asked her if he was always affected in a similar
manner.

* Oh, no ; it is only lately,' she answered. * But
his health is sadly impaired. I have tried every
sort of remedy and had the best advice, but
nothing seems to do him good. I came here

Vanity !

because I heard the air was so fine. But this
storm will do him a great deal of harm. His
nerves are so highly strung, and any shock or
worry ought to be avoided, so the doctors say.'

I thought of that secret of his, of the little
devilish invention hidden in his coat pocket, and
I wondered if it was my duty to tell her what
I had discovered. But surely the doctors knew
of his practice, and would have informed her
had there been any necessity. As I stood
weighing the subject in my mind, he suddenly
sat up quite calm and composed.

* I'm all right now,' he said. ^ There's some-
thing about you — ' He took my hand and looked
at it for a moment. ' It has magnetism. It is
the healer's hand,' he said. ^You've done me
good. Mother, hadn't you better ring for tea,
and ask Mrs — '

' Costello,' I informed him.

* Mrs Costello to have a cup ? How patient
you've been,' he added gratefully.

I felt sorry and interested, and yet — uncomfort-
able. But I stayed on and had tea, and his
mother unbent from her frozen dignity of
luncheon time, and showed herself very pleasant

Vanity ! 1 1 1

and entertaining. Still, the harping on one string,
and that string 'Ernie,' was rather wearisome,
and I rose at last and wished them good-bye.
They were to dine in their own sitting-room,
and I was not sorry to hear it. I felt I had had
quite enough for one day, even of a prospective
earl.

I retired to my own room to change my dress
and write up my diary.

The evening post brought me a long letter
from Wildash. His letters were always
delightful — long, chatty, amusing, satirical,
bringing scenes and people before one without
apparent effort, as some writers have a knack
of doing. I sat out on the cliffs facing the now
tranquil sea, and read it with keen enjoyment.

He sketched Homburg and its visitors skil-
fully for my amusement — touching lightly the
scandals of the hour — painting the follies and
rivalries of the gay, frivolous crowd, who sipped
their water, and chirped their endless gossip
under the trees, and were so gracious to their
compeers and so insolent to those who 'weren't
in it'

112 Vanity !

I seemed to see that multitude of royalties,
titles, millionaires and beauties who crowded the
hotels, and the allees, and watched the tennis
matches.

* The Pecks are here,' he went on. * You
should have seen Josey's astonishment when she
saw me. Her mother " cut " me ; in a very stupid,
blundering way too, (I'll pay her out in her
next gown for that), but the girl bowed and
gushed, and was quite friendly. They're not in
with any of the best people, and it riles the old
lady. She sits under the trees and glowers at the
crowd, and covers herself with jewellery till she
looks like a decorated Christmas tree. But it's all
no good. Meanwhile, Miss Peck rides or bikes
with me in the early mornings — and if I wished
I could make all the running in that quarter.
Shall I ? — No. It wouldn't be fair to our bargain
— so set your mind at rest.

* I often wish you were here. I want someone
to talk to. You know what I mean. . . . I've
got some splendid ideas for our winter campaign.
Daring if you like — but chic — adaptations of
Vienna. The Austrian women do dress well.
No one can touch them — and such figures ! It

Vanity ! 113

makes Miss Josey mad when I praise other
women — so Tm always doing it. TheyVe
bought a house in Park Lane, she tells me — or
rather a lease of one — and are going to make
a real splash next season. Poor things ! — If
they only knew what birth and breeding say
of American pretentiousness. Why don't they
stop in their own country? They'd be much
better off, but there's no getting them to believe
that, and when one of their heiresses does land
into our aristocracy — by Jove ! she out-Herods
Herod with her airs and graces ! And yet what
a difference in the real thing when you do see
it—'

I had read so far by the light of the full
August moon when a shadow fell across the
page. I glanced up and saw my young friend
of the afternoon.

' I hope Fm not interrupting you ? ' he said.

' Oh ! no — I've finished my letter. I hope
you're feeling better ? '

<Yes — thanks. I'm all right again.'

He pushed his straw hat to the back of his
pale gilt head, and gazed dreamily over the
water.

114

Vanity !

* Do you mind if I smoke ? '
*Not at all— I rather like it/

'What a sensible woman you are/ he said,
seating himself beside me. * Tve been thinking
so all the evening. Would you mind telling
me if you're — married ? I mean if youVe a
husband/

* I have no husband/ I said drily, and
conscious of slightly heightened colour.

* Tm so glad. I thought you had an owner
who'd be turning up. You're so very pretty,
you know, and look so young to be a widow/

I laughed. ' I never heard widowhood de-
manded any special age for its privilege of
freedom/

' Of course not. But women like you aren't
long left to freedom/

'You must know a great deal about my sex,'
I remarked sarcastically.

' No. I don't like them — as a rule. They
seriously interfere with the enjoyment of life.
They are so exacting and so selfish — and as for
girls — oh ! I do hate girls/

' A bad look-out for the future Countess of
Wrexborough/ I said.

Vanity !

' That's the worst of that beastly title. They'll
be worrying me to get married. You're — you're
not an actress, are you, Mrs Costello ? '

* Certainly not. What made you think so ? '

* You've such a style, and dress so well. My
mother thought you might be one — down here
for quiet, don't you know — studying a new
part. She's terribly afraid of actresses — but I
like them — when they don't talk too much. I
know Julia Neilson and Mrs Pat Campbell
very well. They're dear things, but not a
patch on you for style.'

* I'm vastly obliged to you for the compli-
ment,' I said, laughing.

* I really mean it. Then you don't talk shop
— all actresses do. Can't help it, I suppose.
They've so many rehearsals, and then the life —
so limited and self-engrossed.'

'Yes. It must be rather monotonous. Be-
sides, actresses always like everyone else to
know wko they are. . .

* Do you go into society much ? ' he continued
after a brief pause.

*As much as I care to,' I said evasively.

'I don't. I hate it. I belong to the New

1 1 6 Vanity !

Siecle Club. We founded it for the culture and
enjoyment of Youth, and the evasion of Social
Obligations. No one over twenty is eligible for
election.'

I thought he was old enough and blase enough
for fifty, but I merely asked what they did at this
juvenile institution.

He smiled enigmatically. ' Oh ! enjoy life with
the least trouble, and the highest regard for its
artistic side. No talent is disregarded. Our
secretary plays the pan-pipes. It is almost a
forgotten art. Yet it takes one back to Arcadia
to hear him.'

^ A Punch and Judy man would do that for you,'
I said bluntly.

' Oh ! my dear lady ! ' he exclaimed in a shocked
voice. ^ How dreadful ! as if there could be any
comparison ! '

' Perhaps not as regards the players,' I said,
laughing. *But the instruments are the same.'

' That is the secret of art,' he said. * To glorify
what would otherwise be commonplace, to lend
lustre and delight to the incomplete.'

*Your club must be very efficient, then. I
suppose you have a great many members ? '

Vanity !

117

' At present only twelve/ he said with a sigh.
* But it is scarcely known yet ; and we want our
influence to be gradual. It is not a sordid affair,
based on commercial lines, vulgarised by eating
and drinking. We subsist cheerfully on simple
luxuries. We never dine — in the accepted term.
We have occasional banquets — feasts of roses and
song — fruits and choice wines — winding up with
hookahs and sherbet. We make an idyl, not an
orgie, of life.'

I rose abruptly. 'The dew is falling and you
are an invalid. Hadn't you better come in ? '

* It is so beautiful here. The repose, the peace.
Why did you disturb it?'

I felt inclined to tell him I had heard enough
of his club, and his idyls ; but I only said I was
tired, and wished him good-night.

I thought I had never appreciated the breezy
manfulness and bonhomie of Wildash so
thoroughly as now.

CHAPTER X I

A WEEK has passed.

Taking generalities instead of details, I must
candidly call it a week of * Lord Ernie/ From
early morn to dewy eve that estimable youth
has been my shadow. We drove together, sailed
and walked together, and sat out in the moon-
light together. His mother had neuralgia the
best part of the time !

If I were the designing widow of fiction I
could have caught my fledgling very easily,
made him marry me privately, and woke up
Countess of Wrexborough one fine morning.
But neither his title nor his broad acres tempted
me — allied as they were inseparably to his
miserable little personality, and gilt-edged conceit.

The smallness and vanity of the boy's nature

were intolerable. I gave him innumerable

lectures, and *set him down' as often as

possible, but this treatment only seemed to
ii8

Vanity! 119

make him more attached to me. My superb
health, my love of air and exercise, my fear-
lessness of storm or weather, on land or on
sea, were subjects of incessant marvel to him.

I had even talked and bullied him out of
his wretched habit of drug-injecting, though he
suffered terribly from the loss. However, I held
to the case, and refused to give it back, and warned
his valet that I would inform Lady Wrexborough
if he procured his young master any more of
the stuff. I found it was cocaine he had been
using. One day he let out that at this precious
club of his, all the youths used some drug or
other. It was a horrible and disgusting practice.
Yet these scions of noble houses and heirs to
titles and great names, thought nothing of
enfeebling their constitutions, and degrading
their manhood and future virility by such a
loathsome habit.

Perhaps I have succeeded in making him
ashamed of it. He appears so now, but I think
he is too weak for any influence to be lasting.
When he returns to his old friends he will, no
doubt, return to his old evil ways.

I20

Vanity !

I told Wildash about this boy. His answer
was peculiar.

* Lord Ernie is well known to a certain set —
a set who are ostracised by the self-respecting
members of society — a set given up to the
worship of Self in every form. They profess
artistic tastes (save the mark !), and think it is
very wonderful and very original to set all laws
of decency and self - government at defiance.
Better an out - and - out blackguard, with the
strength to sin boldly, than these effete, corrupt,
miserable worms who have crept into our fin-
de-siecle life, and ruin minds and morals with
their poisonous follies ! '

I did not say this to Lord Ernie, but I
dropped occasional hints that seemed to frighten
him, and for a day or two I avoided meeting or
speaking to him, unless in his mother's presence.

To-night I came across him unexpectedly. He
was sitting on a rock, in a remote part of the beach,
gazing abstractedly into the deep clear pools of sea
water left by the receding tide.

The moon was at its full, and a track of gold

Vanity !

121

lay over the wide stretch of waters. Scarce a
breath of air rippled the shining surface. Peace
held its own in this world-forgotten nook.

He looked up and saw me. His face was very
white, and his eyes had an odd, wild look in them.

* Do you know what I was contemplating ? '
he asked me suddenly. * Death. Death in its
quiet, pale corruption, its placid senselessness.
Death in this great sea-vault with the waves
forever rolling overhead, and all the strange,
uncanny creatures of the ocean as attendant
mourners. He seemed inviting me — that pale
King with his bony face and eyeless sockets. I
seemed to hear him say — '

' Oh, for goodness sake don't talk such rubbish ! '
I exclaimed angrily. * What have you been
doing ? Not at that vile stuff again ? '

' No. On my honour — no,' he said eagerly.
* I promised I would tell you, and so I will. I
am only melancholy. You have avoided me.
I could read indifference in your look, and cold-
ness in your eyes. I became a prey to miserable
forebodings. Have I offended you in any way ? '

' No,' I said, looking at the wan and miserable
young face ; ' not specially. Not more than

122

Vanity !

your uselessness and morbidness always do
ofifend me/

' Cure me of them ! ' he cried eagerly. * Be
my salvation. Already you have helped me so
much. . . . You are my life's good angel, I feel
sure. I have always looked upon marriage as
a terror when it has not seemed an absurdity,
but — you have converted me. Will you be
my wife and make me all you desire? In your
hands I should be as wax. I recognise in you
that pure and superior power to which alone
I can bow. Say you will use it on my behalf.'

He had moved from the rock and was standing
by my side. The golden light fell on his face
and gave it warmth and colour ; his eyes looked
at me beseechingly, his weak, mobile lips were
trembling. I think he was in earnest, and for a
moment or two I allowed myself the triumph of
conquest. But was it a triumph after all? . . .

' How long you are answering/ he faltered
presently. * Is " yes " so hard to say ? ' and he
held out his hands.

That gesture decided me. Like a flash I saw
another hand stretched out to me — a laughing face
and pleading eyes alive with purpose, and brim-

Vanity ! 123

ful of humour. This was but the corpse of all
true sentiment — a puny weakling for whom I
had no feeling save pitying contempt. Yet — to
be Countess of Wrexborough? — never more to
have to slave and work, and be at the mercy of
great ladies' whims and millionaires' purses ! —
how tempting was the picture !

Then the cold damp hands touched mine,
and I drew suddenly away.

'No,' I said firmly. 'No, Lord Ernie, I will
not marry you.'

He hung his head like a chidden child. ' Is it
because of my life ... of what I have confessed ? '

' Partly — and partly because marriage has no
attraction for me. Neither your position nor your
set would compensate for the attendant drawbacks
to both.'

' Drawbacks ! ' he repeated, as if bewildered.

'Yes. I know a great deal of what goes on
behind the scenes of society. Your great ladies
are not all they seem. Their life — which looks so
alluring to those on the fringe of that supposed
Paradise — has no attraction for me. If you are
born into a position you must put up with it, but if
you're adopted into one it will often not put up

1 24 Vanity !

with you. I don't like insolence, and no one can
be so offensively insolent as your great lady/
' You would be as good as any of them.'

* Perhaps, but they would not think so. The
set into which a marriage with you would take
me, is a set I know particularly well.'

* But how the deuce — '

I smiled. * You have taken me very much on
trust. You have never asked who or what I am ? '

* Anyone could see you were thoroughbred
at a glance. Burke and Debrett couldn't do
more for you than you do for yourself.'

' A pretty compliment, but still it would not
carry much weight even with your — mother —
shall we say?'

* Oh ! hang it all. I'm not bound to ask her.'

* Still, she could make it very unpleasant
for both of us, if she knew you wanted to
marry a — dressmaker ! '

< A— what?'

' A dressmaker ; pure and simple. A lady, I
grant you, but my position is only that of a Court
modiste of Bond Street. Society will receive
a music-hall star, a stage dancer, even a bur-
lesque actress when she sports her coronet, and

Vanity ! 125

trails her wedded lord after her skirts, but it
would turn its back on a woman who had made
its gowns, and learnt its petits s^cretSy and been
in its debt, and received its cheques from
many strange sources. That would be a very-
different story. There are no hard and fast
rules about society. It is a very queer institu-
tion ; but it has its own ideas of who may
steal the horse, and who may not even glance
at the stable door.*

His face was flushed now, and I could see
he was struggling with the varied emotions
caused by my confession.

' Then you will not — marry me ? ' he blurted
out at last.

* No. And you ought to be very grateful to
me for saying so. If I were designing, or self-
seeking, I should jump at your offer.'

* If you only cared,' he muttered. * It seems
hard that the only woman who has made me
want to marry her, should refuse me.'

* I cannot understand why you should want
to marry me,' I said, moving on at last. He
turned and walked beside me.

*You have been so good to me,' he said.

1 26 Vanity !

' And you are strong and helpful and sensible,
ril never find another woman like you/

Again I laughed. * Oh, yes, you will, but you
must alter your own life first Tm not good
at lecturing, but I feel I ought to lecture you.
You must throw off all these affectations. You
must try and be a credit to your manhood and
your race. Your mother is devoted to you. . . .
Think what she would suffer did she know what
you confessed to me. Think of your youth and
health ruined for want of a little moral courage
— the courage to break a pernicious habit, and
give up a set of false and unworthy companions.
What good woman could respect or love you
if she knew of your life? Believe me, women
love a manly man — one they can look up to and
reverence. It rests with yourself to deserve such
a woman, and she will complete your life and
teach you happiness.'

* The more you say the more I love — you. I
can't even think of any other woman.'

* Nonsense!' I said cheerfully. *Why, I'm at
least ten years older than yourself.'

'Age matters nothing when one loves.'

* Perhaps not ; but I don't love you, and I

Vanity !

127

should be always remembering my grey hairs
and wrinkles while you were in the prime of life.'
*If you understood me — '

I 'grew impatient. ' I understand you so well
that I should never care to understand you
better, Lord Ernie. I think you scarcely
recognise how much of the poseur there is
about you. Probably you will play at unhappi-
ness for a while to please your own morbid
fancy, but it is your vanity that is concerned,
not your heart, and the wound is not deadly.
What you call art is merely a false view of life.
You don't look at it straight, with clear, honest
vision.'

He reddened again, and an offended look
came into his face.

* I thought you understood me better,' he
said. *But women are all alike, narrow-minded,
full of prejudice. . . .'

* Have you ever given yourself the trouble to
understand us?' I asked quietly. 'Your club
and its false teachings, the books that have
poisoned your mind — what sort of mentors
are these?'

'Yet you are sending me back to them.'

128 Vanity!

*If you are weak — yes. But I thought — '

* If s no use your thinking. Fm like a
rudderless ship. I shall drift back as sure as
fate, and it will be your fault/

*That is the selfish cant a man uses as his
strongest weapon. But a woman owes a duty
to herself, and self-sacrifice can be a weakness
as well as a virtue.'

He was silent a long time. Then he turned
suddenly to me and said, * Will you give me
back my case?'

I looked at him, indignant and ashamed.

* You put it into the pocket of that gown you
are wearing,' he went on.

My hand went to my pocket. Yes ... it was
there. Slowly I drew it out. Then, without a
word, I stepped before him, and threw the
pernicious thing far out to sea. It fell on the
shining golden track the moon had left, then
sank, and was lost to sight.

He followed it with an angry glance; his face
deathly white.

' ril get another to-morrow,' he said, and turned
on his heel and walked away in an opposite
direction.

CHAPTER XII

I SPENT the whole of the next day on the sea.
I engaged a boat and took my luncheon with
me. I wished to avoid any rencontre with Lord
Ernie or his mother.

I made the man land me at a primitive little
hamlet where I had tea at a primitive little inn,
sacred to fishermen and artists. At sunset I
returned. The light was fading out of the sky.
The glowing colours of the west paled, save where
they flushed some floating feathers of cloud. The
sea was mirror-like and waveless, and the distant
headlands were only hazy and indistinct shapes.

I took off my hat as I landed, and strolled
slowly along over the firm white sands. I was
lazily fatigued with my long day, and in no
hurry to reach the hotel. Indeed, I felt I had
had quite enough of Lord Ernie, and that either
he or I would have to leave the place.

The doors stood wide open, and as I entered I

was conscious of something unusual in the face of
I 129

130

Vanity !

the porter. He looked at me in a way that roused
my curiosity. At the same moment a waiter
approached.

* Excuse me, madam/ he said. * But her lady-
ship is in a terrible state. She wishes to see you
immediate.'

* Why, what's happened ? ' I exclaimed.

* His lordship, madam, has been drowned, while
bathing ... so it is supposed. He was picked
up by a boatman, and his clothes were lying on
the beach, and they brought him straight here,
and it's been something awful. . . . Her ladyship
is nearly out of her mind.'

* Good Heavens ! drowned — ' I faltered ; and
the shock and surprise turned me faint and sick.

I thought of his words the previous evening.
* Do you know what I was contemplating —
Death?' .... And it had come to him so
suddenly — so soon.

I asked no more questions, but hurried upstairs
to the poor mother. She was indeed like one
distraught. Pacing to and fro the room, wring-
ing her hands, crying wildly and frantically on
the name of her boy (poor worthless idol !).

My heart ached for her. I tried to soothe her.

Vanity !

I knew she had been spared both sorrow and
shame in the future, but I could not tell her so,

I wrote letters for her to her men of business ;
to relatives who had to be told. I even tried to
persuade her to take some food, but all in vain.
She only wept and moaned and called on Heaven
to take her too, since life had no abiding joy
left for her. When she was quite worn out and
passive, I administered a sedative left by the
doctor, and then the maid and I got her to bed.

The woman promised to sleep in her room that
night, and at last I was able to seek my own.

There would have to be an inquest. Perhaps
I should be called upon to give evidence. I
sincerely hoped not. I felt thankful I had not
seen him that morning. It seemed dreadful that
my holiday should have had such an ending.

The inquest was held to-day. The verdict of
course was ' Death by misadventure.'

The valet was censured for not accompanying
his young master, knowing his delicate condi-
tion of health. But as there could be no possible
reason for one so blessed with this world's
goods taking voluntary leave of them, it was

132 Vanity!

unanimously agreed that he had been drowned
accidentally.

I alone had my fears and my misgivings.
But I kept them to myself. As soon as the
inquiry was over I returned to London.

It was comparatively empty, at least in fashion-
able quarters. Bond Street and Regent Street
and Piccadilly were quite deserted. The heat
had turned to rain, and town looked altogether
its dingiest and worst. I had a spell of com-
parative quiet while I arranged my autumn
campaign and took up a few mourning orders.
I also made some alterations in the decorations
of my rooms, and prepared Paris novelties accord-
ing to the directions of my invaluable partner.

(He is not coming back till the end of the
month, he writes, but I have no immediate need
of him just yet.)

I have just returned from dining with Di
Abercroft. She is up to her ears in work and
orders. The theatrical season begins in October
and she has any amount of new dresses to design
for new plays, and actresses are generally as
difficult a class to please, as to fit.

Vanity ! 133

Over our coffee and her cigarette I told her
my little adventure and its tragic sequence. I
could see she thought me a fool to have missed
so good a chance.

* Why, your fortune was made/ she exclaimed.
* And the very fact of his being so young was in
your favour. You could have done what you
pleased with him. It is a mistake for a woman to
marry a man older than herself. He either bullies
her, or manages her. When she has the advantage
of seniority she can bully or manage him.'

* But he was such a fool,' I complained. * I
really couldn't have done it, Di. Men are bad
enough, God knows, but at least I like one with
some manliness and strength and character in
him. This boy was nothing but a boudoir
lap-dog. I believe he powdered his face and
wore corsets. He had his nails manicured every
morning, and all his linen was laid among sachet
bags. He told me so!'

I gave a little shudder, but she only laughed.

' He was simply the type of ultra-civilised
modern youths. Women make pets of them,
and they are really quite harmless. . . .
Sort of toy dogs, warranted not to bite. Talk-

134

Vanity !

ing of that, will you believe the latest fad of
society is buying toys for its pets. Lady
Vyvash told me she had bought a doll for
her little Schipperke to play with. The sweet
thing did not quite appreciate it, for she bit
its head off, so Lady Vy was going to get
another for the darling, not quite so expensive,
a matter of twenty-five shillings or thereabouts/

' It's sickening ! ' I exclaimed. ^ And all the
woe and want around.'

' They don't realise it. It doesn't come in
their way. The police and the County Council
take care of that. And dogs are so much more
interesting than starving children ! '

'What will they do next?'

* I often wonder. They've run through a good
many fads lately. Boudoir telephones, and tea-
parties for pet dogs, African niggers, gambling
on the Stock Exchange, bridge and baccarat, and
a few other little pastimes which shall be nameless.'

' I wish they'd take it into their heads to pay
their bills,' I observed. * It's hateful having to
ask over and over again.'

'But Wildash is going to establish a ready-
money system, I understood you to say.'

Vanity ! 135

* Only with the parvenus and nouveaux riches.
It wouldn't do with everyone — Lady Vandeleur,
for instance.'

*No, indeed. I fancy I see the look on her
face if you suggested such a thing. By the way,
the little Farringdon scandal is growing. . . .
She ought to be careful.'

* I have not seen or heard of her since I came
back,' I said. * I was wondering if she had
changed her dressmaker.'

* We did a couple of gowns for her. She was
staying somewhere in the neighbourhood of
Balmoral and thought she might be asked there.'

' Oh — and was she ? '

*The society jackals haven't had any "tips"
to that effect. Talking of tips, how did that
Peck woman manage to square the society
columns ? Her name and her doings at Homburg
were in every one of them.'

^ I suppose she has learnt the secret,' I
answered moodily. * Everyone has his or her
price on those papers. You can buy a "par"
as easily as you can a penny bun.'

* Not quite so cheaply though, and not very
good value for your money/

136

Vanity !

* Do you think the Pecks will catch on ? ' I asked.
^ I believe their mansion in Park Lane is something
marvellous. How do Americans get so rich ? '

^ It's an amazing country/ she said thoughtfully.
* Small beginnings, shady middles, and flourish-
ing ends. But after all it is the end people
want. They can forget the intermediate stages.'

'There's something odiously snobbish in the
way people run after money nowadays.'

' There is, my dear. And yet, for us, who
can peep behind the scenes, even snobbery has
its uses. We get our bills paid.'

She threw aside her cigarette and leant back in
her chair. ' Tell me something about Wildash ? '
she said. * I never laughed so much in my life as
at your description of him and la mere Peck.
Isn't he a demon of audacity? That young
man will get on in the world, believe me.'

' I think I have told you everything up to date,'
I answered. * I suppose he has some more
surprises in store, but I must wait his arrival'

* It certainly,' she said, ' is the boldest and most
original idea I ever heard of I would give a
great deal to hear him talk to those people.'

I laughed softly at the remembrance of Mrs

Vanity !

137

Peck's face. ^ You'd never forget it if you did.
Pm simply dumb, but they stand it. He has taken
their measure very correctly when he says that
a woman will submit to anything for the prestige
of being the best-dressed woman of her set'

* I told you his taste was perfect/ she said thought-
fully. ^ Daring, but never wrong. With that, and
your genius for " cut," you ought to be a success.'

' I hope I shall—'

* Of course people will talk of the menage^ but that
won't matter. It's a pity you couldn't marry him.'

' On the contrary, marriage would spoil every-
thing. Did ever any husband give to his wife
what he would to a woman whose claims were im-
personal — time, attention, homage, forbearance?'

* Perhaps you're right. It's certainly an interest-
ing experiment. You'll lose all the Grundys and
that sort, but if he works up the right set your
fortune's made.'

* I wonder,' I said, ' if that fact will bring any
great satisfaction with it?'

' It ought to. Plenty of money and no need to
work. ... I call it an excellent retiring pension.
But we women are always discontented. The
moral of the Fisherman's Wife and the Flounder

Vanity !

is peculiarly true. Given what we want is to
make us immediately want something more.'

I rose to go. It was eleven o'clock, and I
kept early hours when I could.

'Let me know when Wildash returns/ she
said, as she helped me on with my cloak. ' We
must have a little dinner somewhere and talk
over things. I'm frightfully busy, working over-
time for the new piece at the Lyric. But Til spare
an evening for that'

I promised to let her know, and then left.

As I sit here and recall her words, I find myself
repeating that suggestion. ^What a pity you
couldn't marry him.'

* But I can^ I say softly, ' if I wish ... or he
proposed it. Only I don't wish. I am very con-
tent with things as they are. He is much better
as a friend than a husband. All the same — '

A blot on the paper ; a thoughtful face looking
back at me from the mirror, into which I have
been absently gazing ; the striking of an hour by
the clock ; these remind me of the passage of time.
It is half an hour since I wrote those words. . . .

What a long way one can travel in half an hour !

CHAPTER XIII

WiLDASH came back to-day.

He was heralded by a cartload of fabrics and
modes from Paris and Vienna, sketches and
designs of the ultrsL-cMc in fashion, and was in
wild spirits.

He and Di and I went to a premiere at the
Comedy, and afterwards had a delightful little
supper at the Savoy. His description of the
Pecks at Homburg was simply delicious. We
laughed so immoderately that our table became
even more noticeable than that of a very fast
little peeress, who was entertaining a music-hall
* star ' and a fashionable palmist, and whose parties
were always remarkable for noise, if not for
wit.

It was no unusual thing for me to come across

my customers, or clients, at restaurants and

supper-rooms, but I was astonished when the

door opened to admit Lady Farringdon and
139

140

Vanity !

Captain Calhoun. I saw she recognised me as
she threw a search-light glance over the room, but
we never knew one another in public, so my eye
remained fixed 'on the coast of Greenland,' to
quote Wildash*s description.

I repeat that I was a little — ^just a little — sur-
prised to see her here with this man, but then
the smart set and the 'Souls' do very singular
things, that are quite above the interpretation of
ordinary minds, and for which no mere outsider
would dare call them to account So I turned
my attention to quite the other end of the room,
and repaid that debt of the case of liqueurs.

' Those people were in Paris the other day,'
observed Wildash, presently. ' I know Jim
Calhoun. His sister is going to make a very
brilliant match. She's coming to you for her
trousseau gowns and cloaks. He's got to pay
all that because the father's dead, and the mother
very badly off. I've arranged it. Long credit,
but safe in the end. She'll be Duchess of Bridge-
water, and she's only twenty.'

'And he?'

'Something near sixty. Quite juvenile — for
a duke ; and remarkably well-preserved — vide

Vanity !

Morning Post Dear Morning Post ! what should
we do without its useful information?'

* She'll be his third wife/ said Di.

*Yes. Lefs hope she'll remain so. A last
little venture.'

'What a chance for you/ said Di. 'Unless
she goes to someone else after her marriage.'

' I think I can answer for that,' said Wildash.
' She has a certain little . . . very little — physical
defect. Mrs Costello must discover this, and
conceal it. The duchess won't want to change
her dressmaker, then.'

I looked at him. ' How did you — '

' How did I find it out ? Because my eyes
are sharper than most people's . . . and I had
long noted a partiality for one peculiar style
of bodice. I talked one evening to the brother
at Bignon's over a bottle or maybe two of cham-
pagne. I spoke of her exquisite face (it really
is exquisite) and wondered that she inclined to
the " muffling " order of shoulder. In vino Veritas,
I got a hint of reasons, and saw my friend home
to his hotel, while the early bird sought the worm
in Lutetia's silent streets.'

' How poetic ! ' laughed Di.

142

Vanity !

'Yes, and how useful That trousseau is going
to do great things for us. Fve made up my mind
about her presentation dress. There won't be
one like it. Youth, real Titian hair and a skin
like white rose leaves — there are possibilities
for you ! '

'But Court dress displays defects instead of
concealing them.*

' Not as I intend to use it.'

'You'll be a godsend to the Sexagenarian
Loyalties,' laughed Di. ' I should advertise a
speciality. Personal defects successfully con-
cealed. What a following you'd have.'

'It's surprising,' he said, 'how few really good
figures there are, and how few really beautiful
women. Of course hundreds pass as beauties,
but then that's because they make up admirably,
dress exquisitely, or are chic, or graceful, or
audacious ! But they won't bear criticism. You
can't judge them by the canons of beauty. The
most perfect types are the Austrians, in my
opinion.'

' Ah ! ' said Di, ' I quite agree with you.
There's a natural grace and elegance about
the Viennese . . . Englishwomen can't touch it.

Vanity !

They're cast in a coarser mould. I always
think an Englishwoman looks best with an out-
door background. Give her a hat, and a coat
and skirt, and she's all right. It's in rooms
— at great pageants she suffers by contrast
with her foreign neighbours. She is so conscious
of her clothes, and if she has jewels she puts
them on in a mass. She wants everyone to see
what a quantity she possesses, and hangs them
all over herself as a squaw hangs beads.'

* Self ornamentation is only a relic of barbarity,'
I said.

'Not even that; savages have it still. To
modern women jewels stand in place of the
domestic virtues. She'd certainly never rank them
as " far above rubies." '

Wildash's eyes looked meditatively in the direc-
tion of Lady Farringdon and Captain Calhoun,
and Di and I ate quails in aspic, in silence.

* It will soon be the anniversary of your open-
ing, won't it ? ' asked Wildash, suddenly

' Yes,' I answered, ' next month.'

* I have an idea for celebrating it,' he said.
* We must talk it over. How many people
would your rooms hold?'

144

Vanity !

^Not many, Fm afraid — a dozen make a crowd.
You're not meditating an " At home," I hope ? '

' I am, but something quite out of the common.
A big draw^

Di laughed good naturedly. *Your audacity
will carry you too far some day,' she said. *A11
women aren't as meek as Mrs Peck.'

* All women are manageable in some way,' he
answered. * My irons aren't on one fire only.'

Later on, after he had put Di into a hansom,
he asked if he might come home with me for a
chat and cigarette. I agreed, late as it was, and
over a chasse of cognac and the perfumes of best
Turkish, he unfolded to me his plan.

It was nothing more or less than to engage
some large hall or room and issue invitations
for an ' At home.' Refreshments and decorations
of the best, and most chic, also a little, very little,
music, with specially - engaged and first-class
artistes. But the speciality and feature of the
proceedings would be a procession of models who
were to walk up and down one end of the room
on a slightly-raised platform, roped off from the
guests. These models were to represent every
variety of costume — morning, afternoon and

Vanity! 145

visiting gowns, Court dress, evening dress, and
tea-gown. One of each, and as perfect as could
be.

* But the expense ! ' I gasped.

^ Nothing venture — nothing have,' he said.
' ril get most of the gowns on credit from a
place I know. But each must have a finishing
touch at our hands. And the girls must be hand-
some and well-figured, of course. Think of the
sensation ! The wedding march will sound, and
a bride will walk on, and slowly parade up and
down. Patriotic airs and the Court model appears.
Sentimental valse and evening gown of lace and
chiffon. Nocturne — tea-gown . . . and so on.
I think it's a grand idea. How the women will
talk ! '

' There's no doubt of tkat^^ I said. * But it's a
risk.'

^ Naturally. All big splashes mean a risk. But
I can finance you through this if you'll agree, and
the results for next season will be enormous.'

So, after a little more talk, I did agree to ven-
ture. I had faith in him, and he knew his world,
and knew how to deal with it. Before we parted

he had drawn the designs of the invitation cards

1 46 Vanity ! .

and programme, and we agreed to send them
out as soon as printed.

The day fixed was the first anniversary of the
opening of Frou-Frou's establishment.

Between those weeks I was kept well em-
ployed.

Captain Calhoun called with his sister the very
next day after the Savoy supper. She was, as
Wildash had said, lovely. The face and features
were perfect; large turquoise blue eyes looked
out from an artistic tangle of red-gold hair. Her
skin was velvety. She rarely had any colour, but
the rose-petal smoothness of her cheeks was
independent of anything so commonplace.

It was not, of course, until her first pattern was
being tried on that I discovered the slight defect
Wildash had mentioned. I chose to do the fitting
myself, and sent the assistant away on some
pretext. Then I gently sympathised with the
future duchess, and told her that if she would
trust herself in my hands, the censorious and
argus-eyed mob of a jealous society should be
none the wiser.

I could see she was startled and a little confused
by my quick perception. But she was young and

Vanity ! 1 47

ambitious, and would have agreed to anything at
that time.

* In my establishment/ I told her, * discretion
is absolute. Not one whisper of our artistic
secrets gets beyond the doors. My staff know
how particular I am on this point, and that
instant dismissal would follow any infringement
of the rules/

I thought to myself that Wildash had an apt
pupil, but que voulez vous — one must live.

The future duchess left the selection of her
gowns and cloaks to me, so I called in Wildash
to interview her.

He was very merciful. The admiration in
his eyes as they rested on her face, turned only
to the gentlest commiseration as they swept
over her shoulders and somewhat petite figure.

I saw her blush, but he merely took out note-
book and pencil and jotted down a few words.

* Blush-rose, pale turquoise, French grey, and
white,' he said rapidly. ' Also, for bold effect, one
gown of flame-coloured peau de soie^ as near as
possible the colour of Miss Calhoun's hair. To
be trimmed with lace applique.^

'And the presentation gown?' I suggested.

Vanity !

* Ah ! ' he said, and half closed his eyes. * Her
Grace will have my idea submitted to her when she
returns from the lune de mieL She has lace, no
doubt, or will have it included among wedding
presents.'

' Oh ! yes,' answered the girl. ' I am to have
some very rare old lace among my trousseau.'

* An entire train of lace,' he observed.

She started. 'But I thought Court trains must
be of some heavy material — silk, satin, brocade,
isn't it?'

'We are always designing new effects,' he
answered courteously. ' For one so dainty and
fairy-like as Her Grace of Bridgewater nothing
heavy would be suitable. Besides, the weight — '
He paused, and his eyes seemed reminiscent of a
defective shoulder.

A wave of colour mounted to the girl's ex-
quisite face. ' It is also the custom,' he went on,
* for a bride to wear her wedding-gown at her
presentation. The fact of its being the custom
is quite sufficient for our firm to avoid it. We
pride ourselves on being absolutely original, or,
at least, as original as prescribed and arbitrary
functions will allow. The ceremony of a Draw-

Vanity !

149

ing-room is long and tedious enough without a
woman being burdened with the weight of an
enormous train suspended from her shoulders or
supported by her hips. You, madam, shall have
no such burden. Titania herself could not look
more fairy-like, or spirituelle^ than you shall look
if you but trust to me.'

* Willingly,* she said. ^ I will wait then for your
designs.'

* Meanwhile,' he urged, ' don't breathe a word to
a living soul of the lace train. Next season there
will be scores of them. Believe me, madam, there
is but one secret for the true elegante to master.
She must be just one day, one hour even, in
advance of the fashion. She must set instead of
follow. That is simple enough, is it not ? I make
a present of it to Her future Grace of Bridgewater.'

He bowed, closed the note-book, and left the
room.

The girl turned to me, a faint flush still upon
her cheek and wonder in her eyes,

* What an absolutely charming man ! ' she
exclaimed.

And I knew Wildash had achieved another
victory.

CHAPTER XIV

I SHOULD not be giving a true account of my
professional career if I pretended that all my
customers were polite, courteous, and solvent.
Even my first year's experience did not give
these points the favour of a majority.

An instance of bourgeois courtesy following
close upon that interview with Miss Calhoun is
worthy of mention.

I received a visit from two ladies, both un-
married, who had come up from some town in
the Midlands. I had been introduced to them
through the pages of an illustrated fashion
journal. One of them required an evening
gown which she insisted should be of flaming
scarlet satin, trimmed with steel and sequins
and lace. It went against the grain to con-
template such a gown, but the girl was tall, dark,
and finely proportioned, and I yielded. I never
summoned Wildash to people of this sort. It
was beneath his genius to advise or design for

them. The dress was completed and sent to the

150

Vanity !

Hotel Metropole where the young lady {sic) and
her friend were staying.

The following day I received a letter to this
effect : —

* Madame Frou-Frou, — I am Miss Normanton
Tighe. You will remember I called at your shop
with my friend Miss de Vaux Browne who
ordered an evening robe. What price will you
charge to make me one of sky-blue satin, lined
silk, trimmed lace and flowers? A berthe of
flowers, and trails down the skirt. I am most
particular, as the robe is to be worn at my papa's
State Ball at the Town Hall in honour of his
Mayoralty and Confederateship on accession to
his Title of Knighthood. An early answer will
oblige Miss Normanton Tighe.'

This epistle was too good to keep to myself
I showed it to Wildash, who was first indignant
and then roared with laughter. Unfortunately
though it roused his Irish spirit to retaliation, and
he insisted on my writing a note at his dictation
to the following effect : —

^ Madame Frou-Frou presents her compliments
to Miss Normanton Tighe, and regrets she cannot

152 Vanity!

undertake an order for any Provincial State Ball.
She suggests that Miss Normanton Tighe should
place her order in the hands of Messieurs Jay,
or Peter Robinson, or some firm honoured by
Royal patronage/

* There ! ' he exclaimed triumphantly. ' If that
won't bring her down a peg I know nothing of
women. She is sure to go to one of these firms,
and they'll give her a reading which will astonish
her. I should like to add a postscript recommending
her to have a little more education, especially in the
art of letter writing. But I suppose Td better not'

^ Indeed, no ! ' I exclaimed. ^ Even as it stands
the letter will put her into a fine rage. I re-
member her that day — stout, red-faced, supercilious,
and bursting out of a tailor-made coat of red
cloth and brass buttons, topped by a large blue
chiffon hat. She was also very careful of her
umbrella, and told me the handle was ''real" gold.'

'We don't want customers like that,' he said.
* They're no credit, and assuredly no recom-
mendation.'

' They've one advantage,' I sighed. ' They pay
cash down.'

Vanity !

153

*WelI, we're not insolvent yet/ he laughed.
* And talking of that, you must join the T. P. S.
It's a splendid thing. You'll learn whom to
trust, and whom to avoid, besides protecting
yourself against defaulters. Til arrange that. It's
rather difficult to get into. You want first-class
references. But we can get those — now. Besides,
the big shops give ever so much longer credit if
they know you're in the Society. We've a pretty
large account at Debenham's, haven't we?'

^ Indeed, yes,' I said. ' Enough to make me
afraid of Christmas.'

' Calhoun's good for some ready money down —
I know that. His future brother-in-law is very
generous. Fancy that girl with eighty thousand a
year. It's monstrous. Not but we can help to
relieve her of a fair share of her pin-money. If it's
true that one half the world suffers in order that
the other half may enjoy — the sufferers are entitled
to make what they can of tkeir bargain.'

He laughed and sauntered off to enjoy a
cigarette in his office, while he went over the books
and examined into liabilities. I wished I could
take things as easily as he did, but I confess
debts always made me uncomfortable.

^54

Vanity !

Everything was arranged for the ' At home '
Wildash had planned. He had engaged a very-
large room in Baker Street, which could easily
accommodate a couple of hundred people. It
happened to be exceptionally well decorated, and
when beautified by flowers and plants, seats and
screens, alcoves and electric lights, the effect
would be charming.

There was to be a sort of buffet at one end of
the room where some half-dozen girls in black
skirts and scarlet page jackets, and powdered wigs,
would serve as attendants. This was to introduce
the idea of female liveried servants. Tea and
coffee, and dainty sandwiches and cakes would be
provided. He explained that elaborate refresh-
ments would be out of place, and I quite agreed
with him.

Di was in a state of jealous rapture as the day
approached. I think she envied me this odd,
inventive partner, though she had at first scoffed at
him. He had designed my own dress for the occa-
sion, and assuredly I had no reason to fear rivalry.
It was a masterpiece of simple and effective
elegance, besides having the one novel touch of a

Vanity! 155

forthcoming fashion which would not be given to
the world for another fortnight.

The invitation cards had not required answers,
so we were uncertain as to how many guests would
honour us. However, on the day itself I became
almost alarmed at the numbers who poured in.
Carriages stood in double rows all up the street.
Splendid footmen in gorgeous liveries kept my
page busy in answering their knocks. Through
the long room sailed and strutted the peacocks of
the fashionable world, and lorgnetted glances
expressed approval of my ideas, and, only too
often, a modified envy of my own chic appearance.

The Pecks were there, of course, and Lady
Farringdon, and Captain Calhoun's sister. She
wore one of our gowns. It was of white cloth.
A full snowy boa of ostrich feathers fell to her feet,
and a Frou-Frou toque showed one touch of
turquoise-blue velvet to match her lovely eyes.

Whatever the people had expected they certainly
were not prepared for the sort of afternoon I gave.
A first-rate lady pianist played enchanting frag-
ments from works of well-known composers. The
tea was always fresh, hot and fragrant. And the
caviare biscuits and * soldier sandwiches' were a

156

Vanity !

credit to Wither's establishment. Besides this,
they all knew each other, and could chatter and
gossip and scream to their hearts' content.

The first note of surprise was struck when the
piano commenced a slow and stately measure —
the curtains screening the platform drew aside,
and there walked up and down in time to the
music the first Model. A card of description
was affixed to one of the draped-back curtains,
and the audience was thus enabled to see what
was represented.

A short interval elapsed between each exhibit
— enough to allow of discussion and refreshment.

The bride was a great success. She walked
on, stately and magnificent in glistening satin
and lace, her train held by a little page in
Vandyke costume, and a tiny bridesmaid whose
attire was that of a Puritan maiden. The
wedding march announced this living tableau,
and the visitors insisted on its repetition.

Then came the Court gown — a thing of
wonder and magnificence, to which Mrs Aurelius
B. Peck lost her heart. Silver tissue covered
the most exquisite shade of green, the colour of
a lily-of-the-valley leaf. A touch of blush-rose

Vanity !

157

pink at the left side of the bodice and train was
the only other note of colour. Our model was
tall and fair, with a faultless figure, and proudly
peacocked up and down the carpeted stage as
pleased with herself as the crowd seemed to be
with her gown.

The tea-gown ended the show, and for this
Wildash had introduced a recumbent figure, whose
graceful limbs, clad in silken tights, might be
traced through filmy clouds of chiffon, deepening
from the pink of dawn to the rose of sunset, and
foamed with lace of the cobweb texture appliqued
on to chiffon. Then the curtain fell for the last
time, and my hour of triumph arrived. One and
all surrounded me with congratulations, com-
pliments, and promises of orders.

Never had they seen anything like it, they
declared. I was perfectly sure of that, and sure
also that the account of the exhibition would be
all over the fashionable world in twenty-four hours.

' So original ! . . . So unique, — wonderful,'
they cackled. And one or two murmured, *So
expensive ' — and wondered how I could go to
such lengths. But these were censorious people
who owed too large bills to their modistes to

Vanity !

dare change them for another, and who had to
wear the dresses their tyrants gave them for
fear of an exposL

Josey Peck sidled up to me once.

* Isn't he here ? ' she whispered. * If s ages
since I've seen him, and Tve got something
most particular to ask about. Did he tell you
about Homburg. We had a perfectly lovely
time, and momma never knew. Why didn't
he come to-day ? Tm real disappointed, d'you
know ? I suppose t'was he thought of all this ?
Say ... he is 'cute, ain't he ? '

* Of course he wouldn't appear here,' I answered.
* The show was only for women.'

^ Yes. ... So I see. Pity you didn't ask a
few men just to make it lively. Those liveried
maids of yours are scrumptious. . . . No mis-
take. I'd make momma have ours dressed like
that, only the worst of it is she will have men
servants. You see out our way we can't get 'em,
'cept blacks, and so it's a novelty. She'd sooner
have one of those plush and satin and powdered
giants than a diamond coronet, would momma.
I guess it's partly 'cause she can't keep a coronet
on her head. I've seen her practising, but it won't

Vanity !

159

stop nohow, and she does look a store figure in
it, I can tell you/

She laughed loudly and turned her attention to
some of Fuller's dainties on the buffet.

* Just you tell that dear man I missed him
awfully,' she said, turning to me again with her
mouth full of fondants. ^ I'll have to call around,
I s'pose. I want him to come down to Lady
Persiflage's country house and help with some
theatricals. I as good as promised him, and he
must come. He's the very man. I told Lady
Per. all about him. She's dying to know him.
She's a little bit — well, lively, but such a good sort.
You can do most anything you like down at her
place. It's the only one of your country houses I
care to go to. But I'm keeping you, I see. Ta-
ta !.. . I'll look in to-morrow. Tell Wildash so.'

It occurred to me that Homburg had something
to be answerable for, if this was the state of in-
timacy. However, I had to smile and talk * shop,'
and flatter and be flattered, and make appoint-
ments until my head ached.

Still, the afternoon had been an enormous
success, and in spite of what it had cost I saw
our money repaid cent, per cent, before long.

i6o

Vanity !

'A year ago/ I said to myself to-night, as,
tired but exhilarated and hopeful, I sat before my
bedroom fire, and cast my thoughts back over
the events of the past twelvemonth, 'a year
ago since I contemplated my sign, and started
this business. What a difference now ! I am
sought after — I am the fashion — I am a person of
consequence. Duchesses listen to my advice, and
the smartest women are those I dress. In a few
years I shall have made a fortune, or at least
sufficient to retire upon. My credit will soon be good
for thousands instead of hundreds — and then — ■

I leant back and grew comtemplative over the
various uses of money.

After all, riches didn't seem of much use to rich
people. The wealthiest were the slaves of their
wealth, ruled by obligations, harassed by laws of
investment, hampered by restrictions and forced to
live for society and please it, in order to prove that
they possessed the means of doing so. The richer
you were the more people expected of you. To
please them you must spend money on them. A
millionaire's home is merely the house that his
money advertises. Every detail has L.S.D. at the

Vanity !

i6i

back of it. True, if you have taste as well as
wealth, you can get much pleasure out of art, and
indulge the costliest whims of decorative science.
But even then, rooms and pictures and furniture
are unstable comforters.

The best things in life are beyond mere money to
buy — love, health, sympathy, friendship, happiness.
Imitations of each and all you may purchase, but the
real thing — no. There your poorer brother has the
advantage. There is nothing to be gained by flatter-
ing him. Nature gives him brains and health and
good digestion, and perhaps simple tastes. He can
prove the worth of friendship, and win the heart he
loves and know himself beloved for his own sake
alone. Distrust leaves him untroubled, and faith
and honesty are not mere words, but proven virtues.

On the whole the compensations of life are more
evenly balanced than we are inclined to believe !

I yawned after this dose of philosophic reflections,
and closed my diary on a few pencilled entries.

I went to bed wondering why Josey Peck wanted

Wildash to go down to Lady Persiflage's country

house ; wondering more whether he would go, and

feeling blissfully certain that P'rou-Frou et Cie.

would be the talk of London on the morrow.

CHAPTER XV

For the next week orders simply poured in.

I hardly knew what to promise or undertake, so
great was the demand for Frou-Frou's costumes.

' My dear creature/ exclaimed an eager claimant
— a juvenile dowager of some sixty summers— I
simply must have one of your gowns for the

Countess of W 's dinner next week. You

know what an artistic soul she is ! . . . They do
say she designs her own dresses. Never leaves
it to her modiste. Well, I do want the triumph of
showing her someone else can dress as originally
as herself. Simply tack it together, never mind
the sewing, it can come back for that afterwards.
Pin it on me if you like, but a gown of yours it
must be. I want it copied from that model I saw
yesterday.'

* Why not have the model itself. I suggested.
(It was intended for a woman of twenty-five, or
thereabouts.)

162

Vanity! 163

^ Then you can be certain of the gown. I hardly
know how to promise a duplicate in such a short
time/

^ But would it fit?' she asked dubiously. 'It
was worn by rather a — a slight figure, wasn't it ? '
' It can be easily altered.'
' And the price ? '

* Ninety-five guineas. Of course the alterations
would not be charged for, if you take the gown.'

She decided she would take it, and oh ! what a
sight she looked in it. But to her own idea she
was perfect. Another peculiarity of women is
that they take violent fancies to perfectly un-
suitable articles of attire, forgetting that the
beauty of the thing itself loses all its charms if
worn by the wrong person.

The gown and the wearer must match in style,
colouring, and design, or the result is inartistic.

Had the dowager been one of my regular
customers I would not have permitted her to
wear this model, but I knew she had only come
for a freak, and there was little credit to be gained
by dressing her. I was glad, too, to be able to dis-
pose of one of the many model gowns necessary
for that exhibition of mine. They had cost an

164

Vanity !

enormous amount of money, or at least would cost
it. As yet they were unpaid for.

However, that fact sat lightly on my conscience
as orders poured in. I had to engage a larger
staff, having now four bodice hands, six skirt,
and three sleeve workers. I still undertook most
of the fitting, though I had an excellent assistant
in that line, but I was resolved on keeping up
the prestige of the establishment.

To me ^cut' was a sort of inspiration. I could have
promised to fit almost any figure by merely looking
at the proportions and then turning to scissors
and lining, just as an artist would turn to pencil
and cardboard. Practice had added certainty and
accuracy to this gift, and 1 began to realise its value.

* We shall do,' said Wildash, triumphantly, as
the dowager's cheque came by return. ^You
must sell all those models, Mrs Costello. It'll
be a quick profit for us. I have an idea that Lady
Persiflage will take one or two. She's coming
for the dresses for her private theatricals. Sell
her that tea-gown. It's just her style.'

* She's Josey Peck's friend, is she not ? '
'Yes, and the lively American wants me to

go down to her country place and assist. Sort

Vanity !

of stage manager. I expect it will be great fun.
I wish you were coming too.'

I laughed. ' I have quite enough of these
people in my fitting-rooms/ I said. * I assure
you, when one has studied a woman's whims
and tempers and foibles in the capacity of dress-
maker, one doesn't feel inclined to pursue the
experiment any further.'

^ I suppose they do bother you a lot,' he said
commiseratingly. ' Poor little woman — and you're
so kind-hearted. I declare sometimes when I
think of their airs and graces, I feel inclined to
treat them to a lash of my tongue," as they
say in Ireland.'

* Being a dressmaker means a liberal education
in patience,' I said, laughing. * I'm getting quite
used to humbug. It wouldn't do to treat every-
one as you do the Pecks, Harry.'

He had begged me to drop the ' Mr ' long ago,
and I was nothing loth. There are people whom
you are irresistibly compelled to call by their
Christian names, and others to whom the more
formal surname clings through a life-long
acquaintanceship.

It was late in the afternoon when this conversa-

Vanity !

tion took place. Outside, the fog brooded clammy
and dark over everything. Within my room was
the cheery glow of fire and rose-shaded light.

I had just rung for tea, congratulating myself
the day's work was over. The hour and the
weather were against any callers.

I gave Wildash some tea, and had just poured
out a cup for myself when the door opened and
in rustled a very pretty dark woman, tall and
elegant, and beautifully dressed. Following her
was Josey Peck.

* Well, I guess you do look comfortable, you two,'
said that lively young lady, ' Lady Persiflage has
come with me to talk over those theatricals of hers.'

I rose and bowed. ' May I offer you some
tea?' I asked.

' I guess we won't mind anything that'll wash
the fog out of our throats,' said Josey, as Wildash
handed them chairs.

^ We're taking you very unceremoniously, Mrs
Costello,' said the pretty woman. ' But Miss Peck
insisted on bringing me in.'

She had rather a loud voice, and a quick, restless
way of looking about at everything. I noted ap-
proval of Wildash in a glance that took him in from

Vanity ! 1 67

top to toe. His handsome face and perfectly
fitting clothes evidently pleased her critical eye.

* How very charming your rooms are ! I've
heard a lot about them, especially since your
Model "At home." Sounds like those things
they send circulars about for, doesn't it? I'm
so sorry I wasn't there. So original, I hear.
Everyone's talking of it.'

' Your idea, I bet,' observed Josey, looking at
Wildash.

' Partly,' he said. ' But Mrs Costello had the
carrying out of it'

'Yes. I saw you didn't turn up. I was just
mad, I can tell you. No one to make fun of
the people. Oh ! and you would have had
some opportunities ! Has momma been here
lately, Mrs Costello?'

' No,' I said. ' Not for a long time.'

* She ain't none too pleased with us,' said
the frank-souled American, indicating Wildash.
' Heard about our biking at Homburg. Read
me the riot act, I can tell you. Just as if I
cared. But here I'm running on and we must talk
business. Now, Lady Per., it's your turn. Get in
your oar while you can, or Til be doing it for you.'

i68

Vanity !

Lady Persiflage put down her tea-cup, and
glanced at my partner.

* Fm having a house party next month/ she
said. ^ And we are going to do one or two little
modern plays. None of the old tragedy things —
" Lady of Lyons ' and " Still Waters run Deep " —
only bright, airy, up-to-date trifles. But I want them
superintended by someone whose taste is accurate
and original. To do them as no one else has ever
done them. . . . Strike a new note, in fact. From
what IVe heard of this establishment, and of you,
Mr Wildash, I fancy you're the very people to
carry out my ideas. Mrs Costello will do the
dresses, I hope, and you I shall ask to stage manage
for us. Don't say it's not in your line, or rather
say it, for I wouldn't have the conventional thing
for any consideration. I don't mind telling you
I've written one of the pieces myself. It only
takes three people to act — three people and a foot-
man. It was hearing Miss Peck talk of you that
made me feel certain you were the very man to sug-
gest, or superintend, and all that. It's so hard,' she
went on piteously, ^ to find any sort of originality
at all. Now that " At home " with the living models
and the music, was original if you like. Immedi-

Vanity !

169

ately I heard of it I said to Miss Peck, " I must
try and get him for my theatricals," and here I am.'

* So I observe,' said Wildash, coolly. ' But, really,
theatricals are not at all in my line.'

'Oh! don't say that. I've counted upon you.
I don't want any of those dreadful professional
people. They turn us all into sticks, and make
us so unnatural — oh, please don't be disobliging.
No one ever says " No " to me.'

* Then an Irishman mustn't be the first,' said
Wildash, smiling. ' Only, really, it's not quite clear
what you want me to do. I can't paint scenery,
you know, and though I do a theatre at least once
a week I've never seen a rehearsal, or put anyone
through their paces.'

* That's why it will be so delightfully original,'
cried Lady Persiflage, clasping her hands.

* You must say what sort of dresses, and what
sort of room ' — (she glanced round approvingly)
' and make them walk and talk like real people.
Not stagey donkeys, who move as if they were
under a drill sergeant's eyes, and mouth their
words, and smirk and grin, and that sort of thing.
I'm intensely dramatic myself, but I want someone
to back me up and make the others think as I do.

170

Vanity !

They can all act, but the difficulty is to get them
not to act. Do you understand ? '

' Perfectly. But I should be better able to assist
you if you could let me see your play.'

' Oh ! it s not that. It's only a little comedietta
— three characters, as I told you — '

^ And — a footman.'

* Yes. Fancy your remembering that. Josey, the
manuscript is in the carriage pocket — would you — '

' Could I find it ? ' asked Wildash, rising.

* So kind of you, but don't trouble. Josey knows
just where it is. And now, Mrs Costello, when
may I see you about dresses. I want a tea-gown.
I play my part in that. A creation of a tea-
gown, you understand ? '

Harry's glance spoke * model,' and I assured her I
had the very thing — so new, so chic — but she must
see it. Leaving Wildash therefore to entertain
Josey I took her off to the other room, and the box
containing our exhibit gown was brought in, and
the treasure displayed.

She bought it on the spot, making me promise
that I would not copy it for anyone else. The
charge for such exclusiveness was high.

I had never made a more profitable bargain.

CHAPTER XVI

December 20th. — Busy weeks . . . weeks crammed
with orders, obligations, fault-findings, tempers,
disputes, all the side-lights that feminine caprice
can throw on the all-important duty of attiring
itself in fine raiment.

I am tired and weary of it all, and Wildash is
away. He departed last week for Thornhill
Manor, Lady Persiflage's country house in Berks,
and, from his letters, seems to be having an un-
commonly good time of it. I miss him more than
I could possibly have imagined. It seems so
strange to have no one to consult, or to inter-
view travellers (that bete noir of the fashionable
modiste), or advise customers. I never knew how
many worries and bothers he had lifted off my
shoulders till now. I marvel how I ever got on
without him !

' Behind the scenes ' of any profession, business,
or public employment has always its disen-
chanting side. I had the quarrels and jealousies
171

172

Vanity !

of the workroom as well as the showroom to
combat. My chief assistant was, fortunately,
possessed of an angelic temper, but she was the
exception. Wrangling and back-biting, ^tiffs'
and tongue slashing, made things lively for all
of us only too often, and when I gave ^ a piece
of my mind' to any of the culprits it was no
uncommon thing to see them fling down their work
and march off, with the information that places as
good as mine were to be had for the asking. A
contretemps of this sort, in the midst of a large
wedding order, was enough to upset anyone's
temper, and I am afraid I lost mine oftener than
was diplomatic.

The reverse side of the shield showed itself to
me in such fashion that I found myself calculating
the shortest available time in which I could furnish
myself with a ' retiring ' pension. Anything more
trying to nerves, health and temper, than the life
of a fashionable dressmaker I cannot imagine, and
I could not picture my powers of endurance hold-
ing out for many years.

In the midst of a despondent mood of this
description I one day received a letter from Lady
Persiflage to this effect : —

Vanity !

173

'Dear Mrs Costello, — We want you to run
down for the theatricals on Christmas Eve . . .
if only to see we do wear our gowns properly
and are a credit to the artiste who composed
them. Mr Wildash is simply the life and soul
of things here ! And he does make us work.
The play is going beautifully, and as for the
"original'' things he makes us do, and the way
he has arranged the stage . . . well, but you'll see
for yourself He says he can't get on without
you, so I promised to write. The 3.15 train will
bring you down in time for tea on the 24th, and
I hope you can stay over Boxing Day, for you
won't be required, you know, and a little change
will do you good. Mind we shall expect you. —
Yours sincerely, LAURA J. Persiflage.'

The tone of this letter surprised me. It was
not often that my customers remembered that
a modiste might still be a lady, or had started
life in the latter capacity before trying the former.

From the fact of Lady Persiflage writing to me
as to her equal (which little fact I put down to
Wildash), I felt sure my birth and history had not
wanted for skilful embroidering at my partner's

174

Vanity !

hands. I laughed softly as I pictured him in that
house, dominating and controlling everyone in
that cool, audacious fashion of his. The life and
soul of all the fun, and yet keeping his head,
and watching his opportunities — for future
occasions.

I accepted the invitation even before I had his
letter respecting it, and giving me what he called
the * lie of the land.' This consisted of a descrip-
tion of the various guests, and sundry little his-
toirettes, witty and naughty and risky enough, but
sufficient to show I had nothing to fear by com-
parison. So Babette the faithful packed my trunk,
and I dismissed my quarrelsome assistants with
thankfulness, and left her and the page in charge
of my establishment.

It was a cold, wet evening when I arrived at the
little country station mentioned by Lady Persi-
flage. A carriage was waiting for me, and about
half an hour's drive brought me to the house. It
was too dark to judge of its external appearance.
I was shown into the hall, where a bright wx)od
fire burnt in the stately fireplace. I had a vision
of old carved oak, and brasses, and embossed
shields.

Vanity !

175

A crowd of people were there. Women in tea-
gowns, or coats and skirts, as if they had just come
in from park or covert ; several men stood about
with cups in their hands. Among them Wildash.
He looked by far the handsomest and most dis-
tinguished of them all. Lady Persiflage greeted
me very cordially — so did Miss Calhoun, and Josey
Peck. The other women were inclined to be
supercilious. After one brief regard they turned
to their tea-cups and muffins, chattering like
sparrows on a house-top. Lady Persiflage gave
me some tea and spoke of my journey, and
murmured how good it was of me to come
down at such short notice.

I inquired after the rehearsals, and was told
they were all perfect in their parts, and only
longing to prove to the county how vastly
superior the amateur was to the ^ real ^ thing.

I caught Wildash's eye, and if he did not wink
the intention was self-evident. He found me a
chair, and brought hot tea-cake, and declared
himself unfeignedly glad to see me again.

' We had the dress rehearsal last night,' he
said. ' I shall be glad when it's all over. Fm
getting sick of the business.'

176

Vanity !

' Were you as impudent to the amateur actress
as you are to my clientele ? * I asked him.

^Sometimes. When they tried me too far, or
wanted to flirt in the midst of business. Women
never seem to believe that there is a time to
sink personality, as well as to obtrude it'

' And how do you get on with the men ? '

^Well enough. They're mostly out shooting,
or hunting. But as I tell a good story, and never
shirk cards, they're uncommon civil. At first
they were inclined to ignore me as an unknown
quantity, but I soon altered that.'

' And how goes on r affaire Josey ? ' I asked.

* It stands where it was as far as I am concerned.'

*Who is that tall, pretty woman over there,
leaning against the fireplace ? '

^ Tres simple^ mais ires bien. That is Mrs
Tresyllian. Worth dresses her — good style.
Husband — city or something. Stock Exchange,
I expect. Rolling in money. She acts the best
of the lot'

' Better than our hostess ? '

^Yes — only it doesn't do to say so. She is
quite capable of the real thing should she ever
be driven to it'

Vanity !

177

* Is her husband here ? '

* No. I wrote you that they were never seen
together — at country houses. A country house
like this, especially.'

^ Why— this?'

He laughed. ^ It is one favoured by semi-
detached couples. Oh ! perfectly innocent and
right, but with such convenient arrangements
for— unobserved intercourse ! '

' How many scandals have you unearthed
here ? ' I inquired, laughing.

* Too many to tell you in one evening.'

* Good gracious ! '

*You may well start. I seem to have an
unfortunate knack of discovering things. And
some people are veritable ostriches. Can I get
you any more tea?'

* No, thank you. I will go to my room now,
I think.'

' Any new gowns ? '

* One — I'll sport it to-night in honour of the
theatricals.'

* You're looking a little tired, he said. ' Have
you had a bad time of it since I left?'

* Indeed, yes. The workroom people were so

178

Vanity !

troublesome and there was so much to finish
before Christmas.'

Well, a few days' rest will set you up — at least
if they'll let you rest here. As a rule they're
all on the go from morning till night. No one
goes to bed before one, or two.'

At this moment Josey Peck approached.

' I'll take you to your room if you like,' she said.
* Lady Persiflage has given you the one next
mine.'

I rose at once, not sorry to get away and have
a chance of rest before dressing for dinner.

* Momma ain't here,' Miss Josey informed me,
as I threw off my travelling wraps and looked
round the pretty, chintz-covered room. * I got her
asked to a duchess's place way down Warwick-
shire. I had to come here because I'm acting in
Lady Pen's play. Always call her that. Life
ain't long enough for such double-barrelled names
as she holds on to.'

^ It's a new title, but they're an old family,' I
observed.

* Oh ! your old families ! I guess I'm sick of
hearing about them. The decent ones are as poor
as rats, and the others always mortgaging and

Vanity! 179

selling things, including themselves. Did you
hear Td refused Lord Pelham?'

' No ; was it in the Court Circular ? '

'That's real smart, but I don't bear you any
grudge. I guess I can take my dollars to a better
market. Besides, he drinks like a bargee.'

'Our aristocracy seem singularly adapted for
republican favours,' I observed. * Their principles
and constitutions are equally weak.'

' Wal, I guess your present earls and dukes ain't
much like the pictures of their ancestors in the
painting galleries. Maybe it's the wigs or the
armour made them look important. I wouldn't
have minded marryin' one, but there ain't
nothing about titled folks now to show they're
different to ordinary ones. Indeed, the ordinary
look the aristocrats. See Wildash now. He's
all right. No need to worry about his descent.
Looks blue blood all through. You never see
him drunk, and these other men, why, they just
soak. You'll see to-night. It's awful. I do
hate to see a man in liquor, don't you, Mrs
Costello ? '

I agreed.

' He's a darling man/ she went on, with a sigh

i8o Vanity!

' If only he'd get a title I'd jump at him. I've
dollars enough, but momma would be just mad if
I was plain Mrs. I could have been that in New
York.'

'Tell me/ I said, Mo all you American girls
come over to this country with the idea of " catch-
ing a title ? " It looks like it'

' Wal, I guess we do look around with that view,'
she said frankly. 'Seems kind of funny, don't it?
But your people began it. They made such an
almighty fuss over us Americans, and we could
cheek them as we liked, and yet princes and
peerages and all that sort simply cottoned to us.
We didn't understand it at first. Guess we look
upon it as our right now.'

I leant back in my chair and surveyed the frank
young republican with some amusement.

I knew that the Peck dollars had sprung from a
very unsavoury source ; that Josey herself had been
nothing particular in her own country, where her
family history was only a startling transformation
scene. And to see her here, perfectly at home
among people of birth and race, and critical as to
ducal suitors, was just one of those ' eye openers '
that society seems to delight in.

Vanity ! 1 8 1

I was silent so long that she concluded I was
tired, and after offering the services of her maid,
which I declined, she took herself off.

I threw on a loose wrapper and lay down for
half an hour. Rest, and a subsequent douche of
cold water and eau-de-Cologne were my unfailing
recipes for the nerves and complexion.

When I went down to dinner I had the satis-
faction of meeting many surprised and admiring
glances.

Lady Persiflage was talking and laughing at
the top of her voice. ' Let's have a scramble
to-night/ she said. * We are rather late as it is,
and I can't waste more time in sorting you out.
Take who you please, and follow me. Come,
Mr Wildash, I choose you.'

She darted off, laughing and chattering, and
there was a general rush and scrimmage in the
hasty choice of partners.

A voice in my ear said suddenly, * Mrs Costello,
allow me to take you in.'

I looked up, surprised, into the face of Captain
Calhoun.

CHAPTER XVII

There was a good deal of noise and confusion
before the various couples were seated, and at their
soup.

I turned to my neighbour. * Is this a new
fashion ? ' I inquired.

* Oh, it's been in some time, I believe. Rather
good fun, don't you think ? One does get a chance
of sitting next the person one wants, instead of
doing duty by right of precedence. Lady Per.
often does it.'

I declined soup, and looked thoughtfully round
the table. The new fashion seemed to have
suited them all amazingly, judging from appear-
ances. Josey Peck had managed to secure a seat
the other side of Wildash, and emulated Lady
Per.'s pert chatter so skilfully that he had only
to listen to both with equal indifference. I
wondered at the absence of Lady Farringdon.

When certain members of society *hunt in
182

Vanity !

183

couples/ one naturally looks for that partnership
on such occasions as the present.

' How well your sister is looking/ I observed,
when my scrutiny had satisfied me.

* Yes, she keeps up wonderfully, doesn't she ?
Time's getting near now.'

* The duke is not here ? ' I questioned.

^ No. Deeds and settlements and things, and a
slight touch of gout. He's at the Castle. Wanted
us for Christmas, but not this child, thank you. I
like to go where I know I'll be amused.'

^ It's very lively here, I suppose ? '

* Rather, he said with emphasis, * Liberty Hall
if you like.' Then, after a pause, he said in a low
tone, * You've no idea how glad I was to hear
you were coming. I never got the chance of
a word with you in town.'

I stared at him in surprise. Then I laughed.
* I was not aware you had any special reason for a
word with me. Surely Miss Calhoun — '

' It's not about her, and do drop " shop/' like
a dear creature. I never can and never shall
associate you with business. Seems sacrilege, you
know. There's no woman I've ever admired so
much/

184 Vanity!

My amazement increased. To it was added a
slight indignation.

' You flatter me/ I said, with some hauteur.
^ And please remember I am a woman of business,
as you call it, and any form of admiration must be
strictly professional.'

He laughed. ^ A pretty woman can never be
wholly and entirely a business woman. Her glass
won't let her, and men have eyes ! '

* I don't deny that. But supposing she doesn't
attach any importance to — optical delusions ? '

*She wouldn't belie her sex by such an immoral
proceeding.'

* I think. Captain Calhoun, that men don't under-
stand my sex so well as they pretend to do. I assure
you there are many things more gratifying and
more important than the admiration you suggest'

I was both irritated and astonished at his
manner. It conveyed to me something I had no
desire to have explained.

^ Where is Lady Farringdon ? ' I went on
hurriedly. ' I fully expected to find her here.'

He frowned slightly. ^ She is doing a round of visits
also. She is due here first week of the new year.'

' And you talk like this pour passer le temps ? '

Vanity! 185

•' That's a base insinuation. IVe known you a
year, and my admiration dates its birth from our
first meeting/

^ Indeed ! That does not speak well for your
constancy, Captain Calhoun/

* You mustn't believe there's anything in those
stories,' he said, a dark flush rising to his brow.
' We're very good friends, and I've known her
years and years, but there's nothing else.'

A scream of laughter from the other side of
the table interrupted us. Calhoun frowned.

'Wildash is a perfect Merry Andrew,' he
muttered. ' He plays court jester, morning, noon,
and night. Lady Per. spoils him. As for that
American girl, she almost throws herself at his
head. I don't know what they see in him, unless
it's his consummate cheek.'

' Isn't that the chief element of modern popularity ? '

* Oh ! I forgot, you and he are great pals.
Partner or something, isn't he ? '

' Yes. He has simply doubled my income and
connection.'

' There's a lot to be made out of it, I suppose,
if one knows the ropes.'
' A fortune,' I said quietly.

i86

Vanity !

He looked enviously at Wildash.

* He'd give it up, I suppose, if he came into the
title. It would be rather infra dig,, wouldn't it ? '

* That's a matter of opinion. The Countess of
Warwick has her name over a shop. A relative
of the Royal family is in the tea trade. Lord
Rosslyn is an actor ; the Duchess of Sutherland
an authoress ; Countess Russell a music - hall
singer; the German Emperor a dramatist and
composer — Wildash will be in good company even
if he has the misfortune to become a baronet'

' It was a queer idea all the same.'

' It was an inspiration of genius. It is not what
a man does, but what he is that degrades or
ennobles him.'

* You're one of his champions, I see, Mrs Costello.'

* I certainly consider his life more useful than that
of half the men of the present day. Men who are
less intellectual than apes, and not half as amusing.
Who call it " honour " to gamble away their ancient
homes and cheat their tradesmen, and whose sole
notion of love is to compromise married women ! '

* Great Scot ! What an indictment ! '

He refused the sorbet, and turned to look at me.
' Do you really mean all that ? ' he asked.

Vanity !

* You can't deny its truth/

< No — 'pon my soul I can't. But it sounds so —
old fashioned and churchy to hear a woman talk
like that/

' Does it ? ' I said. ' Well, put it down to my
ignorance. I am not " in " society, only a looker-on/

* That's why you see most of the games ? '

' Exactly. They are very amusing sometimes ;
also they teach a moral lesson/

* Moral lesson ? ' he repeated vaguely.

* Yes — of avoidance. I wouldn't be in one of those
games, not for all the Peck dollars, Captain Calhoun.'

He finished his dinner in silence after that.

There was a general movement when Lady
Persiflage rose.

Almost everyone was engaged in the theatricals,
and all were anxious about the dressing. She
seized upon me as her own particular adviser
in the matter of * make up,' and I gave my
services to her and Mrs Tresyllian, who dressed
in the same room. I was lost in admiration
of this woman. She was absolutely lovely, and
the personification of grace. It was a pleasure to
dress her, and decidedly I envied Worth.

1 88 Vanity!

Lady Persiflage was refreshing her memory,
and rattling off speeches and ' cues ' in a most
bewildering fashion.

' Will it go, Tessie, do you think ? ' she asked
her friend anxiously. ^ I shall die of vexation if it
doesn't.'

Mrs Tresyllian opined that it would be all right,
as she surveyed her profile with a hand-glass.

^ There's a lot of people coming,' continued Lady
Persiflage. ^ I told Pops to receive them.' (Pops
was the individual who had the honour of being
her husband.) * He won't like it, of course, but I
couldn't rush my dressing for a lot of county fogies.
Men are so abominably selfish, don't you think so,
Mrs Costello ? Oh, you're lucky, you're a widow. . . .
Isn't that eyebrow a little . . . little. . . .? No,
you think not ? Very well — I depend on you.
Now, I'll stand under the light, and you go to the
other end of the room and tell me how I look.'

' Charming,' was my verdict, as I obeyed her
wishes. * If you act as well as you look, the piece
will be a success,' I added.

She laughed gaily. ^ Oh ! Wildash is a splendid
prompter. Indeed, he's an encyclopaedia of useful
knowledge — nothing comes amiss. He knocked

Vanity! 189

up some Cairo screens, and enamelled some old
chairs for the stage into dreams of beauty, and the
way he's done the room — isn't it too sweet for
anything, Tessie ? '

' He has great inventiveness,' said Mrs Tresyllian;
' it almost amounts to a talent. And a wonderful
memory.'

^ Yes, he can tell us all our parts without the
book. How goes the time, Tessie? We begin
at nine-thirty, don't we ? '

* It's almost on the stroke. I'm quite ready if
you are.'

They gave a last anxious look at the mirror,
gathered their trains, and Mparts,' and swept out
of the room.

I followed them and found a seat with some
difficulty. Most of the people had arrived, and
[ Pops ' had conscientiously received and seated
them. There was no orchestra, but a piano duet
gave forth the overture to ' Tannhauser,' and almost
on the last chord the curtain divided on either
side the stage, and showed the ^ boudoir of Lady
St Pierre's town house,' so said the programme.

It was really a charming little play and wonder-
fully well acted. Lady Persiflage was so suited to

190

Vanity !

her own part that she had only to be herself. Mrs
TresylHan struck a deeper note, and acted with
almost professional ability. I am not quite sure
that the county quite grasped the plot, or under-
stood half the * smart ' things the characters said,
but they laughed a good deal and applauded graci-
ously, and seemed quite surprised at the shortness
of the piece and the magnificence of the gowns.

I fancy the tea-gown shocked one or two
matrons, but then some people's nerves are so
sensitive that very little upsets them. For my
part I enjoyed the performance immensely.

There was to be an interval of twenty minutes be-
tween the little comedy and the next piece. They
had chosen * Lady Windermere's Fan' for the latter.

I knew no one near me, so, under cover of the
talk and laughter, I rose and made my w^ay to
the hall, where coffee was being served. Here
Wildash joined me — cool and unruffled, and
apparently heedless of responsibilities.

I congratulated him on his qualifications for
stage managership.

* It was hard work, I can tell you,' he answered.
*rm going to have a whisky and soda and a
cigarette, to keep me up between the parts.

Vanity !

191

TheyVe all worrying about their wigs. Clarkson
sent the wrong sort, or something. I left them
to fight it out. Fve just about had enough of
it. Josey was very " cute " in her part, wasn't she ? '

' Excellent/ I agreed. ^ Oh ! here she comes/

* Then Vm off/ and he slipped away.

The little American came in, followed by a
crowd of men, with whom she kept up a running
fire of conversation.

She had not removed her ^make up' and
wore the same dress. As it was one of my
own creations, I was qualified to admire it.

^ That will do,' she said to one of her following.
' You can catch up your resolutions at leisure.
It's quite plain you know nothing about mj/
part in the play, or you wouldn't have said
I was "awfully good," I was bad . . . down-
right bad. Adventuress, and all that. Tessie
Tresyllian was the good woman. Oh ! Mrs
Costello, where's Wildash ? I do want to shake
hands with him. He pulled me through just
wonderful. . . . Not here? I call that a shame.
Well, I'm going to smoke. No coffee, thanks.
Keeps me awake, and we've all got to show up
at church to-morrow — Lady Per. insists. It's the

192

Vanity !

one day in the year she must grace the family
pew — house-party, servants and all. Guess Fm
goin' for the experience. I haven't spent an
English Christmas yet. What do you all do
when the bells ring at midnight?'

^ Kiss under the mistletoe/ said Captain Calhoun.

* Guess you don't kiss this child. She draws
the line at anything promiscuous.'

She lit a cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke
from her saucy lips. Then perched herself on
the edge of a table, and swung her tiny high-
heeled shoes to and fro for all beholders to
marvel at.

* She's a true child of her country, isn t
she?' murmured Calhoun, drawing closer to me.
* Awful fun to draw her out. Level-headed as
they make them. Got a coronet in her eye, and
won't take anything less. " Haloes," she calls
'em. Asked my sister if she was going to wear
hers at her wedding. What ideas they have!'

* How did you like the comedy ? ' I asked.

* Not half bad. Lady Per.'s clever, ain't she ?
Fancy writing and acting that!

* Marvellous,' I said dryly. ' As surprising as
if a butterfly took to making honey,'

Vanity! 193

* Well, it is. Because she's no need to do
it, and writing's precious hard work. At least
I find it so. Always shirk letters.'

I looked at him. Six foot of ornamental bone
and muscle, good for shooting, hunting, billiards
and baccarat, smokes and drinks, and unequal to the
task of composing or writing an ordinary letter.

^ I'm an awfully lazy beggar,' he went on con-
fidentially. ' I say, Mrs Costello, come out of this
crowd. I want to talk to you. You did pitch into
me at dinner, but I bear you no ill-will.'

* That is good of you,' I said, moving away
to a seat near the great fireplace. * I'll promise
not to do it again if you'll behave yourself

*That means — '

* Not paying me silly compliments.'

' I won't,' he said earnestly. ' Somehow, you're
different to the others. They expect it. Every
observation must have a sugar plum of flattery.
One gets into the way of it at last'

' I thought even worldly women were wiser
than that.'

* No, they're not. Because they are worldly.'

I shrugged my shoulders. 'A synonym for

senselessness and exaggeration.'

194

Vanity !

* You're very hard on your sex, I fancy, Mrs
Costello/

'Perhaps IVe opportunities of judging them
not given to many. A woman treats her modiste
as frankly as she does her looking-glass, and
the looking-glass reflects^ you must remember.'

'By Jove — that's clever!' he said admiringly.
* I wonder sometimes you didn't go in for some-
thing different from this sort of life, don't you
know. Seems you're thrown away on it.'

' What would you suggest in its place — as
lucrative, of course?'

' Well, the stage, or writing. Women make pots
of money out of a successful book, I hear.'

* Exactly. A successful book. But how many
women's books are successful ? '

He ran over a few names. I laughed. ' I could
make the sum they get for a book out of one
gown,' I said, ' with less trouble, and less anxiety.'
' No — really. . . . I've heard 'em say — '
' Oh ! my dear Captain Calhoun, never believe
what authors tell you as to the profits of their
profession. Go to a publisher if you want to know
that'

'Well — the stage. That pays. And anyone

Vanity !

195

who looks and acts like a lady is pretty sure of
parts in up-to-date comedies.'

' My friend Mrs Abercroft dresses most of the
leading actresses/ I said. * I know quite enough
of the stage to make it as undesirable a profession
as literature. And why this anxiety on my behalf?
I counted the cost well before I took up my present
line of business. I have no reason to regret it.
There are attendant worries and anxieties — true —
but who is without them ? Now we have talked quite
enough of myself and my affairs. I see a move-
ment to return to the other room. Shall we go ? '

He offered me his arm. ' They are to dance
afterwards/ he said. * May I have the honour of
the cotillon?'

* It is promised/ I said quietly.

He looked vexed. ' Tm sorry I'm too late. A
waltz, then?'

I nodded. *Yes. I've no programme, but — '

* I'll ask for the first then, and I'll bring you a pro-
gramme after this piece is over. You couldn't . . . get
out of the cotillon engagement ? ' he questioned.

* I have no wish to. I'm engaged for it to Mr
Wildash.'

' Oh ! d n Wildash ! ' he muttered.

CHAPTER XVIII

I WENT to my room in the early hours, tired yet
elated. Not a woman present had received more
attention or admiration than myself, and *who is
she ? ' had hovered on many lips. Wildash had
been as amusing and delightful as ever, and
both Lady Persiflage and Josey Peck were
envious of his devotion to me — if it could be
called devotion.

Whatever it looked like to others, to ourselves
it was only ^camaraderie! We jested, criticised,
gossiped and laughed like two children over the
guests and incidents of the evening. I had never
enjoyed myself so much — never since I had
retired from any prominent position in society —
that curious institution component of so many
sets and layers that one may ascend or descend
without fear of recognition from one part, or
interference from another.

I was too tired to do anything but go to

bed and sleep, and I was none too well pleased

at being aroused next morning at ten o'clock,
196

Vanity !

197

although my breakfast was brought to me.
But Lady Per. had insisted we should all go to
church by way of example to the county, and
I had faithfully promised to do so.

It was cold and frosty. The sun was shining
brightly, and a ten minutes' walk took us to
a pretty, old-fashioned building that was suffer-
ing desecration from fashionable ritual.

The service and vestments were of the most
advanced order. The priests as pompous and
self-important as their kind. The service mainly
composed of choral singing and eliminations from
the old-fashioned form of the Church service; the
sermon — a reiteration of fallacies and dogmas —
delivered with the eloquence of a Board-school
prize pupil.

In London I rarely went to church. It only
irritated and amazed me. A modern fashionable
preacher would not condescend to explain a
doctrine, or give any sort of comfort or aid to
a conscientious seeker after truth. He would
refer one to 'the Church,' and the Church, in
the parlance of a ritualist priest, is about the
most comfortless and irreligious institution that
modernity has invented.

Vanity !

However, we did our duty * according to that
state of life ' in which we were placed, and abused
everything soundly on our return journey.

Life in a country house is mainly composed
of eating, drinking, and flirting. There came a
heavy luncheon, after which the men drifted off
to smoking, or billiard-room, or went for a walk,
and the women retired to sleep off the previous
night's fatigue, till five o'clock allowed of an
elaborate display of tea-gowns in the hall.

' Christmas day is always the dullest and most
depressing in the whole year,* exclaimed Lady
Per., smothering a yawn. ' It is the essence of
fifty Sundays rolled into one.'

* rd read such a lot about English Christmas-
time,' cried Josey Peck's shrill voice. ' I guess it
ain't much like story-books. No robins hoppin'
about ; or skatin', and mistletoe boughs ! And
you all seem kind o' melancholy.'

*We are reviewing our past misdeeds,' said
Wildash. ' It is a duty laid upon us by our
consciences, and we perform it once a year —
generally at Christmas-time. Our self-examina-
tion reaches a climax on the last day of the old
year, when we fast in sackcloth and ashes till the

Vanity !

199

midnight hour. As the bells begin to ring we rise
to new hopes we never realise ; make new vows
we never keep ; and take into our purified hands
the Book of New Leaves that we never turn over.

^ I guess you're funny people/ said Josey, regard-
ing him shrewdly. * As for you, Mr Wildash, I
never do know if you're poking fun at me, or
meanin' what you say. But I kalkerlate you'd
best lose no time in turnin' over one of those
new leaves yourself.'

'Why? Surely, Miss Peck, you've no fault to
find with my moral structure?'

*Wal, I can give a pretty good guess at the
amount of " morality '* it contains,' she said.
* Seems you don't believe much in men or women ;
ain't that so ? '

' I believe in them as long as they permit.
People cease to interest when we find their —
limitations.'

* How d'you know you've reached the end of
the rope } Lots of folk only give you a little piece,
and hold the rest back for fear of accidents.'

* Then lots of folks " seem so fearful of the
accident, that they wear out the rope with holding
on to it'

200

Vanity !

' Don't let us get metaphorical. It's so wearing
to the nerves. And that high-and-dry style o'
talkin' don't suit me. Bring me another cup of
tea and FU tell you the last thing I heard about
momma.'

' Why do American girls always say " momma " ? '
asked Captain Calhoun, in a low voice, as he bent
down for my empty cup. * It sounds so silly.'

'They're brought up that way, I suppose.
Doubtless our stolid " mother " sounds just as
strange to their ears.'

*What would you all care to do this even-
ing?' chimed in Lady Per. 'Dance, charades,
cards ? We've only ourselves, you know. Unless
Mrs Jackey Beauchamp comes. She faithfully
promised. But one can never depend on her ! '

There was a moment of interest.

' Jackey coming. Oh ! how delightful ! '

'Yes. She's been staying with the Newlands
at the Abbey. She wasn't at church, though.
She promised to dine and sleep here to-night.'

' She never keeps her word,' murmured Mrs
Tresyllian.

* How did the Newlands get her?' asked Captain
Calhoun. ' Not quite her sort, are they ? '

Vanity !

20I

* She rather took them up after they bought the
Abbey. Detestable people — but oh ! their money ! '

* Usual story nowadays/ drawled the Captain.
* We're all selling ourselves for a mess o' pottage.'

^They give very good pottage/ laughed Lady
Per. *But they're rather "cut" down here. No
one liked the Abbey going out of the family, and
though the Beauchamps were short of " shekels "
they were very popular.'

* Beastly pity . . . good families ... so poor/
murmured Teddy Fitzgerald, who was a younger
son, and in the Guards, and had more debts than he
could possibly remember, or ever intended to pay.

He was far too lazy to utter a consecutive
sentence, and merely dropped two or three words
at intervals when the labour of conversation was
forced upon him.

' It is/ agreed Mrs Tresyllian. ' And one hates
having these rich surprises sprung on one. I couldn't
believe when I heard the Abbey had been sold.'

* We're all asked to'the New Year Eve ball/ said
Lady Persiflage. "Twill be rather fun, and we
needn't notice them, you know. They're sure to
do the thing well. Anyone want more tea ? '

As she asked the question the portieres were

202

Vanity !

suddenly swept aside and there entered a woman
with a clear-skinned face, very large and brilliant
eyes, and an expression and manner that were
indescribably impertinent. She was tall and very
slight, and round her and about her was that
crowning perfection which comes from a thorough
knowledge of detail. Her hair, her gown, her
gloves, were all of the right stamp of elegance in
mode and design.

As she stood there, the heavy velvet forming a
background for her figure, and her eyes, brilliant
and audacious, sweeping the crowd of faces, she
made a picture of wonderful effect. Yet only a
picture. One seemed to recognise the art and the
beauty and the effectiveness, and miss out of it any
warmth, or heart, or nature.

Lady Per. sprang to her feet with a cry of delight.
' Why, Jackey ! ' she exclaimed. ' You don't mean
it's you ? '

' Yes, my twe-est,' answered the newcomer, suffer-
ing herself to be kissed on both her cool white
cheeks. * I couldn't stand the Newsies any longer.
It got positively diskie. Yes, really. And how are
you all ? Tizzy-wizzy . . . that's right. How do,
Teddy ? And is that my Capty ? ' (this to Calhoun,

Vanity !

203

with whom she shook hands at shoulder-angle).
* Looking like Patience on a tombstone, I do declare!
Give me some tea, Pussy. Pm frozen with cold.'

She threw off her furs for the nearest man to
catch, and sank into a chair by the fire.

I remained outside the group she favoured with
her attention, absolutely fascinated by this reve-
lation of le vrai monde of whom I had heard a
thousand stories.

Mrs Jackey Beauchamp was a social star
of great magnitude. Not only was she Mn'
everything that was worth being in, but she set
particular fashions, and had been crowned queen
of a set who were ultra ' smart' It was for their
benefit and guidance she had invented a code of
expressions not to be understood of mere outsiders.
She was the most noted and the most quoted of
celebrities at home, and the Post and the Court
Circular and the World and various smaller lumin-
aries of the Press always had her name in their
social columns. How she managed to be every-
where and do everything ; to ride, golf, skate,
dance, drive and dress as she did was one of those
marvels fashionable women daily present to the
world they rule. But there was no denying she

204

Vanity !

was a great power. Her terrible extravagances
and her load of debts had never cost her a wrinkle,
or an anxious hour. Her set adored her. Her nod
and smile were the hall-mark of approbation for
which no sacrifice was too great. Even when an
irate dressmaker had had the audacity to sue her
husband for a bill his wife had ignored, and Mrs
Jackey had to appear in a public court to be con-
fronted with the extravagant details of her toilettes,
her hold on popularity did not suffer. Mr Jack
Beauchamp was pronounced a brute and a miser
and utterly undeserving of so wonderful a wife.
The wonderful wife went to other dressmakers and
ran up still more extravagant bills, and left her lord
and master to the world's opprobrium, and the solace
of other martyred husbands.

No one had skated over thinner ice, or skipped
over more dangerous quicksands than Mrs Jackey.
She knew all sorts of people, and *took up' the
oddest if they could be of any use to her.

* How can you know such a sweep?' had asked
one of her intimes, a propos of some very objection-
able and fabulously rich vulgarian she had asked
to dinner.

* My sweeps clean my chimneys,' she had

Vanity! 205

answered. And the story went round the clubs
and endeared her still more to the ^Smarts' and
the * Souls ' and the ultra chic of her world.

Knowing all these things I naturally was deeply
interested in this modern heroine. I wished soon
that I owned a social glossary, for the words and
expressions falling like hail around me were like
an unknown language. When Mrs Jackey spoke
of the ^ Man-man ' I was ignorant that she referred
to the Prince ; and * diskie/ and * expie,' and
* hoy,' and * tellie ' were equally incomprehensible.

Wildash, who sat beside me, silent perforce, was
intensely interested in this newcomer. I fancied
he was studying her for future use. Her imper-
tinences and audacities rivalled his own.

The way she ridiculed the people with whom
she had been staying seemed to me the worst
possible taste, but everyone else in the room
screamed with laughter, as if it was an excellent
joke to satirise people who had lavished their
wealth and time and attention upon your enter-
tainment.

She talked at express speed, never at a loss
for a word, and rarely waiting for an answer.
As she nick-named everyone she knew, it was

2o6

difficult to guess whom she meant. I discovered
that Lady Per. was * Pussy/ as a play on the word
*purr/ but some other abbreviations remained a
mystery.

There was no doubt, however, about her suc-
cess, especially with her own sex. That at least
marked her of no ordinary cleverness, for few
popular women are favourites with their less
appreciated sisterhood.

* Did you see the Abbey ghost, Jackey?' asked
Lady Per. in an interval of comparative silence.

* See it No. I only played it on my own,'
she said. * Scared them into fittums, poor dears.
Old Newsie' (short for Mr Bartholemew Newlands,
the new owner of the Abbey) 'had a mania for
poking about corridors and places when he wasn't
wanted— looking after the heating pipes, he said —
scared of fire he was. Just as if he had ancestral
rights, instead of being quite un-progy, not even
a "granfy" to be traced, you know. Well, I
thought rd scary him a bit. So I covered my
face with luminous paint and did myself into a
white nightie, and when I knew he'd be coming
along, hid behind a curtain and whiffed out his
light. Of course he turned, and, heavens above !

Vanity !

207

the yell he gave would have wakened the dead
in the churchyard. He dropped the candle and
fled ! I slipped back into my room, and presently
joined the crowd of hurry-scurries. Newsie took
to bed. Believed he'd had a warning. That was
two days ago. No one has seen him since.'

* Don't play tricks like that here,' said Lady
Per. * Remember we have a ghost also. It's four
hundred years old, I think. It's a man ghost.
An old man who holds a lantern and goes peering
about the north corridor. However, no one's
sleeping there now, so you needn't be skeery.'

' Vote we tell ghost stories after dinner. A prize
for the best,' exclaimed Mrs Jackey. ^ I only know
one, but it's quite too creepy — makes one go
goose-skinny all over. Why does one say " goose "
skin ; why not chicky or turkey ? '

' What's the prize to be ? ' asked Teddy
Fitzgerald.

' And who's to give it ? ' asked Calhoun.

^ Oh ! Jackey, of course,' said Lady Per., * and
we'll use the cotillon presents. A cigarette case
for a man, and a — '

* A case of cigarettes for a woman,' chimed in
Mrs Jackey Beauchamp.

2o8

Vanity !

' Ah ! there's the dressing-bell, Jackey ; let me
show you your room/ said Lady Per.

Mrs Jackey rose languidly. * I always wish you
had the Abbey, my twee/ she said. * Much more
fitty. To think of Newsie in that lovely old place,
and Mrs Newsie, a fat old frump with a soul at-
tuned to water gruel, and hot bottles ! So quite
too altogether diskie, isn't it?'

She received her furs from the hands of Teddy
Fitzgerald, and left the room with Lady Persiflage.

Wildash looked at me. * She's seen you, but
pretends not,' he said, very low. * Look your best
to-night. Biz ! '

CHAPTER XIX

A SHIMMERING, glittering vision swept into the
drawing-room as dinner was announced.

This represented Mrs Jackey Beauchamp in
what she termed * a demi-teagie/ Translated, this
appeared as a compromise between tea-gown and
evening dress. But it was very exquisite and
very self-revealing, and pleased my professional
eye immensely.

Somewhat to my surprise, Lady Per. asked Wil-
dash to take in the new arrival, and from the
opposite side of the table I could see that they
were mutually entertaining one another. I was
less happily suited, having been told off to the
languid Guardsman. I therefore devoted myself
to my dinner and — observation.

It was the proverbial Christmas dinner, attended

by the proverbial discomfort in the digestive regions.

Lady Per. had hot punch brought in with the dessert

as a * corrective,' so she said, and the party waxed

noisy and frolicsome in proof of its excellence.

What with cosaques and crackers and punch, it
O 209

2IO

Vanity !

was quite late before we settled down for the ghost
stories. The hall was chosen as being more cosy
and free-and-easy than the drawing-room, and the
men joined us there with quite remarkable celerity.
I put it down to Mrs Jackey Beauchamp's powers
of attraction. That wonderful person swept up to
me as we were arranging seats and cushions.

^ So glad to meet you/ she exclaimed. ' Have
heard so much about you in town. That model
reception " was on everyone's tongue. How was it
you didn't ask me ? Not that I could have come.
I was at Monte Carlo. Still, don't forget next
time. Pussy showed me the teagie you de-
signed — quite too deevie, I thought. You must
do me a smoking coat — I'll give you the idea.
I intend to make them the rage this season, and
I'll send all my " pals " to you. I get my " cossies "
in Paris — I suppose you buy there ? Charming —
that Irishman — your partner, isn't he ? Fancy his
going in for dressmaking. Oh ! I shall certainly
pay you a visit — only you must give me long
creddy. My husband's an awful screw. Thinks I
can dress on twelve hundred ! Ridicky, isn't it ? '

* In your position, and with your reputation, it
certainly is,' I agreed.

Vanity !

21 I

* Of course. Perfectly diskie what we poor
wives have to put up with ! Why, " undies
alone run me into hundreds. I always match my
gowns; couldn't wear one unless all the "neathies"
were in keeping. Are you staying here long ? '

' I only came down for the theatricals. I return
to-morrow night'

' Horrid weather for travelling, and everyone
away. Why go? So comfy here. And there'll
be no biz worth speaking of. Ah ! Pussy, leave
that cushion — Bags L'

She moved away to a divan near the great open
fireplace, and threw herself down against a back-
ground of orange and terra-cotta, that was an admir-
able foil to her sleek black head and white skin.

The men by her directions formed a semi-circle
round the fire. The lights were lowered, cigars
and cigarettes permitted, and the order to com-
mence ghost story No. I. was issued by this
dominating power.

It was a very feeble story and very feebly told.
Indeed, the first three or four were as inoffensively
supernatural as Mr Stead's * Julia.'

Wildash went one better by giving an Irish Ban-
shee story. Then came Mrs Jackey's one which for

212

Vanity !

blood-curdling horror was unsurpassable, only it
lacked any element of probability,and was evidently
a wild exaggeration of traditional materials.

It was close on the stroke of twelve when it
fell to Lady Pen's lot to tell the story of the family
ghost, and of all the tales this was listened to
with the greatest interest on account of its present
and possible associations.

It appeared from the story that a certain lord
of the Manor, some four hundred years back, had
a very beautiful daughter of whom he was in-
ordinately proud. They were good and staunch
Catholics in those days, and to the house came
frequently a young and handsome priest of Italian
origin. The beautiful daughter was studious, and
inclined to emulate the Lady Jane Grey. The
priest taught her Latin, and instructed her in such
beauties of Italian poesy as had won recognition.
She had no mother and her father was unsus-
picious. While Francesca and Paolo was being
daily enacted, he guessed nothing, and his ignorance
might have lasted indefinitely but for an unfortunate
circumstance. This was the discovery of a letter
slipped between the leaves of a book.

The letter was from the priestly lover, and re-

Vanity !

213

vealed more than was prudent. The father, aghast
and terror-struck, resolved on vengeance. One mid-
night he waited in an underground passage by which
the young priest usually entered. They met face to
face — the guilt of one confronting the accusation
of the other. Terror-struck, the priest fell on his
knees beseeching mercy. His answer was a dagger-
thrust in his heart. As he fell the girl came on the
scene, and her wail of agony so maddened her father
that he turned on her and stabbed her also.

His awful vengeance complete, he put the bodies
into a sack and dragged them along the passage
to a vault or cellar sunk into the foundations and
secured by a massive iron trap-door. He threw
them in, locked the door, and returned to his
own quarters. Next day he took all his gold and
valuables and went abroad, and for years was never
heard of Then an old, decrepit man, bowed and
wrinkled and feeble, came back to end his days at the
Manor. He was dying, but he would have no priest
to shrive him, no masses said for his soul, and with
his secret unconfessed he passed out of the life his
sin had cursed.

' And,' continued Lady Per., dramatically,
*once in every ten years, on the night of the

214

Vanity !

anniversary of that crime, it is said he comes
back and enacts it again. And woe be to the
man or woman who sees that gruesome sight, for
it betokens death within the year. Again does that
ghostly figure glide down the lonely passage, again
does that wail of agony rend the silence, and again
does the noise of the faltering footsteps and dragging
bodies echo once more over the stones, until all the
horror culminates in the clang of that rusty door.'

We all drew our breaths sharp, and an involun-
tary shudder ran through the circle of listeners.

^But is it really true? Has anyone seen it?
Does it still happen ? ' fell the queries.

* Yes,' said Lady Per., gravely. ' It still happens,
and it /las been seen. We have had a door put at
the end of the passage, and the servants are strictly
forbidden ever to go there. But one cook I had,
who knew nothing of the legend, took it into her head
to explore the place while we were away. I don't
know how she got the key, or whether she found one
to fit the lock, but certainly she went out of her mind
with terror. She left the door open and went to bed ;
then remembered it and came down to shut it at
midnight. It must have been the anniversary.
Shrieks reached the servants' quarters, and a frenzied

Vanity !

215

lunatic was found crouched at the entrance to the
passage. I was telegraphed for, and the end was the
poor thing had to go to an asylum — she died there/

' It's awfully gruesome/ said Mrs Jackey, with an
effective shudder that set the jewels and sequins
of her gown into glittering turmoil.

'But when /j- the anniversary? You haven't told us.'

' I don't intend to. I'd rather not be responsible
for any more lunatics.'

* But, of course, it isn't true,' said Wildash.
' There's no evidence she saw anything. She might
have been an hysterical, nervous woman and — '

' That's just it. She wasn't. The most matter-
of-fact, prosaic person. Oh, no ! it was no case
of fancying, I'm sure. But that's enough of
ghosts. Let's vote the prize and have some
baccarat to wind up the evening. We're all in the
doldrums, I do declare.'

^ The prize is yours, Pussy, in my opinion,' said
Mrs Jackey. * Yours — for absolute realism. It had
the genuine old moated grange and secret chamber
horrors about it. I declare I shall feel quite
nervous going to bed.'

' Well, it's past midnight, so there's no fear of the
ghost to-night,' exclaimed Captain Calhoun.

2l6

Vanity !

There was a sigh of relief from several of the
women, and even the men turned to the green
board with alacrity.

I did not play, but sat out with Josey Peck and
one or two of the house party. At last I slipped
away, tired and somewhat bored.

A bright fire burned in my room. The curtains
were drawn, and everything was luxurious and
comfortable. A wide, deeply-padded arm-chair
stood near the fireplace, and, after exchanging
my evening dress for a quilted dressing-gown, I
took a book and settled myself down for half an
hour's quiet read. Whether it was the effect of
the warmth, or the pleasant sense of fatigue and
quiet combined, I hardly know, but my eyes closed
and I fell into a deep sleep.

I woke with a start. The candles had burnt
very low. The fire was only a mass of dull
red embers. I was chilled and uncomfortable,
and rose with the intention of going to bed. As I
stood before the glass I noted that a certain
diamond-hilted dagger I had worn in my hair was
no longer there. I searched the chair, the rug, the
dressing-table — all the places where it might have
fallen. In vain. Nowhere could I find it.

Vanity !

217

I remembered I had not removed it when I
changed my dress. I valued it very highly, and
its loss disturbed me so effectually that I lost all
inclination to sleep. I remembered the divan on
which I had been seated during the story-telling.
Perhaps it had dropped out among the cushions.
I considered the probability of finding it in the
morning, and wondered whether to risk a servant^s
honesty or go down myself now and search.

It was nearly three o'clock.

I opened the door and looked out. The house
was quiet, the lights were extinguished, all save
one or two lamps in dark corridors which were
left burning all night. I took up my candle and
went softly down the stairs. I knew the exact
spot where I had been sitting and, leaving my
candlestick on one of the tables, I moved swiftly
forward and commenced my search.

I moved the top cushion and there, fallen between
it and the back of the lounge, glittered my dagger.
With a cry of delight I seized it. But the cry was
strangled at its birth. I heard beyond me in the
dining-room a strange muffled noise. It was as if
someone was dragging a heavyweight alongthefloor.

My heart stood still . . . my limbs seemed frozen

2l8

Vanity !

with terror. The story of the ghost rushed back to
my memory, and I was powerless to move or cry.

Secpnds, moments passed, and still that frozen
horror chained me. All will and energy seemed
centred in my power of hearing which, grown
abnormally acute, intensified those muffled sounds
by force of terror.

It seemed to me they came nearer. They ap-
proached the door which was only screened from the
hall by a heavy velvet portiere. On that portiere
my eyes rested with an appalling dread of what any
moment might reveal. There was silence, then the
faint click of a turning handle ; the curtain rustled —
moved — divided. Through its folds a face peered.

A faint scream burst from my lips. A light
flashed over me, the light of a lantern. As suddenly
it was darkened. In two steps the man who held
it was at my side. His hand gripped my arm.

* If you move or cry, I'll kill you,' he hissed.
* But you won't. You know me — don't you ? '

I shuddered, and my senses reeled. Know him !
. . , curse and bane of my life. Thief, renegade,
criminal ! The man I had last seen in a prisoner's
dock sentenced to fifteen years' penal servi-
tude. . . . My husband !

CHAPTER XX

NOTES FROM MY DIARY

Dec, 2'jtk — I feel a hundred years older than
when I started for Thornhill Manor.

I returned this morning to Bond Street. All is
well there, but I myself feel a perfect wreck. I
have gone through twenty-four hours of inconceiv-
able torture. I have become ^ an accessory ' to a
burglary, and the burglar is my husband — the man
who was the evil genius of my youth, who married
me under false pretences, and left me bankrupt in
health, wealth and happiness.

He had broken every moral law and not a few of

his country's, and at last found himself faced by a

deserved penalty. I breathed freely when I knew

I was free from him. The years drifted by. Then

I heard he had been shot while trying to effect his

escape. I began life anew, fired by hope and un-

quenched energies. I had succeeded, as these

pages show. I was growing contented — almost

happy. Suddenly I found myself confronted by

this spectre of my past. The gruesome horrors of
219

220 Vanity !

his life now linked my own to equal horror. I had
had to hear of his escape from prison. To listen to
the oaths and curses of a hardened gaol-bird, who
feared nought, and cared for no one. . . . To
connive at his escape from Thornhill Manor, to
become in a measure his accomplice, and, at the
very turning point of my own career, to know
myself at the mercy of a merciless scoundrel. My
chances and hopes of an uncontrolled future
seemed to vanish into thin air. The breath of
such a scandal on my business would scare every
customer away. My position and reputation lay at
his mercy now, and he would soon discover the fact.

Oh ! that night of horror. . . . Shall I ever
forget it ! I marvel my hair is not snow-white
when I think of what I endured.

Then to come down in the morning and face
the turmoil and confusion of a discovered
burglary ! To hear summonses issued for local
police, to form one of the gossiping, affrighted,
speculating crowd of men and women, who dis-
cussed probabilities and theories, and gave idiotic
advice, and rushed about to see that their own
jewels were safe, and drove poor Lady Per. nearly
wild by hysterics and confusion.

Fortunately, in the general confusion, my own

Vanity! 221

perturbation escaped notice, but oh ! how thankful
I was when I found myself back in London, and
able to give vent to my feelings in the privacy of
my own dwelling.

Night, and all is quiet, and Babette has attended
to my comforts as only a faithful servant can.
Night — and I sit here alone to hold counsel with
myself and wonder what I had best do.

I seem separated by years from that frivolous,
fashion-sated crowd of yesterday. I seem separated
by more than years from the hopeful enthusiast
whom that sign below represented. Poor Frou-
Frou! I sigh. How long will her glory last now?

I think of divorce. But divorce means the
exposure of a horrible scandal ; divorce will show
up the facts of this burglary and prove that I
aided a criminal's escape. Divorce will ruin my
business for me, and I have no desire to drop into
a second-rate modiste after the brilliant ^ splash *
of this last year.

My head aches. My brain is racked. I see
the whole fabric pf my hopes about to fall to
the ground. My courage breaks down, and I
abandon myself to despair. The tears well up
and flow over.

222

Vanity !

The door suddenly opens. Babette announces
— * Monsieur Wildash/

That was two hours ago. I take up my pen
once more to complete this entry.

I lifted a tear-stained face from the page of
my recent confessions, and looked at my partner
in a sort of hopeless bewilderment.

* Whatever is the matter?' he asked anxiously.

* Nothing wrong since you left ? '

* Everything is wrong/ I said miserably. . . .

* Not with the business as yet, but that will come.
I — I shall have to give it up.'

' Give it up ! ' he echoed. ^ What on earth do
you mean?'

I tried to stay the flow of tears. My plight
was so desperate that I had need of wiser counsel
than my own. With the courage of despair I
told him at last my whole story.

Silently he listened. Silently, but with a
deepening gravity of expression — a hurried breath,
as I came to the night of the burglary.

* My God ! to think of it. . . . You exposed to
such peril. . . . Why didn't you call out? Some-
one might have heard.'

*He held a revolver at my head. He swore

Vanity !

223

he'd shoot me if I moved or spoke. I had to
bolt the door and windows after him ... to help
him hand out things to his accomplice.'

* There were two, then ? '
^Yes.'

' You poor soul ! What a business ! Still you
needn't be so frightened, They can't hurt you
without hurting themselves. And as for that
brute — Why on earth didn't you get a divorce
as soon as he was convicted ? '

* I had no money. It is an expensive pro-
ceeding, and most of his — escapades — were in
Paris or America. They were not easy to prove.'

He paced the room to and fro; his brow knit,
his face pale and anxious.

' He can't interfere with you kerey you know,'
he said presently. *You can take out a pro-
tection order. You can refuse to admit him.
The law doesn't allow a renegade husband to
claim his wife's money any longer.'

*But he could make a disturbance . . . create
a scandal. He is capable of anything.'

' Does he know of this business ? '

' Yes. He found it out — goodness knows how ! '

* You could put the police on his track.'

' It would seem so horrible to do that. He

224 Vanity !

told me something of what his life had been in
prison — a life that makes men criminals, and
criminals devils, if ever they taste freedom again ! '

* I can believe that. I know something of state
prisons in France and in Ireland. Well, my
dear, something has got to be done. It must.
I can't have you bullied and terrified like this.
There's too much at stake now. Besides, Fm
. . . I'm too fond of you to let your life lie at the
mercy of such a brute.'

I looked up — startled and surprised. His eyes
met mine, and by some uncontrollable impulse I
rose to my feet. His arms went round me. Very
gently he drew me into that strong and tender
embrace. My head fell on his shoulder. The
strength, the protection, the peace of it all swept
over me like a flood. The checked tears streamed
from my eyes, and he just let me cry there, as a
wearied and overwrought child might have cried
in safe and sheltering arms.

He has gone, and, worn and spent by emotions,
I try to collect my scattered energies once more.

I am confronted by a new difficulty. My love
for Harry and his for me.

Suddenly the truth has flashed on us both. We

Vanity ! 225

are more than friends. We have drifted uncon-
sciously into deeper depths of feeling than we
had supposed possible. The shock and surprise
once over, a douche of common sense has brought
me back to myself Into what new danger and
trouble have 1 allowed myself to drift ? I am not
free. I cannot marry him.

There lie the facts in the proverbial nutshell ;
and I say them over and over again to the rhythmic
throb of aching temples and aching heart.

My hatred of the man who has wronged me
increases the more I think of him. So bitter, so
fierce, so desperate do I grow in course of self-
communing, that I almost feel it is in me to give
him up to justice. A line to a magistrate, a hint of
his whereabouts, and the law would again hold him
safe and sound. The fact of his escape would add
fresh penalties, and entail a yet more severe sentence,
and I ... I should be free of this hourly dread.

But even as I think of possible relief I know it

isn't in me to gain it by such a mean trick. The

little he had told me of the horrors of prison

life — ^the change it had already wrought in what

had once meant a * gentleman ' — all stood in array

before me, and sapped both strength and courage

I saw him as he had been when I first knew him —

226

Vanity ^

handsome, light-hearted, debonair ; reckless, it
is true, and with a record, even then, that would
not bear close scrutiny, but still, what a contrast
to the evil-looking, hunted reprobate who had
descended so terribly low in the social scale
as to break into houses and steal silver.

I shuddered and sprang to my feet in a sort of
desperation. I was fast in a net. There seemed
no way of escape. Harry could not help me, and
his love was but an added danger. The thought
of it maddened me. I had not realised what he
had become till that moment when I rested in his
arms, and recognised something of the strength
and passion of his feelings by the response of my
own. I knew not only how much I loved him,
but how jealous I had been of other women, and
his too evident attraction for them. And yet I
must forego my triumph, and my love both, by
reason of this sorry trick of fate.

To-morrow I must begin work. To-morrow I
must interview customers, attend to orders, see to
the hundred and one details of my business. To-
morrow I must see Harry under these altered cir-
cumstances . . . to-morrow, and many succeeding
to - morrows will make my path thorny with
difficulties. I shall have to battle with the

Vanity !

227

weakness of my own heart, the jealousy of others,
the unsatisfactory position I hold with regard to
the man I loved. Shall I ever find strength for
such duties and such dangers ?

No wonder I feel worn out ! The face that
looks back at me from the mirror is a very different
one to the radiant vision that smiled farewell on the
season's worries, ere departing for Thornhill Manor.

What a difference a few days can make in life !

I have never been happy, really happy, in all the
previous days of that life. Not even in the brief
delirium of my love dream. And now Fate won't
allow me to be it, when I might. It is cruelly hard.
No wonder I wax rebellious. Wildash is more to
me than anything or anyone in the whole wide
world and I cannot marry him. I know what
women, less scrupulous, would do. I know what
many a society woman, with far less excuse than
I have, has done, and will do again. But I love
him, and love that cannot hold a man to his
highest and best is not the love that keeps him
constant.

So I drag tired limbs and aching heart to bed,
and shed such tears as I have never shed before,
even when life looked at me with its most hope-
less aspect.

CHAPTER XXI

There are certain phases of life that serve to
demoralise one — mentally. We grow tired of
making a stand against troubles, tired of battling
against the forces of Fate. We throw down our
arms in the face of the jade Misfortune, and bid
her do her worst, and we will do the same.

In such a mood as this I woke and reviewed the
events of the past two days.

There seemed nothing to hope for, nothing to
encourage me in that struggle to 'keep straight'
which, in face of many difficulties and temptations,
I had hitherto done. I smiled grimly as I thought
of my high-bred sisterhood and their escapades;
of all the revelations made to and learnt by me in
my apprenticeship to Fashion. I pictured Lady
Farringdon, or Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, in similar
plight, with an undesirable husband and a passion-
ate adoring lover, and wondered how they would
meet the emergency.

In a mood of cold, hard doggedness I dressed
228

Vanity ! 229

and had breakfast, and went into the workroom
where the usual petty squabbles met and annoyed
me. I settled them with a sharpness and temper
so unusual that the girls looked astonished. I was
far too desperate to care for them or their ' tan-
trums' — indeed almost desperate enough to break
up the whole establishment, and seek ' fresh fields
and pastures new' in safe and humble obscurity.

Almost. . . . Not quite, I suppose, for when
Wildash walked in, bright, cheery, smiling, all my
ill-humour vanished.

* You look pale and worried,' he said. * I
suppose you had no sleep, and from mere vexing
that dear little head with the " whys and where-
fores" of the present situation. You mustn't do
it, sweetheart. We are going to have a " booming
season." All else must be sacrificed — temporarily.
I'll hit upon some way to get rid of your incubus
if you'll only trust me. Anything can be done in
this world with the sinews of war. Our business is
to get those sinews. Here's the order of campaign.
I don't fancy that man will molest you. I'll face
him with the terrors of the law. He can't bully me.
I'll soon let him know that. And you may be sure
he'll be in a mortal funk lest he is discovered and

230 Vanity !

taken back to prison. He must be made to see that
you're not afraid of anything he can do or say. That
is of paramount importance. For the rest you must
set about getting a divorce — very quietly. It will
be expensive, but we can make money hand over
hand now. Of course we'll have to be very careful
lest our own little secret leaks out, as that would
spoil your case. So I must only be seen here at
business hours. We'll have to do our utmost to
keep the affair out of the papers, but reporters
aren't above a touch of " palm-oil," and I know an
awfully good chap — a barrister — who I am sure
would help us, and take up the case. Come,
aren't the clouds clearing off? Let me see you
smile . . . that's better. I can't recognise you as
the weeping Niobe of last night. I'm not going to
let you be worried — so there. You're my property
now, and I mean to look after you.'

What could I say? His gaiety was irresistible.
My fears vanished before that radiant sunshine
as rain clouds before the sun itself The heavy
load of care and anxiety rolled off my shoulders.
I smiled back into his eyes and — went boldly forth
to meet Mrs Aurelius B. Peck.

Vanity! 231

That good lady was infinitely more humble than
on the occasion of her first visit. She looked
nervously around as if to assure herself that Harry
was not lurking about, and suggested my making
her a couple of new evening gowns, leaving
style and colour and material to my judgment.

These matters settled, I wondered why she
still lingered. She seemed to have something
on her mind.

At last it came out.

*My daughter tells me,' she said, 'that you
were at Lady Persiflage's; when you were there,
may I — would you — I mean, was Mr Wildash
there also? — She never said.'

I felt myself colour slightly. * Yes ... he was
there,' I answered. * He went down to super-
intend the theatricals.'

She looked much disturbed. ' I — I hope — I
trust Josephine was careful and — and discreet,'
she stammered. *You know, Mrs Costello,
people will talk and — she being an heiress and
all that — naturally attracts more notice than
ordinary young ladies.'

I laughed. ' Oh ! she was most discreet,' I re-
plied. ' Infinitely more so than when at Homburg.'

232

Vanity !

/ Homburg ? ' She looked bewildered.
'Yes . . . those early morning expeditions,
biking, or riding. Surely you knew?'

* Oh ! yes — I heard something of it/ she gasped.
' Lord sakes ! What was the girl thinking of ? . . .
and the Prince there and all'

I thought to myself that H. R. H. was not
likely to have bestowed much attention on the
Pecks, but I did not say so.

' Is there anything more I can do for you ? ' I
asked, shutting up my note-book, when I had
taken down her instructions. ' You will excuse
my saying my time is very much occupied just
now.'

She hesitated . . . looked at me helplessly,
and then blurted out her confession.

* Oh ! Mrs Costello, it isn't as if you weren't
a lady and all that, and though you're not a
mother, as far as I know, still you will understand
my feelin's. I know it's dreadfully old-fashioned
and bad form and all that to have any, but still
I did so want her to make a grand marriage, and
if she gets talked about with your partner, you
know, why, it'll just ruin her chances. And she's
that pig-headed it's no manner o' use my speakin'.'

Vanity !

233

There were tears in her eyes. She sank into
a chair, her big body palpitating with agitation.

^ She only laughs at me/ she went on. * Says
she'll have her fling at any cost. Fve begged her
to take Lord Soppington. He's just mad about
her. But she's no savoy faire^ as they say.'

* Still, I don't see what I can do,' I interrupted.

* You could keep Mr Wildash out of her way,
couldn't you ? ' she implored.

* Certainly not. Mr Wildash is no child in
leading-strings to be led hither and thither,' I
answered haughtily.

It cost me a pang to think of this rich young
American ready to throw herself and her dollars
into the arms of the man I loved, and could not
marry.

Mrs Peck looked at me helplessly.

^ Then she'll just go on her own way,' she
lamented. *And all my hopes and ambitions
count for nothing.'

* If you have no influence over your daughter,
you cannot expect a stranger to possess any.'

* She's mighty fond of you, I know,' lamented the
poor woman. ^ Says you're the real lady of the
lot. And then, you see, he may be a baronet

234 Vanity !

some day/ she went on irrelevantly. * He's such
a perfect gentleman too . . . and so good-looking.'

I began to lose patience. * It may be just
possible/ I said, 'that Mr Wildash has no serious
thought of your daughter. Certainly, he is no
fortune hunter, and his mind is entirely engrossed
by this business. His ambitions lie in that line.'

' Oh ! ' she said doubtfully, * if I was only quite
sure of that ! You see her father's one of the
richest men in Amurica, and he could buy a title
here any day, and we'd both set our hearts on
seein' Josephine a duchess.'

^She seemed to hold the same views when I
talked with her down at Thornhill Manor,' I said
drily.

Mrs Peck brightened visibly.

' You don't say ! Wal, that's good news. She can't
have changed 'em so quick. Perhaps she only goes
on to rile me. But now that I've told you my trouble,
Mrs Costello, won't you try and see her by herself,
when she comes here. If Mr Wildash kept out of
the way for a time she might really take Lord
Soppington. It's a splendid chance. The old
duke can't live much longer, they say. I'd die
happy to see a tiarra on her head, and strawberry

Vanity !

235

leaves on her carnage panels, and hear 'er called
" Your Grace." '

She rose, flushed and eager. I felt sorry for her,
and for once forgot her vulgarity and self-import-
ance in the new light of her motherly anxiety.

* If you take my advice/ I said gently, 'you will
not urge or worry your daughter on this matter.
She has plenty of common sense, and knows the
advantages of rank and position as well as you do.
Her admiration for Mr Wildash is only a girl's
freak. She will soon forget it. . But if you appear
to make it important, she may eventually believe
it is so. You have plenty of time before the season.
Take her to country houses where she may meet
Lord Soppington. Let her see women, young and
as pretty as herself, playing the role of hostess, in-
vested with married importance. She will form
her own conclusions. Such surroundings are more
influential than a London ballroom. It might
occur to her that to appear at the next Drawing-
room the fiancee of the future Duke of Messmore,
the possessor of the famous Messmore diamonds,
is well worth the sacrifice of a fancy. Tm sure it's
not more serious — yet.'

* Wal, I'm very grateful to you,' said the poor

236 Vanity !

woman, squeezing my hands in her huge, tightly-
gloved palms. ^ Very — and I'll take your advice.'

* Let me know the result ? ' I said, releasing my
aching fingers. * And if you choose to suggest that
Valerie, or Kate Reilly, are infinitely better establish-
ments for her to patronise, Til not be offended/

* Now, I call that real magnanimous of you,' she
exclaimed. * All the same, I don't believe she'd
go to anyone else for her gowns now. You've hit
her style exactly. And her figure don't look the
same — it's just elegant ! But there, I'm keeping
you, I see. I'll be off. You've taken a load off
my mind, I do declare. Good-bye again.'

She left, and I stood there absently turning
over the last fashion plates, but seeing nothing of
the beauties or vagaries Dame Mode had inspired.

There was a curious dull ache in my heart,
and with it came a certain feeling of distrust,
born of jealousy. It was not unnatural, consider-
ing the uncertainty of my position. Besides, I
still feared that shadow from my hateful past. It
was all very well for Harry to combat it, and pre-
tend there was no need for uneasiness, but he did
not know the absolute brutality of the man who
was still my husband.

Vanity !

237

And in his present desperate condition he would
not stick at trifles. By what means he had dis-
covered me under my assumed name I could not
imagine, but once having done so, I knew I should
never feel free from intrusion or demand on his
part. He hated me, I knew — hated me all the
more because I was prosperous and independent.
He would not lightly forego some sort of revenge,
and to buy his silence would be a costly pro-
ceeding.

Before I reached any further stage of foreboding
the door opened to admit Lady Farringdon. My
first glance at her face showed me she was nervous
and agitated. I wondered what had happened.
She fidgeted about ; turning over stuffs, and gazing
absently at trimmings. I had never seen her in
so strange a mood before.

I grew tired of suggesting at last. ' I really
don't think you want a gown at all/ I said bluntly.

She looked at me, and then closed the fashion
book whose leaves she had been turning. ^ I don't,'
she said. ' I came here because I . well, Fd
better be frank with you, Mrs Costello ... I want
you to help me, Fm in a — scrape. I don't know
what to do, and I've come to ask you to lend me

238 Vanity !

your room this evening. I want to — see a friend
— here. You can guess what I mean. I don't know
any other place, or whom to trust. IVe reason to
suspect Fm watched. I thought of you. ... I
know youVe awfully kind-hearted, and Fll pay
anything if you'll only do what I want'

I looked at her in astonishment. * I would do a
great deal for you, Lady Farringdon,' I said. * But
I do not wish to be mixed up with any scandal. I
suppose it is Captain Calhoun you wish to meet
here ? '

' What ! even j/ou know ? ' she exclaimed.

* It would be somewhat surprising if I did not.
You forget how often I have seen you together.'

* I assure you,' she said, * there's been nothing
wrong in the very least. Only my husband has
turned nasty, and forbidden me to ask Frank
to the house. It's too ridiculous ! But, of course, I
don't want any scandal. And he's going away —
abroad somewhere — and I mus^ see him . . . must
say good-bye, and I know no one I could trust
except j^?^. Oh! don't say no. . . . Think, if you
cared very much for anyone . . . and might never
see him again — '

I thought of Wildash and softened. After all it

Vanity ! •

239

couldn't hurt me if she appointed to meet Calhoun
here. It would be the last time ; on that I was
determined.

' I suppose/ I said, * you have considered the risk.
Certainly, if you think you are watched, it is a risk.'

* We shall not arrive, or go away together,' she
said. ' I know who is the spy, and I can throw
him off the scent. Then you'll do it?'

* I shall be out between five and six this even-
ing,' I said. ' You may call and wait for me — here.
If a friend is with you, that is not unusual. Cap-
tain Calhoun has called on me once or twice about
his sister's trousseau. It will be supposed he is
waiting to see me.'

' You are an angel ! ' she cried eagerly.
I smiled. * Not a good one, I am afraid.'

CHAPTER XXII

Five o'clock found me tete - d - tete with Di
Abercroft.

I had not seen her since my departure for
Thornhill Manor, and I longed to tell her all
that had happened. She was free to attend to
me and my confidences, and gave strict orders she
was not to be disturbed for half an hour.

And how did the theatricals go off? she
inquired, handing me tea delicious enough for a
duchess's boudoir. Di had the merchandise of
many countries at her disposal, so numerous were
her friends.

' Capitally, but it is not of them I have come to
talk to you,' I said. * I am in a dreadful dilemma,
my dear ... I don't know what to do.'

And I told her of the night of the burglary, and
the horrors of that discovery.

She turned pale. She had long known of that

black shadow on my life. She had sympathised

with me, and rejoiced at my freedom and advised

and helped me to independence.

240

Vanity! 241

' Oh ! my poor child ! ' she cried. ' What an
awful thing. . . . Whatever will you do?'

* And that's not all/ I continued. * I have learnt
— I mean Harry Wildash is in love with me.'

' I expected ^kaitj' she said quietly. * I knew
where you were both drifting. You are equally
in love with him?'

^Yes.'

She put down her cup and looked steadily at
me. I felt myself change colour.

^ You are not children — you recognise the
danger ? '

' Danger ! ' I echoed. ' I recognise the complica-
tions, if that's what you mean. It is rather — hard
— to have gone through all that suffering for nothing.'

* Yes, and you did suffer. How hard life is on
women ! '

' Recognising that fact does nor alter, or help it,'
I said bitterly.

' Tell me what Wildash proposes ? '

* A divorce. . . . He thinks it can be managed
quietly and kept out of the papers. I don't.'

* No, and it would nearly ruin you.'

' Of course. People wouldn't go to a dressmaker
who had a convict husband Besides, he made me

242

Vanity I

help him in that burglary at Thornhill Manor.
Fancy if that came out ! '

* Good heavens, child ! How could you have
been so foolish ! '

' My life was at stake. And I was terrified out
of my wits. I didn't realise what I was doing.'

' Are you afraid of his blackmailing you ? '

' Yes. Though Harry makes light of it. But he
doesn't know the sort of man he is.'

* There's another point to consider. In order to
get a divorce you must have a clean record. It's
all very well to be straight, but you must have
seemed so. Now, the fact of taking Wildash into
partnership — your constant companionship — even
your going down to that country house together,
would all tell against you. Then look how many
years you have let pass without trying to free
yourself.'

' But, remember, I heard he had been shot trying
to escape. It appears he changed clothes with an-
other man. Naturally they looked at the number.
I was told Convict 33 was dead. I believed it.
There the authorities are to blame — in a manner.'

' But didn't you go to the prison . . . verify the
report ? '

Vanity !

243

* No. I was at Bruges, you know, teaching in
that school. I was so thankful to hear of his death,
I thought of nothing but my freedom. Then I
met Abrahams, and you know he promised to
finance this business and you advised it . . . and
there I am.'

* It's a serious state of affairs, Kate.'

^ My dear Di, what's the use of telling me what
I know? I came to ask for your advice. I am
perfectly well aware of my own position.'

'Don't get cross, darling. I am just puzzling
my brains to think of something, and, upon my
word, I think you'd better be passive. Let him
make the first move. Then you can form your
own plan of action. You see he can't hurt you
without hurting himself.'

*That is what Harry says.'

* Well, as you can't marry Harry, you must
either wait for release, or run the risk of divorce-
court revelations.'

* Those hateful courts ! ' I muttered. * It isn't as
if they contented themselves with the point at
issue ; they peer and pry into every corner of one's
life, rake up all the past, scandalise you in every
possible way, and then hold the Queen's Proctor

244

Vanity !

over your head for six months after you get your
decree.'

* True, my dear. The law is always on the
man's side, in everything. No wonder, considering
men made it. Of course there's another way open
to you.'

She looked at me keenly, and I read her meaning.

' No,' I said coldly. ' I'm not that sort, Di. I
should hate him and despise myself.'

' Then, my dear Kate, unless you are very sure
of yourself and of him, it is unwise to see too much
of each other. You'll never be able to limit your-
selves to business hours, and confidences. There'll
be a scandal, and if you can't marry him — '

She shrugged her shoulders, and poured out
some more tea.

^ Di,' I said, ^ did you ever love any man ? '

'Did I — not? It is that makes me so bitter.'

' Was he bad — to you ? '

' He was bad to everyone. He couldn't help it.
I left him. But I didn't escape persecution. I
tried everything to free myself ... I wanted
him to divorce me, and he wouldn't.'

'But— at last?'

' Oh ! he got his head broken in some drunken

Vanity !

245

brawl. Was taken to a hospital — and died. There
was no doubt about that ... It was horrible.
I had to identify him in the mortuary. Ugh ! . . .
I have had my fill of horrors, too, Kate.'

' You never told me this before.'

* Why should I ? Unnecessary confidences only
bore one's friends. I tell you now, because we've
both suffered at the hands of blackguards. And
the suffering has left it's mark. I ... I don't want
to appear unsympathetic, Kate, but really, after
such an experience of men, I would advise you to
follow my own example. Never let a man be
of any real importance in your life. Make use
of him, but never become his slave. That is what
love makes you. I don't care what a man is, good,
bad, or indifferent, but once he knows a woman
loves him, he is her tyrant and master. He may
show it, or conceal it, but his nature makes him
that — a nature that is the legacy of his primeval
forefathers. Civilisation glosses it over, it cannot
stamp it out There has always been a struggle
for supremacy between the sexes — there always
will be. It is inevitable. Study children and you
will see the boy tyrannises over the girl. It is
emblematic of what the future will be. She has

246

Vanity !

her brief spell of revenge when passion makes
him dumb and foolish, and lays him at her feet,
but it is brief. If she yields, her sovereignty
is lost. She is only to him the exponent of sex
once more. He owes it to himself to lord it over
her. And according to the best, or the worst,
that is in him, does she feel the whip, or acknow-
ledge the curb. Oh ! Love is a false thing, Kate
— a cruel thing — and self-deceptive ! '

* It looks so beautiful,' I sighed. * And I am so
tired and so lonely, Di, it seems hard to deny
myself one little bit of happiness ... at last'

* I suppose it does. My panacea for sentiment or
loneliness is simply — work. Stamp out romance,
don't brood, don't even think, except about your
customers and their whims. I find them engross-
ing enough, I assure you.'

She rose. The half-hour was up. The work-
room demanded us both. I thought of Lady
Farringdon and her lover, and my heart ached
with a sort of dull wonder. Why couldn't women
keep themselves free from this curse of peace,
this mirage of sentiment?

I almost hated Wildash at that moment, for
again I recognised the tyranny of fate, and held

Vanity ! 247

the knotted strands of complication. Peace of
mind, even hope, fled far away.

I kissed Di and bade her farewell, and went
home through the wet and gloomy streets as
miserable a woman as they held that night.

' Lady and gentleman been waiting for you,
madam,* announced the page, as I opened the
door with my latch-key. ^ Lady has left — said
she'd call to-morrow. Gent's upstairs still.'

I wondered. However, I walked into my
sitting-room and saw Captain Calhoun. He
looked moody and disturbed.

' How d'ye do, Mrs Costello ? I heard you'd be
in at six, so I waited because — '

He paused. I looked inquiry, and saw his
face flush and a certain embarrassment in his
eyes.

* Because I had something to say to you,' he
went on.

I laughed. ^ It must be very important to
occupy your thoughts after the interview that is
just over.'

*0h — that!' his brow darkened. 'Well, of
course, Cissie never could keep her business to

248

Vanity !

herself. She's told you Vm going away . . . going
to South Africa, next week.'

* Yes/ I said briefly.

* It's rather sudden, and she . . . we, I mean,
have been a bit imprudent. At least, her husband
chooses to think so. And she gave herself away
— rather — when the news came. Poor Cissie !
However, it's best as it is. I hope the —

the unpleasantness will blow over. So d d

absurd of old Sir John to make a row now. But
I've advised her to go down to the country and
keep quiet awhile, and play up to the old boy's
domestic ideas. There's no use having a scandal
for nothing.'

' Nothing — meaning of course a woman's re-
putation. We'll say nothing about her feelings.'

He looked at me, and bit his long moustache
somewhat nervously. ^ Feelings ? My dear Mrs
Costello, you surely don't suppose a woman of
the world allows them to stand in the way of
... of more important things.'

' Not often, I suppose. But when she does, she
is more ready to make sacrifices than the man
who has placed her in a false position.'

^ You surely don't fancy that Lady Farringdon — '

Vanity !

249

' Has any feelings to sacrifice ? That is for
you to decide. The world has not been silent,
Captain Calhoun. And I have heard a great deal
from independent sources that would surprise you,
perhaps/

<D d scandalmongers 1 * he muttered.

'That may be. But while people live in
society's glass houses they cannot avoid its
stones.'

' The hard part of it all is,' he began — then broke
off, and commenced to pace to and fro. * It will
make matters worse if I tell you . . . but there,
ril get it off my conscience. I'm pretty sure we'll
never meet again, and though you are so heartless
and indifferent, still you must have seen that ever
since I saw you first . . . that Drawing-room day,
you remember ? — well, there's never been any
other woman in the world for me. Every feeling
worth anything is yours. ... I'd give my life for
you ! As regards the . . . the other affair, I just
drifted into it as so many men do. You know the
world ; you know how these things happen. One
lets them go on . . . it's a sort of habit. The
woman makes use of you and you go on letting
yourself be made use of, until one day — something

250 Vanity!

•brings you to your senses. It was you brought
me to mine/

I had seated myself by the fire. I watched him
and listened to him with a vague sense of that
irony of Fate that of all things in life is the
one most sure and hopeless. Cissie Farringdon
and I — her modiste and unconscious rival !
Calhoun — and Harry Wildash and Josey Peck !
Why, what a topsy-turvy country dance we were
all executing at the behest of this whimsical
goddess. I could have laughed aloud, but the
misery and earnestness of that face before me
sobered my sense of mirth, and the irony of the
situation.

The masculine mind is an odd thing. It dis-
likes a display of sentiment, it dislikes being
talked about, it dislikes — above all — being laughed
at — especially in matters of the affections. Though
I had not a particle of sentiment for this man, I
yet was conscious that he sincerely meant all he
said to me. Vaguely I pitied him, and pitied poor
Lady Farringdon more. She had indeed sold her
woman's heritage for husks. She had loved him
unwisely but faithfully, and that love was to him
— nothing.

Vanity !

* Aren't you ever going to speak ? ' he asked at
last, wearied, I suppose, of my long silence.

I roused myself then.

* I don't know what you expect me to
say, Captain Calhoun,' I answered. ' But what
I do say is that your confession does not
flatter me in the least. With the morals and
vagaries of society I have nothing in common.
I am often glad of it. I think it is hateful
the way all honour and decency is set at
naught. Why can't men leave married women
to their lawful possessors, instead of entering upon
these compromising — friendships ? They are
bound to have a disastrous end. You are weary of
your position, I have no doubt, but even if I cared
for you — which happily I don't — you would only
exchange one bondage for another. I am no more
free than Lady Farringdon is, though, unlike her,
I was not aware of the fact until a short time ago.'

'You are not a widow?' he gasped.

' No. Even if I were, I should not care for such
an easy transfer of affections as you propose.'

He grew very pale. ' That is a cruel speech,' he
said. * I know what women think of apparent
inconstancy, but it's not that with me. I never

252

Vanity !

loved Cissie . . . and she knows it. I . . . I've
explained that to you.'

* Yes, But the explanation does not speak well
for your truth to one or other of us. You must
have let her believe you cared. Women — even in
these days of easy morality — do not give them-
selves away for nothing.'

He stood before me, silent, tugging at his long
moustache and glancing at my face with uneasi-
ness and apprehension.

* I'm sorry,' I went on presently, * that you should
have told me this. It would have been best unsaid.
I can only hope, however, that affections like
your own are elastic enough to embrace even a
third, or fourth object. You may possibly find con-
solation in — South Africa.'

I thought I owed him that for the remark I had
accidentally heard when he had held that first iete-
ct-tete in my rooms with the woman he had now
thrown over.

My price had apparently been compassed by a
case of liqueurs. The obligation was repaid.

CHAPTER XXI II

Harry had left earlier than usual, so when I had
dismissed Captain Calhoun I went to my own room,
got into a loose tea-gown, and ordered Babette
to bring me some black coffee by way of soothing
my nerves.

I was irritable and upset, and full of vague
alarm. After a period of comparative peace, un-
pleasant events had followed close upon one
another with startling rapidity. The tonic of
Di's worldly-wise philosophy had not restored me
to common sense half so readily as Captain Cal-
houn's declaration. It was utterly unexpected,
and, in a sense, humiliating, but I felt more
sorry for Lady Farringdon than for myself. What
she had expected, or gained from that interview
I did not know, but the results could scarcely have
been gratifying.

I sat there sipping my coffee, gazing moodily
into the bright flames — going over old memories ;
speculating on the events of the future. I have
had a harder time of it than most of my sex. For

254

Vanity !

long I have fought the world single-handed, battl-
ing against the treachery of both men and women.
It seems hard that just when prosperity holds out
more than a promise I should again become the
victim of circumstances. Something of old bitter-
ness and hardness returns to me. Even Harry
suffers by this mood of mine. ' I tell myself
nothing can come of our love . . . and almost I
persuade myself I don^t want anything to come of
it. It is, of course, only a temporary fit of ill-
humour, but I grow desperately unhappy, and am
not surprised to find the tears rolling down my
cheeks.

What a long evening ! What miserable hours !
I had refused dinner at seven o'clock, I am sorry
for it now. It is nearly nine and I am very hungry.
I wish I had asked Harry to take me out to supper.
I might wire, but if he were out he would not get
it in time,

I have brooded and thought myself into a head-
ache. I have written my diary up to date, and
read a good many of its past records. There
seems nothing left to do except go to bed. I
almost think I will.

Vanity !

255

A knock and Babette entered.

* Pardon, madame ; a gentleman to see you. He
is below in the salon.'

' What name ? * I asked.

* He do not give me a card. He say it is
business of importance connected with the house
where madame stayed in the country.'

My heart seemed to stand still. Then every
pulse leaped and throbbed into active life. Thorn-
hill Manor . . . the burglary ... all rushed to my
mind. . . . Heavens ! if anything had been dis-
covered. If I . . .

I turned away lest Babette should notice my
agitation. ^ Bzen — say I will be down in a few
moments. Stay — give me that tea-gown . . . the
black one. That will do.'

I threw it on. A glorified creation of crepe de
chine and lace and amber ribbons. I was trembl-
ing horribly. I knew I was too unnerved for any
critical emergency. But suspense would have
been even worse.

I went downstairs and opened the door. There
— clothed and in his right mind — stood my evil
genius — Jasper Crosse.

256

Vanity !

I turned faint and sick. Then, as suddenly as
it had fled, my courage returned — the courage of
desperation.

I shut the door, and came forward.

* Why are you here ? ' I asked calmly.

The mocking devil of his old effrontery was in
his eyes as they met mine.

'An unusual question for a wife to put to a
husband from whom she has been separated so
many years,' he answered. * I am here to see you,
of course, my dear Kate, and to discuss with you
certain little matters that bear upon the present
situation.'

I threw myself into a chair. All that was hard
and defiant and desperate in my nature sprang to
arms at his tone and manner. I felt a hatred and
horror of him that were well-nigh murderous.

* What matters ? ' I asked brusquely.

He glanced round. ' They cannot be discussed
in a moment, and talking is somewhat dry work.
May I suggest your requesting that amiable French
domestic of yours to bring me some — well —
champagne, let us say. You are evidently in clover
here, and I have no doubt your taste in brands
of wine and liqueur is as good as it used to be.*

Vanity !

257

* You have forced your presence on me/ I said
*with the plea of business. State that business
and go. This is my house ; you have no right here
any longer. Understand that, once for all, before I
summon the law to help me ! '

* So that is the position you mean to take. Very
well. So much the worse for you.'

He too drew up a chair ; seated himself with his
arms on the back, and fixed his evil, threatening
eyes upon me.

For one moment my heart sank. I wished that
Wildash was here — that I had anyone .to help
me. But despair lent me strength and I waited to
hear the form his threat would take.

' You think yourself unassailable, I suppose,' he
sneered. ' Living here, keeping up an establish-
ment of this sort, where your fine customers pay
for the use of your rooms to meet their lovers. . . .
Oh! yes. A very immaculate piece of virtue j/ou
are ! You and your d d Irish partner ! '

I sprang to my feet ; crimson, and shaking with
rage and indignation.

' How dare you say such things — how dare you ! '

' Oh ! ril dare say a good deal worse than that,

and do it too, my pretty vixen. There's many an

258 Vanity!

old score between us, and, by Jove! Til wipe one off
to-night at all events. Don't think you can defy
me, or I'll knock you and your pretended business
to the four winds ! A word to the police, another
to some of the deluded husbands of your fine
customers, and where are you, Fd like to know?
Besides, there's that little affair at Thornhill. It
would look rather queer that the moment you got
yourself invited down to a respectable house, a
burglary should take place, eh? And if you defend
yourself you only prove that you were the accom-
plice of your husband ! '

^ What do you want ? . . . What do you mean
by these threats ? ' I cried passionately. * In any
case if you ruin me you ruin yourself. You'll
be taken back to prison. . . . What have you
to gain ? '

* Do you think I haven't weighed all that, my
lady ? . . . There are times in life when vengeance
looks sweeter than anything else ! IVe had five
years of hell. I got out of it hating every living
creature, but hating you the most. For it's to you I
owed that arrest. Oh ! you may deny it as you please,
but Pierre Justin rounded on you after that affair
in Brussels, and I know how you tricked me ! '

Vanity !

259

' That brute ! ' I scoffed contemptuously. * A
drunken sot who would sell his soul for a glass
of petit bleu^ And you believed him ? '

* It suited me to believe him. I knew you
hated me, and it was a good way to get rid of me.
But it s my turn now. You'll either pay me ten
thousand pounds to keep silence, or Til expose
you and your business for what it is, and let your
bully of an Irishman make the best of it — there ! '

How he could know of Wildash . . . and how he
could have patched up such a history of suspicion
and probability amazed me. I knew his mind
was too vile to harbour a single innocent thought
of man or woman, but I had not supposed that
constructions so monstrous could have been placed
on my actions. I remembered Lady Farringdon's
words. That she was suspected — watched. Had
these facts come to his ears ? If not, how could
he, on mere supposition, have concocted such a
horrible plot.

I rose from my chair. ^ What you ask is both
preposterous and impossible,' I said coldly. * I
couldn't pay a quarter of such a sum, if my life
depended on it. If you don't believe me I can
show you my bank-book.'

26o

Vanity !

He laughed harshly. ' I never supposed you
had as much lying to your credit/ he answered.
' But you can easily get it/

He drew out a paper and glanced rapidly over
its contents. ' You have rich customers and plenty
of them. You can — borrow — shall we say ? . . .
What about Captain Calhoun, the amiable friend
of Lady Farringdon ? what of the duke of
Bridgewater ? what of Lord Soppington ? . . .
What of various husbands whose wives you have
obliged ? . . . Oh ! this is no time for pretences,
my lady, and if Fm to swing, by heaven you'll
have a taste of the humiliation. You shelved
me and changed your name. You set up here
on the strength of borrowed money (I don't ask
what else — besides interest — you paid to Abra-
hams). You Ve appeared discretion itself, but all
the time you've lived a double life, and the world
shall know it ! '

*Very well/ I said doggedly. ^Let the world
know it. Do your worst. I'm beyond caring for
that now. I know you, and I know I have nothing
but persecution and misery to expect at your
hands while you live. But not one farthing do
I give to help that life, or keep you from the

Vanity !

261

fate youVe challenged. If you are desperate, so
am I. The memory of those awful days spent
with you is enough to crush out any pity, or any
feeling for you. I repeat — I defy you. You
can do your worst'

My hand was on the bell. He sprang forward
and clutched my arm.

* Think again,' he said. ^ Think before you
drive me out once more. You may have peace,
freedom, love, all for that sum I ask you. Fll sign
anything, swear anything. Fm going away, out
of this cursed country. You'll never see me
again. , . . You need have no fear of that.
Leave that bell alone ! If you ring, I swear it
it will be your death-warrant.'

He held my arms in a grip so strong and fierce
that I was powerless to move. Face to face, eye
to eye, so we stood for one moment of defiance
and of dread.

* Will yoti do what I ask ? ' he demanded.
My brain felt dizzy. The room seemed to

swim before me. I closed my eyes, and sudden
darkness enveloped me.

Then, through the mist of reeling senses, I
caught a sound — the sound of a footstep, quick

262

Vanity !

firm, alert. The door swung open. Before I
could cry or move, I saw a figure spring forward.
My arms were released. Two strong hands were
at the bully's throat, and he was shaken to and fro
as a terrier shakes a rat.

^ You cur ! Frightening a woman out of her
senses ! . . . Kate, there's a policeman outside.
Open the window and call him. This blackguard
sha'n't escape.'

I rushed forward. As I reached the window
a hoarse shout stayed me.

*Wait,' it said. 'Remember ThornhilL'

CHAPTER XXIV

I STOPPED. My hand was on the window. I
could hear the traffic below — the roll of carriages,
the tramp of feet.

Involuntarily I looked at Wildash. His hands
were still on that brute's throat, but he turned and
met my glance.

' Give the alarm — call the police,' muttered
Jasper, hoarsely, ' and I tell the story of how you
let me in to Thornhill Manor, and got me out'

*You brute, you thief! Who do you think
would believe you?' shouted Wildash, furiously.

* A good many people when they know she's my
wife,' he answered.

* He is right,' I said doggedly. ' It's no use,
Harry. I'm at his mercy. He came to blackmail
me, as I expected. I can't and won't pay for his
silence. Let him go. . . . Let him do his worst.
I don't care.'

I dropped into a chair, weak and unnerved by

that terrible scene. The tears rushed to my eyes,

and shut out the fierce faces of the two men. I
263

264

Vanity !

seemed to know that Wildash had relaxed his
grip. I could hear the laboured breathing of
Jasper Crosse. In that one moment, the whole
of my life flashed before me. . . . All I had done,
and suffered, and repented of. I felt as if I faced
death, for all hope of anything good or helpful
had vanished before this man's hateful presence.

Then again I heard Wildash speaking. ' What
will you take,' he said, * to hold your tongue ? To
let the law free her, and get out of the country ? '

* Ah ! now you're talking sense,' sneered Jasper.

* That's what I came about to-night. I told her
straight that I'd do all this, swear, promise any-
thing for ten thousand pounds.'

^ And I refused to give a penny ! ' I exclaimed.

* Harry, don't listen to him. He cannot be trusted.
To answer his demands now is only to lay myself
open to them again and again. I will not do it.'

Harry released the ruffian, and stood facing him
with wrathful eyes.

^ Now listen,' he said. ' I'll give you a last chance
— one only. I hardly suppose you're anxious to
go back to convict life, and it would be a poor
satisfaction to put your own head in a noose for
sake of revenging yourself on your wife. I offer

Vanity !

265

you five thousand pounds — money down — and
that's all you'll ever get from her, or me. For this
sum you are to offer no opposition to the divorce
for which she will apply. You will sign a paper
to that effect as well as a promise that you make
no further claim on her.'

* D d if ril do anything of the sort for such

a paltry sum/ answered the bully, doggedly. ' Ten
thou — not a penny less, or Til smash up her
business and her reputation. You'll suffer, too, my
fine fellow. Tm not alone in the boat this time.'

Wildash gave a short, hard laugh. Then he
took out a cigarette from his case, lit it deliber-
ately, walked over to the door and threw it open.

' Go ! ' he said.

Jasper's face turned ashy grey. His sullen eyes
turned from one to the other of us.
' You defy me — then ? '

^ I do . . . go, do your worst. You walk from
this house back to your prison. I followed you
here to-night. I have a police officer waiting below.
I told him I had reason to suspect a man was on
the premises for some unlawful purpose. . . . The
moment I blow this whistle he will come upstairs.
I shall inform him who you are. I — '

266

Vanity !

My eyes had been on Jaspen Suddenly I saw
his hand go to his breast pocket. I sprang to
my feet. A loud report drowned my scream of
warning, and Harry fell across the doorway, his
white shirt dyed red with a gush of blood.

Over his prostrate body Jasper Crosse leaped to
freedom. As I threw myself beside Harry he
thrust the signal whistle into my hand. ' Blow it
for God's sake ! ' he whispered.

I obeyed. A shrill summons sounded. ... I
heard voices, oaths, hurried footsteps. Then
silence and darkness overwhelmed me. ... I
knew no more.

When I recovered my senses I was lying on my
own bed, and Babette was bathing my forehead,
and murmuring expressions of pity and wonder
and horror.

For a moment or two I could remember nothing.
My thoughts were confused, my brain dazed and
stunned. Then gradually the horrors of that scene
came back to me. I sprang up in bed ... a low
cry escaped my lips.

' Is he — is he dead ? ' I gasped.

' No, madame. Restez tranquille. It is affreux

Vanity !

267

— terrible. But not as madame fears. The vilain
murderer they have arrested. Le pauvre monsieur
he is removed to the hospital of Charing Cross . . .
to have mended his wound. . . . And madame, she
has the fright, the shock. She must be kept quiet.
I have sent for the doctor. He come — vite. It
will be soon all well. Madame must rest and not
so agitate herself.'

I sank back on the pillows. The worst had
come then. There was no need to dread it any
longer. And now that it was irrevocable, that
the blow had fallen, a sort of sullen resignation
that was almost relief came over me.

The matter was beyond my interference or con-
trol. Jasper had been arrested. He would be
taken back to prison. He would be tried for this
murderous assault. My story would come out,
and . . . Well, I should be ruined financially and
socially, I supposed.

Somehow that did not seem to trouble me now.
In a great crisis all lesser troubles sink into insig-
nificance. I closed my eyes, and Babette's chatter
rippled on like an endless brook. I could only
think of Harry. For my sake he was suffering . . .
his life was in peril. For my sake he would have

268

Vanity !

to face odium and comment should our story get
to the public ear. The business that looked so
promising after all only depended on that frail
bark — 'Vanity.' On the freaks and fancies of
women who might profess themselves scandalised
at forthcoming revelations.

It was of Harry I thought now, and all that was
in me of womanly tenderness, pity and passion
went out to him in that hour.

If that wound proved fatal ... if he died . . .
I felt that for me life would be also ended.

I heard the clock strike midnight. Only twelve
o'clock and I had lived a tragedy — had looked
upon despair, and almost death. So few hours
and so much had happened.

I felt I must nerve myself for the coming day.
The newspapers would have the story. . . . People
would be coming to me full of curiosity. I should
have to give evidence.

I hid my face, praying vaguely for some sort of
strength to meet these approaching horrors. I
shuddered at the thought of the long hours before
me. I prayed Babette to stay. I resolved to ask
the doctor for a sleeping-draught when he came.

Vanity !

269

It was a dull, foggy morning when I awoke.
Babette had Ht the fire, and brought me coffee and
rolls and my morning letters. I asked her for the
papers. She looked at me entreatingly.

' Mais— Madame—

* Get them at once,' I said sharply.

My head still felt dazed and bewildered. I
turned over the letters hurriedly. There was
nothing from the hospital. Babette returned with
the papers. I scanned the columns with eager
eyes. Yes — there it was !

' Strange Affair in Bond Street'

The usual penny-a-liner's comments on very
scanty facts. Another paper headed it * Supposed
Burglary.' Yet another gave out, ' Attempted
Murder of the manager of a Fashionable Em-
porium.' The affair would be town talk by now.
. * I must get up,' I said to Babette. * But I
cannot see anyone in the showroom. The appoint-
ments I will wire about. Anyone else must be told
I am ill. And here ... let Wrothesay go off to the
hospital at once for news of Mr Wildash. He is not
to come back without some account of how he is.'

I threw on a dressing-gown and wrote the
necessary telegrams and notes. I felt wretchedly

270

Vanity !

ill and unnerved still. As soon as the last letter was
finished I lay down on the couch before the fire.

Soon enough I knew my troubles would begin.
I should have reporters coming. My deposi-
tions would be required. I must engage a
solicitor. There would be no more peace or rest
for me till the whole wretched business had been
concluded — and then — Well, something seemed
to tell me I should have rest enough at last.

* Kate . . . won't you see me ? Babette refused,
but I felt sure you'd let me in.'

It was Di Abercroft's voice. I had forgotten
her. Forgotten too what a shock the news in
those morning papers would be.

I crossed to the door and admitted her. Her
face was pale and anxious, her eyes full of concern.

' Oh ! my dear,' she cried. ' Is it true ? . . . how
horrible ! Do tell me what really happened ? '

I told her as briefly as possible of that scene
and its results.

Her horror almost equalled my own. 'At the
worst I never imagined anything so dreadful . . .
it's worse than you suspected. And poor Harry !
How is he ? The wound wasn't fatal, thank God ! '

Vanity !

271

^ Fve not heard yet/ I answered.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then
suddenly I began to tremble and broke into help-
less sobbing. She did her best to soothe me, but I
had lost all self-control.

She stayed with me all that day, even interview-
ing callers and seeing reporters. The doctor had
ordered me perfect quiet. I was suffering from
shock — temporary derangement of the nervous
system. On no account was I to be disturbed.

I spent that whole day on the sofa, racked by
suspense and anxiety. My head throbbed as if
it would burst. Even tears brought no relief.
Di's presence was a comfort for which I was
dumbly grateful. I was too worn out for speech.

Towards evening the pain grew less violent. I
had heard twice from the hospital. Harry was
seriously injured, but they were hopeful. The
bullet had pierced the shoulder blade. It was to
be extracted the following day if his strength
allowed of it.

Shortly after the second message a letter reached
me marked Immediate.

I opened it and saw it was from Mrs Peck.

272

Vanity !

'My dear Mrs Costello/ she wrote. 'Bow
terrible for you, and only fancy, my daughter
Josephine insisted on going to the hospital her-
self. . , . And she would see Mr Wildash, and
oh ! the scandal of it. . . . Fm nearly distracted.
She vows she'll visit him there every day, and her
poppa and I can't help it. She's just demented.
What am I to do? The whole town is ringing
with the affair. I met quite a number of your
customers at the New Gallery, and they could talk
of nothing else. . . . May I see you to-morrow ?
It will be the death of me if Josey goes on as
she is doing.'

I laughed bitterly. Then I handed the letter to
Di. She read it slowly

' More complications, I see. Well, dear, it's not
your fault if the girl chooses to get herself talked
about. Besides, it will only be considered American
eccentricity. Her dollars would cover any caprice.'

' I think,' I said slowly, ' it would be better for
him if he responded to this devotion. It isn't as if
he was a nobody. He is by far her superior in
birth, and he may come into that title, and her
money will do wonders for the estate. As for the
parents' objection — Josey is not likely to mind tkem.^

Vanity !

273

She looked at me, astonished. 'What are you
saying, Kate ? I thought you were madly in love
with him — only yesterday/

^Many things have happened since yesterday,'
I said. 'Yesterday my affairs were not a public
scandal. . . . Yesterday people could not say I
was the wife of a forger, a thief, and almost a
murderer. Scandals are burrs that cling to a
woman's skirts too closely for detachment. In a
week's time my skirts will be weighted with burrs.
The man who tries to rid me of them will only
prick his own fingers and attach them to himself
I have looked happiness in the face only to know
it is not for me. I shall never drag anyone I love
into this network of infamy and disgrace.'

* You would have the courage to send him from
you, after he has risked his life on your behalf?'

. * Better to send him while I have the courage,
. . , while another is at hand to soothe his wounded
vanity, than see him repent all his life long.'

' Why should he .^^ . . . What makes you think so ? '

'There is too much likelihood of it. I could
not risk shipwreck a second time.'

' I fancy you misjudge Harry. He has faults,

but not vices. And I am sure he loves you.'

274

Vanity !

* He will love me all the more if he never wins
me/ I said bitterly. * That is what a man always
does. And Josey Peck will be a better wife to
him than ever I could be. She has not outlived
all softness and sentiment and romance. She has
no past of horrors on which to look back.'

' Your past is not half as bad as some I could
mention/ she said. ' At least, you have not been
the sinner.'

^ Appearances are against me. There is so
much that can be said . . . that I could not
combat, or deny.'

* You seem determined to make the worst of
things to-night.'

* There is no " best " to make of them. I seem
to have come to the end of everything — even of
caring for what was dearest to me.'

* You are wearied and overwrought, Kate.
Things will get better, believe me. The clouds
will clear. Your spirits will rebound. You will
not be so willing to throw away happiness then.
It doesn't come to us so often that we can afford
to play with it.'

' There is no question,' I said, * of playing with
it. I seem to have been asleep and suddenly

Vanity !

275

awakened. I wondered how I could have been
so foolish as to believe I was safe, or going to be
happy. I might have known something would
happen. That has always been my fate. . . .
You see I began badly. I had all a girl's delu-
sions, and more than an ordinary girFs ignorance.
I thought men were all strong and earnest of
purpose, and brave and tender. That they would
not hurt a woman. . . . And oh ! Di, I have been
hurt again and again — so cruelly.'

' I know. We all learn the possibility of such
hurts.'

*Yes, but with some it is only possible, not
real. When I thought I was free, it was different.
I let myself go. He had that way. . . . You
know what I mean, Di — persuasive, caressing,
dominating. And we were such good friends.
Well, IVe had one happy year — that is something.*

* One,' she said. ' Poor child ! And life not
half lived.'

* I have lived as much of it as I care for, or
desire. I seem to have reached a stage of indif-
ference. This — has killed hope and ambition.
Everything is changed since last night. I couldn't
begin again. I couldn't endure the curiosity of

276

Vanity !

those foolish women. They will all learn my
history, and add to and improve upon it. Not
that that matters very much. They would still
come to me if they thought I made better than
anyone else. But I don't, Di. And without
Harry to back me up all the energy would flag.'

' But, dear, it seems to me that you yourself are
putting Harry away.'

' Because if I do not, I know a time will come
when he will want to put himself away. That
would . . . would hurt me, Di. Against my better
judgment I gave in before. Look at what I have
brought upon his head.'

She was silent.

' I have lived a lifetime since last night,' I went
on. ' I have been blind and deaf long enough. I can
never be it again. Distrust is born in me afresh —
I will curse no other life with the misery of my own,'

I sank back on the cushions. Stone could not
have been colder nor iron harder than my heart
had grown to all emotions and sentiments.

My eyes fell on the loose, slovenly writing of
Mrs Peck. I took up the letter and read it
slowly through.

' It must answer itself,' I said. ' I will do nothing.'

CHAPTER XXV

Dl has left me at last.

Left me to my new mood of hardness. To the
fixed despair that has fastened upon my soul.

^ Vanity of vanities ! ' I say to myself. * All is
vanity.'

And life looks but vanity and folly to me now
in this black hour. I know what lies before me.
I know what I have to face. I am aware that the
Bond Street scandal will be a sweet morsel for the
garbage-pickers of all ranks and grades. I can
almost see what the notice boards will display. I
can almost read the history as the evening papers
will give it. The history of the fashionable dress-
maker with a convict husband. The escape of the
husband and his discovery of her luxurious sur-
roundings. The entrance of the lover . . . the
quarrel ; rage — jealousy — and revenge ! Oh ! it
will be fine reading for the public, and what can

I do or say to explain away a false position. To-
277

278 Vanity !

morrow the inquiry begins. They have taken
Wildash's deposition. I have to appear as wit-
ness . . . witness against the man who still calls
me wife!

Nothing can help me — nothing can avert the
scandal. It is a stone that will gather moss as it
rolls, it will reveal all that I have strenuously
endeavoured to conceal. I may as well throw
up the sponge, and be done with pretence.

The world will know me, not as I am, but as
my life's enemy chooses to say that I am. Vile
as he is, his vileness will only throw a darker
shadow on myself. To have been one with him
speaks eternal condemnation. I see that now —
but it is too late to alter anything.

Fate must do its worst.

• e • • • •

Wide awake I lie. ... I cannot sleep. I ask
myself whether it would not be better to end
suspense and life together. It could be done — so
easily. An overdose of chloral . . . the friend who
has helped me in many a troubled hour and sleep-
less night ; and then no more waking to misery,
no more trouble, no more tears. And Harry — he
too would be free. Free to make Josey happy.

Vanity ! 279

To raise her to his ancestral honours, perhaps . . .
to live rich, prosperous, well content in his own
country and among his own kin.

I have been only a shadow on his life. He will
soon forget me.

The idea takes overmastering possession of
my mind. I rise from bed, and go to the little
medicine cupboard above my washstand. There
is the bottle. I hold it in my hand a moment,
trying to realise the mysterious power that is con-
tained in this tiny phial. Strangely enough, as I
so stand and look at it, there rushes back to me
the memory of that morbid-minded boy whose
tragic end had blighted my summer holiday.

I almost seem to see him. His pallid face, his
strange eyes, his languid smile. I close my own
eyes and give myself up to the spell of imagina-
tion and memory. The sea stretches before me.
Again the golden moonlight shines upon its rippl-
ing surface. . . . Again the monotonous splash of
the waves sounds in my ear.

Suddenly — something — an icy breath, a chill of
terror overpowers my senses.

A whisper, faint as a sigh, steals to my ear. One
word only — ' Dorit — '

28o

Vanity !

That is all. But my eyes sharply unclose, and
with a shudder I start, and step back from the
seeming presence of an outstretched hand.

The bottle falls at my feet and is shivered to a
thousand fragments.

I stoop over them in sudden dismay ... at the
same moment I hear at the front door the sharp
rat-tat of a telegraph messenger. Before Babette
knocks I seem to have grown calm and like myself
once more. I know I have had a warning ... I
feel convinced but for it I should have swallowed
that poison. Now — it is beyond my power to
do so.

I take the yellow missive with indifference. A
few moments ago I had so nearly done with life
that I scarcely realise its importance again. The
lamp is growing dim. I take the paper close to it.
I read . . . What ?

^Jasper Crosse committed suicide by hanging him-
self in his cell at eight o'clock to-night!

I fell into the chair with an hysterical cry. I did
not even know Babette was there.

How does the brain work in moments such as

Vanity !

these ? What words can describe the passage of feel-
ing from despair to relief From death to life ? . . .

I lived in memory those lines of Adelaide
Proctor's : —

* In that one moment^s anguish
Your thousand years have passed.*

It seemed indeed a thousand years. A double
lifetime. But one cannot speak of such a moment.
One dare not, . . .

Oh ! thank God ! Thank God ! I am free . . .
I am safe.

It is a month since I wrote those words.
A month.

Has the world gone on and have I — alone — stood
still, with a blank record of days and weeks around
me?

I ask myself this as I lie in the dreamy peace of
convalescence among my heaped-up pillows, beside
my bright wood fire.

I have been very ill, they say. Well, that was to
be expected. A woman could not undergo such
terrible mental and physical strain as I had under-
gone in this past year without a breakdown of some

282

Vanity !

sort. Mine came after that moment of relief which
was the last record in my diary.

I was free. Jasper Crosse had ended his evil life
in a moment of blind rage against the Fate he
had defied. I know no particulars. I asked for
none, nor do I intend to do so.

It is sufficient to know he will not trouble me again.

Free ! How sweet the word is . . . how full
my heart seems of gratitude and peace. I close
my eyes. When I open them again the nurse is
standing by me with a pile of letters and papers
that have accumulated during my illness.

'You are well enough to read them now/ she
says. ' I am going out for an hour. Babette
will be within call.'

I watch her grey skirt and grey veil out of the
door. Then I glance at the pile on the little table
by my couch. I turn them over.

One is from Di Abercroft. 1 open that first. It
is dated only yesterday.

* My dear/^ it says. * I hear you are rapidly
mending. You will soon be all right. I write to
tell you that the business went on the same as ever.
I looked after it. And the little duchess's order was

Vanity !

283

duly executed. She was married last week. A
few new people dropped in — I saw them for you.
The scandal was soon hushed up and they got no
word of it from me. Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, the
Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, who is a power in the
social world, has given you an order. I am not sure
about the money, but she is quite the sort of person
to make you, and as she took a fancy to one of the
models, I executed a variation on it which pleased
her fastidious taste immensely. Indeed, it was a
stroke of genius for which you ought to be grateful.

^ Tender inquiries from poor Wildash. He has
had a harder fight for it than was supposed. I saw
him last week. He is to leave the hospital to-day.
The bullet went dangerously near his right lung.
He is a perfect shadow of what he was. The
devotion of the little Peck girl has been the talk of
society, and the despair of " Poppa and Momma
Peck." You see dollars carry weight even with
hospital authorities. I believe she visited him
every day. He will call on you as soon as you are
allowed to see anyone. He couldn't write. He
wasn't allowed to use his arm.

* The business is to go on, so he says — and it
really looks most flourishing in spite of the absence

284 Vanity !

of the " two heads." Luckily this is a slack time.
If it had been the season I don't know what you'd
have done. That little "Jacks " is a treasure. Td
raise her salary if I were you. She's worth it.
She managed the whole workroom. I think IVe
told you all that is necessary. Til call round as
soon as Fm told you can see me. Cheer up, little
woman. Your long lane has reached its turning,
I think. — Ever yours, Dl.'

My eyes filled with grateful tears as I read those
lines. She had, indeed, been a friend to me. I
felt I could never repay her sufficiently. It is one
woman in a thousand who proves her friendship.
The other nine hundred and ninety-nine are content
with professing it.

So after all Vanity was holding its own. The
Court of Fashion would not close its doors on any-
thing that ministered successfully to its necessities.

The ball was set a-rolling once more. The
puppets were ready to dance. I had but to rise
and take my place as of old, and pull the strings,
and set them going to the tune they loved best.
The tune was Novelty, the instrument La Mode.
Let wars come, and lives be sacrificed, let hearts

Vanity! 285

ache or break, or reputations die, let come what
may of good or ill, of misery or happiness, women
must dress, and Fashion will hold her own as their
idol while the world is a power and ruled by the
caprice of the Eternal Feminine !

The rest of my correspondence was compara-
tively unimportant. Bills, orders, circulars from
large firms. All the mass of rubbish that accumu-
lates as tribute to unnecessary postal deliveries.

A few cheques gladdened my eyes, and my
credit seemed fairly established with certain
business houses who asked a renewal of custom
on liberal terms.

Fortune was evidently bent on showing me the
smile of favour at last. Soothed and tranquilised,
I lay back among my cushions, and took counsel
with myself as to the future.

That future concerned itself especially now with
the continuation of my partnership with Harry
Wildash.

I thought of it from a new standpoint, a less
selfish one than formerly. In order to bring all
particulars of the matter clearly to my mind I
took out my diary and read the record of those

286

Vanity !

past months. I studied Wildash in the light they
showed him. I weighed that fascinating personality
of his against my own powers of resistance. I
asked myself whether his declaration of love had
sprung from anything stronger than pity, sympathy,
comradeship ?

It seemed to me as I read those entries that a
marriage with me would have very disastrous re-
sults for his future. I had been caught up in a
whirlwind of emotion, and amidst the complex
elements of jealousy, and fear, and passion, and
desire I had lost sight of what wa^best for him.
I had thought only of the joy of winning what was
dear to myself.

Subsequent events had brought me face to face
with horrors that had made life real, and the
situation perilous.

That restless, feverish time had passed. I felt
aged by years and terrors. I looked back on a
stage of feeling on which the curtain had dropped.
To raise it was only to look on disorder and deso-
lation. Chaos lay behind. My tragedy had had a
long final act. It was over.

How clearly I seemed to see things now. How
different they looked ! But I saw his face, and

Vanity !

287

heard his voice as he said, ^/ am too fond of you
to let your life lie at the mercy of such a brute!

Fond. But did that mean love? The pre-
eminent, all-powerful passion for which alone sacri-
fice is necessary and unheeded. Was it not only
that he had grown used to me ? We had been good
friends — comrades. In a moment of weakness I
had shown him too plainly that I cared for him.
The result was that brief confession which had
hurried us into a drama of consequences as horrible
as it was brief

Now — everything was altered.

* It must never be,' I told myself. ' He would
soon regret ... it stands to reason he must regret.'

I closed the book and put it away. Perhaps I
put away with it something sadder than forfeited
hope — for I knew I had looked my last on all
that makes a woman's life endurable. The
gates of Paradise only open once for mortal
eyes. . . . They closed for me ere I had even
seen what lay beyond.

CHAPTER XXVI

I WOKE from a long sleep. The room was dusk.
I saw the grey figure of the nurse dozing in her
chair by the fire. The clock on the chimney-
piece was softly chiming five.
I stirred and sat up.

' Wasn't that a knock at the door? ' I asked.

She moved across the room and opened it I
heard a whispered colloquy. My ears were sharp.
I recognised the faint nasal twang of Josey Peck's
voice.

'Come in/ I said loudly. 'That's Miss Peck,
Pm sure. I should like to see her.'

She entered — a quiet, subdued figure, dressed
all in faint grey and silver fox furs. The per-
fume of a huge bunch of violets which she carried
filled the room delightfully. She knelt by the
couch and took my hands.

' You poor dear,' she said. ' I am so glad you're
288

Vanity !

289

better. Fve called here heaps of times, but they
said no one was allowed to see you.'

' That was good of you/ I said gratefully. ' I
suppose I have been very ill. One never knows
— oneself. It's all hazy and like a bad
dream . . . only weakness left,'

The nurse touched the electric button, and a
rosy light shed itself over the dusk of the room.

I thought how lovely the girl looked with her
cheeks flushed by the cool air, and her eyes no
longer sparkling and alert but full of a new and
tender earnestness. Was it in this guise she had
played ministering angel to Wildash? If so —

I drew myself away, conscious of a pang of
jealousy.

* Won't you sit down ? ' I said. * Nurse will get
us some tea.'

She rose and sank into the low chair the nurse
wheeled up to her. She had laid the violets on
my lap,

' I brought them for you/ she said gently.

Her face was full of grave concern.

'Are you looking at my grey hairs?' I said,

touching the loose locks on my temples. 'You

see what illness does for one.'

290

Vanity !

'Ah! it wasn't only illness. . . . That shock . . .
that grief. Oh ! I know. I heard about it from — '
' Heard — what ? ' I asked.

'The papers had it, you know, and everyone
was talking, and saying how brave you were, and
how beautifully you had borne your troubles. . . .
Seems he tried to kill you — Mr Wildash told me/

She spoke with little of the old Americanisms.
The change in her was as surprising in a way as
the change my glass had shown me in myself.

The door closed. The nurse had left to get tea.
I took my courage in both hands with a desperate
effort.

' I too have heard of you,' I said. ' Of how
kind and devoted you have been to Mr Wildash.
How you have lightened those hours of suffering
and weariness. How you turned a deaf ear to
gossip, or possible consequence.'

She flushed rosily.

' I just could not help it,' she said simply. ' I
was so sorry for him, and you couldn't do anything.
Seemed as if there was no one else — but me.'

' He must be very grateful to you ? '

' He don't say much — ever,' she said, somewhat
consciously. 'Quite altered he is at times. All

Vanity !

291

the fun and life gone out of him. I assure you,
Mrs Costello, often and often Fve gone home and
had a good cry after Td left him. The change
hurt me so.'

' Some changes/ I said, * are the result of feeling,
as much as of circumstances. Devotion such as
yours cannot have failed to touch him. If he
returned it — '

* That's just it,' she interposed. ^That's what
troubles me. He seems as if he longed to speak
— and something held him back.'

A pang shot through my heart. Those words
echoed through its empty chambers, haunted now
by ghosts of all that might have been.

Something held him back.

That something was myself ... his promise. I
had not been wrong in my surmise. He had not
loved me. * I am too fond of you ' had meant
what I feared it meant. No more — no less.

*Josey,' I said quietly, 'do you really care
for Harry Wildash?'

' Care ! . . , I just worship him,' she cried. * I
don't mind what he is, rich or poor, commoner or
titled. I know I'd just be content to lie down at
his feet and let him wipe his boots on me if it

292

Vanity !

pleased him — so only I had him always beside
me/

Forcible language this. It gave her away with-
out effort or pretence.

I drew a deep breath and nerved my voice to
steadiness. *And if/ I said, 'he should care
equally for you — '

' Oh ! but he doesn't, Fm sure of that. Fm
nothing to him but a crazy Amurrcan girl, good
for jokes and fun and all that. I don't believe he
ever dreams how dearly I love him.'

Her pretty face had grown pale. She was
something more then than a * crazy Amurrcan
girl' in the passion and strength of the lesson
that Love was teaching her.

' Of course I know Fm not a lady — like you/
she went on. ^ Poppa was nothing, and he married
momma when she was only a factory girl out
Dacotah way. And people just laugh at them and
make use of their money, and they won't see it.
But Fm not going to sell myself for a title . . .
and Fve told 'em so — straight. If I can't have the
man I care for, well — Fll take no one else.'

Her eyes filled with tears. The firelight
glistened on them as they rolled down on the

Vanity !

293

silvery furs that lay loose about her throat. It
was a pretty picture, and the reality of her grief
lent a touch of irony to its mere prettiness.

* I think you are right/ I said. * Love is worth
all the riches and titles in the world. You will
be none the worse for having learnt that, even
if—'

*If it is only on one side?' she asked. ^ There
is some good in it, isn't there ? It's not the false
thing people pretend — smart people, I mean ? '

' No — not always.'

' I have been very unhappy,' she went on.
' And it's not natural to me to be that. You see
life's always been made just as nice as ever it
could be. I've had everything I wanted, and when
I came over to Eu-rope, and had strings and strings
of men following me and flattering and wanting
to marry me, I thought I was only having a
rattlin' good time. I never supposed that the
only one man for whom I cared a straw would
be so hard to win over.'

* I think you will win him — in the end,' I said
cheerfully. 'But you must have patience. Now
here is the tea. You shall pour it out for me.
This is the first day I've been allowed to sit up.'

294

Vanity !

' Oh ! ' . . . she cried, with quick regret. ^ Why
didn't you say so ? Tve been tiring you chattering
about my own foolish troubles, and quite for-
getting youVe so weak.'

' I am strong enough to hear a great deal
more of your chatter,' I said, smiling. 'You
are like a breeze from the outer world. I seem
to have been shut away from it for years ! '

'What a bad time youVe been having,' she
said, as she poured out the tea. ' No wonder
you're so changed.'

' You find me very much changed ? ' I asked.

' Well,' she said frankly, ' it stands to reason
I do. I've always seen you beautifully dressed,
bright, smiling, happy-looking. Now — you've
lost all your colour, and are as thin as a shadow,
and your lovely hair is all silvery in front.
Not but what I think you're lovely anyway.
And when you're well, I s'pose there won't be
any sort of difference, but just at first — '

' It was a bit of a shock ? ' I questioned.

She laughed. ' Not that so much as a
surprise.'

' I suppose,' I said tranquilly, * it would be
a surprise to anyone who had last seen me as

Vanity !

295

you describe, beautifully dressed, bright, smiling,
happy ? '

' I guess it would, until they got used to it.'

* How old are you, Josey ? ' I asked.
' Nineteen next month.'

*And I shall be thirty. Does that sound
very old ? '

* Well, we reckon it old for a woman in
Amurrca, but we don't wear as well as your
people here. Guess it's our hot rooms and
iced drinks and candies that spoil our com-
plexions and teeth.'

I was listening vaguely. My thoughts had
drifted to something else — a scheme, a plan to
satisfy my own doubts and further her interests.

She finished her tea, and then went over to
the glass and adjusted her hat and furs.

* It's done me real good this talk with you,'
she said. * When may I come again ? '

* Come to-morrow,' I answered, ' at the same
time.'

' You're just real sweet to me. May I . . .
would you mind if I — kissed you?'

The touch of those fresh young lips on my
pale cheeks, the sight of the fresh young face

296

Vanity !

so strangely winning in its earnestness, these
remained with me for long after she had gone.
For long after I had sent a message to Harry,
and received its answer.

I begged him to come round this evening at
eight o'clock.

He merely wrote — * Yes/

CHAPTER XXVII

My reply to the nurse's remonstrance was brief
but effective. * If it kills me I must see the
friend who is coming to-night.'

She gave me my tonic-draught, shrugged her
shoulders and retired to the dressing-room.

Left alone, I took up the hand glass for which
I had asked, and scanned my altered appearance
mercilessly.

Yes — Josey was right. I had altered terribly.
My face was thin and pale, my eyes sunken.
Those straying silver threads about my temples
were plainly visible. The loose black gown I
had selected added to my pallor and my age.
I knew I looked old and worn. It would suit
my purpose.

I and Vanity had said good-bye to one another.

There was no longer any reason for me to care

if I looked ill or well, pretty or plain. I lay

back on the white pillows. The violets Josey
297

298

Vanity !

had brought me were in a bowl on the little table
by my side. The electric light in its rosy
shades gleamed warmly over the pretty room.
I looked at it and thought of all that had
happened since I chose its furniture and decora-
tions. I had been anxious, miserable, and
happy. I had spent hours here racked with
dread, and filled with pain . . . and a few with
blissful dreams.

In the mirror opposite I could see myself
now, a thin, wasted figure with melancholy eyes.
I smiled bitterly. What had I in common with
love — with hope? — the foolish fond joys that
make up a woman's youth, and keep it youth
as love decrees. Neither love nor lover would
decree it for me, and the smile faded and my
cheeks grew paler as I gazed. For what I
saw was that ghost of the dead and beautiful
that a woman cherishes and clings to with a
passionate fidelity all the years of her
life.

The ghost of my dead self and all the dreams
I had dreamt.

I should never dream again.

Vanity ! 299

* Kate. . . / It was the voice I had longed
to hear.

He stood over me, and I read in his eyes
something of what I had read in Josey's — shock
surprise, distress — nothing else.

I had judged rightly ; but with a smile I
faced my doom.

' I am glad to see you and to see you so well/
I said. * Won't you sit there ? . . . You are
my second visitor to-day.'

' I had no idea you had been so ill,' he said,
taking the chair I had pointed out. He had
forgotten to kiss me.

' Oh ! I shall soon be well again,' I answered.
'You can hardly be surprised that I collapsed
after that ordeal.'

' Don't let us speak of it,' he said. ' I hate
even to think of that night.'

' No, we won't speak of it,' I answered. * I
asked you here for a very different purpose.
In a few days I shall be well enough to resume
work.'

' I shouldn't say so — to look at you.'
' Oh ! I am of tougher fibre than you suppose.
What I wish to say is something I have been

300 Vanity !

thinking of very seriously during the time that
has passed.'

His eyes met mine. What I read in them
was a question, and I hastened to answer
it.

' Our partnership must end. I must carry on
the business independently, or dispose of it alto-
gether/

'But, Kate, this is very strange. I thought
that you ... I mean we — '

*My dear Harry, we both made a mistake,
and I think we have both recognised it- That
time is over. Friends we were and are, and I
hope always will be ; but — nothing more.*

It cost me a great deal to say it. The effort
made my voice cold and hard enough to deceive
him as I meant to deceive him.

' Don't be angry with me,' I said. * I think it
was a mistake to suppose we would be any the
happier for changing our friendship. And I
think, Harry, you ought to give up this line of
business. You have other prospects. . . . You
might regret this — one day. People will only
look upon it as a freak of yours. They will soon
forget.'

Vanity !

301

'But why should I give it up? What other
prospects " do you mean ? '

I looked at him gravely and searchingly.

* I think you know/ I said. ^ When you marry,
Harry, you must marry a woman young and
hopeful — and innocent . . . not . . . not me!

^ You don't love me, then — or what has changed
you so ? '

' I have not changed, Harry. It is only that
I have recognised a truth I strove to hide
from myself and from you. I am old and tired,
and all the zest has gone out of life. It would
be a mistake to hold you to an impulsive promise.
You may have a very different position in the
world one day to that which you own at present.
There is hope in your future — there is none in
mine.'

, *What hope do 'you see that you may not
share if you will?'

I smiled faintly. 'The hope of a better love
than mine — a girl's honest, unselfish, devoted love.
No light gift, Harry. Better men than you might
envy its possession.'

I saw the colour mount to his brow. * I won't
pretend to misunderstand you, Kate ; but do me

302

Vanity !

the justice to believe I have never been disloyal
to you.'

^ I am sure of that/ I said earnestly.

* What have you heard ? ' he asked.

' I have seen her. But I knew long ago that
she — cared.'

* She is a thousand times too good for me,' he
said. * I don't want her money. I only wish
she hadn't any. Everyone will say — '

' Never mind what they say. Follow your own
heart's dictates. She is better than her money,
and she has proved her devotion in the face of
the world.'

' It seems odd,' he said, looking searchingly
at me — ^that you should urge me to marry any-
one else. Why, I came here to-night prepared
to—'

I made a hurried gesture. 'Don't, Harry; all
that is over. It couldn't be. Life looks alto-
gether different from what it was. I have done
with illusions. I only want real, true things.'

' Had I nothing that was true ? '

'You did not love me, Harry. You would
have sacrificed yourself, I know . . . but there is
no need for sacrifice. Happiness has come to

Vanity !

303

you. Take it. Don't be too proud, don't argue
with me, for I know what I am saying. I know
what is best for you — for myself. Truth comes
suddenly to one sometimes, like a flash, a search-
light. It came so to me. You are young and
she is young, and she loves you. . . . And if
you don't love her now, you will some day. It
can't be a very hard task. And I want to
know you are both happy, for I am fond of
you — both.'

*You are putting it very beautifully,' he said.
' I wonder if you mean it. I want no woman's
sacrifice, Kate . . . and I never met a woman like
you. It is no light matter to forego our pleasant
comradeship, our friendly confidences.'

I smiled up at his earnest face. How rightly
I had judged him. He was * fond ' of me — only
that. But love — the one love * of man and
woman when they love their best' — that had
not been his to give, nor mine to gain.

' They need not alter,' I said. * We shall always
be friends.'

* It seems like leaving you out in the cold.'
^ Oh, no. A woman who has work and occupa-
tion is never lonely.'

Vanity !

He looked around. ' But, Kate, we have heavy
debts. The expenses of this place are enormous.
How can you carry it on single-handed ? '

' I must do my best,' I said, with forced cheer-
fulness. 'You will have a rich wife, Harry, as
well as a loving one — and she will not forget me.'

' By Jove, she sha'n't ! nor I either. I don't
mind telling you now, Kate, that I do love that
little girl — awfully. You can have no idea how
different she is from what I first thought her. . . .
Why, all the time I lay ill and helpless she'd
give up anything — balls, parties, theatres, no
matter what — only to sit by my side and read
and talk and cheer me. It's hours like those
that show the real stuff a girl is made of.'

He rose suddenly, his head thrown back, his
hands clasped behind him. He began to pace the
room in the old restless fashion I knew so well.

' I'm not a coxcomb, or a fool, God knows,' he
went on. *But a man can't help seeing when
a girl loves him. And to think that she might
pick and choose among the best matches of the
day. And she chose to spend her hours by a
sick-bed in a public hospital, just to cheer and
soothe a poor ne'er-do-weel like myself!'

Vanity !

' Such devotion deserves a return/ I said
quietly. *But do not underrate yourself, Harry.
You forget your birth is far superior to hers,
that you may inherit a title. . . . The question
of money has no more to do with your success
than if you were a duke's son/

He shook his head. ' I was so d d rude to

her mother/ he said characteristically.

I laughed for the first time for many, many
weeks. *You must hope to be forgiven/ I said.
*Josey will be the arbitrator between you.*

He came and sat down beside me again.

*What a comforter you are/ he said — a new
softness and tenderness in his voice.

I was silent for a moment, battling with feel-
ings that longed to find vent, but which I had
rigorously denied outlet. When I had conquered
a momentary weakness I asked the question I
had determined to ask the whole evening. I
asked it carelessly, with an indifference that sought
to deceive him as to my real object.

* Strange, isn't it/ I said, 'how illness alters
one ? I seem to have lived through years ... to
have grown old and callous . . . different alto-
gether.'

3o6

Vanity !

I raised one thin hand and pushed the hair
up from my forehead. It was not a becoming
fashion, and showed lines of anxiety and worry
that had not been there a year ago. * Josey hardly
knew me/ I went on ruthlessly. ' I suppose you
found me altered too ? '

' I was shocked to see you/ he said unsuspect-
ingly. 'But of course illness alters everyone. I
myself looked an object in the hospital*

(Yet that had not killed Josey's love, I thought.)

' But you mustn't take it to heart,' he went on
cheerfully. * You'll soon pull round and be the
same pretty, stylish woman you were before —
before all this. It was an awful time . . . awful ! '

Again he rose ; again commenced that restless
pacing. I followed him with my eyes. A thought
— odd and inconsequent — came to me at that
moment — of a dog I had once seen creeping,
worn and sick, to its master's feet. He had
kicked it aside, and as it crept slowly away to
hide itself, I saw the look in its eyes, not anger,
not reproach, only a dumb wonder that its mean-
ing had been misunderstood.

' Harry,' I said presently, ' I am getting tired.

Vanity !

Don*t think me rude if I say you must go. This
is the first day I have been allowed to sit up.
Tm not very strong yet/

' By Jove ! how selfish I am, I quite forgot.'

He came to my side. He stooped, and took my
hands in his and kissed them. *You look like a
broken lily,' he said.

A little hysterical sob caught my throat.

' Oh ! how — romantic,' I said. There had
come the old look to his face, there was the
old caressing intonation in his voice. He
was ' fond ' of me still.

With a desperate effort I called back my
failing self-control.

'Come again to-morrow,' I said, *at five
o'clock.'

* For any special reason ? ' he inquired.

I drew my hands away. ... I found myself
looking at them vaguely. The single circlet of
my wedding ring slipped loosely round that one
finger.

' Yes,' I said. * She — will be here.'
I think he said ' God bless you ! ' I hardly know.
The pain at my heart had grown sharp as
physical torture. I watched him cross the

3o8

Vanity !

room. He did not look back. Perhaps he
did not remember.

When the door closed, a shudder ran through
me. I lay quite still, my head against the pillows.

* I knew you were overdoing it — I said so.'

I looked at the grey familiar figure.

' You need not scold me any more,* I said.
* I shall be very obedient — now.'

' When youVe well-nigh killed yourself.'

' I take a great deal of killing, nurse.'

' Don't be too sure of that.'

' And there are worse things,' I said. * Things
that hurt — more.'

She looked at me curiously. Perhaps she
thought my mind was wandering again.

'Worse things,' I repeated to myself. I felt
crushed, broken, deadly tired ; yet something in
me refused to die.

'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is
vanity.'

Yet for Vanity I must live and work, and put
aside for ever the best and sweetest hopes of a
woman's life.

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10. A Noble Haul. By W. Clark Russell.

11. On the Gogmagogs. By Alice Dumillo.

PRESS NOTICES,

'* Novel sets are many, but Mr. Fisher Unwin has begun a new one that for prettinc$i»
type and cheapness will take front rank. . . . These little novels, which are very
prettily bound for a shilling, and in paper at sixpence each, will—if we mistake not —
equal the * Pseudonyms ' in popularity."— Vanity Fair*

" Mr. Unwin's newest series of • Little Novels,' printed in strong black type on
pleasant paper. . . . promises to be as good, if not better than any of the preceding
ones. . . . The first book in the series is an extremely ckver and original story of
Australian society." — Guardian.

"Are readable. . . . They promise well for the success of the series they begin."

Scotsman.

" The ' Little Novels ' series starts well with this Australian story (' The World is
Round'). . . . Miss Mack's account of Sydney life is vivacious. , . . The two
women she describes are brought before us with ability. Much of the dialogue, and
certainly a letter from the Bush, deserves praise."*— Glasgow Htrald.

" If Mr. Fisher Unwin's * Little Novels ' series produces many works of the quintessential
power of * No Place for Repentance,' it will outweigh In aU but bulk whole shelves of
Mudie's fiction." — Illustrated London News.

"We do not apologise for telling the story of this little book, 'The Bond of Blood,'
and giving long extracts from it. it is worth reading even when one knows all that is
coming ; for it is excellently told, with concentrated force, great simplicity, and a vtry
remarkable attention to illustrative Spectator.

" A cheap and excellent series."— 5"/. James's Budgst.

"Well bound, well printed, and exceptionally low in pnc^" —Glasgow Herald,

11, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.G. f

T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

The CHILDREN'S LIBRARY

o • •

Illustrated. Post %vo.^ pinafore cloth binding^ floral edges ^
2s 6d. each,

I. The Brown Owl. By Fopd H.
HuEFFER. Illustrated by Madox
Brown.

2. The China Cup. By Felix

VOLKHOVSKY. Illustrated by
Malischeff.

3. Stories from Fairyland. By

Georges Drosines. Illustrated by
Thos. Riley.

4. The Story of a Puppet. By

C. CULLODI. Translated from the
Italian by M. A, Murray. Illus-
trated by C. Mazzanti.

5. The Little Princess. By Lina

EcKENSTEiN. Illustrated by Dudley
Heath.

6. Tales from the Mablnogion.

By Meta Williams.

7. Irish Fairy Tales. Edited by

W. B. Yeats. Illustrated by Jack B.
Yeats.

8. An Enchanted Garden. By

Mrs. MOLESWORTii. Illustrated by
J. W. Henessky.

9. La Belle Nivernaise. By

Alphonse Daudet. Illustrated by

MONTEGUT.

ID. The Feather. By Ford H.

HuEFFER. Frontispiece by Madox
Brown.

II. Finn and His Companions. By

Standish O'Grady, Author of
"Red Hugh's Captivity," &c. Illus-
trated by J. B. Yeats.

12. Nutcracker and Mouse King

and other Stories. By E. T. A.
Hoffmann. Translated from the
German by Ascott R. Hope.

13. Once upon a Time : Fairy

Tales. Translated from the Italian
by LuiGi Capuana. With Illus-
trations by C. Mazzanti.

14. The Pentamerone ; or, The

story of Stories. By Giambattista
Basile. Translated from the Nea-
politan by John Edward Taylor.
New Edition, revised and edited by
Helen Zimliern. Illustrated by
George Cruikshank.

15. Finnish Legends. Adapted by

R. Eivind. Illustrated from the
Finnish Text.

16. The Pope's Mule, and other

Stories. By ALPHONSE DaUDET.
Translated by A. D. Beavington-
Atkinson and D. Havers. Illus-
trated by Ethel K. Martyn.

17. The Little Glass Man, and

other Stories. Translated from the
German of Wilhelm Hauff.
Illustrated by James Pryde.

18. Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel

Defoe.

19. The Magic Oak Tree, and

other Fairy Stories. ByKNATCHBULL
HUGESSEN (Lord Brabourne),
Author of "Prince Marigold,"
" Queer Folk," &c.

20. Pax and Carlino. By Ernest

Beckman.

SOME PRESS NOTICES,
" Happy children who are to own books as pretty and portable as this is."
" The delightful ' Children's Library.' "—National Observer. ^ ISaiurday Review,
"The binding and printing are simply exquisite." — Vanity Fair,
" What a dainty little blue book 1 " — Whitehall Review.
"Prettily got up."— Times.
" Fascinating in appearance." — Athenceum.
" Very daintily printed and bound." — Daily Chronicle.
" One of the prettiest books ever trusted to a child's hSLtid."-— Queen,
•'Altogether agreeable to the eye." — GUbe.
" Exquisite and dainty." — British Weekly.
"Very dainty and unique." — Review 0/ Reviews.
"All the books are delightfully illustrated." — Bookseller.

" With every advantage that a dainty binding, excellent paper, and admirable printing
can bestow."-^ Guardian.

11, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.G. w