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A 
 
 BABE IN BOHEMIA 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK DANBY 
 
 AUTHOR OF ^DR. PHILLIPS'. A MAIDA VALE IDYL* 
 
 ‘ Vice is a monster of so frightful mien 
 As to be hated needs but to be seen ; 
 
 Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
 
 We first er.dure, then pity, then embrace’ 
 
 Pope 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SPENCER BLACKETT 
 
 [cSum$0or to ^ 
 
 MILTON HOUSE, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C. 
 
 1889 
 
 [A// rights reserved^ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/babeinbohemiaOOfran 
 
APR 1 2 1954 SL0Cll?4 
 
 FSS^ 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Bohemia is a vast city — a city growing daily 
 more extensive as the repute of its charms attracts 
 one by one the Prince and the poet, the Arch- 
 bishop and the artist. In such a city there are 
 Palaces and pig-sties, there is an Aristocracy and 
 a democracy, there are the Pharisees and the 
 publicans. 
 
 No. 200, Southampton Row, W.C., the house 
 where the Babe first saw the light, the house in 
 which her twin brother Marius took his last 
 glance at it — a dim. and uncertain glance enough — 
 ^is not a segment of aristocratic Bohemia. It is a 
 ' low house leading straight on to the street ; its 
 windows are dulled with the smoke from Tottenham 
 Court Road, and dreary with mists from Russell 
 Square. The railings are begrimed, the stone area 
 green and worn with neglect and decay. The 
 
 I 
 
2 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 bell hangs loosely in its socket, and the knocker is 
 wrenched off its hiding-place. But for all its dirt, 
 neglect, decay. No. 200, Southampton Row is in 
 the City — the gay, rollicking, careless City of 
 Bohemia. 
 
 Respectability frowns at it from over the way, 
 whitens its steps perennially, brightens its bell- 
 handles, and hangs up its white window-curtains. 
 Respectability round the corner puts its nose in 
 the air, virtuously using its latch-key as it returns 
 from the City, and thanks God that ‘ we are not 
 as they.’ Respectability next door is woke up out 
 of its first sleep by the midnight cabs and the 
 midnight music, the racket and the din of wine- 
 parties and supper-parties, the sound of the piano, 
 and the noise of brawling voices chaffing phleg- 
 matic policemen as the revellers depart in the 
 early morning, rolling homeward singing noisily 
 as the pale moon fades in the glow of dawn. 
 
 This was the home Lucilla was brought up in ; 
 such a home as a man like Roland Lewesham can 
 make for his children. Roland Lewesham, pro- 
 prietor of Footlights., and putative editor of that 
 weekly journal, was a largely-built man, about 
 forty years of age. He was above the middle 
 height, and his figure was aldermanic. His features 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 3 
 
 were coarse, his eyes bloodshot, his nose made 
 one suspicious. He wore glasses, and had a habit 
 of pushing them back and fidgeting with them 
 constantly. His big head looked like ‘brain’; 
 but he had a weak mouth and chin, sweet in the 
 smiling, that contradicted the promise of the 
 brow. He had founded a new school of 
 journalism, and everyone in London knows of 
 Roland Lewesham. 
 
 Yet Roily — he was the sort of man that even 
 strangers called Roily — was country bred and 
 country born. Honourable and cleanly living people 
 were Roily’s parents ; the man tilled the ground, the 
 woman tended her cows and her chickens. Bad 
 agricultural years respected their thrift, and passed 
 them by harmless ; the rain softened their seed, 
 the sun ripened their corn, their granaries were 
 well filled, and their fruit-trees bowed under the 
 weight of the fruit. Seventeen years they toiled 
 together with hearts a little empty save of each 
 other, hardening perhaps in the weathers, but sweet 
 and sound. Thus when it seemed too late for 
 hope, their many prayers were answered, and Roily 
 was born. 
 
 A strange sapling to grow from such a tree! 
 A country lad ; the idol of his old parents ; quick 
 
 T — 2 
 
4 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 at his lessons, eager in play ; in short, rosy- 
 cheeked and active, fair, wholesome and abundantly 
 English. 
 
 And so he might have been living until now ; 
 undeveloped, primitive, harmless, but for William 
 Ringer, and William Ringer’s training-stables that 
 were within a walk of his home. How dull was 
 agriculture, and how slow of result, compared to 
 those rows of boxes with their sleek and shining- 
 coated occupants ! How few the pence, gathered 
 slowly with sweating brow and horny hand, com- 
 pared to the gold that flowed in easily to the 
 inspired backer of Bellerophon or his stable 
 companion ! 
 
 The companionship of stable-boys and racing 
 touts had its usual results. There was not 
 much evil in Roland Lewesham, and what 
 there was might have remained for ever dor- 
 mant; but there was an eager, excitable, nervous 
 nature, and there had been no training or exercise 
 in self-repression. When he lost more than he 
 could pay — and he was barely nineteen when this 
 inevitable incident occurred — he could not bear 
 to face those parents of his who had trusted and 
 believed in him, and even looked up to him, whose 
 bright-faced youth had seemed God-like to their 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 5 
 
 toil-worn eyes ; so he left them. Rather than see a 
 momentary cloud he fled — let them suffer, let their 
 hearts bleed for him, only that he was not there 
 to see it. This was Roily all over — perhaps there 
 is something lovable in such weakness ; tender- 
 hearted, he could not bear to see the pain of their 
 disappointment, yet by flight he doubled it. 
 
 He came to London, nineteen years of age, 
 country bred and born, ignorant but eager. The 
 Metropolis acted upon him and corroded his 
 brightness ; his sensitive ears became attuned to 
 the roar of the multitude and lost their relish for 
 sweeter sounds. Bright as a mirror, the foul 
 breath of the City tarnished him, and he no 
 longer reflected the loving faces of his parents, 
 or the merriment of his boy friends. He was 
 possessed with eager desires ; the youth that woke 
 in him awoke in a hot and noxious atmosphere, 
 and he absorbed the atmosphere, breathing it back, 
 adding his quota later on to the general murkiness. 
 
 There is no need to dwell upon the details of 
 his fall.' Those friends he gathers round him 
 now — for Roily Lewesham has a very real exist- 
 ence in London to-day — would be surprised to 
 hear that it can be considered a fall, from being 
 the village hero and the loved son of his parents, 
 
6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 to being the editor of Footlights., and one of the 
 ‘ dearest old chappies in the world.’ 
 
 Temptations abound in everyone’s life, but some 
 people are warned to withstand them ; and some, 
 not bred in the country, can see through tinsel 
 into the grosser body that it covers. Impetuous 
 Roily saw nothing but pleasure, and he was as 
 eager for pleasures in his youth as he became for 
 excitement in his manhood 
 
 There was no one to help or guide him. The 
 old couple, dreaming away in their gathering years, 
 never dreamed of Roily as aught but the bright- 
 faced boy they knew and loved, until the awaken- 
 ing was too late. 
 
 On the Tom Tiddler’s ground where William 
 Jecks had introduced him he scattered the guineas 
 for others to pick up. 
 
 He had no guide but youth and recklessness ; 
 the old couple in the country were alone again in 
 their age, and went down into the Valley of the 
 Shadow of Death with hearts that ached and eyes 
 that were red with weeping for a prodigal who did 
 not return. London swallowed up Roily. The 
 ‘ turf’ was only the commencement ; other vices 
 followed. He grew in wisdom then, but the 
 knowledge came too late to profit him — it came 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 7 
 
 when the hopes of his early manhood and the 
 charm of his early manner had left him for ever, 
 and physical suffering drove him, in the decay of 
 his ruined constitution, to fresh excesses, against 
 which his new-born wisdom profited him nothing. 
 
 His father died first. The mother lived long 
 enough to see her bright and beautiful boy in his 
 profitless and degraded manhood. 
 
 Whence came the two children he brought her 
 one day — the twin babies whom he asked her to 
 take and bring up for his sake, and to let them 
 comfort her in her loneliness and disappoint- 
 ment } 
 
 She never asked, and Roily never told her ; 
 the terror and degradation of their birth was not 
 for her to hear ; their mother’s name was to be 
 forgotten, and to perish for ever off the face of the 
 earth. And so it came about. 
 
 They were pretty babes, these children of 
 Roily’s and that ‘ nameless one.’ Marius, epileptic 
 and idiot, the seeds of his malady developed fast, 
 and as it developed, so faded all hopes of in- 
 fluencing Roily through his children. The hope 
 faded, as all hopes in and about Roily had a habit 
 of fading. 
 
 She kept the children until she died, and Roily 
 
8 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 lived his life apart from her and them. He loved 
 his mother always, this developed Roily, this hard- 
 drinking, loose-living Roland ; he caressed her 
 always — she at least never heard from his lips 
 any ungentle word — he never lied to her or 
 deceived her, save by holding back that which 
 would grieve her. He had no moral backbone, 
 became in time unable to distinguish between 
 right and wrong, all his finer senses decayed and 
 melted away ; but it must be written he loved his 
 mother. 
 
 When she died he fetched the children home. 
 Home to Southampton Row, home to Nettie ; for 
 the mother of the children was forgotten, and 
 genial Roily did not live alone. 
 
 He did not live alone. Such men as Roland 
 Lewesham rarely live alone. But at the time his 
 mother died, and he brought the children home 
 with him, Roland’s vagrant fancies had crystal- 
 lized, and Nettie was the guiding star of his life. 
 
 Nettie was — had been — but never mind Nettie’s 
 career ; it would fill a volume, and the volume 
 would be interdicted, so the writing would be a 
 waste of time. She took a fancy to Roily ; she 
 robbed him of all he had left ; his ambitions, his 
 remnant of self-respect, his sense of order and 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 9 
 
 decency. She enjoyed the courtesy title and all 
 the privileges of Mrs. Roland Lewesham. 
 
 Roily spent his parents’ money right royally. 
 Nettie, getting on in years, and off in attractions, 
 thought his attention should be turned to in- 
 creasing instead of decreasing his income. There 
 was something very bright about Nettie’s in- 
 telligence. And she knew her world — such a 
 world as it was — very well. 
 
 Roily had had as good an education as the local 
 school could afford him ; in whatever he under- 
 took as a boy he had been easily first. Which of 
 his talents to turn to account was his only doubt, 
 when Nettie began to drum into him that he must 
 make money for them both. 
 
 ‘ Shall I go to the Bar ?’ he asked her. 
 
 ‘ The bar !’ retorted Nettie ; ‘ you’d never get 
 any further.’ 
 
 The misunderstanding was natural, for Roily 
 had grown to think that of all enjoyable feelings, 
 none was so delightful as the irresponsibility that 
 comes upon the semi-drunk. However, the idea 
 of his studying for a profession at his time of life 
 was pooh-poohed by the lady to whom he looked 
 for guidance. But something he must do. 
 
 There are careers in Bohemia very much open 
 
lO 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 to a young man with a little brains, a little money, 
 and a popular burlesque actress — for such had 
 been Nettie’s profession in life — at his command. 
 
 Roily took a theatre — that was the climax of 
 the discussions as to ways and means — and 
 although he did not become a millionnaire at the 
 business, still he mismanaged it less than most 
 amateurs. 
 
 The children were growing up while Roily was 
 the proprietor of the ‘ Leggeries ’ — as his place of 
 amusement was aptly nicknamed. And Nettie 
 was also growing, not exactly up, but rather 
 down ; she grew stiff, and her voice was not what 
 it had been. Before failure had time to write its 
 indelible letters across the portal of the theatre, 
 Nettie retired, and as it was not in her to see 
 another star arise in her place. Roily retired 
 with her. 
 
 Still, the money he had made was not enough 
 to keep the home going for ever. He had gathered 
 around him a large circle of friends, and he had 
 made no enemies. Roily never had an enemy in 
 his life ; all his weaknesses were lovable. His 
 friends were sporting and theatrical, but Nettie’s 
 wisdom and her desire for good notices had made 
 him also entertain journalists. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 II 
 
 Who first started the idea was never quite re- 
 membered, but there the idea came, and it sprang 
 full-grown into action. Roily must have a paper ; 
 there was room for another theatrical paper ; all 
 these smart young friends of his would write for 
 him — that was how to make a fortune. Hoorah ! 
 that’s the idea ; Roily should have a paper. 
 
 Footlights sprang into success almost with the 
 first number ; it caught on, and it settled once 
 and for ever the question of Roily’s income. 
 
 Roily’s ten years of knocking about left him 
 very little bucolic ignorance. He had ceased to 
 be a living for the bookmakers, and even learnt 
 to add to his income by a timely bet. In truth, 
 the lad, who had almost been brought up in a 
 training-stable, possessed a very pretty knowledge 
 of the noble beast. Fortunately, also, just about 
 the time Roily left off theatre-managing, and had 
 a little ready money, William Ringer was in 
 pecuniary difficulties. Roily tided him over them, 
 and the information he received in return helped 
 the paper to a reputation. 
 
 Roily’s sporting article — the one thing in the 
 paper he always wrote himself — was well done. 
 When success was assured, and money came in 
 regularly, Roily bought horses, and put them in 
 
12 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 training. He was not very fortunate in his 
 animals, but remained ‘ in the know ’ through 
 them ; and, in reality, it was the racing, more 
 than the pleasing details as to the private life of 
 actresses, that gave Footlights its place. 
 
 Roily’s instructions to his staff were clear. 
 
 ‘ None of your sweetness and light,’ he said ; 
 ‘ sweetness and light are off. Excitement, glare, 
 that’s what the Johnnies want, and I mean to 
 give it them. Something spicy, something with 
 a flavour in it. Teddie and I will see the sport- 
 ing is kept up to the mark. You fellows must 
 fill up with all the good things you can get hold 
 of. Mordaunt Rivers will boss that.’ 
 
 With such instructions, and the able lieutenancy 
 of an old friend of Nettie’s, Mr. Mordaunt Rivers, 
 Footlights breasted the tide and floated into popu- 
 larity. Nettie was the key that had unlocked to 
 the mercurial son of the old yeoman all the gates 
 of this curious Bohemia. 
 
 Footlights even came to have a certain amount 
 of influence ; and in pursuit of it the house in 
 Southampton Row was daily and nightly thronged 
 with a company difficult to parallel in any other 
 city than London, in any other quarter than 
 Bohemia. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 13 
 
 Journalists, clean and dull, brilliant but soiled, 
 striving upwards or sinking downwards ; trainers 
 and racing men ; young lordlings who patronized 
 the stage, young actresses who patronized them ; 
 oyster -shop proprietors, stage -managers, prize- 
 fighters and music-hall singers — anybody and 
 everybody who could make Roily laugh and pay 
 Nettie compliments, that she craved for the more 
 as she evoked them the less. 
 
 They practised a brilliant hospitality — the place 
 was the very paradise of bar-loafers ; and so 
 amusing were the scenes that occurred and the 
 incidents which developed, that the ‘ paper ’ soon 
 became the medium through which an interested 
 and curious world followed their doings. 
 
 They invented words and phrases, this circle 
 of the apostles of loose living. They corre- 
 sponded with each other and the outer world by 
 means of “ Replies to Contributors,” couched in 
 their own peculiar vernacular ; advertised their 
 favourite restaurants free of charge, and made the 
 fortune of more than one innkeeper who gave 
 credit for dinners and suppers. For the small 
 sum of one penny the British public read about 
 them and their doings every week in a column or 
 so, written in conjunction and headed ‘Nights out !’ 
 
14 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Bacchus was their god ; and soon the title of 
 Footlights was supplemented by that of the Guzzler's 
 Gazette. Roily became better known as ‘ Guzzleton,’ 
 and all the synonyms of drink were freely lavished 
 on the rest of the staff, who became world-re- 
 nowned under their nicknames. 
 
 What orgies under their roof! The neighbour- 
 hood was scandalized, and the quiet nights turned 
 into uproarious day. Roily had no time to re- 
 member anything but the last good story or the 
 next bad song. Nettie was queen of the revels, 
 and it is sufficient to say that her myrmidons were 
 worthy of their queen. 
 
 Such was the house Roily had brought his twin 
 children to, eight years ago now. Eight years the 
 children had lived there, high up under the roof, 
 away from the house and the gaiety, neglected, 
 forgotten, living alone — two of them, a boy and a 
 girl, Marius and Lucilla. Soon there would be 
 only one. There was drink and talk downstairs 
 while Marius lay dying ; but the din was hushed 
 when the news spread that he was dead. Off 
 went the gay young men and the gayer women, 
 shrinking away one by one as death poised its 
 black wings over the house, shedding its gloom 
 in a message they were not ready to hear. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 But still Marius was not alone in his death-agonies. 
 One there was who had shared with him these long 
 eight years all the horrors of his life — who had 
 lived by him, with him, benumbed by the burden, 
 paralyzed by the weight, but always gentle, 
 always forbearing, trying to hide from him and 
 from herself the dreadful physical shrinking that 
 his infirmities awoke in her. 
 
 For there was the fact in all its native hideous- 
 ness — Marius, the only son of our brilliant Roily, 
 was a loathsome epileptic idiot. 
 
 And for eight years now — ever since her grand- 
 mother died, and dying left no one to take up, as 
 she had done, the responsibilities Roily had been 
 so glad to drop — Lucilla, his twin sister, had lived 
 with Marius alone in these dull upstair rooms ; 
 had looked out of the dirty windows and envied 
 the neat and prim little girls, with their plaits and 
 their governesses, and their air of being hemmed 
 
i6 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 in by Jaws and rules and restrictions ; had turned 
 away from the sight, her child’s heart sick with the 
 longing for the care, and the love, and the very 
 restrictions which proved that love and care, and in 
 the turning had been met by the shambling figure 
 that pervaded all her tender youth. 
 
 Marius’s figure, his dim eyes gazing unspecula- 
 tive, his loose limbs as if badly connected with the 
 parent trunk, his gait uncertain, now bringing him 
 into contact with this or that article of furniture, 
 his heavy feet planted springless on the floor — 
 Marius, poor, slow-speeched, idiot Marius, was her 
 constant and only companion. 
 
 If the sound of music and of laughter penetrated 
 to her ears, and awoke in her heart — that, if only 
 a child’s heart, was yet a girl-child’s heart — a desire, 
 innocent, human, feminine, for pleasure and com- 
 panionship and the unknown joys of the world, 
 she would look at him for sympathy : his unrespon- 
 sive face would but mock her with the feeble ghost 
 of a sunless smile, that tried to light his face 
 when he looked at her, who was his sun. She 
 was still but a child, although seventeen summers 
 had come and gone to ripen the pale corn-colour 
 of her hair into red gold, to deepen the blue of 
 her sad young eyes, to mould into form the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 17 
 
 rose-leaf sensitive lips ; but a child unnaturally 
 burdened. Marius, octopus-like, had twined his 
 long arms around her, sucking the blood from her 
 cheeks and lips, the light from her eyes. He had 
 claimed from her, and had from her, everything ! 
 She had striven for knowledge and for light, but 
 his dull brain had mocked her with its unseeing. 
 Pure and fresh and free she would have been, but 
 his inert body had caressed her with all an idiot’s 
 animal-like desire for contact, clinging to her side, 
 hanging his heavy head on her lap, crushing her 
 under the weight of his dreadful personality. And 
 now Marius was dying ! 
 
 The room he lay in was large and bare, the 
 carpet thick, the window grated. He lay on a 
 big low bed, curiously surrounded with twine 
 netting ; and she stood beside the bed and tended 
 him timorously — for it had been a scene to make 
 the stoutest heart quake — but gently and with 
 unutterable pity. 
 
 The sun streamed into the room and slanted a 
 dusty shaft of light right on to Marius’s face — 
 the convulsed and swollen face of a dying idiot. 
 The dusty shaft of light brought into relief every 
 hideous feature of that death-bed — the writhing 
 figure, the large head rolling from side to side, its 
 
 2 
 
i8 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. ■ 
 
 unseeing, squinting eyes strained and bloodshot ; 
 the blood-stained foam gathered in the corners of 
 the mouth and on the spotted and disordered 
 sheets, the feeble twitchings and tremblings that 
 still remained now that the violence of the epileptic 
 fit had worn itself out. 
 
 His shrieks were still ringing in her ears as she 
 had heard them for hours — endless, terrible, anguish- 
 haunted hours ; but now the utterer was dumb. 
 Feebler and feebler grew the movements, duller 
 and more glazed his eyes ; a clear whiteness seemed 
 to wipe out the dusky pallor of the skin. His 
 cheeks fell in, the tortured eyes were closed, and 
 the loose lips stiffened into rigidity. 
 
 Epileptic in his cradle, idiotic in his boyhood, 
 dying horribly before manhood was reached. 
 Death dealt with him more pitifully than life had 
 ever done — smoothed his distorted features, closed 
 his expressionless eyes, and stilled him into a 
 dignity of repose he had never known. 
 
 But the death that stilled him appalled her 
 yet more than all else she had suffered. What 
 did she see that made her start and shudder, and 
 rush from the room, her hands before her eyes to 
 shut out the sight, her heart beating violently 
 with a new strange pain and fear, her legs trem- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 19 
 
 bling under her, and her lips white and strained 
 with dread? 
 
 Only this : in the dying, back had come to the 
 unfortunate boy the semblance of that sentient 
 soul of which disease had robbed him ; it illumi- 
 nated him, and now in the dead face Lucilla could 
 see a likeness — a likeness that appalled her, for it 
 was a likeness to herself. Her weakened mind, 
 unhinged with the long strain, saw the flicker of 
 intelligence in his face ; she pressed her hands to 
 her brow : 
 
 ‘ My God ! my God ! he has taken my brain. 
 I am like him ; he is like me. O God ! Oh, 
 help ! the room is going round me ! I am dying ! 
 I am going mad ’ 
 
 She sank upon the floor, and there they found 
 them both, hours after — the boy dead and calm 
 on the bed, the girl writhing and moaning on the 
 floor. 
 
 Lucilla went through an illness after that : long 
 nights of fever, when she would rave that Marius 
 was near her : he was sucking her brain with his 
 damp kisses on her forehead ; she would shriek 
 that his cold blue hands were around her throat, 
 and that he was crushing her under his loose 
 ill-guided movements. Long days of semi-con- 
 
 2 — 2 
 
20 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 sciousness, in which Marius was ever before her. 
 She would start as she had been startled from her 
 sleep that April morning, by his screams, wordless, 
 as of some dumb animal in mortal pain. She 
 would see again his convulsions as the epileptic 
 demon tightened its hideous grasp and shook him 
 with an earthquake force, until arms, and legs, and 
 loose bitten lips, and heavy head, all shook and 
 trembled, and were flung about directionless in 
 that remorseless shaking ; and then she would lie 
 quiet after that vision, her heart turned to stone, 
 the big drops of perspiration on her forehead, 
 waiting, waiting dreadfully, until that same demon 
 should seize her and rend her, and make her 
 hideous and hateful as he had beeo hideous and 
 hateful to all who saw him. 
 
 So she lay for many weeks, not realizing her 
 freedom, nor knowing that Marius was at rest in 
 his grave, seemingly drifting to join him before 
 her girlhood could shake off the burden and taste 
 the fruition of womanhood. 
 
 And Roland might have remained as ignorant 
 of her condition as he had been neglectful of her 
 interests, but for the fact that doctors have con- 
 sciences, and Dr. Grey was no exception to the 
 rule. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 21 
 
 Roily had had a deep bout of drinking after 
 Marius’s death, to help to drown the remem- 
 brances it evoked. Marius it was who had made 
 of Roily the father that he had been. Roily had 
 a gentle vein in him — men of his stamp are not 
 unkind to little children — but from his earliest 
 infancy his boy had damped any possible pride of 
 fatherhood. The intelligence, which is the charm 
 of dawning childhood, had never beamed out of 
 Marius’s eyes ; that dull, heavy look, growing 
 duller as the years rolled on, never encouraged 
 his ambition nor flattered his paternal pride. 
 His only son, Marius, never calling on the name 
 of ‘ father,’ never giving back baby- smile for 
 loving glance, grew through dull babyhood to 
 vacant-eyed childhood, when he stopped speech- 
 less on the threshold of understanding. Roily 
 was nervous enough, and imaginative enough, to 
 see in the boy an embodied sin — to see in him also 
 his frail young mother’s transmitted revenge. He 
 never looked upon the boy, nor upon the girl, 
 that was his living complement, if he could help 
 it ; and he drank deeply after Marius’s death, 
 giving rare orgies downstairs, surrounding himself 
 with friends, while Lucilla fought her lonely 
 battle between life and death. But Dr. Grey felt 
 
22 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 it his duty to speak, and speak he did, and to the 
 purpose. 
 
 ‘ I want to speak to Mr. Lewesham,’ he said 
 to the footman one evening, as he came downstairs, 
 disheartened, from his patient. 
 
 The footman was laden with a tray of glasses ; 
 the sound of many voices and loud laughter and 
 the fumes of smoke, came through the half-open 
 dining-room door. 
 
 ‘ The master is engaged,’ answered the man 
 doubtfully, looking first at his tray, then at the 
 door. 
 
 ‘ Never mind if he is engaged or not ; my 
 business is important. Announce me,’ he said 
 peremptorily. 
 
 John put the tray down, threw open the door, 
 and announced ‘ Dr. Grey.’ 
 
 The room was full of men ; they had evidently 
 been just dining, and had the unrestraint of 
 satiety. Two or three women he could also dis- 
 tinguish, undraped, diamond-sprinkled, talking 
 loudly, smoking cigarettes, and lounging in easy 
 attitudes. The smoke-tainted atmosphere, and 
 the incense with which Nettie’s rooms were always 
 filled, sickened him, fresh from such a different 
 scene. But he stood his ground. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 23 
 
 Roily was in the first stage of intoxication, 
 flushed, nervous ; he had been laughing with the 
 easily aroused laughter of the semi-inebriate. 
 But he staggered quickly to his feet when he saw 
 the Doctor. 
 
 ‘ Do you want me ?’ he said hurriedly. ‘ Don’t 
 come in here. Weekly dinner — all my staff — 
 matter of business — you understand.’ He tried 
 to explain, as he hurried him into a smaller and 
 quieter room at the end of the passage. ‘ What is 
 it ? You want to speak to me : nothing wrong, I 
 hope ^ Excuse me sitting down. I’ve been laugh- 
 ing so. I’m quite done up.’ He burst into weak 
 laughter, but relapsed into silence under the con- 
 temptuous look of the man who regarded him. 
 ‘ Sit down, won’t you ? Have a drink ? I must 
 have one ; I am as dry as a bone. Ring the bell 
 for me, there’s a good fellow ; it is such a con- 
 foundedly long way off’ 
 
 The Doctor rang as he was desired. 
 
 ‘ A bottle of soda-water,’ he ordered, when the 
 man appeared. 
 
 ‘By Jove! it is serious then,’ said Roily, with 
 an attempt at jocularity, ‘ if I’ve got to hear it on 
 temperance liquors.’ 
 
 ‘ If you can control your hilarity for a few 
 
24 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 moments,’ said the Doctor sternly, ‘ I shall be glad. 
 I will not detain you longer, and you can, if you 
 then wish, return to your boon companions.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, sit down, anyway ; it gives me the jumps 
 to see you standing over me.’ 
 
 Roily’s hands were trembling as he filled up 
 his glass and drank off a long draught of soda- 
 water. The Doctor looked at him steadily for a 
 moment or two. They were men of the same 
 age, and Dr. Grey had known Roily from the 
 days he first came to London. Roily had had 
 the advantages of more money, more leisure, 
 more talent ; but the Doctor had had strength of 
 purpose. He thought of Roily’s youth and 
 promise as he looked at him now, the fumes of 
 the wine passing off a little, and the restless 
 vitality of the man flickering in his blue eyes. 
 
 ‘ Speak out. Doctor ; don’t stand there staring 
 like a mute at a funeral !’ 
 
 ‘ At your son’s funeral I was mute,’ said the 
 other quickly, putting his chair opposite Roily’s 
 and holding him with his eyes, ‘ though perhaps I 
 should have spoken. Do you remember these 
 children’s mother.^’ he asked abruptly. 
 
 Roily shuddered ; the incident with the children’s 
 mother was one that even Roily had never learnt 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 25 
 
 to look upon lightly. There are some things that 
 may not be written about, cannot be printed, that 
 fester in darkness, for lack of the ventilation which 
 a chaste government and some narrow purists deny 
 them. She had been pretty once, this poor strayed 
 Jenny, this long-dead and soon forgotten victim 
 of one of Roily’s sins. Grey had known her and 
 pitied her. 
 
 ‘ I — I — what the devil do you mean by coming 
 here and asking me about that — that ’ 
 
 ‘ That unfortunate girl you ruined,’ continued 
 the other quietly. ‘ Don’t bluster, and don’t pre- 
 tend you have forgotten ; but listen to me for a 
 few moments, and then do as you like.’ 
 
 ‘ Speak on,’ said Roily sullenly, taking another 
 draught of the soda. 
 
 ‘ The girl died ; I attended her for you. I 
 spoke to you pretty plainly and seriously then, you 
 will remember — you were not as far gone as you 
 are now — and you repented and vowed and swore 
 that no other should ever suffer through you as 
 she had done. I warned you they were delicate 
 children ; they would want every care. I told you 
 of the dangers they would run, and you promised 
 me if I would help you then that you would take 
 the children and care for them.’ 
 
26 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ I took them to my mother,’ interrupted Roily ; 
 
 ‘ it was the best thing I could do for them.’ 
 
 ‘ But since she died ?’ 
 
 ‘ I could not help her dying !’ 
 
 ‘ But you could help leaving them upstairs, un- 
 guarded, uncared for, neglected ever since.’ 
 
 Roland answered not a word. 
 
 ‘ Shall I tell you what you have done ? You 
 ruined, degraded, cast on the streets, and murdered 
 the children’s mother ; and an even worse murder 
 you are perpetrating now upon her daughter — 
 upon that poor, dying child upstairs.’ 
 
 ‘ Lucilla — dying !’ Roily staggered to his feet 
 and faced his accuser. ‘Dying — and I — what have 
 I done to her ?’ 
 
 He put his hair back from his forehead. His 
 senses were not fully alert ; the shadow from the 
 past obscured them. He remembered the girl’s 
 mother ; but the girl — what had he done to the 
 girl ? 
 
 ‘ The boy was an epileptic — don’t ask why ; 
 you have not forgotten all those incidents — the 
 girl was nervous, impressionable, delicate ; you 
 have left them together and alone, until the one 
 has acted upon the other like some corrosive fluid 
 — has eaten into her life and into her brain, until 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 27 
 
 she is dying, literally dying, of Marius, the only 
 companion you have given her. Dying of neglect, 
 of solitude, of that sloping-roofed attic pressing 
 down upon her, of hopelessness and fear, and the 
 deprivation of all that should have made her life 
 happy !’ 
 
 ‘Wait a moment ! Wait a moment !’ 
 
 The Doctor was drawing on his gloves. 
 
 ‘ I have nothing further to say ; you can take 
 your own course. It was my duty to speak, and 
 I have spoken.’ 
 
 ‘ Grey ’ — Roily’s voice was broken ; Roily’s eyes 
 had tears in them — ‘ Grey, just tell me ’ — his voice 
 sank to a whisper — ‘ is it too late 
 
 The Doctor was already at the door ; again he 
 heard the sounds of laughter, and the mingled 
 scents of the house were about him — the close- 
 laden atmosphere of incense and smoke. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know,’ he said abruptly. He waved 
 his hand in the direction of the dining-room. 
 ‘ Tell them all about it ; laugh it over with them. 
 Hell would make a joke of it ! Take those 
 women upstairs and let them hear your daughter’s 
 ravings ; write a column about it afterwards !’ 
 
 He slammed the door after him ; he was gone. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SLOPING-ROOFED attic. When she woke, when 
 she looked up, the roof came down upon her ; 
 there was no room between her and the roof for 
 Marius. Marius must lie closer to her, must 
 crush her ; and all the phantoms that mocked her 
 must have no room to disport in, but must press 
 about her, and make the air heavier and heavier 
 until her eyeballs were on fire with them, and her 
 head stone-heavy. 
 
 She would put up her hot hands and touch that 
 overhanging ceiling, to keep it off, to hold it up. 
 But one day when she woke the ceiling was gone 
 — it had moved higher up, a long way higher up, 
 right out of her reach. And her head v/as lighter, 
 the pain in her eyeballs gone. Marius was no 
 longer there ; the figure by her side was not 
 Marius. 
 
 She opened her eyes and looked at it. 
 
 ‘You are better.?’ someone asked eagerly. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 29 
 
 ‘ Much better,’ she answered, in her weak voice. 
 ‘ Where is the ceiling ?’ 
 
 Roily — it was Roily who stood beside her — felt 
 the tears start to his eyes. Grey had been right. 
 He stooped and kissed her forehead. 
 
 ‘ You are in another room. Get better, Lucilla, 
 get better ; I did not know you were ill.’ 
 
 ‘ You are my father 
 
 A smile stole over her face. It had once been 
 her happy day-dream that her father should know 
 her and love her : the day-dream was coming 
 true. 
 
 Roily sat beside her ; he held her hands, he 
 put his head on the pillow beside her. Weak as 
 water, easily influenced. Roily was repentant. 
 Last night, after Grey left, he dismissed his 
 friends ; he had the girl taken downstairs into a 
 better room ; he kept vigil beside her. Nettie 
 made no objection ; Nettie thought Lucilla was 
 dying, and there would be an end of the annoy- 
 ance she always felt that Roily should have some- 
 one beside herself belonging to him. 
 
 But Roily’s vigil had brought him tender 
 thoughts in which Nettie had had no part. So 
 fair and sweet and pure as Lucilla looked against 
 the pillow, so had her mother looked once. Hell ; 
 
30 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 yes, it was to hell he had sent the mother, and 
 it was through terrible sufferings she had entered 
 the gates. It was hell looming before him ; the 
 shaking, trembling wretch could see its yawning 
 flame and belching mouth in the dark stillness 
 of the night ; but there was a hope for him, a 
 salvation for him ; he seized upon it. He would 
 save Lucilla, he would be good to Lucilla ; it 
 was his only chance. 
 
 The hot fit of repentance and virtue was on 
 Roily just then. He watched by Lucilla ; he 
 caressed her. There awoke in the girl’s heart a 
 passionate love and admiration for her father. 
 She got well so quickly that even Dr. Grey was 
 surprised. The colour came back to her cheeks, 
 the light to her eyes, until one day. Roily, coming 
 up as usual in the morning, found her up and 
 dressed, awaiting him, proud and glad to show 
 him her recovered strength. 
 
 ‘ Why, Lucy, up, dressed, all right again ! 
 That’s jolly. Come down and have some lunch ; 
 it will be a change for you.’ 
 
 She flushed with pleasure. 
 
 ‘ Downstairs — down with you ? Oh, father !’ 
 
 ‘ Why not ? Your proper place is downstairs 
 now ; you have grown too old for the nursery.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 31 
 
 But Roily coloured, for she had been too old 
 for the nursery for a long time, and he had not 
 thought to ask her to leave it. But his spirits 
 had risen during her recovery ; seeing her up and 
 well this morning they rose yet higher ; his 
 mercurial temperament rose as quickly as it fell. 
 
 What a life a girl of seventeen must have led 
 if lunching with her father appeared in the 
 light of such a happiness as it did to poor Lucilla! 
 
 Nettie was not in the drawing-room when they 
 went downstairs. She had an attack of neuralgia — a 
 frequent ailment with Nettie when she was bored 
 — and she had been very much bored since Roily 
 had taken to virtue and nursing his daughter. 
 But the room was not empty. Two men were 
 there, one of whom looked up, struck with 
 astonishment at the figure of Roily supporting 
 this fair and slender child, and Roily was evidently 
 embarrassed by Mordaunt’s look of astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘ Hullo, Mordaunt, you here already ! Hope 
 I haven’t kept you waiting ?’ he said, as he put 
 Lucilla in an easy-chair. ‘ This is my daughter — 
 she’s been ill. Lucy, this is Mordaunt Rivers, my 
 assistant-in-chief. I’d call him my sub-editor, 
 only as he alters most of my “ copy ” and argues 
 
32 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 with me about the rest, I suppose he considers the 
 boot is on the other leg.’ 
 
 ‘ Your father is rather inclined to be “ stodgy,” 
 Miss Lewesham,’ answered Mordaunt easily. ‘ And 
 he is apt to repeat himself : you see, it is difficult 
 to put in the gag with a light hand when you’re 
 “blind.”’ 
 
 ‘ Blind ?’ echoed Lucilla feebly. 
 
 She was feeling very happy, gazing around her 
 with great interest. The two men attracted the 
 least part of her attention ; she leaned back, un- 
 conscious of Mordaunt’s good looks, of the 
 admiring glances Sinclair Furley was casting on 
 her. The self-consciousness that commences to 
 agitate the breast of a girl of seventeen in the 
 presence of the other sex did not touch Lucilla ; 
 her imagination was sexless. The clinging of 
 Marius was all she knew or had experienced of 
 the love of man — an experience that would cool 
 a Messalina. 
 
 But she was no longer to live alone, with the 
 ghost of Marius, in the nurseries : that was the 
 joy of it ! 
 
 She sat at her father’s side, she was introduced 
 to his friends, and she felt happy ; the sadness 
 died out of her eyes, that were humid with pleasure, 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 33 
 
 and Mordaunt Rivers, who at first observed her 
 ,/ith something like interest, thought : 
 
 ‘ Heartless little devil ! Might be Nettie’s own 
 daughter. Her twin brother hasn’t been dead a 
 month, and she is as jolly as a grig.’ 
 
 Mordaunt, of course, did not know what sort 
 of an only brother Marius had been, and could not 
 take into consideration Lucilla’s sense of freedom 
 from the incubus that had weighed her down, her 
 intense wish and hopefulness for the love — the 
 paternal love — she had missed until now. 
 
 Lucilla forgot to grieve for Marius, not, as 
 Mordaunt thought, in the pleasures of the table, 
 or the furtive admiring glances of Sinclair Furley, 
 for, in truth, she paid no attention to the former, 
 and never saw the latter ; but simply because 
 there was a kindly glance in her father’s eyes 
 when he looked at her, a kindly touch now and 
 then, a remembrance of, and affection for her. 
 
 It was a small luncheon-party for Southampton 
 Row, where open house was kept at all meals. 
 Mordaunt was always there; his brown beard and 
 gray eyes were familiar features. The habituh 
 were accustomed to his cool cynicism, to the way 
 he snubbed Roily, and the way Roily depended 
 upon him, and was influenced by him, though 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Lucilla took some time to get accustomed to it. 
 Some said that, with all Roily’s cleverness, if 
 there had been no Mordaunt there would have 
 been no Footlights ; certainly the journal owed a 
 great deal to his versatile pen. 
 
 Sinclair Furley was a protege, almost, one might 
 say, an invention of Roily’s. He was English by 
 birth, but French by nature, sympathies, and 
 education. Two or three years ago Roily had 
 heard him in Paris at a very third-rate cafe 
 chantant, and had enthusiastically and promptly 
 imported him for the ‘ Leggeries.’ There he 
 would have been — was, indeed — a success : but as 
 obscenity was sprawled in large letters over his 
 every song and every gesture, a timely hint from 
 headquarters cut short his stage career. Now he 
 had two columns to himself in Footlights., entitled 
 ‘ Bonbons,’ written in the broadest French, trans- 
 lated into the mildest English, in which the 
 humour of the whole thing consisted. By descent 
 he was a gentleman, yet he did not disdain an 
 engagement at the Passion-flower Club — that 
 famous resort for hereditary legislators and ladies 
 of the stage. Roily had introduced him there. 
 Soul and body were narrow and mean ; he fixed 
 his fish-like eyes on Lucilla, gloating over the 
 beauty that even in this undeveloped first period 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 35 
 
 of her girlhood, was rare and exotic. A gold and 
 white harmony of hair and skin, with touches of 
 perfect colour in the blue and rose of eyes and lips. 
 
 ‘ What an exquisite child !’ he murmured under 
 his breath ; but he need not have been so careful, 
 for Lucilla heard, but paid no heed, and cared not. 
 
 Two more men dropped in later — Sinclair’s 
 brother Tom and Lord Lusher. The first, a 
 journalist with little to do, and much time to do 
 it in, which he lavished freely in the company of 
 anyone who would supply him with free smokes, 
 free drinks, and a little ‘ ready ’ now and then. 
 The other, a gentleman, very youthful, who, 
 having had his first attack of D.T. in Roily’s 
 house, after one of Roily’s supper-parties, felt 
 himself under an obligation that his constant 
 company could alone repay. 
 
 They talked and ate and drank — Roily pro- 
 fusely hospitable, more and more brilliant as the 
 wine went round, but occasionally remembering 
 to pay his daughter this or that attention of the 
 table. Lucilla was very quiet, listening a great 
 deal, answering in monosyllables v/hen spoken to, 
 and striving very hard to follow what was going on. 
 
 Tom Furley and Mordaunt had been to a 
 funeral that morning, and they were discussing it. 
 Roily joining in. 
 
36 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Had to stand all the time ; no press tickets, 
 and no stalls,’ said Tom. 
 
 ‘ Poor old Muggins ! he had to take a back seat 
 himself — front row was all engaged,’ retorted 
 Roily, who had not been to Willesden, but could 
 not let a joke pass. 
 
 ‘ He was late, too,’ grumbled Tom, with his 
 mouth full of pigeon-pie. 
 
 ‘ Very. His duns think he should have been 
 there years ago ; they’d have been a bit in pocket.’ 
 
 ‘Are you going to notice the performance.?’ 
 asked Lord Lusher, waking up from the contem- 
 plation of his glass, and suddenly realizing that they 
 had been somewhere, he had not gathered where. 
 
 The joke told. 
 
 ‘ Of course, we’re going to slate it,’ answered 
 Mordaunt quickly. ‘ The rev. gentleman spoke 
 his lines too slowly.’ 
 
 ‘ And the leading performers never spoke at all.’ 
 
 ‘And Rivers gagged, so I couldn’t catch the 
 refrain,’ etc. 
 
 Lucilla was very much at sea. They spoke an 
 argot of their own, these contributors to the 
 Guzzler's Gazette., these popular members of the 
 ‘ Cormorant ’ Club and the ‘ Ooferies ’ — an argot 
 that she could not follow. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 37 
 
 In deference to her innocence, which they could 
 not ignore — to her youth, which they could not 
 overlook — they left out the good stories about 
 Totties and Maudies and Claras who were not 
 ‘ De Vere but even then they had a large field 
 equally barren to her. But after a time, when 
 they left the luncheon table and wxnt into another 
 room to smoke, Roland as well as the others forgot 
 Lucilla’s presence. They grew interested in some 
 new operetta that was being discussed — more men 
 dropped in ; the arguments grew warm. 
 
 She sat quietly in a corner and listened ; she 
 was quite happy in being unnoticed. She felt 
 terribly ignorant, and was quite astonished at the 
 number of words and phrases she could not under- 
 stand. The celebrities they seemed to be discussing 
 she had never heard of. She put her darkness down 
 to defective education, and made an inward resolve 
 to ask her father, that dear father of hers, to help 
 her to learn — to tell her what she must read to 
 make herself more fit to be a companion for him. 
 
 Every now and then she would meet Sinclair 
 Furley’s eyes fixed upon her ; they would make her 
 feel uncomfortable, and she would look the other 
 way. His lank and unlovely countenance, the 
 sickly yellowness of the face under the straight 
 black hair, repelled her. 
 
38 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Lord Lusher’s beardless face and bloodshot eyes, 
 his knock-kneed youth, his besotted and feeble man- 
 hood, did not arrest her eyes. Even Tom Furley’s 
 untidy bigness presented no attractions for her. 
 
 But all the attention she could spare from her 
 father was devoted to Mordaunt Rivers. His tall 
 easy figure, his broad shoulders, appealed to her. 
 She thought the mouth with its well-trimmed 
 brown beard looked kind when he smiled, and he 
 smiled often ; she thought his eyes were nice when 
 they followed his mouth in the smiling. She 
 admired the deftness of his hands as he rolled up 
 his cigarettes ; his nails were trimmed to the finger- 
 tips ; his fingers were long, and there was a muscu- 
 larity about them that one noted in none of the 
 others. She had ample time to note all these things, 
 even the cling of the gray morning suit, the neat 
 boots, the white cuffs ; she noticed and watched, 
 because no one spoke to her. Her father’s guests 
 had not found her interesting; she was too young, 
 too little in their world. Sinclair would have 
 liked to have conversed with her just to have seen 
 ‘ what she was made of,’ but he had an appoint- 
 ment, and went away soon after lunch. She 
 would have liked Mordaunt Rivers to have taken 
 some notice of her, she thought, but he did not 
 then. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The reception-rooms in Southampton Row were 
 curious — they all opened into each other like a set 
 of Japanese boxes. Four rooms in all, the one in 
 front, which was used as a dining-room, being the 
 largest ; from that they grew gradually smaller 
 until the end one, which was little more than an 
 extensive recess. They were all untidy, artistic, 
 scrappy. Chippendale furniture, old prints and 
 caricatures on the walls, curtains in dirty art 
 colours hanging wherever curtains were possible ; 
 blue china and pampas grasses filled up corners ; 
 portraits of every type of actresses and professional 
 beauties, framed and unframed, on easels and on 
 walls, testified to the tastes of the inhabitants. 
 
 It was close on four o’clock when Nettie came 
 into the smoke-laden atmosphere ; for one pecu- 
 liarity of this build of room is that the fumes 
 of tobacco penetrate from one to another and 
 linger always in the portieres and draperies. 
 
40 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 She came into the room with an expression on her 
 face of serious ill-health, attired in a clinging tea- 
 gown that accorded well with her expression. The 
 hahituds of the house gathered her mood at once 
 from her face ; for ill-health they read at once ill- 
 temper, and prepared at once for its ebullition. 
 Roland recognised it too ; he was used to it, and 
 prepared for battle. 
 
 What was the secret of the influence Nettie had 
 over Roland it would be difficult to discover ; yet 
 their frequent quarrels never resulted in anything 
 but the consolidation of her position ; and they 
 had already lived together nearly ten years ! 
 Nettie’s was a rudimentary nature ; there was no 
 finish about her — passionate, ill-considered, un- 
 reasonable, a violent temper, and an entire absence 
 of reticence. She was an Irishwoman, and must 
 once have had all the proverbial beauty of her 
 race ; but the years, most of them spent behind 
 the footlights, had robbed her of freshness. Her 
 features were still small and good ; but she had 
 supplemented the fading brilliancy of her hair with 
 aureoline, of her cheeks and lips with carmine, of 
 her eyes v/ith kohl. 
 
 ‘Poof! how close this room is! You might 
 have had more consideration for me, when you 
 
A BABE JN BOHEMIA. 
 
 41 
 
 know how frightfully bad my neuralgia has been/ 
 she commenced ; but as she was adding to the 
 denseness of the apartment by smoking a cigarette 
 as she entered, the remark lost something of Its 
 point. 
 
 One or two men got up quickly to hand her a 
 chair, but, rejecting them, she went on : 
 
 ‘ Thank you ; Roily has got my chair, though 
 he had not the civility to offer It me.’ 
 
 Roland elevated his eyebrows, but made no 
 effort to rise. 
 
 ‘ And since when has this been your particular 
 chair ?’ he asked ; for time had robbed their Inter- 
 course of its little courtesies. 
 
 The conversation was entirely suspended while 
 the visitors waited to see what v/as the next move of 
 the little termagant. One or two, however, found 
 they had pressing appointments — a not uncommon 
 occurrence when Nettie was, in the language of 
 the clique, ‘ Cattle ’ — and hastened to make their 
 adieux. But others waited to see what was the 
 real cause of the so-called neuralgia ; for the 
 ailment was rarely autogenic, but had its rise in 
 external circumstances, which she generally ex- 
 posed naively without much delay. 
 
 With the air of a martyr she took a low chair 
 
42 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and sat silent for a few moments, puffing with short, 
 jerky, feminine puffs at her cigarette ; her head 
 supported on her hands, and her attitude and 
 expression intended to denote acute suffering. 
 
 An unlucky sneeze from Lucilla in her retreat 
 gave Nettie the very opening she was looking 
 for. 
 
 ‘What on earth is that child doing here.?’ she 
 asked, sitting suddenly up and staring at her as if 
 utterly shocked and startled at the apparition. 
 
 But no one was taken in by her. The moment 
 the words had left her lips Roland knew as well as 
 if he had been upstairs while she was dressing that 
 one of the household had detailed to her the 
 history of Lucilla’s appearance on the scene, and it 
 was this she was about to resent. He wondered 
 he had not guessed it before ; and, of course, her 
 tone aroused the antagonistic part of his weak 
 nature, and even before he answered his determina- 
 tion in Lucilla’s favour was riveted. 
 
 ‘What should she be doing here.?’ he answered, 
 sitting up in his chair and preparing for the fray. 
 
 ‘ Is not a daughter’s proper place in her father’s 
 drawing-room .?’ 
 
 ‘ I did not know you kept a lunatic asylum,’ said 
 Nettie, relapsing into her attitude of agony. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 43 
 
 Roland flushed with the anger that she always 
 had power to arouse in him : 
 
 ‘ You ought to,’ he answered savagely, ‘ since I 
 always keep you here.’ 
 
 It was curious to notice the utter want of 
 restraint they exhibited toward each other, not- 
 withstanding the presence of their friends — curious 
 and, in one sense, disgusting ; for it was an indica- 
 tion of the fact that these two people not only 
 disregarded the laws of conventional morality, but 
 even of commonplace decency. 
 
 Fortunately Lucilla did not hear this remark. 
 She had noted the hard glance of dislike that 
 Nettie gave her when she entered, and had fled 
 from the room, back to the solitude she knew so 
 well. 
 
 But her father fought her battle right fatherly. 
 His obstinacy was aroused ; he had all the wordy 
 obstinacy of weakness. 
 
 ‘ She is old enough to take her place in society ; 
 I’m not going to have her shoved up in a back 
 room and forgotten. There’s enough room for 
 you both in the house, God knows !’ he said, after 
 a few more bitter words had passed, and the little 
 knot of men began to disperse into the various 
 
 rooms. 
 
44 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Society !’ sneered Nettie. ‘ Pretty society ’ — ■ 
 she knew Roily’s tender points, and social position 
 had once been an ambition of his — ‘ a lot of bar- 
 loafers and penny-a-liners !’ 
 
 Nettie, in a rage, had no scruples as to whom 
 she insulted. It is only fair to say that those who 
 knew her never resented what she said ; and those 
 who did not were soon enlightened, and took their 
 own course. 
 
 ‘ Good enough for you, anyhow — you and your 
 pals, Jenny Farrell and Tessie Gay.’ 
 
 ‘ Quite as good as an old farmer and a henwife.’ 
 
 ‘ Shut up, you ’ 
 
 ‘ I shan’t. I won’t have my house made Into an 
 asylum. I won’t have her gibbering and raving at 
 me. She’s an idiot ; you know she is an idiot ! 
 I hate idiots ! She’ll be having fits in the drawing- 
 room, and in the streets, and all over the place. 
 She’ll be foaming at the mouth. I won’t have it !’ 
 
 Nettie stamped her foot in her rage. 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers, who had not stirred during 
 the controversy, but had stood against the mantel- 
 piece watching and listening with an amused 
 smile, thought it time to interfere. Nettle had 
 lost control over herself ; Roland was white and 
 speechless with rage. In another moment they 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 45 
 
 would have been throwing things at each other — 
 the way their battles generally ended. Mordaunt 
 was the only person on earth who had any 
 influence on Nettie. 
 
 ‘ Nettie,’ he said coolly, ‘ why don’t you let the 
 matter rest ? You know Roily is right. Some- 
 thing must be done vdth the girl ; she is not a 
 child any longer.’ 
 
 ‘ I’m not going to mind his bastards !’ 
 
 Roland interrupted with an oath ; but Mordaunt 
 pushed him on one side. 
 
 ‘ Don’t interfere ; what is it to you .?’ said 
 Nettie. 
 
 ‘ Only I like peace, and I want a drink ; I can’t 
 have either while you two are sparring like two 
 cats.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, you can ring for one, I suppose. You 
 don’t want me to do it for you 
 
 Still, his ruse was partially successful ; and by 
 dint of asking Nettie’s advice about some point 
 they had been discussing, and changing the con- 
 versation generally, the matter of Lucilla was 
 dropped for the time being. The other men 
 rallied to his aid ; they were all sick of the 
 wrangling. Other callers dropped in ; tea and 
 brandies- and-' sodas, cigars and cigarettes were 
 
46 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 produced, and the atmosphere cleared a little. 
 Nettie recovered her amiability, and even danced 
 a breakdown to Tom Furley’s accompaniment, to 
 emphasize how badly Tottie had done it the first 
 night of the new burlesque at the ‘ Jollity.’ And 
 then Tottie came round on her way from rehearsal, 
 and Jenny dropped in with Dicky Dormer, and 
 they all laughed and talked and flirted and drank, 
 and Lucilla was forgotten, and all the harsh words 
 were as if they had never been uttered. 
 
 The afternoon waned, and there was a general 
 move. Some were going to dress for dinner, some 
 had to go down to the theatre ; Nettie and Roily, 
 v/ith two or three of the others, were due at the 
 first night of a new piece. 
 
 Roland took an opportunity to say to Mordaunt : 
 
 ‘ Calm Nettie down, will you, there’s a good 
 fellow } I’m not going to leave that girl alone ; 
 I shall take her with us to the “ Jollity.” ’ 
 
 ‘ I shouldn’t, if I were you. She isn’t very 
 strong ; she has only just got over an illness, and 
 her brother’s death, and all that sort of thing. 
 Don’t rush it. Give Nettie time to get used to 
 her, and all will come right.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you think it will .^’ asked Roland doubtfully ; 
 ‘ Nettie’s got the devil’s own temper ! Tell her 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 47 
 
 not to make a fool of herself, there’s a good chap. 
 Help me a bit ; you know I’m right, don’t you?’ 
 
 Roland always expected someone to help him ; 
 he was always leaning on someone, and never 
 walked without some human crutch. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know whether you’re right. For God’s 
 sake, don’t talk to me here about right and wrong ! 
 It is enough for me that you want the girl about 
 you, and Nettie doesn’t. All I’ve got to do is to 
 try and keep the peace between you, so that things 
 are not made uncomfortable all round, and the 
 paper doesn’t suffer through the lack of combi- 
 nation, That’s all that concerns me. By the 
 way’ — carelessly — ‘I suppose the girl is all 
 right ?’ 
 
 Roily got white ; he looked as if he could have 
 struck his friend. Mordaunt put his hand on his 
 shoulder. ^ 
 
 ‘ Don’t make a fool of yourself. Roily ; I did 
 not want to offend you. I heard the boy was — 
 was a bit groggy, so I just asked, that’s all.’ 
 
 ‘ She is all right,’ answered Roily, in a muffled 
 voice ; ‘ there has never been anything the matter 
 with her.’ 
 
 Alas, for poor Lucilla and her high hopes in 
 Roily ! Roily was a very grave of dead hopes. 
 
48 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 He stuck to his guns gallantly, Lucilla was not 
 to go back to her attic-room ; she was to lunch 
 with them every day, to dine with them, to go out 
 with them sometimes. He issued his orders, and 
 somehow or other, never mind what arguments 
 Mordaunt used, they were obeyed. Lucilla lunched 
 downstairs, dined downstairs, sat about and listened 
 to the gay talk she could not understand, to the 
 laughter for which she never saw the provocation, 
 to the gossip of which she never held the cue. 
 
 But still — but still she was not very happy. She 
 tried so hard to understand ; she failed so miserably 
 in understanding. And then it seemed to her that 
 the loving-kindness had fed from her father’s eyes, 
 and there was in them instead when he looked at 
 her a fear that he never put into words. 
 
 And Nettie ? Nettie never scolded her, never 
 said to her any of those harsh things she said to 
 those around her, never molested her in any way. 
 But, then, on the other hand, Nettie never said a 
 kind nor an encouraging word to her. She 
 looked at her always with cold dislike ; the sensi- 
 tive girl felt she was always in the way, always the 
 fifth wheel of the coach, the one person not wanted 
 in that generous open household. 
 
 Her manners became timid and deprecating ; 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 49 
 
 her ignorance weighed upon her. One day she 
 asked her father if she might have a governess — if 
 she might try and learn something. Roily was 
 trying very hard to do his duty by the girl, but it 
 was hard with Nettie against him. All his better 
 nature, all his gentle boyhood, rose up in him when 
 the girl looked at him appealingly with her blue 
 eyes, when she touched him timidly with her 
 soft lips, when she called him ‘ father ’ in loving 
 tones. 
 
 But he was used to Nettie, and to his mode of 
 life — to drinking and loose living, and even looser 
 talking. The loose talk seemed to him a sacrilege 
 before those innocent eyes. The girl reproached 
 him by her presence, and he felt uncomfortable in 
 his own home. 
 
 Then, again, Nettie and Mordaunt together had 
 poisoned the well-spring of his love. He could 
 not help watching Lucilla for the signs of a malady 
 she had not — could not help listening for a well- 
 remembered shriek, such as had driven Marius, 
 even in his babyhood, from him. 
 
 Weak Roily wavered and shirked and com- 
 promised ; and Mordaunt Rivers had his work 
 cut out to keep the peace. 
 
 4 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was natural Nettie should rebel against the 
 ukase. To have a girl-child always about her, 
 dogging her heels when Roland was absent, noting 
 what went on, and judging it from a child’s own 
 standpoint, did not suit her mode of life at all. 
 
 Under the constant sense of irritation she grew 
 neuralgic and snappish and quarrelsome ; and 
 what with that, and with Roily’s uneasiness and 
 scruples about certain anecdotes and certain stories 
 when told before the girl, things began to be un- 
 comfortable all round. 
 
 Lucilla was a restraint. There was no disguising^ 
 the fact ; there was a looseness in the very air of 
 the house — a looseness of manners and talk that 
 was seriously interfered with by her presence. 
 Footlights permeated the home atmosphere — all 
 the choicest anecdotes were first brought there ; 
 were clipped and arranged in such a form as should 
 be compatible v/ith the tone of the paper ; were 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 51 
 
 arranged, rearranged, added to, over lunch, during 
 dinner, or in the hour devoted to afternoon tea 
 and brandies -and -sodas. Realistic stories were 
 read aloud ; Roland believed in the future of 
 realism ; in literature it was a comprehensive term 
 with him. The poems were recited with be- 
 coming emphasis. The correspondence of the 
 paper was commented upon and enjoyed publicly ; 
 and the correspondence of Footlights was curious 
 in tone. Anecdotes, whose bestiality outweighed 
 their wit, were sent in freely, and, although not 
 published, often formed the theme for a brilliant 
 reply ; others with wit and bestiality about equally 
 proportioned generally found admission, with the 
 assistance of either Roland’s or Rivers’s magic 
 journalistic turn. 
 
 Anecdotes were banished, and correspondence 
 relegated to the office, during the first w'eeks of 
 Roily’s infatuation for Lucilla ; and Nettie had to 
 chafe under the fact that they were now enjoying 
 in private what they had alv/ays hitherto enjoyed 
 with her. She felt it was hard on her, and it un- 
 doubtedly was ; for although she was not witty or 
 brilliant in the true acceptation of the terms, she 
 could appreciate and enjoy the wit of others, 
 particularly on unsavoury topics, and she was in- 
 
 4—2 
 
 
52 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 defatigable in fishing up information from the 
 dust-heap of life behind the scenes. 
 
 The ‘ staff’ missed her, and she missed them. 
 Lucilla’s appearance revolutionized the house, and 
 nobody, even including Lucilla herself, was happier 
 for the change. Nettie’s acuteness soon perceived 
 that Roily was wavering in his fancy for Lucilla, 
 that Dr. Grey’s warning to him was fading from 
 his mind, that the girl was beginning to bore him. 
 Still, he did not confess it; he continually insisted 
 on her appearance ; but he was out a great deal 
 more, and this Nettie resented, although she con- 
 tinued by her conduct to render him uncomfortable 
 at home. Certain things and certain people he 
 still insisted should be kept from the girl, but 
 personally he avoided her pale wistful face when- 
 ever it was possible. 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers was a very old friend of 
 Nettie’s — their friendship dated even further back 
 than her connection with Roland. 
 
 Nettie sat in the easy-chair by the fireside, the 
 dulness of the day hiding her lines of age, and 
 softening the incongruities of her complexion. The 
 room was crowded with broken knick-knacks that 
 spoke of orgies past — it made no pretence to what 
 Nettie always termed contemptuously ‘middle-class 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 S3 
 
 cleanliness’ — but was cosy and warm in its dust 
 and disorder. 
 
 Mordaunt lounged in the chair opposite to her 
 while she confided her grievance to him. He was 
 well supplied with material comforts — a half- 
 finished brandy- and-soda by his side, and a box 
 of cigarettes open before him. He knew Nettie 
 thoroughly ; but whatever their past acquaintance 
 may have been, in the present his feeling for her 
 was perfectly compatible with the duty he owed 
 his employer’s wife. 
 
 Lucilla had gone to a picture-gallery with her 
 father, so they had no fear of an interruption to 
 their tete-a-tHe. 
 
 ‘ I wanted to speak to you,’ said Nettie com- 
 plainingly, ‘ but I never seem to have an oppor- 
 tunity now.’ 
 
 Mordaunt laughed quietly, understanding well 
 her plaint. 
 
 ‘ What do you want to speak to me about Do 
 you want to know what was the row between 
 Maude Ponsonby and his lordship ?’ 
 
 ‘No.’ 
 
 ‘ Or why they have changed the girl who was 
 fourth from the right in the Gaiety chorus — the 
 one with long plaits and bandy legs ?’ 
 
54 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 ‘No, no ; that wasn’t it ! But why have they V 
 eagerly, 
 
 ‘ Why, simply because she has accepted a seat 
 
 in the carriage of the old Duke of B , and a 
 
 pound a week is no longer valuable to her. But 
 if that wasn’t what you wanted to ask me about, 
 what was it ? Nothing else has happened that I 
 know of.’ 
 
 Nettie, debarred from many female joys and 
 companionships, found her consolation in the 
 gossip of the coulisses, and Mordaunt Rivers was 
 her purveyor-in-chief of this peculiar mental diet. 
 
 ‘ It is that girl,’ she said slowly. 
 
 ‘ That girl ’ unconsciously had been much in 
 Mordaunt’s mind lately. 
 
 ‘ Well .?’ 
 
 ‘ Roily insists upon having her always hanging 
 about.’ 
 
 ‘ Is he getting jealous of you in his old age and 
 employing her as ’tec he inquired, puffing out 
 his smoke quietly. 
 
 A sneer was as much lost on Nettie as a rebuke 
 from the Chair on an Irish member. 
 
 ‘ No, no, it is not that ; but he thinks she has 
 been neglected.’ 
 
 ‘So he wants you to introduce her into society.^’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 55 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ Wdl ?’ 
 
 ‘ Well,’ she broke out impatiently, ‘ I loathe girls ; 
 and I hate being spied over ! I hate her stupid 
 ways of looking as if she doesn’t understand half 
 that is said to her ! I hate her v/hen she tries to 
 look knowing, and I hate her when she looks 
 innocent ! Bah ! it’s beastly !’ 
 
 ‘ What, her innocence?’ 
 
 ‘ The whole thing.’ 
 
 Mordaunt threw the end of his cigarette in the 
 fire and stood up, leaning against the dust-covered 
 mantelpiece, with its mass of ornament, cigar- 
 ends, and stains of sticky glasses. He was a tall 
 man, somewhere between thirty-five and forty ; 
 handsome as far as small features and blue eyes 
 can make beauty ; manly so far as a well-trimmed 
 brown beard and moustache can make manliness. 
 His expression was insouciant — a sneer had become 
 habitual to his lips. He despised everybody and 
 everything about him — read them, saw their vices 
 more prominently than their virtues ; despised 
 himself for his life and his associates, but knew he 
 was unfit for any other. What his youth had been, 
 or who had been his parents, no one knew. The 
 little world he lived in knew of him only that he 
 
56 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 was an excellent journalist, and it was currently 
 believed in it that Mordaunt could have done any- 
 thing he chose. Why he did not choose to do 
 anything, why he had no ambitions, they never 
 inquired. If he was celebrated among them for 
 one thing more than another, it was for the 
 absolutely low opinion he had of women ; he saw 
 in them all the masculine vices, without any of the 
 redeeming masculine virtues. On one occasion 
 when he was giving vent to these opinions. Roily, 
 who knew what a good woman was, had remarked : 
 
 ‘ One would think, to hear you talk, that you’d 
 never had a mother. Rivers.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, I had,’ he replied bitterly ; ‘ that’s 
 just why.’ 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers was frequently in Southampton 
 Row, and Nettie always amused him. There was 
 so little disguise about her ; she was a living 
 exemplification of all his theories about women. 
 Irresponsible, passionate, changeable, with a cat- 
 like fondness for warmth and comfort ; no prin- 
 ciple, no further guiding motive than gratification 
 of her momentary whims — a flower of the foot- 
 lights now running to seed. 
 
 He caressed his beard while he observed her 
 and thought over her perplexity. It was a pity she 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 57 
 
 should be made uncomfortable ; she had a habit of 
 making things devilishly unpleasant for everybody 
 when she was uncomfortable. And all about 
 Roily’s girl, too — Roily’s girl, who had enjoyed 
 her lunch after her brother’s funeral, and whose 
 beautiful blue eyes Sinclair Furley had looked at 
 admiringly. 
 
 ‘ It’s hard lines on you,’ he said sympathetically. 
 
 Nettie smoked incessantly ; when she was ‘ put 
 out ’ her cigarette became more necessary than 
 ever ; her short, jerky, feminine puffs seemed to 
 help her. 
 
 ‘ Hard lines ! I should think it is. I won’t 
 stand it, that’s about the size of it.’ 
 
 ‘ What will you do ?’ he asked, elevating his 
 eyebrows and smiling curiously. 
 
 ‘Do— do; I’ll ’ 
 
 They looked at each other, and Nettie reddened. 
 
 ‘ You’ll leave him Mordaunt laughed outright 
 — a low pleasant laugh. ‘ Don’t make a fool of 
 yourself, Nettie ! Roily and yourself are settled 
 for life.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t see why,’ she answered viciously. 
 
 ‘ Well, I do,’ he replied coolly. ‘ In the first 
 place, you can’t do better any longer ; and, in the 
 second, you are quite devoted to him ; and the 
 
58 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 only thing you are suffering from now is 
 jealousy.’ 
 
 ‘ Jealousy of Roily ! Rot ! Did I interfere 
 when he mashed that slack-rope woman ? Did I 
 make a fuss when he took Jenny about with him, 
 and everybody was talking about it.^’ 
 
 ‘ No, you didn’t, any more than he interferes 
 with you and Antonelli, or Captain Anderson, 
 or Charlie, or half-a-dozen others. But that is 
 nothing to do with it. You don’t like having this 
 girl hanging about ; and you’ve been in the devil’s 
 own temper over it these last few weeks! Now 
 the question is: What are you going to do ?’ 
 
 Both of them smoked quietly for a moment or 
 two. Mordaunt could say to Nettie what no one 
 else dared ; he frequently mediated between her 
 and Roland — in fact, if it can be said that Nettie 
 respected anyone, Mordaunt Rivers was that one. 
 She knew now what he had said was true — a 
 mutual tolerance was the basis of what matri- 
 monial peace they enjoyed. 
 
 ‘ Roily is as obstinate as a mule when he gets an 
 idea into his head,’ she grumbled. 
 
 ‘ He is in the right, you knov/,’ continued her 
 chosen adviser, quietly rolling up another cigarette. 
 ‘ What is he to do with the girl.^ you can’t expect 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 59 
 
 him to keep her always in the nursery. You had 
 better make up your mind to put up with the 
 nuisance ; he will tire of his intense affection very 
 soon, you will find.’ 
 
 ‘ Her “ youth and innocence ” that he talks 
 about make me sick.’ 
 
 ‘ You were young once, and I suppose you were 
 even innocent once ?’ 
 
 He laughed, and she laughed, as if the idea of 
 Nettie’s innocence at any period of her life must 
 have been a joke. 
 
 ‘ I suppose it won’t last long,’ she said, when 
 she had finished laughing. 
 
 ‘ Which .?’ 
 
 ‘ Both ; but particularly her innocence.’ 
 
 ‘ Well,’ he replied, looking round him, ‘ it is 
 certainly a curious atmosphere for innocence to 
 fiourish in.’ 
 
 There fell a silence between them. Mordaunt’s 
 cigarette went out, and looking around him, think- 
 ing for a moment in the light of Lucilla’s eyes on 
 the aspect of the society with which he had chosen 
 to surround himself, he could not but see it 
 differently. The woman before him in her loose 
 tea-gown, her pearl-powder, her paint — the many- 
 scentedness that always hangs about such women 
 
6o 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 — Struck him with a momentary sense of distaste, 
 disgust. 
 
 Nettie was silent for a different reason ; his 
 words struck a chord in her strange mind. 
 
 ‘ D innocence !’ she said at length. 
 
 ‘ Don’t,’ he said quietly ; ‘ it d s itself soon 
 
 enough.’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! you mean ’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t mean anything,’ he said, hurriedly 
 rising. 
 
 ‘ Mordaunt ’ — she rose and put her arms, falling 
 back bare from her loose-sleeved gown, on his 
 shoulders — ‘ Mordaunt, old pal. I’ve got an idea !’ 
 
 He looked into her eyes, saw all the wrinkles, 
 powder, paint — saw through them all ; he had no 
 illusions about her. 
 
 ‘ Well, what is it ?’ he asked, not unkindly. 
 
 ‘ Roily’s sick of her innocence. I’m sick of her 
 innocence ; who cares a curse about innocence ?’ 
 
 ‘ Speak out ; what is in your mind ?’ 
 
 Did Nettie, even Nettie, redden a little under 
 the paint ? 
 
 ‘ Nothing ; but ’ — her tone was significant — ‘ it 
 wont last long' 
 
 Mordaunt put her arms fi*om about him. 
 
 ‘ What will you do, Nettie?’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 6i 
 
 He wanted to hear, he wanted to assure himself, 
 how base a woman could be. 
 
 ‘ I will — I will,’ she answered, mocking him, 
 her spirits rising at some thought that was shaping 
 itself — ‘ I will do — nothing. I will let her run 
 loose. I will be a more lenient stepmother.’ She 
 laughed ; Mordaunt thought it a hateful laugh. 
 ‘ Roland would soon cease to be so proud of his 
 daughter if — if ’ 
 
 ‘ If she goes wrong ’ — he finished the sentence 
 for her — ‘ and you intend not putting any obstacles 
 in her way should she have the inclination?’ 
 
 ‘ That’s it ; you’ve hit it ! I’ll give her her 
 head a bit ; I’ll ’ 
 
 Nettie grew thoughtful ; there was another 
 pause. 
 
 ‘ Well ?’ he said. 
 
 He was curious ; he wanted to know what 
 lengths she would go to, this tiger-cat of a 
 woman, whose jealousy was directed so bitterly 
 against the girl who had the misfortune to be 
 her stepdaughter. 
 
 ‘ Well — nothing,’ she answered. 
 
 The hot fit had passed away ; Nettie could 
 only be spasmodically, not deliberately, villainous. 
 
 ‘ You will try and corrupt the girl as quickly as 
 
62 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 you can. If she tries to climb out of such a 
 morass as this, you’ll give her a shove back, that’s 
 all, isn’t it What villains you women are !’ 
 
 He flipped away the ash with his fingers ; he 
 was stirred by some emotion that v/as strange to 
 him. 
 
 Nettie looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 ‘ What is villainous about it ? I am not going 
 to do anything ; I am going to let things slide, 
 that is all.’ 
 
 ‘ Quite right, quite right,’ he said quickly. ‘ It 
 serves her right ; girls had no right to get them- 
 selves born in Bohemia. I don’t know that any- 
 thing better could happen to her than to get over 
 it all quickly — the disgust, and — scruples — and all 
 that sort of thing. She will enjoy herself more 
 afterwards ; she doesn’t look over-happy now, 
 poor little devil ! Get it over as quick as you 
 can, Nettie. Command me, if I can be of any 
 assistance to you. I’m ofr’ — he took his leave 
 abruptly — ‘ I hear that brute Antonelli’s voice in 
 the hall. Good-bye ! I wish you luck and a speedy 
 success.’ 
 
 Nettie, too, had heard the voice of her latest 
 hanger-on. She sat up and examined herself 
 critically in the fancy hand-mirror lying on the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 63 
 
 mantelshelf. She added a necessary touch of 
 powder quickly. Lucilla faded at once and com- 
 pletely from her mercurial mind. 
 
 ‘ Do I look all right V she asked him. 
 
 But he had no time to answer. He got into 
 the air as quickly as he could ; it seemed to him 
 he could not breathe much longer in that room. 
 He had no delusions about Nettie, or, for the 
 matter of that, about any woman. But to listen 
 this afternoon — to see the purpose dawn in Nettie’s 
 eyes, and so calmly ; to see her devote the child 
 to such a life as she had led herself, and be so 
 untouched by it that at Antonelli’s entrance she 
 could forget it all, and go on with her old flirta- 
 tions and exert her well-worn fascinations — it 
 sickened him. Lucilla’s child-like face flitted 
 before him ; it was horrible, it was beastly, to see 
 how anxious this woman was to wipe out the 
 childishness of the face ! 
 
 Mordaunt knew as weil as Nettie did that it 
 could not last long ; he had put it all into words 
 for her. Nothing pure or virtuous could last long 
 at 200, Southampton Row. 
 
 That evening at the Cormorant Club his talk 
 was more bitter, more cynical, than ever. Roily 
 was there applauding two burly prize-fighters who 
 
64 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 were giving an exhibition of their skill — Roily, 
 half-drunk as usual, talking as fast as he could, 
 weak and muddled and vicious ; never had Mor- 
 daunt felt so bitter a contempt for him, and for 
 himself, in that this man was his friend. 
 
 The face of the girl-child — a girl-child with 
 Roily and Nettie for father and mother — haunted 
 him ; and he found it so difficult to forget that 
 he actually avoided Southampton Row for the 
 next week or two, until he had succeeded in calm- 
 ing down his feelings of pity, and restoring himself 
 to his normal state of indifference to vice and 
 virtue, and all that makes up the difference 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Lucilla had been with her father to a picture- 
 gallery ; and the excursion had been a failure, as 
 all their excursions together had been failures. 
 They had been to the Society of British Artists, 
 and it was the time when James Whistler was 
 president of that respectable institute. Lucilla’s 
 uneducated eye had been unable to see through 
 the mistiness of Whistler into his genius, and 
 Mr. Stott, of Oldham, had been a nightmare to 
 her. 
 
 Her father had seemed disappointed at her want 
 of enthusiasm. In point of fact. Roily had not 
 found her companionable, and it was very patent to 
 the girl that this was so. She wept over it when 
 she returned home to the solitude of her room ; 
 the habit of weeping was growing upon her. 
 
 She was so desperately lonely, this young and pretty 
 girl ; she was lonely when with her father, lonely in 
 the gay company in the drawing-room ; a some- 
 thing different from other people, a something apart. 
 
 5 
 
65 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 She felt she was no use, she felt she was not 
 wanted ; and she craved desperately, as a girl will 
 crave, to be something to somebody ; to occupy a 
 niche of her own, instead of being out in the cold. 
 It is a dangerous state of mind for a girl to be in ; 
 for she is apt to think any niche vx^ill fit her, to take 
 any that is handy. 
 
 This was the state of Lucilla’s mind on the first 
 night of ‘ Faust ’ at the Lyceum. She had a nice 
 dress to go in, one of Nettie’s ordering — for Nettie 
 ordered her clothes and Lucilla had no voice in 
 the matter. The dress for that night was black ; it 
 was cut very low and square, exposing her white 
 slender neck, making her blush all to herself before 
 the glass, as she tucked her chemise into her stays 
 and adjusted the narrow straps that had to serve 
 for sleeves. 
 
 A Lyceum first-night presents certain features 
 that distinguish it very materially from a first- 
 night at any other theatre ; and it was a mark of 
 Roland’s rapidly dying thought for Lucilla that he 
 had arranged it should be her first experience of 
 the theatrical world. The vehicles outside were 
 aristocratic, the excitement within was decorous 
 and suppressed. There v/ere a few empty seats, 
 for so careful is the management in the distribution 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 67 
 
 of tickets that some remain undistributed to the 
 last ; and to allow payment for these at the door 
 would detract from the valuable advertisement of 
 the exclusiveness of the function. 
 
 There is a marked absence of those ladies usually 
 to be found at first nights and matinees, and in 
 their stead is the presence of many clergy other 
 than those attached to the ‘ Church and Stage Guild.’ 
 The yellow heads and bare shoulders of the demi- 
 monde are missing ; in their stead respectable 
 dowagers, with nodding plumes, in grandmotherly 
 frocks of violets and blacks, muster in full force. 
 The Prince has a box with his wife and sons — a 
 decorous family group. 
 
 Nettie, Moi'daunt Rivers, and Lucilla, their 
 entry a little late, managed to disturb two or three 
 people, who glanced at them with that cold look of 
 disapproval which is encountered by a late comer 
 to church. 
 
 Lucilla was uncomfortable, and blushed at feel- 
 ing that she was a mark for so many eyes, but 
 Nettie enjoyed attracting attention in any way ; 
 and ‘ respectable ’ people were her natural enemies — 
 to annoy them ever so slightly was a social triumph. 
 She was as noticeable as she could be in gaining 
 her seat, and stood up while taking off her opera- 
 
 5—2 
 
68 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 cloak, surveying the house. It was the opening 
 scene of ‘ Faust,’ — Wills’s adaptation. Something 
 went wrong with the machinery, and the confusion 
 on the stage was added to by the little disturbance 
 in the stalls. 
 
 ‘ Hush, sit down,’ he answered with annoyance, 
 and so they finally settled down into their seats. 
 
 The house was in semi-darkness ; nothing took 
 Lucilla’s attention off the stage. She forgot her low 
 dress and all her other little vexations ; she had no 
 eyes for anything but the piece, and it was not until 
 the curtain fell, and the house was in brilliancy 
 after the first act, that she had time to observe 
 that she was seated by Mordaunt Rivers, and that 
 Sinclair Furley was on the other side of her. In 
 the warmth and excitement of their entry, and of 
 following the action in the semi-obscurity of the 
 theatre, she had slipped off her cloak. She was not 
 thinking of herself, or of anything but Marguerite ; 
 she was in a new and delightful world. 
 
 Sinclair roused her ; they had met but the once — 
 that was, on the first day she had come downstairs 
 after her illness. He claimed acquaintance, and 
 seemed charmed that she had remembered him ; 
 and when she had called herself back from the 
 story that was being unfolded before her, she 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 69 
 
 looked at him with interest as he bent forward in 
 his stall to talk to her. She had heard her father 
 say he was clever, and her father’s approval was a 
 hall-mark in her eyes. She had heard he could 
 sing, and was the best dancer in London. She, of 
 course, did not know his peculiar position in either 
 of these arts. Also she knew that he composed, 
 and she was sufficiently unsophisticated to be im- 
 pressed by this fact. 
 
 He was a man below the middle height, with 
 narrow chest and sloping shoulders ; his unhealthy 
 sallowness seemed transparent against the coarse 
 black hair ; his eyes were light, curiously expres- 
 sionless ; no hair grew upon his face ; the loose- 
 lipped mouth was incongruous with his leanness. 
 His colouring was muddily yellow, and this 
 peculiarity extended to the nails of his white 
 hands, and his hands were throughout curiously 
 characteristic — boneless, fat, soft, and white, 
 with their yellow nails ; they gave one in their 
 scrupulous cleanliness an impression of uncleanli- 
 ness. 
 
 He gazed at the young girl from under his 
 heavy lids in a way that had something unpleasant 
 and impure about it, fixing his eyes upon her un- 
 formed bust and neck. 
 
70 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ I should hardly have known you,’ he said; 
 and she coloured again under his intent glance. 
 
 ‘ I could not have conceived you were so beauti- 
 ful’ 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers had gone out, Nettie was 
 talking animatedly, and not too quietly, to the 
 editor of a rival journal ; Lucilla and Sinclair 
 Furley were practically alone. 
 
 She tried to draw her cloak round her. 
 
 ‘ Let me help you ; but surely you would not 
 be so cruel ? You are not going to put on your 
 cloak ?’ 
 
 He was still gazing at her in a way that made 
 her feel much more keenly than she had done in 
 the solitude of her own room her want of cover- 
 ing. As he spoke he helped her, touching, as he 
 did so, her neck with his hands, and showing by 
 his face his consciousness of the act. 
 
 He saw and appreciated her blushes and con- 
 fusion, and was doubly attracted thereby. It was 
 innocence, and that was a quality he had never 
 before met ; nor was it likely that he would, 
 innocence being an uncommon attribute at a cafe 
 chantant. But he recognised it here, and it ex- 
 cited him. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 71 
 
 There was a poisonous suggestiveness in his 
 manner, in his conversation. Lucilla was be- 
 wildered — alarmed. He whispered his comments 
 on the play as it proceeded ; he called himself an 
 artist, yet he wiped out the poetry of the story 
 and destroyed the illusion. The lights and the 
 music and the play all became indistinct to Lucilla. 
 She was possessed by nothing but Sinclair Furley’s 
 breath fanning her cheek ; his words that she 
 could but faintly understand echoing in her ear — 
 that ear that occasionally his thick lips almost 
 touched. He seemed ever hovering about her, 
 even when not speaking, like some unclean bird 
 over its prey. Mordaunt, when he returned, 
 noted the little scene. 
 
 ‘ There won’t be much of the unsophisticated 
 left in the girl by the time Sinclair Furley has 
 finished with her,’ he whispered to Nettie. ‘ Just 
 watch them. 
 
 Nettie watched them. 
 
 ‘ Come home to supper,’ she said to the poet, as 
 they were struggling with their belongings at the 
 close of the performance. ‘ A lot of men are 
 coming ; there is sure to be enough to drink, if 
 not to eat.’ 
 
72 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Sinclair had Lucilla’s hand on his arm as they 
 were pressing through the crowd, and he pressed 
 it as he accepted the invitation. ‘ I can’t tell 
 her how gladly I will come,’ he whispered. ‘ I 
 want to see more of you ; I think you are my 
 ideal !’ 
 
 Lucilla’s heart gave a big jump. She an ideal ! 
 Her thoughts were all jumbled together. She had 
 thought she hated Mr. Furley; but to be admired, 
 to be an ideal, and the ideal of a clever man 
 — the poor, lonely, unwanted Lucilla, Marius’s 
 sister ! 
 
 Nettie and Lucilla went in one hansom. Rivers 
 and Furley followed in another. They were not 
 congenial companions. Mordaunt Rivers was at 
 least robust in his vices, masculine in his cynicism 
 and contemptuousness. Sinclair was neither, and 
 Rivers despised him. He even found himself 
 thinking half-pityingly of Lucilla, exposed un- 
 protected to Sinclair Furley’s attention. 
 
 But Sinclair Furley, who had a vanity childish 
 in its completeness and unconsciousness, was quite 
 unaware of Rivers’s feeling for him. He talked 
 to him on the way home of Lucilla, and raved 
 about her innocence and beauty ; he described her 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 73 
 
 as ‘ distinctively virginal ’ — a phrase that, although 
 it impressed itself upon Rivers, as many of Furley’s 
 speeches did impress themselves, for he was a pic- 
 turesque speaker, yet inspired him with a fresh 
 disgust of the man who made it. 
 
 But it struck him afresh when they arrived at 
 Southampton Row. Supper after the theatre was 
 an institution at Southampton Row ; and on such 
 an occasion as this — a simultaneous first-night 
 at the Gaiety and Lyceum — there was quite 
 a representative company — representative, be it 
 understood, of Roland Lewesham’s friends and 
 associates. 
 
 All the curtains were drawn back, so that all 
 four rooms were seen at once ; and there were 
 men in all of them, and smoke in all of them, 
 and loud talk and laughter in all of them. There 
 were present a couple of women besides Nettie — ■ 
 women of a well-known type. One was Lord 
 Lusher’s wife, but he was by no means the only 
 gentleman to whom she had acted in a similar 
 capacity ; the other was Jenny Farrell, a most 
 popular artiste, at present resting. Lord Lusher’s 
 wife had also trod the boards. Both these ladies 
 and Nettie hankered after the scenes of their former 
 
74 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 triumphs or reverses, and found their next greatest 
 pleasure in seeing and critieising their successors. 
 All three had hair of an ‘ aureoline ’ hue, though 
 with one it had to accord with black, and with 
 another with brown, eyes. All v/ere liberal in the 
 display of their painted, enamelled, and gilded 
 charms. 
 
 Supper was ready, but they had waited for 
 Rivers and his companion. They were filling up 
 the time with loud talking and excited discussion 
 on the pieces they had seen ; on the ‘ legginess ’ of 
 the new burlesque, and the poverty of its dialogue. 
 Men and women alike were loud-voiced, eager, 
 and excited. In their midst Rivers noted poor 
 Lucilla, slender and child-like in her black dress, 
 her blue eyes wondering ; and then it was that 
 Sinclair’s phrase recurred uncalled to his mind. 
 She was, indeed, ‘ distinctively virginal.’ 
 
 But other things claimed his attention when at 
 length they all sat down in the front room to the 
 cold and plentiful supper. All the wine bottles 
 were magnums ; and soon, as the bottles began 
 to be emptied, the fun and the frolic grew fast and 
 furious.; 
 
 Roland, at the head of the table, seemed to have 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 75 
 
 forgotten Lucilla and his care for her. He not 
 only drunk much, but he talked incessantly — he 
 talked himself drunk, and in this condition was at 
 his best and most brilliant, his ready wit making 
 him a splendid boon companion. One joke after 
 another, and one anecdote after another, rolled 
 from his lips. Rivers and the other men all 
 joined in. In this, the first stage, the conversation 
 — though, perhaps, it would not bear repetition — 
 sometimes approached brilliancy; and those amongst 
 the company who had the strongest heads carried 
 away many a neat remark that would work into 
 their next day’s ‘ copy.’ 
 
 Roland Lewesham did most of the talking. 
 Lady Lusher employing herself in making 
 vehement love to Tom Furley, which Tom re- 
 sponded to in the intervals between the drink- 
 ing and eating ; for Tom had at all times a true 
 journalist’s passion for free victuals and well-pro- 
 vided ladies. Nettie and Nellie reminiscenced, 
 and talked theatre ‘ shop ’ with the three or four 
 men who were nearest to them ; and all the others 
 — there were about twenty altogether — ^joined in 
 the various conversations whenever they got a 
 chance. 
 
 Lucilla sat next to Sinclair Furley; around her 
 
76 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 the laughter and the talk, the chinking of the 
 glasses, and the voice of Sinclair seemed to beat 
 time in her brain with the slow cathedral music 
 she had heard. When the talk veered from the 
 more interesting event of the new burlesque on to 
 the ‘ Faust ’ performance. Marguerite’s peccadillo 
 was discussed with a freedom of comment and a 
 jocularity that may be imagined. Everyone had 
 something to say about it ; it was an easy subject 
 to jest on, and the women joined in. Anecdotes 
 were freely related in which different consequences 
 had occurred, and one suggested another, until 
 the table was in a united uproar of ‘ good stories’ 
 and laughter, with easy immorality adorning each 
 tale. 
 
 Lucilla as she listened, understanding hardly 
 anything, yet felt her cheeks reddening. Sinclair’s 
 comments in her ear, on her delightful and refresh- 
 ing innocence, seemed to her as a degradation, as 
 a reproach ; but why or how she could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 As the hours sped on, and Roland pressed the 
 unlimited drink more and more upon his guests, 
 the entertainment developed into a regular orgie. 
 At length a move was made from the supper-table 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 77 
 
 by Nettie, and Lucilla gladly seized the oppor- 
 tunity, and went off upstairs to bed. 
 
 The room grew hotter and hotter under the 
 combined influence of the gas and the people. 
 The drink went round more and more freely, and 
 the atmosphere grew thick with smoke and license. 
 Sinclair Furley sang a song, which he called ‘ The 
 Limelight Litany ’ — a parody of something they 
 had heard that night, but the words are simply 
 irreproducible in their blasphemous obscenity; but 
 in such a company, at such a time, it ‘ caught on,’ 
 and soon they were all roaring out the chorus. 
 Charlie, after surreptitiously employing himself 
 in salting Tom Furley’s champagne, and betting 
 five pounds to his nearest neighbour that he 
 wouldn’t notice it at this time in the evening, put 
 his feet upon the table, and announced his inten- 
 tion of playing them an accompaniment on the 
 mahogany, which he proceeded to do with his 
 heels, to the great detriment of the glasses, but to 
 the great enjoyment of the company, including the 
 host, who went into fits of laughter. 
 
 ‘ The Limelight Litany ’ was sung again and 
 again. In the midst of it Tom discovered his 
 wine was salted. Truthfully, however, Charlie 
 may be said to have won his bet ; for it was only 
 
78 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 after drinking it off at a gulp that the loud 
 laughter of the other guests gave him warning 
 as to what had occurred. 
 
 How the evening finished with a boxing-match 
 between Charlie and Lord Lusher in the drawing- 
 room, in which the furniture suffered more than 
 either combatant ; and how they all roared when a 
 heavy lunge from Charlie missed his opponent 
 and brought down a couple of photograph-frames 
 from behind him ; and when a carefully-planned 
 blow from Lusher struck a vase of flowers from a 
 table behind him, boots not to tell. It was a 
 gloriously jolly evening, long famous in the annals 
 of Southampton Row, and it was seven o’clock 
 and broad daylight before they separated ; and 
 even then Lord Lusher had to be accommodated 
 with a bed, because, in addition to a black eye and 
 a general unsteadiness, he had become obstinate 
 and simply refused to go. 
 
 ‘ I don’t b’lieve in going from plash to plash 
 like you fellowsh,’ he hiccoughed gravely. ‘ If I 
 come out to supper, I shtop and shpend the 
 evening,’ he said ; and no arguments would move 
 him. 
 
 As Tom Furley had seen Lady Lusher home 
 somewhat earlier, he had not this responsibility to 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 79 
 
 contend with : so a bed was found for him — there 
 was always one ready for such emergencies — and 
 finally the party was broken up, about the time 
 the servants came down, heavy-eyed and sleepy, to 
 exclaim at the broken crockery and disorganized 
 furniture. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Lucilla awoke the next morning to unhappiness 
 and a dull sense that something dreadful had 
 happened. Her one glass of champagne had 
 possessed only the charm of making her go to 
 sleep last night without reflection or introspection, 
 and this notwithstanding the noise that had con- 
 tinued until two hours ago. 
 
 She turned her aching head on her pillow, 
 turned the pillow again and again to find a cooler 
 spot, tried to put away thoughts and go to sleep 
 again ; but all was of no avail. Her mouth was 
 dry and parched, her head ached, and Sarah’s 
 appearance with a cup of tea was as refreshing as 
 daylight after a night of fever. Sarah had been 
 Marius’s attendant ; she had nursed Lucilla 
 through her illness. She was full of impatience 
 to hear all that Lucy had seen and done last 
 night ; for, of course, these orgies did not occur 
 without the servants being well aware of what 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 8i 
 
 was going on — and Sarah was eager to learn from 
 an eye-witness what actually occurred. Sarah 
 hankered after ‘ life,’ even second-hand — it was 
 better than none at all ; and she had looked forward 
 to Lucilla’s appearance in society as a means of 
 gratifying her own insatiable curiosity, 
 
 ‘ Well, Miss Lucilla,’ she began eagerly, handing 
 the girl her tea, which she took thankfully, ‘ and 
 how did you enjoy yourself ?’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know,’ answered Lucilla, uneasily turn- 
 ing over in the bed — ‘ I can’t remember ; it is all 
 so confused. They said the play was no good, but 
 I thought it so beautiful ; and — and ’ 
 
 But then some thought struck her, and she 
 shivered slightly. 
 
 ‘And did anyone say as how you looked 
 nice 
 
 Lucilla cowered down beneath the clothes ; she 
 felt herself blushing. 
 
 ‘ I wish you would go away and leave me alone 
 a little while, Sarah ; my head aches so, I want to 
 go to sleep again. I needn’t get up yet. I will 
 tell you all about it later,’ 
 
 Sarah withdrew in a huff, her baffled curiosity 
 more vivid than ever. 
 
 But Lucilla didn’t want to sleep, and could not 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 sleep ; she wanted to think. She remembered 
 Sinclair Furley had said she was beautiful ; she 
 tried to take pleasure in the thought, but could 
 not. His looks were looks of admiration, yet 
 under the bedclothes she shuddered at the recol- 
 lection of them ; she felt hot as she thought of his 
 hand on her shoulder, the feel of his knee at the 
 supper-table as it had accidentally touched hers. 
 She felt hot and cold in turns, miserable and 
 degraded, yet could not find a reason or meaning 
 for her sensations. 
 
 She was such a child in years, and such a child 
 in education ; she was so little soiled as yet by 
 what she had seen or heard that she did not even 
 know v/hy she so loathed and detested the remem- 
 brance of Sinclair Furley, and yet she loathed 
 him, wholesomely if childishly. 
 
 She tried to reason herself out of the feeling , 
 tried to take pleasure in his admiration, saying to 
 herself that this was ‘ being made love to that, 
 according to the scarcely assimilated code, not 
 only of Nettie and her friends, but also of Sarah, 
 she should be proud of having a lover. But she 
 was not proud ; she was low-spirited and un- 
 happy. 
 
 She shed a few quiet tears in bed, and Sarah, 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 83 
 
 when she again summoned her, found her low and 
 depressed. She tried to confide something of what 
 she felt to Sarah ; but Sarah, not in the least com- 
 prehending, for such feelings as Lucilla’s were im- 
 possible to her, administered consolation by telling 
 her the depression was only the effect of the cham- 
 pagne ; and when she hinted that she did not like 
 being made love to, Sarah laughed at her, and told 
 her she would soon get used to that. 
 
 ‘And who was it?’ she asked, her busy fingers 
 tying petticoat-strings the while, for Lucilla’s new 
 clothes all required some assistance in their arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘ Sinclair Furley,’ answered Lucilla, in a melan- 
 choly tone. She would have liked to be proud of 
 her new acquisition, but could not disguise that 
 she was not. 
 
 ‘The dancer?’ exclaimed Sarah, evidently dis- 
 appointed. ‘ I wish it had been Lord Lusher. 
 Why, they do say he is heir to a dukedom, and he 
 gives more than anyone who comes to the house as 
 it is. Your actors and your writers are a mean 
 lot.’ 
 
 Lucilla only sighed again. Unfortunately she 
 had no duties to perform, no work to do. In 
 that disorderly, strange household no one had 
 
 6 — 2 
 
84 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 any duties ; pleasure was the watchword of the 
 establishment. When that failed, neuralgia and 
 chloral filled up the spare time. 
 
 So all day Lucilla wandered about the empty 
 drawing-room, still showing signs of last night’s 
 scenes, or into the dining-room, still reeking 
 with the stale fumes of tobacco. She searched in 
 the library for a volume of French poems that 
 Sinclair Furley had told her of, and at length 
 found it hidden behind some more on the library 
 table. Then she put herself into an armchair in 
 the small inner room and began to read, and as 
 she read she forgot her v, 'ear i ness — she was 
 delighted, ^charmed, excited with the glowing 
 words. 
 
 Remembering that Lucilla had read nothing, 
 knew no poetry except a portion of ‘ Samson 
 Agonistes,’ prepared for examination under her 
 governess’s direction, and Shakespeare’s historical 
 plays with copious addenda, it is not surprising 
 that she was charmed by these verses. 
 
 They were written when Sinclair’s friend De 
 Gazet was a young man, and they were facile 
 and glowing. He had had a certain faculty for 
 appropriating cleverly great men’s great ideas ; as 
 one genial critic remarked of the book, ‘ It was an 
 excellent book of quotations, but would have been 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 85. 
 
 more valuable if the names of the various authors 
 had been inserted in footnotes.’ 
 
 One poem there had been in the book that might 
 have made her admiration less, and her other 
 sensations return, but fortunately it was no longer 
 there. Mordaunt Rivers, wanting it one day for 
 reference or quotation, had cut it out coolly from 
 its place. It was this poem that had caused the 
 prosecution of the English publisher of the book, 
 and finally it had been withdrawn. Recom- 
 mending it to Lucilla had indicated the bent of 
 Sinclair Furley’s mind ; and, it is no use disguis- 
 ing it, with the gift of expression and many talents, 
 Sinclair Furley possessed an unclean mental stratum, 
 and all things he touched were disfigured thereby, 
 though he had attained by the same means a certain 
 reputation, and a circle of admirers who found in 
 him a loud echo of their inmost thoughts. 
 
 And Lucilla read and dreamed on until the day 
 waned and afternoon set in. She sat alone until 
 about four o’clock, when Mordaunt Rivers, look- 
 ing no whit the worse for his last night’s experience, 
 came in. 
 
 ‘None of them up yet.^’ he said laughingly to 
 Lucilla. 
 
 Up to now he had taken but little personal 
 
86 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 notice of the girl, but Sinclair’s admiration and 
 his manner of expressing it recurred again to him 
 as he saw her sitting there so childlike and so 
 lonely. And Lucilla, in her mood — half physical 
 depression from late hours and unaccustomed 
 excitement, half mental exaltation from her poetical 
 food — was glad to have a companion, whoever he 
 or she might be. 
 
 ‘ No, none of them,’ she answered, looking at 
 him anxiously to see if he were shocked at such 
 eccentric hours ; ‘ but I think they are getting 
 up, for Mrs. Lewesham’s bell rang some time 
 ago.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, never mind ; you must entertain me until 
 they appear, for I have some work to do with 
 Roily when he does come down. How did you 
 like “ Faust ” V he asked carelessly. ‘ I suppose I 
 may smoke ?’ he added. 
 
 Lucilla looked down, and fidgeted nervously 
 with the book on her lap. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know.’ 
 
 ‘You don’t know.? Well, that is strange, not 
 to know if you liked the play or not. And what 
 are you reading ?’ he asked, taking the book 
 off her lap. ‘ De Gazet’s poems ! Bah !’ He 
 dropped it quickly, and made an expression of 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 87 
 
 disgust. ‘ And what do you think of the realist 
 he asked curiously, after a slight pause. 
 
 ‘What is a realist.^’ questioned Lucilla timidly, 
 ashamed again of her ignorance. 
 
 ‘ A realist,’ answered Rivers gravely, ‘ as De 
 Gazet writes and Sinclair Furley exemplifies it, is 
 a gentleman who sings, writes, and paints on 
 subjects which more decent — I beg your pardon, 
 my definition is wandering — of which less artistic 
 people scarcely acknowledge that they think. A 
 realist, according to the modern acceptation of the 
 term, is a scavenger who finds the subjects of his 
 labours in details, which modesty leaves covered 
 and police regulations banish from public places,’ 
 
 Under this definition Lucilla remained a mo- 
 ment silent, and Rivers, making no allowance for 
 her ignorance, saw a protest in her silence. 
 
 ‘ You don’t agree with me .?’ he asked. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know ; 1 don’t know anything,’ she 
 said, rising, in a piteous tone. ‘ You are laughing 
 at me ; I don’t know whether you are in earnest 
 or in jest. Half that you talk about I don’t 
 understand, and nobody ever helps me.’ 
 
 She was struggling to keep back her tears. She 
 looked so pretty, so helpless, so childlike. Rivers 
 could not but pity her. 
 
88 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 ‘ Poor little devil !’ he said under his breath. 
 ‘ Poor little babe in Bohemia ! Don’t run away,’ 
 he went on, holding out his arms to prevent her 
 passing him ; for she wanted to get away and 
 have a good cry all to herself. ‘ I can’t stay here 
 all alone. If you will tell me what you want 
 to know, I will tell you, really, without laughing 
 at you. Don’t go.’ 
 
 And Lucilla sat down again. 
 
 ‘ But I want to know everything,’ she said de- 
 spairingly ; ‘ everything is so different.’ 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers sat .dowm on a low stool at 
 her feet, and began gravely to cross-examine 
 her. 
 
 ‘ You can read, I believe?’ he said. 
 
 ‘ You are mocking me.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you read Footlights F’ 
 
 ‘Once or twice, but I don’t know any of the 
 people it alluded to, and yet they seem to be 
 celebrities. Everyone must know them but me, 
 or you would not write about them.’ 
 
 ‘ Certainly not,’ he replied promptly. ‘ So you 
 read the Guzzler s Gazette for instruction ?’ 
 
 ‘ That is the other name of the paper ? Yes, I 
 saw one number.’ 
 
 ‘ And you did not understand that ?’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 £9 
 
 ‘No,’ said Lucilla, sighing: ‘One or two of 
 the anecdotes on the front page, and the nursery- 
 rhymes with the strange spelling ; but,’ she added 
 truthfully, ‘ I don’t think I even understood those 
 thoroughly, for I did not think them funny ; and, 
 of course, they are meant to be.’ 
 
 ‘ Harsh criticism,’ said Rivers gravely. ‘ Really, 
 Miss Lewesham, you are very hard upon us poor 
 humorous journalists. Don’t you know that we 
 make our living by these despised jokes 
 
 ‘ Are they really good 
 
 He examined her questioning countenance care- 
 fully. 
 
 ‘ You won’t betray me if I tell you something ?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no !’ —eagerly. 
 
 ‘Well, my private opinion is they are most of 
 them very bad jokes ; but the public read them, 
 and buy them, and seem to enjoy them, so we go 
 on making them.’ 
 
 ‘ It is very strange,’ said Lucilla thoughtfully. 
 
 Very pretty she looked as she gazed into the 
 fire, and it returned her gaze by throwing red 
 glances on her cheeks and hair, and burning an 
 unwonted depth into her wondering eyes. And 
 Mordaunt Rivers, admiring her idly, felt vaguely 
 sorry for her, as one is for a large bunch of grapes 
 
90 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 hanging from the vine with all its beautiful bloom 
 upon it, but which one knows will be cut down 
 and the bloom brushed off before many hours are 
 passed — then the fruit is enjoyed. Mordaunt 
 Rivers saw no future before Lucilla but this, and 
 was vaguely sorry. He watched her silently ; then 
 the bloom attracted him. 
 
 ‘ Whom do you like best,’ he asked her softly — 
 ‘ Sinclair or me V 
 
 He took her hand. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know either of you much,’ answered 
 Lucilla hesitatingly, leaving her hand in his and 
 looking down upon them both. ‘ But I think you 
 only laugh at me; and Mr. Furley’ — here she 
 paused and blushed a little — ‘ admires me !’ And 
 then she raised her beautiful eyes to his question- 
 ingly. 
 
 ‘ Not so innocent, after all,’ was Rivers’ unspoken 
 and erroneous reflection ; and his pity seemed to 
 him to have been wasted. 
 
 ‘ Nobody could help admiring you. But you 
 have not told me. Tell me ’ — he took her other 
 hand, and she, unresisting, gave it to him ; so they 
 stood face to face — ‘ whom do you like best V 
 
 Lucilla, blushing, tried to take her hands from 
 his ; she had no answer ready. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 9 ‘ 
 
 With a sudden movement he put his arm about 
 her waist. 
 
 ‘ Come, tell me, or I shall have to kiss you 
 before you are quite sure !’ 
 
 But, seeing the bearded head so near to her, 
 Lucilla drew further back. 
 
 ‘ No, no !’ she said, trying to get away. 
 
 He would have kissed her, for her resistance 
 tempted him even more than her fairness ; but the 
 sudden appearance of Nettie between the curtains 
 spoilt the tableau, and Lucilla, glad to be released, 
 rushed away, her mind in a whirl of excitement, 
 this time not quite unmixed with pleasure. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ‘Well?’ said Nettle sharply. 
 
 ‘At your service, madam,’ replied Mordaunt 
 courteously, with a low bow. ‘ I hope your lady- 
 ship has had a good rest and awoke in good 
 spirits ?’ 
 
 ‘ What on earth were you doing with that 
 child ?’ 
 
 ‘ I was just about kissing “ that child,” when 
 your untimely entrance baulked my proud in- 
 tent.’ 
 
 ‘ Sickening !’ 
 
 ‘ Quite the contrary, I assure you.’ 
 
 ‘ But I thought you hated that kind of thing.’ 
 
 ‘ I met Sinclair Furley this morning, and he was 
 raving about the sweet Lucilla and her unapproach- 
 ability. In your interests, and to gratify my own 
 curiosity, I endeavoured to find out if his definition 
 were correct.’ 
 
 ‘ Bosh !’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 93 
 
 ‘ It is rather bosh,’ he said, changing his tone, 
 and flinging himself on the sofa. ‘ Give me a 
 drink, there’s a good vvoman, and exert your 
 powers to soothe me after my exertions. I want 
 drink, I want smoke ; then I will erase from my 
 memory the milky and watery charms of the 
 reluctant maiden.’ 
 
 ‘ Reluctant !’ retorted Nettie ; ‘ she did not seem 
 to me to be very reluctant.’ 
 
 Nettie was evidently angry. 
 
 ‘ You must give her a lesson in how to appear 
 gracefully coy. You see, it is difficult to express 
 that sentiment otherv/ise than by “ struggling.” 
 Now “struggling” is unbecoming and inconvenient, 
 besides defeating one’s object. It is absolutely im- 
 possible under such circumstances to enjoy at one’s 
 ease “ the chaste salute of yielding lips,” ’ sneered 
 Rivers, stretching himself out in his chair. 
 
 He was keenly conscious just now of the vast 
 difference between the girl who had just left him 
 and the woman Vy'ho was claiming his attention ; 
 he was always quite safe, however, in sneering at 
 Nettie, because it was a language she did not 
 understand. To swear at her or to hit her were 
 the only two ways by which she could be brought 
 to comprehend that you were not delighted with 
 
94 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 her. Roland had frequently employed the former 
 method ; but since her childhood’s days nobody 
 had tried the latter. 
 
 She resented the scene she had interrupted by 
 sulking and being rude to Rivers. She looked 
 upon that gentleman as her own property, almost 
 as much as was Roland ; and she was very angry 
 with him for any momentary wandering, resenting 
 it more even than she did a similar aberration on 
 Roland’s part, and being less accustomed to it. 
 
 Her sulking and rudeness had their natural 
 e.Tect. Mordaunt Rivers was no Tom Furley — • 
 no mere ‘hanger-on,’ whether insulted or not, for 
 the sake of the material good he might derive. 
 Mordaunt went constantly to Southampton Row 
 because the life there suited him, because there was 
 the tie of an old intimacy between him and Nettie, 
 because his daily work brought him into constant 
 communication with Roily ; but none of these 
 motives, nor all of them combined, prevented him 
 from taking up his hat and bidding his hostess 
 ‘ good-bye ’ until she sent for him, after half-an- 
 hour spent in trying to assuage her wrath. And 
 perhaps he did not try very hard, for the contrast 
 was so strong in his mind that he could not keep 
 his thoughts from wandering to Lucilla — the con- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 95 
 
 trast was unfavourable to Nettie, and in every 
 comforting or apologetic word he said to her there 
 lurked a sarcasm that he was unable to restrain. 
 
 He had been used to Nettie and Nettie’s ways 
 for a long time, but this afternoon she seemed to 
 him both stale and coarse. She was ill-tempered 
 and spiteful ; but he had seen her so ‘before, yet 
 never had she irritated him so much. He almost 
 vov/ed he would give up Southampton Row alto- 
 gether. Nettie was growing old and dull. Roily 
 drank more than ever, and as for the way he 
 allowed that girl of his to be brought up, why, it 
 was simply disgusting ! 
 
 Strange thoughts for Mordaunt Rivers ! The 
 ‘ Failure,’ as he was called in that cheery personal 
 column of Footlights. Very strange thoughts! 
 
 ‘ What on earth makes you so glum to-night ^ 
 asked Roily of him a few hours later, when they 
 met at Tessie Gay’s birthday-party— an annual 
 entertainment that left Southampton Row empty 
 for that night. And he had no explanation to 
 offer. 
 
 Tessie Gay lived in a little house in Alpha 
 Road, a little house lying back from the road 
 with a garden in front of it. The long, low 
 drawing-room was crowded with men in evening 
 
96 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 dress and women in none, or, any way, in as little 
 as they could manage with. Women with teeth 
 gleaming out of red gums, lounging women with 
 Kohl-bedaubed eyes, flashing, defiantly inviting. 
 Tessie herself in scarlet ; the dimples for which 
 she was famous playing about her smiling face. 
 
 There were music and dancing, not very elegant 
 dancing, romping, kissing, larking of every de- 
 scription. The flaring gas-brackets at the sides 
 of the room gave out an overpowering heat. A 
 music-hall artist — Tessie, be it remembered, was 
 the star far excellence of the music-hall stage — • 
 assisted the occasion by a few verses that had been 
 expurgated from her most popular song. Smoking 
 was allowed, and all manners of drink were brought 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 It pleased the versatile Tessie to-night to lavish 
 all her smiles and dimples on Roily. Mordaunt, 
 with fair Lucilla in his mind, watched her father, 
 half intoxicated, with his arms round Tessie’s 
 waist, caressing with his ungloved hands Tessie’s 
 bare back, receiving a playful slap on the face 
 when it pleased his fair hostess to resent a caress 
 she had invited. 
 
 In the midst of the fun and frolic, the news ran 
 round the room that Tessie’s people had come up 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 97 
 
 from the country to wish her many happy returns 
 of the day. Tessie’s people ! Fancy Tessie with 
 people of her own — Tessie Gay ! They streamed 
 out into the hall to see Tessie’s people. 
 
 In the hall waiters were hurrying to and fro 
 with laden trays to the supper-room — trays laden 
 with glasses and silver, and with bouquets of 
 flowers. The hall was brilliantly illuminated, and 
 all up the staircase hung the gleaming Chinese 
 lanterns ; more of them could be seen through the 
 open door hanging amid the green trees of the 
 garden, lining the pathways up to the house. 
 
 A very festive scene, lacking nothing that 
 money could supply ; but curiously set in such 
 surroundings seemed the group, which rested 
 weariedly on two chairs, hurriedly fetched for 
 them by one of the waiters. Just two whole- 
 some heavy-looking country people. A big 
 bearded farmer, and his rustic homely wife, buxom 
 cheeked, and bearing a more than faint resemblance 
 to Tessie in her grosser charms. 
 
 ‘ Ben and I thought we’d give you a surprise, 
 knowing it was your birthday; not knowin’ as you 
 ’ad friends, and ’ad done so grand in the public 
 line,’ said the woman, looking round her with 
 unfeigned admiration. 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 She had a baby in her arms — a fat and appe- 
 tising baby. It crowed and held out its own 
 brown arms. 
 
 ‘ There, look at ’er,’ said its mother admiringly. 
 ‘ One ’ud think it knowed its auntie, but since 
 as Tom was the baby v/hen you was down ’ome 
 last, and he’s seven come Michaelmas, it can’t be 
 that.’ 
 
 Tessie, amid the laughter and encouragement of 
 the men, took the baby in her arms. The baby 
 smiled up in her face, then, seeing the bare bloom- 
 ing bosom, and knowing, poor little rustic baby, 
 but the one cause for such exposure, pursed up its 
 sweet baby lips, and began to seek, in that blind 
 groping way that babies have, for its evening 
 meal. When it resented its disappointment with 
 loud-voiced wail, the wail was drowned in the 
 roars of laughter and applause from the men ; 
 Mordaunt alone did not laugh, and then it was 
 that Roily had commented on his glumness. 
 
 ‘ God, what’s the matter with you, Mordaunt,’ 
 he asked him, the tears rolling down his eyes with 
 laughter. ‘ 'It’s the funniest thing I ever saw ; the 
 
 little beggar thought it was He went off 
 
 again into peals of laughter. 
 
 Mordaunt turned on his heels, his lips tighten- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 99 
 
 ing a little under his moustache, and went out 
 into the night. The incident — small, trivial, 
 ludicrous — had touched him. What did such a 
 woman as Tessie Gay do with an innocent baby 
 at her breast The jokes of the men, and the 
 laughter of the women, were as repugnant to 
 him as had been Nettie’s way of speaking of 
 Lucilla. 
 
 That kiss he had not had haunted him. There 
 was no affected modesty in the way Lucilla had 
 resisted him, no mock bashfulness in the quick 
 blush. She had been timorous, frightened of him — 
 poor child, poor child ! — whom Roily had abandoned 
 to Nettie’s care, whom Nettie would give over 
 so gladly to the blandishments of Sinclair Furley. 
 
 He took a vicious pleasure in vilifying Sinclair 
 Furley the next few days, and even went out of 
 his way to criticise that gentleman’s latest perform- 
 ance in an evening paper which he occasionally 
 worked for. Sinclair was now giving at the club 
 an entertainment somewhat on the lines of his 
 Footlights column. A medley of French and 
 English, full of double meaning, yet capable of 
 an innocent explanation which he carefully gave 
 after every song and speech, pointing out how 
 easily mistakes might have arisen and his audience 
 
 7—2 
 
ICX) 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 thought he meant so ... or so. Mordaunt 
 slashed into this and exposed it with a will ; in fact, 
 so effective was his protest that it shut up the 
 show. Then he felt better, took a fortnight’s 
 holiday, during which he did the racing notes for 
 the Guzzler s Gazette., and gradually forgot his 
 distaste for his friends and his pity for Lucilla. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lucilla pursued wearily the daily 
 rounds of her empty life, striving to win affection 
 from her father, toleration from Nettie. She 
 thought much of Sinclair Furley and much of 
 Mordaunt Rivers. The one had called her his 
 ideal, had gazed at her with admiring eyes ; and 
 he was clever. She had heard her father say that 
 Sinclair Furley was clever, and would be the most 
 popular man of the day when he was understood. 
 He was also a journalist, and wrote verse. She 
 would try to feel proud of his admiration, but an 
 uneasy, nameless feeling stopped the pride, as she 
 felt again the touch of his limp hands, or saw the 
 gaze of his lack-lustre eyes. 
 
 But Mordaunt! When she thought of Mor- 
 daunt her heart would beat and the colour would 
 come into her cheeks. His hands were not limp ; he 
 put his arm around her waist ; he had tried to kiss 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 lOI 
 
 her. She would recall that moment again and again, 
 always with a delicious tremor. 
 
 ‘ Come with me to the McDougals’, Roily ? 
 Mordaunt is out of town, and I have no one to go 
 with,’ asked Nettie. 
 
 ‘ I’ll see the McDougals d d first !’ was 
 
 Roily’s reply. ‘ I’m going to the Troc to hear 
 Tessie’s new song. Take Antonelli ; it will just 
 suit him.’ 
 
 Antonelli was a young foreigner from White- 
 chapel, with a fine voice, and a greatly exaggerated 
 notion of what Footlights' influence was in the 
 world of art. He cultivated Nettie as a means to 
 secure that influence ; and Nettie encouraged him 
 with all the eagerness of a woman who feels her 
 charms are on the wane. But Nettie studied the 
 convenances sometimes — she had the secret yearn- 
 ing for respectability possessed by all outcasts — 
 and the McDougals, by their acknowledgment 
 of her as the wife of the editor of Footlights., 
 gratified her ambition. 
 
 She would not go alone there with Antonelli ; 
 she decided on taking Lucilla with her. Sinclair 
 Furley would be there, and would take the girl off 
 her hands. Nettle was more anxious than ever 
 to get Lucilla off her hands, since she had dis- 
 
102 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 covered Mordaunt in an incipient flirtation with 
 the girl. Nettie was not really jealous of Lucilla 
 as far as Mordaunt was concerned, for she knew by 
 experience his tastes did not run in the direction 
 of innocent children ; but the girl bored her and 
 reproached her silently. In the very midst of the 
 most engrossing flirtation with Antonelli she could 
 find time to wish Sinclair Furley were a little 
 bolder, and to make up her mind to give him a 
 hint or two. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The McDougals lived in Saville Row. Their 
 house was an odd one — an architect’s freak, unlike 
 any other in the vicinity. It was a double-fronted 
 villa, the drawing room lying on one side, the 
 dining and consulting rooms, the latter with double 
 doors of thick baize, on the other. 
 
 The drawing-room, low and long, was as cha- 
 racteristic in its way as the consulting-room. 
 McDougal was a dilettante in art as well as in 
 music and medicine ; and doors, walls, and even 
 mantelpieces, bore specimens of his skill. The 
 room was lighted from the sides with candles, 
 variously shaded ; and fairy lights, surrounded with 
 flowers, stood on shelves and brackets. 
 
 The room was already full when Nettie and 
 Lucilla, accompanied by Antonelli, made their 
 entrance — full of a curious-looking company. 
 
 The McDougals were lion-hunters, but from 
 the appearance of the room they seemed to 
 
104 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 have succeeded only in capturing a species of a 
 fierce domestic cat. On a general survey the men 
 were long-haired, their dress-coats with velvet 
 collars or silk, their shirt-fronts embroidered or 
 frayed at the edges, their faces bearing for the 
 most part an eager or expectant look. This ex- 
 pectant look was not, as might be imagined, for 
 the charms of supper, but was really only a desire 
 to be invited to display their respective accomplish- 
 ments of playing the violin, zither, or other instru- 
 ment, of singing, or, worst of all, of reciting. 
 The women also, on a cursory glance, lacked 
 youth, freshness ; all other charms they possessed 
 and displayed with liberality. Some of them were 
 ladies who had held good engagements at London 
 theatres, but who had lost them through misfortune, 
 incompetency, or other reasons. Others were those 
 hybrid creatures who hang between the amateur 
 and professional stages, sometimes playing leading 
 parts, once to oblige, for fees varying between 
 five guineas and twenty guineas, at others accept- 
 ing with alacrity a regular engagement in a very 
 minor capacity for thirty shillings or two guineas 
 weekly. 
 
 Others, again, were females, whose careers had 
 been perchance doubtful, but who, by a late 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 105 
 
 marriage or an early one made public, had claims 
 to be considered of the ‘ whole world divorcees 
 who had married their co-’s ; ballet girls who 
 had espoused their protectors ; and a substratum 
 of so-called ‘ literary women,’ whose instincts led 
 them into paths where their plainness limited 
 their footsteps ; would-be Bohemians who, on 
 the strength of an ungrammatical dress article or a 
 cribbed art criticism, dubbed themselves author- 
 esses, and sought the society in which their claims 
 to influence gave them a certain false title to 
 attention. 
 
 The entrance of the Leweshams and Antonelli 
 created some little stir, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 McDougal hurried up to them with profuse, 
 almost gushing welcome. The doctor was a man 
 above the middle height, burly, and blatantly self- 
 important. He had once had a considerable practice 
 among ladies of the stage, and even others ; but 
 sick-room confidences were not respected by him, 
 and ladies visiting him in his consulting-room found 
 it necessary to provide themselves with an efficient 
 chaperone. Stories of his conduct began to be 
 talked about, and one moie scandalous than the 
 rest was sufficiently authenticated to provoke his 
 professional brethren to decline meeting him ; and 
 
io6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 now, though talking and even writing voluminously 
 on certain medical subjects, his practice was reduced 
 to occasional attendance on a few ladies whose 
 reputations no longer required guarding. 
 
 Mrs, McDougal was a little woman, well born, 
 well endowed, once w'ell-looking. She had aged 
 before her time ; lines of weakness had deepened 
 into chronic lines of age and unhappiness ; all in 
 her of womanliness and charm had been crushed 
 out, and she remained a worn instrument to per- 
 form her husband’s will. The world had pitied 
 her at first, and even visited her ; but when first 
 one and another of her husband’s friends began to 
 appear at her assemblies, merely respectable people 
 began to withdraw, and this process being con- 
 tinued indefinitely, there was a very small minority, 
 of which, by the way, Nettie was considered one, 
 now on her visiting list. 
 
 Once, and once only, had Nettie persuaded Mor- 
 daunt to accompany her to one of the McDougals’ 
 receptions ; and then, after making inaudibly the 
 observation that ‘ all the women were beasts, 
 and all the men women,’ he had abruptly with- 
 drawn. 
 
 Lucilla stood at the door among this crowd of 
 professionals and would-be professionals — of men 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 107 
 
 and women whose whole sentient life was passed 
 under the glare of the gaslight or behind the foot- 
 lights, or wherever garish brilliancy compensated 
 for the absence of an actual or moral daylight. 
 They pressed round and about her, as they surged 
 in and out of the low drawing-room, or sat upon 
 the convenient stairs. 
 
 Among the brilliant, showy costumes, her gray 
 and white draperies were as distinctive as v/as her 
 fair child face, still with youthful bloom upon it 
 that no powder can equal or imitate with success. 
 Even Nettie, well and tastefully dressed and 
 arrayed as she was, and a really pretty woman to 
 boot, looked meretricious and unattractive beside 
 her. 
 
 But youth, beauty, fairness, innocence, were not 
 appreciated in that ‘ struggling ’ company. Nettie, 
 as the wife of the editor of Footlights, and popu- 
 larly supposed to ‘ boss ’ that incorruptible journal, 
 had a little court of flatterers around her ; v/hilst 
 Signor Antonelli, the ‘ coming man ’ as he was 
 considered, although in truth he never ‘ came ’ any 
 further than to such houses as this, was also 
 greatly sought after by aspiring hostesses ; and the 
 McDougals pressed him to oblige the company 
 with just one little song, with a fervour positively 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 io8 
 
 touching, considering what a difficulty it must 
 have been to him to withstand them so long. 
 
 But Lucilla had no court, and nobody asked 
 her to do anything. She stood as near to Nettie 
 as she could get, and hoped someone would speak 
 to her ; she could not help feeling neglected, 
 although it was a feeling she was accustomed to. 
 It was not within the limit of her philosophy to 
 recognise that a professional company of this 
 standard has no thought to spare out of its own 
 small world of managers, rival performers, and 
 critics. She fell to thinking to whom she would like 
 to be introduced, and looked around her among 
 the men, vainly endeavouring to discover some 
 hero who should correspond to the girlish dreams in 
 which she had lately begun to indulge, of someone 
 who should give her the love her father had 
 denied her. 
 
 He must be as handsome as Mordaunt Rivers, 
 and admire her as much as Sinclair Furley, but he 
 must be without the cynicism of the first, and 
 without that — that indescribable quality which re- 
 volted her in the second. And thus thinking and 
 then looking around her, feeling both lonely and 
 neglected, her eyes met Sinclair Furley’s fixed 
 upon her with an ardent admiring glaze. A 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 109 
 
 vivid blush flushed her cheek as she returned his 
 bow. She felt a throb, something between gratified 
 vanity and physical shrinking, as he approached 
 her. He pressed her hand. He looked all the 
 admiration and interest his expression could com- 
 mand. 
 
 ‘ How perfectly charming to meet you here,’ 
 he began. ‘ I have been thinking of you ever 
 since that night at the play. Now we can have 
 a good talk. We will find a seat somewhere 
 quiet.’ 
 
 ‘ Signor Antonelli is going to sing the “ Maid 
 of Athens ” to Mrs. Lewesham’s accompaniment,’ 
 answered Lucilla, as a nervous protest against his 
 gesture that she should accompany him out of the 
 room. 
 
 ‘You will come afterwards, then?’ he said 
 eagerly. ‘ I have so much to say to you.’ 
 
 She assented, having no excuse ready ; and she 
 felt less neglected and lonely standing there with 
 him beside her than she had done when alone. 
 
 And Antonelli sang the ‘ Maid of Athens,’ as 
 she had so frequently heard him with Nettie. It 
 was all expression. The bearded, rolling-eyed 
 young Jew gave out the familiar words with a 
 thrilling unctuousness of love, an abandonment of 
 
I !0 
 
 A BABE TN BOHEMIA. 
 
 himself to the passionate words of the refrain that 
 drew forth thunders of applause from his female 
 audience. He opened out his arms as If for the 
 heart that he asked for, and clasped them again to 
 his breast as if with despair at their emptiness ; but, 
 alas ! as the softened r’s rolled out of his loose- 
 lipped mouth, he called it ‘ Bweast,’ and above the 
 delicious pathos rang the yet more mournful note 
 of a defective upper register. 
 
 Sinclair drew Lucilla away when he had finished, 
 and she went with him not altogether reluctantly. 
 The high-strained sentiment of the song touched 
 her. She had an unconscious longing or curiosity 
 to find out the secret of a passionate love. She 
 did not know that Sinclair Furley was the last man 
 in the world to teach it to her, though perhaps she 
 dimly divined it later. They found an unoccupied 
 lounge on the landing outside the bedroom door. 
 
 ‘ At last,’ he said with a sigh of satisfaction, 
 ‘ we are alone !’ 
 
 For a few moments he said nothing more, but 
 contented himself with looking at her in an intent 
 and devouring fashion. Lucilla began to be un- 
 comfortable with him now, as she had been 
 uncomfortable with him before. 
 
 ‘ Talk to me,’ he said at length. His voice 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 was soft, trainante, but there was in it some of 
 that colourlessness that characterized his whole 
 person. ‘ I must know what you do, what 
 you think. Do you dance.? I am sure you 
 dance.’ 
 
 ‘ I — dance !’ stammered Lucilla, startled at the 
 suggestion. ‘ Oh no ; I am sure I could not.’ 
 
 ‘ I am sure you are clever. I am sure you 
 could dance. I am a good judge, and I see it in 
 your walk. Did you ever hear Margaret Taylor .? 
 I invented her. I told her she could sing, and 
 she sang and had an enormous success. You are 
 cleverer than she is. I can see it. You must let 
 me give you lessons. We will get up an enter- 
 tainment together. You shall be the ingenue. 
 I will instruct you, and will begin by dancing. 
 “ The Dancing Lesson ” we will call it. It will 
 make a great sensation ; it has never been done 
 before.’ 
 
 ‘ But I cannot dance,’ she said slov/ly, colouring 
 as she spoke ; and he noted the meaningless colour, 
 and misunderstood it in his wonted manner. ‘ I 
 don’t think I should care to dance.’ 
 
 ‘ I am sure you would ’ — he looked at her more 
 fixedly and admiringly — ‘ or why was that beauti- 
 ful figure made ? Tell me, shall we do this show 
 
1 12 
 
 A DADE IN DOHEMIA. 
 
 together ? I will help you with the form, the 
 manner ; but you must be candid and unrestrained 
 with me. It is no woman’s kisses that have thrilled 
 those red lips of yours into such warmth of hue. 
 
 You must tell me all ’ 
 
 ‘ There was my father,’ faltered Lucilla, know- 
 ing she was misunderstanding him, and feeling 
 very silly in having no way to parry or end the 
 inquisition, which would lead nowhere, and which 
 she almost felt awkward in admitting would lead 
 nowhere. Cheeks and lips grew hotter and hotter, 
 and her head drooped as she listened to him. 
 
 Two men, one of them Sinclair’s brother Tom, 
 were leaning against the banister beneath them ; 
 the other was a newly-elected member of the 
 Cormorant Club, who had written an unsuccessful 
 play. 
 
 ‘Your brother is going it,’ he said. ‘Who is 
 the pretty little maiden ?’ 
 
 ‘ Roily Lewesham’s daughter. Pretty little thing, 
 isn’t she ? but too mawkish for my taste. She is 
 by way of being innocent and unsophisticated, and 
 all that sort of thing, don’t you know. Mordaunt 
 Rivers calls her “ The Babe in Bohemia.” ’ 
 
 ‘ I should think she stands a chance of not 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 i'3 
 
 retaining, her innocence very long, with your 
 brother as guide, philosopher, and friend.’ 
 
 ‘ Which only shows how little you know Sin. 
 Men who talk never act. I don’t knov/a fellow — 
 at least, not in our lot — with whom she is safer than 
 she is with him. He is the sort of fellov/ who 
 will sit all night long at a woman’s feet longing to 
 kiss her, and never having the pluck to get up and 
 do it. Nobody knows old Sin like I do. He 
 has a reputation for being a perfect devil among 
 v/omen, and he likes people to think that of him. 
 In reality he is frightened to death of them, and 
 never has had a genuine “ affair ” in his life.’ 
 
 Then they passed on to other topics, but Tom 
 had given a pretty correct diagnosis of his brother’s 
 gallantries. Lucilla, however, could not know Sin- 
 clair’s weakness. She only knew that he was making 
 love to her, and that it was not altogether a pleasant 
 process. He was as much in love with her as it 
 was in his power to be with anybody ; and he was 
 perfectly charmed with his own sensations, and 
 quite determined to put them to some artistic use. 
 In the meantime he v/ould make her his confidante. 
 There should be between them a friendship, an 
 intimacy of intercourse, such as Dean Swift’s with 
 
 8 
 
Stella, Chopin’s, Alfred de Musset’s, Heine’s 
 with George Sand. His jejune temperament did 
 not need any convincing of her talents. Such a 
 friendship as he was contemplating necessitated 
 talent on both sides — a supplementing and com- 
 pleting talent. Lucilla in vain denied that she 
 had any terpsichorean ability or ambition. It only 
 convinced him that her talent must be dormant, 
 and it needed him to develop it. In the meantime 
 he glided easily into talk about himself, his ambi- 
 tion, his work. Sinclair Furley believed in him- 
 self and in his i*eputation. When his performance 
 had been greeted by one unanimous howl of dis- 
 approbation from the press, he had been delighted ; 
 he had written explanatory letters to each editor, 
 some of whom, being short of ‘ copy,’ had published 
 them. This he called getting up a controversy, 
 and he would insist it was the only way to succeed 
 nowadays. When he had been called an aesthete 
 his soul had revolted in print, and he had explained 
 voluminously the difference between an aesthete 
 and a realist. Now he was planning a big show, 
 and his delight was huge at finding a listener to 
 whom he might explain its scope. They sat on 
 the lounge together, these two, for a time which 
 seemed to Lucilla well-nigh interminable. Nobody 
 interrupted them, nobody wanted either of them. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 115 
 
 Sinclair’s habit of talking constantly about himself 
 and his works — past, present, and future — rendered 
 him a companion that men fought shy of ; and it 
 may be doubted whether women found in his 
 society the charm that he imagined, although it 
 was his unvarying plan to flatter their presumed 
 vanity by suggesting ‘ they should dance or sing,’ 
 and telling them his stock anecdote about the lady 
 in whom he had discovered, though it was unknown 
 to her before, a vast and, as it proved, a productive 
 talent. 
 
 He made love to Lucilla in his own way — that 
 is to say, the way in which he mentally regarded 
 all her sex ; an undraped way, to express it in the 
 least objectionable manner. It was not so much 
 what he said or did, but what he looked and im- 
 plied, that brought the constant blushes to her 
 cheek and the feeling of discomfort and painful 
 shyness to her mind. He talked of the show he 
 was projecting, but he talked of it relatively. He 
 continually stopped in his narrative to ask her if 
 she could do this or that, or if she had ever felt 
 like this or that, and the feelings he asked for were 
 those she had never experienced, or, if she had, 
 would have shrunk from expressing. 
 
 When she went in with him to supper, he 
 
 8 — 2 
 
ii6 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 pressed her to make an appointment to meet him 
 somewhere that he might talk over to her the plan 
 for his forthcoming entertainment, and discuss the 
 prospect of getting up one with her. He suggested 
 his chambers, but an instinct, not an education — • 
 for that Lucilla lacked — made her demur to this. 
 Still, the prospect of a tete-a-tete, of many a tete-a- 
 /'i?7^,with her was too precious to be lightly forsaken. 
 He pressed her again and again for an appointment, 
 until the girl said she would consult Nettie, 
 
 He took the task out of her hands. Nettie 
 and he were fairly good friends, although he had 
 never been her lover. With all his peculiarities, 
 he knew enough of the world to understand by 
 Nettie’s reply that the field was open to him. 
 Thanks to Sinclair Furley, Nettie had enjoyed her 
 evening untrammelled by the care of the girl. 
 Sinclair Furley might continue to free her from a 
 companionship that she looked upon as an espion- 
 age, and an irritation that, since she had surprised 
 Mordaunt Rivers with the girl, had been redoubled. 
 Nettie’s fading charms accentuated her appreciation 
 of Lucilla’s youthful fairness ; and Nettie feared 
 greatly that when the child had caught up the 
 manners and tone of the set she might have to 
 brook a rival near her tottering throne. No man 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 117 
 
 could have a worse character than Sinclair Furley. 
 It was a well-known fact that his conversation was 
 even less d^’cent in private than in public ; that 
 his company was impossible to a woman who 
 respected herself ; but what mattered that to 
 Nettie? Lucilla must manage to take care of herself. 
 
 An appointment was made for the morrow. 
 Lucy went home full of the sense that her long 
 tete-a-tete with Mr. Furley would be the precursor 
 of many others ; that he valued her opinion, and 
 wanted it for his new play ; that he thought her 
 clever, and believed she could also dance and sing 
 if he put her in the way of it. And the girl felt 
 happier that night in the thought that she might 
 possess these talents, and that through them there 
 might be a door opened to her into a wider world. 
 The hope, inter-penetrating her dreams, made her 
 think of Sinclair. It was he who would lead her 
 into this lighter atmosphere. She would try and 
 put away from her mind that feeling of repulsion 
 that she could neither account for nor overcome. 
 It is certain that more than three-fourths of what 
 he said and what he implied had been utterly 
 uncomprehended by her. 
 
 But she did not sleep well that night. Some- 
 thing there was about Sinclair, a feebleness mental. 
 
Ii8 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 moral, or physical, that reminded her of Marius. 
 She tossed restlessly about, dreaming now of one, 
 now of another. They were changing figures. 
 Was it his hands — soft, boneless, the fat flesh 
 covering the roots of the nails — that reminded her 
 of those others, heavy and cold and uncertain ? 
 She roused herself from her sleep. Some other 
 hands had held hers ; some other touch had been 
 about her. She was under the charm again of 
 smiling eyes and smiling mouth, and a man’s 
 dominant nature. She smiled in the darkness her 
 response, then the girl-child turned on her pillow 
 with that happy smile, and the god that tempts 
 maidens soothed her in his arms with brighter 
 morning dreams, where Mordaunt Rivers took 
 Sinclair’s place, and Marius faded into unreality. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Punctually Sinclair kept his appointment, ar- 
 riving with a big bundle of MSS. tied up in 
 brown paper. Nettie was in the drawing-room 
 at the moment with Lady Lusher. She welcomed 
 him warmly, soon, however, dismissing him to the 
 inner room where Lucilla awaited him. A signi- 
 ficant look answered Lady Lusher’s interrogatory 
 raising of her eyebrows. 
 
 ‘ What, does she like him ? How filthy !’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, girls are all the same,’ answered Nettie 
 lightly. ‘ I thought they might just as well meet 
 here as anywhere “ on the tiles ’ she laughed the 
 laugh that Mordaunt hated. ‘ Roily is so particular 
 about her.’ 
 
 ‘ But I thought Sinclair Furley was such a — — ’ 
 ‘ Oh, Roily has a very high opinion of him. I 
 think he’s a — well ; but what’s that to me 
 
 This was not one of Nettie’s good days ; she 
 looked haggard and old ; her glass told her how 
 
120 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 unfavourably she compared with the girl. Though 
 she was no longer jealous of her influence with 
 Roily, she could not put out of her mind Mordaunt’s 
 interrupted kiss. Nettie’s jealousy was wide and 
 inclusive. 
 
 She left Sinclair with Lucilla this afternoon, while 
 she and Lady Lusher compared their experiences; 
 talked of sin in various forms, but from their own 
 standpoint — a standpoint wherefrom sin was sin 
 no longer, but a more or less amusing pastime. 
 The men who dropped in were not invited to 
 penetrate the inner sanctum. Sinclair was left 
 alone to pour into the ears of his listener v/hatso- 
 ever of his eloquence he thought fit. 
 
 ‘ At last — this is delightful,’ commenced Sinclair, 
 waving his white hands, ‘ to talk over one’s works 
 to a sympathetic listener, and that listener you! 
 Can one imagine a more charming circumstance ?’ 
 
 Lucilla blushed with pleasure, 
 
 ‘ Shall I begin ? or shall I first explain my 
 motive — my idea that I have worked upon 
 
 ‘ Is it a play 
 
 ‘ Hardly ; it is a monologue — but there is a 
 great deal in it. You will be astonished. I will 
 explain it to you.’ 
 
 ‘ Will it not explain itself?’ She v/as more at 
 her ease with him this afternoon ; his absorption in 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 I2I 
 
 himself and his work drew his attention off her 
 personality ; the atmosphere about her was purer 
 in this withdrawal, and she had space in which to 
 be natural. 
 
 ‘ Don’t, don’t speak like that,’ he interrupted with 
 a pained intonation ; ‘it is Philistine — terribly 
 Philistine. I could not have believed it of you.’ 
 
 Lucilla felt ashamed, although she knew not 
 wherein she had erred, or in what her Philistinism 
 had consisted. 
 
 ‘ I am sorry,’ she faltered, and looked at him 
 wistfully out of her eyes that had begun to have 
 that shrinking look in them as of an animal that 
 knows not when the ready blow will fall. Marius’s 
 image. Roily’s neglect, Nettie’s ill-concealed dis- 
 like, had had their effect. Her nerves were always 
 quivering ; her distrust of herself and her fears 
 poisoning her every moment. 
 
 ‘ You can’t help it ; it is not your fault. Roland 
 is thoroughly Philistine ; but you must not listen 
 to him if I am to teach you art. Footlights is 
 not art ; nor commonplace stories, with plots, the 
 aim of the dramatist. If you will listen to me I 
 will teach you ; but you must give yourself up to 
 me, and believe in me : it is the first essential.’ 
 
 Sinclair Furley was the most egotistical man in 
 
1 22 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 the world. He forgot to make love to Lucilla 
 while he talked to her of himself And she, she 
 sat and listened ; it was not often anyone talked to 
 her. He thought more of the effect of his work 
 than of the work itself. His mental uncleanliness 
 exhibited itself constantly — he did not drink, he 
 had an incurable timidity that prevented him in- 
 dulging in other forms of vice — singing and 
 acting were the outlets for his weakness. 
 
 He was vain. In his emasculate, feminine 
 fashion he had fallen in love with Lucilla. His 
 soul was narrow, but it had recognised a difference 
 between the girl and the other women with whom 
 he was brought into contact. Still, he forgot he 
 was in love with her while he talked of himself 
 and of his work. 
 
 He talked for hours. Lucilla’s brain grew 
 weary, and ceased to understand. The daylight 
 waned, the tea grew cold, the hum of voices in 
 the other room ceased, but still he talked on. 
 
 At length the quiet in the next room and the 
 growing darkness recalled him. The MSS. had 
 never been opened — the explanations had taken up 
 all the time. He was profuse in his apologies and 
 regrets. He ‘ hoped he had not bored her,’ but 
 did not fear it, and, while uttering his farewells. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA.. 
 
 123 
 
 promised to come in at the same time to-morrow 
 and teach her how she was to begin to dance. 
 
 At length she heard the door close after him. 
 She was again alone, and in a solitude that was 
 cheerless and cold. Beyond her was the empty 
 room, with its disarranged chairs and cushions, the 
 ends of cigars, the burnt-out ashes of cigarettes, 
 and half-empty tumblers lying about in confusion. 
 Nettie had gone up to dress for the evening when 
 her friends had left her. The servant had brought 
 in no lights. The May evening was chilly and 
 damp. Lucilla was mentally exhausted. Sinclair 
 had talked art to her ; he had preached the creed 
 of Zolaism, and had applied it to the stage ; she 
 had striven to understand the technicalities of his 
 exordium ; he had said things that had made her 
 heart beat fast and her cheek flush red. But the 
 strain of listening for so long had over-tired her ; 
 she was benumbed by it ; her own voice would have 
 sounded strange and distant to her ears. And the 
 empty room, with its traces of a genial party, 
 depressed her. The long evening before her 
 seemed miserable in contemplation. She wandered 
 through the rooms, into the dining-room, and 
 looked out on the black trees of the square, grim 
 and unstirred in the still evening. The streets 
 
124 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 were empty, but across the way she could see the 
 lights in the windows — could almost hear the 
 sound of merry childish voices. Her eyes filled 
 with tears ; a curious, sad self-pity seized upon her, 
 and the tears fell dowm her cheeks. She was so 
 lonely, so neglected, in that deserted room. 
 
 And so Mordaunt Rivers found her in the 
 semi-dusk. He walked in unannounced in re- 
 gular Southampton Row manner. He had almost 
 forgotten her — almost, but not quite. 
 
 ‘ What, all alone, and in the dark How’s 
 that ?’ 
 
 ‘ Nettie and father have gone out,’ she faltered, 
 as she gave him her hand ; her eyes were cast 
 down — she did not wish that he should see her 
 tears. 
 
 ‘ That is no reason the lamps should not be lit, 
 you baby !’ he answered lightly, and, taking a 
 match from his pocket, he lit the red-shaded lamp 
 that was nearest him. 
 
 The lamplight fell on the girl’s pale, troubled 
 face ; he could see the tear-traces on her cheeks. 
 
 ‘ Why, child, you have been crying !’ His tone 
 was so gentle, there was such a thrill of pity in it, 
 that Lucilla gave way ; she sank on the sofa and 
 hid her face in her hands. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 125 
 
 He sat down beside her ; he put his arms about 
 her and drew her gently to him. After all, she 
 was only a child, and as a child he could comfort 
 her in her present trouble. And Lucilla wept in 
 his arms a little ; then the paroxysm of sobs 
 passed; she made a movement to withdraw — he 
 did not loose her. She looked up timidly, her 
 lips tremulous, her eyes humid; the red light of 
 the lamp deepened the yellow of her hair. 
 
 ‘ Keep still, child ; you are safe here,’ His 
 eyes smiled down upon her; the arms that held 
 her were not nervous and loose as Roily’s were, 
 nor heavy and close as Marius’s had been. Mor- 
 daunt held her firmly, her fair head resting on his 
 broad shoulder ; a quiet strength looked out of 
 his calm face ; the breath that fanned her was not 
 drink-laden as Roily’s, the teeth not jagged and 
 irregular like Marius’s. She could rest there 
 with a pleasure that was physical, for the eyes 
 that could see no beauty in Whistler’s pictures 
 could see plenty in the well-cut features and brown 
 beard above her. ‘ What have you been doing 
 with yourself this afternoon to make you look like 
 this.^’ With his even-shaped brown hand he 
 touched her still v/et cheeks. They reddened 
 under the touch. 
 
126 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 ‘ Mr. Furley has been here,’ she said hurriedly. 
 
 The figure he held was so childish, her face was 
 so pretty in its delicacy, that a thrill of disgust ran 
 through him as he thought of the comedian ; he 
 imagined how he would besmear her with his dirty 
 descriptions, and gloat over her charms with his 
 unmanly floridity. 
 
 It smote him afresh — that sense of her unfitness 
 for Southampton Row. He released her suddenly; 
 he walked over to the window. 
 
 ‘ And is he coming again ?' 
 
 ‘ Yes, he is coming often. Nettie asked him,’ 
 she answered nervously. 
 
 Mordaunt looked around him. In the gathering 
 gloom, relieved by the one lamp, the dirt and un- 
 tidiness seemed accentuated by the presence of the 
 lonely girl. The acrid atmosphere was permeated 
 with smoke and dust and heavy scents, and the 
 single human thing was but the product of all this 
 impure atmosphere, born in it, from it taking 
 ever fresh draughts of the impurities in which her 
 being had had its rise. 
 
 Abruptly, impulsively, he said : 
 
 ‘ Come out ; you can’t spend the evening alone 
 here. Get your things, and come out with me.’ 
 
 ‘ Me ?’ she flushed. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 1:7 
 
 ‘ Yes, you. What were you going to do with 
 yourself.^’ he repeated. 
 
 ‘ They will bring me more tea presently ; then 
 I shall go to bed.’ 
 
 ‘ Cheerful !’ He shuddered. ‘ Is that what you 
 do every evening when they go out 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ And do you sleep when you go to bed at nine 
 o’clock, after a solitary evening ?’ 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 ‘ You lie awake 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ And read 
 ‘ No ; I think.’ 
 
 ‘ What of?’ 
 
 He looked at her with fresh interest. She 
 broke down again, weeping, and telling him 
 through her sobs that she thought of Marius ; and 
 of her father, who did not love her; and of her 
 life, that promised to be so empty and so dreary. 
 
 He put his arm around her again ; how else 
 can one comfort a child? And she, feeling less 
 lonely now protected, made no protest. Mor- 
 daunt’s heart swelled with pity ; he grew hot with 
 anger against Roily. How long was it since he 
 had held in his arms a young creature like this. 
 
128 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 or had he ever so held ? He stooped his head 
 down, and for an instant his lips rested on her 
 hair — her soft, fair hair, innocent of wash or 
 dye. 
 
 ‘ Poor little girl ! poor little neglected girl !’ 
 he said. 
 
 Her sobs ceased. 
 
 Now here was he, a man of five-and-thirty, 
 and there was she, a girl of seventeen, alone in 
 the gathering dusk ; the man’s heart throbbing 
 with pity and sympathy, the girl’s beating fast 
 with the pleasure of being pitied, of being so 
 comforted. 
 
 But it was Southampton Row — Southampton 
 Row, where Mordaunt had drunk and revelled, 
 and seen frail women, and joined in orgies. Of 
 course he felt Lucilla was not as they were ; of 
 course he recognised in her that subtle aroma of 
 maidenhood that told him the innocence of her 
 acceptance of his caresses, her child-like gratitude 
 that she had found a friend. 
 
 He looked round the rooms again ; they struck 
 him as if in them was concentrated the essence of 
 all he had seen pass there. That dent in the 
 mantelpiece that Lord Lusher had made when he 
 had fought with Charlie, that big stain on the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 129 
 
 carpet where Tom in drunken glee had poured 
 out a libation to the gods they were worshipping ; 
 Nettie’s powder-box and hand-mirror. 
 
 ‘ Come out,’ he said abruptly ; ‘ no wonder you 
 get hipped, sitting alone here ; it is enough to 
 give anyone the blues. Put your things on, and 
 come out with me for a change ; it will do you 
 good.’ 
 
 Lucilla sat up. 
 
 ‘ Come out — now — with you ?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; why not ? We will have a little dinner 
 together, then we will go to the theatre. You’ve 
 no idea how a little change freshens one up, and 
 makes things look brighter all round.’ 
 
 No idea had been further from his thoughts 
 when he had come into the house, but now it 
 seized upon him. It would be doing the girl a 
 kindness, poor little thing ! He could not spend 
 the evening alone with her in these haunted rooms, 
 yet he did not like to leave her alone. Poor little 
 girl ; poor little, pretty little girl ! 
 
 He grew quite eager to carry out his idea, 
 driving away Lucilla’s scruples one by one, and 
 using in turn authority and endearments before 
 he succeeded. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Vvhat will father say ?’ she protested, some- 
 what feebly. 
 
 ‘ Father won’t know anything about it ; he 
 won’t be home until half-past twelve, Vvhereas we 
 shall get in long before that. Now, run away and 
 dress, there is a good little girl ; make yourself 
 look very pretty, and don’t keep me waiting very 
 long, because I am getting hungry.’ 
 
 Lucilla still hesitated, but Mordaunt opened 
 the door for her, and she was longing to go. An 
 evening quite alone seemed worse than ever to 
 her, now that she had a prospect of one so 
 differently spent. She ran upstairs to dress, 
 banishing all scruples, and very soon the servant, 
 whom she had rung for, came to her assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Rivers had sent her, having settled matters 
 liberally downstairs, on the basis of the under- 
 standing that the going out was to remain a 
 secret. 
 
 Lucilla dressed with more real expectation of 
 pleasure than she had ever felt before. The image 
 of Rivers, that had been in her mind a week or 
 two since, and that had been driven out by 
 Sinclair Furley and the hopes he had held out to 
 her, reasserted itself. He pitied her, he sym- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 131 
 
 pathized with her ; how firm was his touch, how 
 clear his outlines ! 
 
 As she dressed, the life she was going to carve 
 out for herself on the stage, with Sinclair Furley’s 
 aid, faded. She was excited, pleased, happy in 
 the thought of the evening she was going to 
 spend, of the kind words she would hear. She 
 felt acutely the reaction from the depression she 
 was suffering under when Mr. Rivers had just 
 come. Nothing more ; her sex was still dor- 
 mant. 
 
 Lucilla must be forgiven her imprudence in 
 accepting so readily Rivers’s invitation, when it is 
 remembered that propriety was a word she had 
 never heard, a course of action in her adult life 
 she had never seen. If she felt a twinge of con- 
 science, it was merely because it seemed to her 
 she was deceiving her father in going without his 
 permission, although it was deceit of the class she 
 had heard talked over and laughed at as a joke, 
 at least a score of times. 
 
 She put on the new gray and white dress that 
 she had had made for the party at McDougal’s, 
 and she appeared before Mordaunt, already a little 
 regretting his invitation, so shy and blushing, so 
 thoroughly pretty, that he cast off his regrets and 
 
132 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 fears, and set himself seriously to the task of 
 ‘ having a good time.’ 
 
 He chaffed her, and he patted her, exactly in 
 the manner one treats a child ; and under the 
 influence of his gay talk she lost her shyness and 
 became, for the time being, what Nature had in- 
 tended her for, but what she had never been, 
 joyous and light-hearted. 
 
 Rivers drew her out, played with her, one might 
 almost say, without arousing in her any self-con- 
 sciousness or remembrance of her sex, or of his 
 own. He brought her back again to the state 
 she had been in before her father’s obvious 
 boredom and Nettie’s obvious dislike had driven 
 her back into herself, and shut up all outlet for 
 her youth to grow joyous in, after the repression 
 of her life with Marius. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 What Mordaunt Rivers’s intentions or Ideas were 
 as regards Lucilla is problematic : circumstances 
 shaped his after-conduct. She was very pretty, 
 and she lived in the same atmosphere with such 
 women as Nettie, as Lady Lusher, as Jenny 
 Farrell. She touched him In a way he had never 
 before been touched. He felt sorry for her to an 
 extent that interfered with his enjoyment of all 
 things. 
 
 In going to Southampton Row this evening he 
 had had no intention of taking the girl out. 
 Habit and idleness had taken him there. Idle- 
 ness that was habitual to this man, who had no 
 ambition beyond his daily bread. All Roily’s 
 vices, his drunken habits, his unfaithfulness, his 
 moral weakness, Mordaunt knew by heart. He 
 despised Roily bitterly, but he had a certain liking 
 for him, recognising that he never meant to do 
 any harm, but only allowed himself to be swayed 
 
134 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 by every passing impulse. He did not want to 
 hurt Roily through his daughter ; he merely 
 wanted to be kind to this babe strayed into 
 Bohemia. 
 
 Her prettiness — and she was, and always re- 
 mained, even in the bad days that came to her, 
 very pretty — scarcely appealed to him so much as 
 did her incongruity in emerging from childhood in 
 such an atmosphere. Sinclair Furley’s picturesque 
 phrase that she was ‘ distinctively virginal ’ made 
 her live for him in a light such as he had never 
 before regarded women. 
 
 ‘ Are you happy, child ?’ he asked, and took her 
 hand, as they drove home that night in the cab. 
 
 The glow on her pale cheeks and in her blue 
 eyes answered him. 
 
 ‘ I have never spent so happy an evening,’ she 
 answered fervently, squeezing the hand of his 
 that imprisoned hers ; ‘ it was all lovely — the 
 dinner, and the theatre, and the unexpectedness, 
 and everything.’ 
 
 ‘ Including my company he asked. 
 
 ‘ It would have been nothing without you,’ she 
 replied enthusiastically, genuinely. ‘ I don’t know 
 why you are so good to me.’ 
 
 ‘ It is because you are pretty.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 133 
 
 She blushed in the darkness. 
 
 ‘ Don’t laugh at me ; I am not pretty.’ 
 
 ‘ How do you know.?’ 
 
 ‘ Because,’ and her voice sank and her cheeks 
 paled again, ‘ I am like Marius.’ A dimness came 
 over her as she said it, and a fear. She held him 
 with both hands. ‘ Like me, but like me for 
 something else. Go on being good to me. I am 
 so lonely.’ 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Roily had once been touched by an appeal from 
 Lucilla, and had vowed to be good to her — both 
 to himself and to her. But Roily was like the 
 sand-heaps the children build upon the beach — a 
 fresh tide comes, and all traces of their efforts are 
 washed away. Mordaunt was different ; the cling 
 of her small hands, and the fear he saw with the 
 appeal in her eyes, touched a tender place in his 
 heart, whose existence was unknown to him. He 
 had no words to answer her. He took both her 
 hands in his, and held them a moment. 
 
 ‘ God help you,’ he said — and there was a break 
 in his voice — ‘ if you’ve no better friend than I to • 
 turn to !’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t want anyone better,’ she answered 
 feverishly. ‘ Be my friend always ; be the same 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 136 
 
 every day. Don’t be like father ’ — her voice 
 dropped — ‘ kind one day, but hardly seeing me 
 the next. Don’t be like Nettie, so that when you 
 are kind I am afraid, or say things to me that hurt 
 me right through here.’ She put her hand to her 
 head. ‘ Be always like you have been to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ Very well,’ he said as lightly as ho could ; ‘ we 
 will vow a compact of friendship so perfect that 
 nothing can undo it, nothing shake it. But 
 now jump out ; here we are, and, fortunately, the 
 dining-room gas is still low, and Roily and Nettie 
 still out.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish I might tell father I had been.’ 
 
 ‘ No, no,’ he said hurriedly ; ‘ we will keep our 
 friendship a secret. Go to bed and sleep well ; 
 don’t lie awake thinking.’ 
 
 He held out his hand to her. They shook 
 hands. He did not ask for a kiss. The omission 
 seemed strange to her. Had he kissed her then, 
 it would not have awoke her. She would have 
 given him a child’s kiss of gratitude and affection. 
 But he did not kiss her, for her appeal to him for 
 kindness had touched him, and he meant to be 
 kind, nothing more, to this pretty child who had 
 attracted him. 
 
 So they parted that night, before half-past 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 137 
 
 eleven, after an evening spent in dining in the 
 public room at Verrey’s and in sitting out ‘The 
 Private Secretary ’ afterwards. 
 
 They had talked, though not much. He had 
 assumed toward her a paternal manner ; telling 
 her what to eat and what not to eat ; pointing out 
 to her the peculiarities of the other people, and 
 making fun of them for her benefit ; helping her 
 in and out of the cab, on and off with her cloak ; 
 petting her, and playing with her as one does with 
 a child. 
 
 ‘ Rum go !’ said the footman to the cook, as the 
 pair parted at the door. ‘Wonder what the 
 missus would say if she knew 
 
 ‘ Well, she won’t give you nothing for telling 
 her, and he will give you something for not telling 
 her ; so it’s easy to see which side your bread’s 
 buttered,’ answered his confidante. And, needless 
 to add, Nettie was not informed. 
 
 Mordaunt’s conscience, as he walked down the 
 empty street into the dreariness of Russell Square, 
 reminded him of its existence. He puffed away 
 at his cigarette, but he did not obscure the face of 
 Lucilla as she had thanked him, as she had said, 
 with that innocent burst of gratitude, ‘ I don’t 
 know why you are to good to me.’ 
 
1.38 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 She was fair, she was young, she was pretty. 
 She was Nettie’s step-daughter, and he had himself 
 foreshadowed to Nettie her inevitable future. But 
 then he had not known her ; it had not dawned 
 upon him that the girl was not as other girls, or 
 that if she were, then he did not after all under- 
 stand ‘ other girls.’ 
 
 ‘ How joyous, how childlike, how light-hearted 
 . . . what an infernal thing it is. . . .’ He got 
 thus far in his meditations and stopped. ‘ Bah ! 
 it was nothing to him. He had done her no 
 harm ; she was dull and lonely, and he had taken 
 her out and cheered her up.’ 
 
 The code of manners for young ladies was not 
 strict in the world he lived in now ; not the same 
 code that had governed another world he had 
 known years and years ago. Nettie would be in 
 a fury if she heard ; but that not on account of 
 Lucilla’s having gone out at night without a 
 chaperone, but only at the fact that her com- 
 panion was himself. 
 
 Nettie was of a very jealous disposition, and 
 he was careful not to arouse it. But that did not 
 prevent him, now that the ice was once broken, 
 from showing Lucilla every kindness that was in 
 his power. He got into the habit of meeting her 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 139 
 
 on the staircase, in the hall, as he came in and 
 out of the house, and of making appointments 
 with her. 
 
 Just now he was fairly safe, for Nettie was very 
 much absorbed in her flirtation with Antonelli. 
 Nettie’s youth was vanishing so fast that an affaire 
 gave her double pleasure. She dressed herself 
 three and four times a day ; she practised upon 
 him all those arts that were growing rusty for 
 lack of use. Sinclair Furley came every day to 
 sing or talk to Lucilla, though the dancing lessons 
 had not yet begun, and Nettie felt satisfied that if 
 the girl had a lover, and that lover Sinclair Furley, 
 she need take no further trouble in the matter. 
 
 So every afternoon Sinclair talked and sang to 
 Lucilla, and the girl sat and listened ; or, at 
 least, she sat silent, and Sinclair thought she 
 listened. But she could not listen always ; harm- 
 lessly his insinuations, his innuendos, his slimy 
 words and slimy looks passed over her. She 
 could not help drifting into happy reveries. His 
 voice hummed in her ears monotonously ; he 
 had an even and monotonous intonation with 
 mechanical rises, and falls rhythmic but unimpres- 
 sive. The humming did not interrupt her dreams. 
 She had dreamt all her life — of the father who 
 
140 
 
 A BABE JN BOHEMIA. 
 
 would one day love her and seek her companion- 
 ship ; of Marius ; of Nettie ; but now only of 
 Mordaunt, the physical dignity and beauty of 
 whose manhood impressed her. 
 
 Marius and Roily sank into the background. 
 The girl grew stronger in health and nerves under 
 the influence of happiness. It was happiness for 
 her to see Mordaunt, to feel that his friendship 
 was really hers. She had none of the uncertainty, 
 the hopes and fears of love unacknowledged, 
 whether returned or unreturned. 
 
 Mordaunt was always gentle with her ignor- 
 ance : he talked to her when he had the oppor- 
 tunity, and taught her in the talking many things 
 she was wishful to learn. He was well read him- 
 self. There had been a time in his life when 
 reading had been his only solace. He enlarged 
 her mind ; he taught her the existence of 
 literature. Not the only literature Sinclair Furley 
 knew, of De Goncourt and Daudet ; but some- 
 thing of the beauties of Horace, something of the 
 philosophy of Plato. He taught her history — 
 not the history of a young lady educated at a 
 high school, with the small store of facts carefully 
 packed handy for an examiner to get at — but he 
 gave her a broad survey of social history, and 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 141 
 
 pointed out to her recurrent thought -waves, art 
 cycles, the varying features of a shifting humanity. 
 
 He found many opportunities. Nettie was 
 absorbed in Antonelli, Roily, just now, had a 
 feverish infatuation for Tessie Gay that kept him 
 much from home. Mordaunt knew always their 
 movements, and neither his contributions, nor his 
 editorship of Footlights., prevented him taking 
 advantage of every occasion that their absence 
 gave him, of giving Lucilla a little treat. 
 
 ‘ You don’t want to come with us to the 
 Empire,’ Nettie would say ; ‘ you can ask Sin- 
 clair Furley to come in the evening instead of 
 in the afternoon. The Empire is not the proper 
 place for girls.’ 
 
 And Lucilla would acquiesce — acquiesce while 
 the colour came into her cheek, and her heart 
 beat fast ; but Sinclair Furley never got his 
 invitation. 
 
 ‘ Dear Mr. Rivers, 
 
 ‘ Nettie is going to the Empire to- 
 night. 
 
 ‘ Yours truly, 
 
 ‘ Lucilla Lewesham.’ 
 
 Mordaunt would get this little letter at his 
 
142 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 club, or at his chambers, and he would smile under 
 his moustache, ‘ Poor little thing ! Where shall I 
 take her to-night ? Let me see, we have been to 
 the Court, and the Lyceum, and the Strand. It 
 is very hot for the theatre . . . I’ll take her to the 
 Exhibition , . . good idea !’ 
 
 ‘ Dear little Girl, 
 
 ‘ Go to bed with a headache. It will be 
 too late if you wait until Nettie has gone out. 
 Be at the corner a quarter to eight, sharp. I’ve 
 got a splendid idea for this evening. Not evening 
 dress — hat and jacket. 
 
 ‘ Yours, 
 
 ‘M. R.’ 
 
 The footman was their sworn friend now. 
 Lucilla got the note just before Sinclair arrived 
 for the afternoon reading. 
 
 Poor man ; his chance of a hearing was a 
 slender one, but he noticed nothing. He had a 
 passion for the sound of his own voice , singing to 
 Lucilla had become a religion with him. He fully 
 intended to teach her to dance ; in the meantime 
 it would educate her to hear the motif of the 
 play ; to thoroughly master his music, to enter into 
 the spirit of the thing. His egotism was gratified 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 143 
 
 by her attention, his self-love soothed by the chaff 
 he underwent from his friends at his intimacy with 
 Roily’s daughter. There was nothing he did not 
 imply that took place in those afternoon interviews. 
 He had a habit of interpolating French phrases 
 into his conversation, although his French was not 
 so perfect as he imagined. He talked much, and 
 mysteriously, of his ‘ bonnes fortunes ’ with the 
 girl, and the whole incident gave him keen 
 pleasure. 
 
 He did not notice this afternoon how far off 
 were Lucilla’s thoughts. He read and read and 
 read, while she dreamed over the pleasures of the 
 evening, and wondered again and again what treat 
 her dear friend had in store for her. 
 
 ‘ I have been so impatient,’ she said, when, a 
 little out of breath, in her excitement and hurry, 
 she joined him at the appointed time. 
 
 ‘ Have you ?’ he answered lightly. ‘ What a 
 baby you are ! Where do you think I mean to 
 take you — guess?’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know — I don’t care much ; it is sure 
 to be somewhere nice.’ 
 
 She nestled closer to him in the hansom, and 
 slipped her hand into his. 
 
144 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Lucilla was unconscious of her sin against con- 
 ventionality : conventionality was an unknown 
 quantity to her. She had wondered why Mor- 
 daunt had not kissed her that first evening they 
 had been out together ; but in all their subsequent 
 jaunts she had omitted to put up her face in the 
 child-like way that she had done then. Beyond 
 that, and a certain confidence in him, her feelings 
 toward him were much the same as, or but little 
 different from, those she possessed for her father. 
 
 She would hold his hand, she would press up 
 against him in a caressing way. She would even 
 talk to him of her fondness for him. She would 
 encourage herself to dream of him, chiefly because 
 his masculine figure in its strength and vigour 
 overpowered and shut out the dreaded one of 
 Marius. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ‘Where are we going 
 
 ‘ Can’t you restrain your impatience until we 
 get there?’ he answered teasingly. 
 
 ‘No, no ; tell me.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, we are going a little trip to Fairyland.’ 
 
 ‘ Will there be fairies?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; great big handsome men-fairies. I shall 
 be put in the background there, I suppose.’ 
 
 She laughed a merry little laugh. 
 
 ‘ You are not afraid ?’ 
 
 He turned and looked at her. 
 
 ‘Yes, I am. Babies are so fickle. Supposing a 
 big fairy with a yellow moustache wanted to take 
 you out of an evening, wouldn’t you be very 
 delighted, and give me the slip as easily as 
 possible?’ 
 
 ‘ No,’ she answered lightly. ‘ I don’t like 
 yellow moustaches like Lord Lusher’s, nor blac’s: 
 ones like Tom Furley’s — nor none at all, like 
 Sinclair Furley.’ 
 
 lo 
 
146 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Well, what do you like r Describe the ideal.’ 
 
 She glanced at him slyly under her lashes. 
 
 ‘ Beards,’ she answered laconically. 
 
 ‘ You don’t know how they feel, baby.’ He 
 smoothed his with his brown hand. ‘ They are 
 rough ; you had a chance once ; you threw it 
 away. Now you will never, never know.’ 
 
 He shook his head at her. 
 
 She blushed, for she remembered that she had 
 felt it; that before Nettie had surprised them, her 
 cheeks had grown hot under the touch of it. 
 
 ‘ I don’t want to,’ she said defiantly. ‘ If I do, 
 I can touch the broom — there !’ 
 
 ‘Very improper!’ he said coolly. ‘If I catch 
 you with the broom, I shall complain to your 
 father of you.’ 
 
 In such idle chatter they reached the Exhibition. 
 It was the year of the Inventories. Mordaunt 
 wasted no time on the exhibits. He led Lucilla 
 straight into the grounds, where the illuminated 
 fountains and the many-coloured lamps, all 
 brilliant in the warm summer night, elicited from 
 the girl divers exclamations of pleasure. 
 
 They dined at a special little table, by the 
 window ; the fresh air played about them as they 
 ate, and the strains of the music mingled with 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 147 
 
 their conversation. Theirs was a charming in- 
 timacy. Mordaunt put away from him deliberately 
 all thought but that of the pleasure of the moment. 
 And the pleasure to him was immense. The girl’s 
 prettiness, her childishness, her evident unconcealed 
 feeling of friendship for him, was a revelation to 
 him. 
 
 This evening, for instance, he encouraged her to 
 talk of nothing else. Wandering under the trees, 
 within sound of the music, hand-in-hand for the 
 most part, he encouraged her to talk of her 
 feelings towards him. Lucilla was nothing loth. 
 She was in that delightful stage which precedes 
 love in a young girl’s mind. No touch or 
 taint of passion marred her thoughts, yet her 
 mind was as full of Mordaunt Rivers’s physical 
 attributes as of his mental ones. He had wiped 
 out Marius and her father and Sinclair Furley. 
 He had restored to her in some indefinable way 
 her lost childhood. She was in a state of constant 
 pleasurable expectation of, and in, and about him. 
 He imported, into the life that had been in 
 danger of growing gray and colourless from neg- 
 lect, a warmth and a brightness. 
 
 ‘But why do you like me so much, child .^’ he 
 asked her. 
 
 10 — 2 
 
148 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ I like you because you are kind to me ; because 
 you take me out; because your hands are not too 
 warm or too soft ’ — she pressed one between her 
 small ones — ‘ but just firm and nice. I like to 
 think about you, and I can always see you when 
 you are not there, and then I don’t see anything 
 else. You come between me and everything I 
 don’t want to see or think of. I used to be 
 always thinking about Marius, or about my life, 
 and that it was no use to anybody, and I was not 
 wanted ; but now — now I only think of when 
 will be the next time you will take me out ; and 
 so I have always something to look forward to.’ 
 
 It was very artless and very simple. Mordaunt 
 smoked on in silence a moment or two. 
 
 ‘ But I suppose if Furley had had the idea of 
 relieving the monotony of your evenings by taking 
 you out, you v/ould have felt just the same for 
 him.’ 
 
 She shook her head, with its fair short curls, 
 looking at him out of the blue eyes softly. 
 
 ‘ No, you are not like he is. He startles me 
 sometimes — frightens me. I do not know what 
 he is going to say ; I am afraid of what he is 
 going to say. I don’t know why. With you I 
 always feel safe and happy.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 149 
 
 He turned suddenly round. 
 
 ‘You feel safe with me.?’ he asked her almost 
 roughly. 
 
 For answer she came closer to him, and, laugh- 
 ing low, answered : 
 
 ‘ Quite safe.’ 
 
 He took her two hands in his, and looked into 
 her eyes. No blush, no tremor, no invitation; 
 but candid and open, if affectionately, her eyes 
 met his. 
 
 ‘ And yet — and yet,’ he said, ‘ you are not so 
 safe with me but what ’ 
 
 He was looking at her so intently, he was 
 holding her hands so tight, that she grev/ nervous. 
 She tried to get free, but he held her tight. 
 
 ‘ Don’t ! You are hurting me !’ she cried. 
 
 He loosed her. 
 
 ‘ I would not hurt you, child.’ 
 
 His voice was unsteady. 
 
 He talked little more to her that evening. He 
 took her home very soon.' Mordaunt Rivers had 
 never led a chaste life or a temperate one. He had 
 lived since his early manhood in a vicious atmo- 
 sphere, and had never gone out of his way to avoid 
 temptation. But he began to feel that Lucilla 
 was a temptation to him, and what was higher in 
 
150 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 him than his body revolted at it. Neither Lucilla’s 
 childishness nor her affectionate trust in him could 
 prevent him from seeing the budding charms of 
 her immaturity ; could prevent pity and liking 
 and interest from becoming something warmer at 
 times, when, in her absolute unconsciousness, she 
 tempted him by her caressing ways. 
 
 But there was a moral strength in Mordaunt ; 
 and his manliness was not only in his appearance. 
 He went home that evening, and he vowed to 
 himself that the girl should come to no harm 
 through him. That he would take for himself 
 the pleasure of her blossoming, of her pretty, 
 loving ways, of her pleasures in pleasant things — 
 but that he would take no more from her. Her 
 lips should be sacred from him ; the heart that he 
 could tell would be his for the asking he would 
 not take ; the bloom of her innocence he would 
 not rub off. And believing in his strength and 
 ability to keep his vow, he made no effort to put 
 the temptation from him. Quite the contrary. 
 
 The Cormorant Club lost its charm for him, 
 the weekly house-dinner bored him, the Sunday 
 evening boxing - matches he found brutal and 
 coarse ; but, above all things, there arose in his 
 heart a bitter distaste for Nettie and Roland ; 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 151 
 
 for their respective vices and mutual toleration. 
 He saw Roily, of an evening, excited, semi- 
 intoxicated, lounging at music-hall bars, until it 
 was Tessie Gay’s turn to sing ; heard him vehe- 
 mently and noticeably applauding, or flinging 
 bouquets ; watched the vulgar little beauty in her 
 loud encouragement of him. Their coarse love- 
 making — if love-making it can be called — 
 revolted his taste, and he could not join in the 
 laughter and chaff around him. 
 
 From the music-hall he would repair to South- 
 ampton Row. On the evenings she had no ap- 
 pointment with him, Lucilla would retire early 
 to her happy dreams. He would find the heavy 
 atmosphere of the house doubly repellant, when 
 Nettie was lounging in her liberal evening dress, 
 with Antonelli, coarse-lipped, heavy jowled, mak- 
 ing hot love to her with his affectedly foreign 
 floridity. 
 
 Nettie and Roily, and the Southampton Row 
 clique, became abhorrent to him. Under his dis- 
 taste for the whole set, his copy for Footlights 
 languished and grew dull ; it was well for the 
 future of the paper that it was firmly established 
 as a popular favourite. Mordaunt began to hate 
 his work and his surroundings, and his easy-going 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 IC2 
 
 Bohemian bar-loafing life, that had satisfied him 
 so many years. 
 
 He was in this frame of mind when the 2nd 
 of July dawned — a day Lucilla had been looking 
 forward to for weeks. It was the day of Henley 
 Regatta. Lord Lusher had a house-boat, and 
 the theatrical party he had invited was wide 
 enough in its scope to include both Nettie and 
 Antonelli, Roily and Tessie Gay. Nettie had 
 arranged to stay down the two days, to act as 
 joint hostess. Mordaunt had thought it a good 
 opportunity for another treat for Lucilla ; and so 
 curiously altered was he, that treats for Lucilla 
 seemed gradually to become the whole object of 
 his existence. 
 
 Nettie, Roily and party left Paddington by 
 the 11.30 train; they left Southampton Row at 
 10.45. At 1 1, Mordaunt, neatly attired in a light 
 boating costume, drove up in a hansom, and 
 found Lucilla, already dressed in her white flannel 
 dress and sailor hat, awaiting him in the hall. 
 
 ‘ That’s right, child ; jump in,’ he said, assisting 
 her. ‘ We have twelve minutes to get to Water- 
 loo, and no time to spare. Hov/ nice you look ! 
 Are we not going to have a lovely day 
 
 ‘ Lovely ! Isn’t it all delicious ? I want to be 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 153 
 
 on the river all day long. You know T never 
 saw the river, except that day at Richmond, and 
 then I quite longed to go for a row.’ 
 
 ‘ Why did not you tell me ? I would have 
 managed it.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, you are always managing things for me, 
 but this is better still. A whole long day, and 
 such a day, on the river, just you and me. It 
 makes me feel so happy ; I do not know what to 
 do, or how to thank you.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you know, baby, you tempt me so much 
 with that constant “ I don’t know how to thank 
 you ” of yours, that one of these days I shall tell 
 you.’ 
 
 She looked at him affectionately and squeezed 
 his hand. 
 
 ‘ Do ; I wish you would. Oh, here we are ; 
 don’t tell me now, but get the tickets. I would 
 not miss the train for worlds.’ 
 
 ‘ Plenty of time, plenty of time — three minutes 
 to spare. Don’t Jump out of the cab before me 
 in your excitement, or one of these days you’ll fall 
 over, and then what shall I do ?’ 
 
 But she was too excited to heed him, and did 
 not quiet down until they were actually in the 
 train, with their tickets to Halliford safely in 
 
154 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 their pockets. This had been Mordaunt’s brilliant 
 idea. He had often wanted to take Lucy for a 
 day on the river, but an opportunity had been 
 very difficult to find ; for it is one of those enjoy- 
 ments particularly relished by the theatrical world, 
 and there never was a certainty on a fine day that 
 Roland would not be starting off unexpectedly 
 with this or that person for a jaunt, and his 
 destination, decided at the last moment, would 
 be difficult to discover. But while Roily was at 
 Henley, Lucy and Mordaunt would be safe at 
 Halliford ; and to Halliford, accordingly, on this 
 sweet sunny July morning, went the happy girl 
 with her hero. 
 
 There are some people on whom the country 
 has a peculiar effect ; an intoxication, a delight 
 is experienced by them the very instant the city 
 is left behind, the sweet-scented air blows in their 
 faces ; their eyes, wearied with the confinement of 
 houses, roam over fields, and through trees. And 
 Lucilla was one of them. From the moment she 
 alighted at the little country station, and smelt 
 the fresh air, and saw the greenness, she became 
 intoxicated with the pure delight of it. She could 
 barely talk, though she put her hand in Mor- 
 daunt’s, when they took a fly down to the river, 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 >55 
 
 and turned her swimming eyes to him for sym- 
 pathy every, now and then, when some scent, 
 sweeter than another, or some magnolia-grown, 
 cottage, or garden full of big, scented lilies, drew 
 from her a long breath, that was almost a sigh of 
 ecstatic pleasure. Her happiness was far beyond 
 all speech ; she could only look around her, draw- 
 ing in long breaths of the country, as Mordaunt 
 saw, devouring it also with her eyes. 
 
 Mordaunt had taken the precaution to order a 
 boat to be in readiness — a brightly-decorated 
 Canadian canoe — and he arranged the cushions 
 comfortably for her, and showed her how she was 
 to sit in the middle, so as to balance the little 
 craft ; and then, divesting himself of coat and 
 waistcoat, and round hat, he seated himself 
 opposite her, and soon pulled her away from the 
 shore. 
 
 They had never passed so happy a day ; it may 
 be doubted whether they ever again passed one 
 so absolutely free from care or thought for the 
 morrow. Mordaunt had provided himself with 
 a small picnic-basket ; they lunched together on 
 a little island in mid-stream ; Lucilla doing the 
 unpacking and arranging, Mordaunt the sub- 
 sequent washing-up. Then they got into the 
 
iS6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 boat again, but mooring it to a tree, he stretched 
 himself out on the cushion beside her, and be^an 
 to talk. 
 
 There was not a cloud in the sky ; the sun 
 was shaded from them by the trees, but its 
 beautiful warmth, tempered by the gentlest of 
 summer breezes, touched them both. 
 
 ‘So you are happy he said, as they lay there 
 together, the smallness of the boat bringing them 
 so close that their shoulders touched. 
 
 ‘ I am too happy to talk.’ 
 
 Her eyes were glistening. She had taken off 
 her hat, and the fair, curly tendrils of her hair 
 waved over the blue veins of her forehead ; the 
 sun showed the white down on her cheeks, and it 
 kissed them into a warmer hue than was their 
 wont. 
 
 He felt a glow of pleasure in merely watching 
 her. Such an innocent, beautiful happiness, aroused 
 simply by a motherless child recognising for the 
 first time, and being moved by, the wonderful 
 motherliness of Nature ! Mordaunt could see he 
 was forgotten ; her eyes were filled with the lapping 
 waters, sun-streaked and still, her ears with the 
 soughing of the leafy trees and the carolling of birds. 
 
 He pressed the small white hand that lay idle 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 157 
 
 between his two muscular brown ones, and said 
 nothing. They lay there for more than an hour 
 absolutely silent, and Mordaunt, speculating no 
 longer as to his future, forgetting his worldly 
 wisdom, his cynicism, the world he lived in, aban- 
 doned himself to the enjoyment of noting her 
 rapt face, or trying to follow the direction of her 
 reverie by her changing expression. 
 
 He drifted into thoughtfulness. Her voice 
 aroused him. 
 
 ‘ It is making me too sad. I want to talk — I 
 want to get it out of my mind.’ 
 
 ‘What.?’ 
 
 He was scarcely awake. 
 
 ‘ All of it. I feel that I am trying to get 
 closer to it, but I cannot. Nature is so beautiful, 
 but it is so far off. I am empty of it, hungry for 
 it, and I cannot satisfy myself It is my mother, 
 but it is dead, and I can feel the beauty of such 
 motherhood, but can only pray to her. I cannot 
 throw myself into her arms. I am alone in the 
 midst of it — in the midst of everything !’ There 
 was a sob in her voice ; she was trembling with 
 the excitement of the emotion that she could not 
 put in words. ‘ I can’t explain to you what I 
 feel.’ 
 
158 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Rivers put his arm around her, and drew her 
 closer to him, protectingly, soothingly. She did 
 not resist, although until now there had been 
 little embracing in their intercourse. 
 
 ‘ Explain it to me.’ 
 
 So Rivers, the world-worn cynic, who edited 
 Footlights., was called upon to explain to the 
 dawning maidenhood of this child the spiritual 
 mystery of her sensations. And the peaceful spirit 
 of the country being upon him also, together with 
 a growing feeling for the girl, he was able to 
 acquit himself of the task. 
 
 It was the fulness of love and the novelty of it, 
 he told her. It was only love she felt, but she 
 had no words to express it. She was dumb to 
 express her love of Nature, because love — the 
 passion of love such as Nature sometimes inspires 
 — was strange and new to her. 
 
 What wonder, seeing her swimming eyes look- 
 ing up to him with such childlike confidence, that 
 he would comfort her, and save her from that 
 ache at the heart that her silent yearning had 
 begun to give her ? What wonder that he forgot 
 his vows, that he drifted away from love of Nature 
 to love of man, from love general to love par- 
 ticular They talked of love, and the child noted 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 159 
 
 the gold thread the sun painted into his brown 
 hair, the depth it added to his kindly blue eyes. 
 She felt a thrill when his strong arm drew her 
 closer to his side — when at length the bearded lips 
 touched hers gently. 
 
 He asked her no questions. She scarcely knew 
 whether it was love of Mordaunt or love of the 
 country that agitated and excited her so. The 
 two became commingled in her mind during the 
 rest of the afternoon, which they spent until the 
 sun went down resting under the trees, talking 
 little, thinking of each other to the accompaniment 
 of the gently lapping waters. 
 
 Mordaunt abandoned himself to the feelings of 
 the hour. A child was with him — so near that 
 by a word he could break the spell that bound her 
 to childhood, and see the dawning woman in eyes 
 love-lit for him. But that word he did not speak. 
 If she awoke, it must be of herself she awoke. 
 The deep interest with which he waited he 
 thought was only interest. 
 
 She charmed him as he had never before been 
 charmed. He had in the distant past felt for one 
 woman a violent passion that had wrecked his youth 
 and tainted his manhood ; he had felt since then for 
 divers women gusts of passion that had cooled 
 
l6o A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and been forgotten; he had even experienced a 
 friendship for women — women of a class to whom 
 friendship is rare — but as he felt toward Lucilla 
 he had never before felt. 
 
 They dined together in the small private parlour 
 at Stone’s. A sweet, pleasant dinner-hour, with 
 the river shining through the open casement, and 
 the evening air warm with the scent of honey- 
 suckle. They sat by the window when they had 
 finished dining, and in the moonlight talked of 
 many things. Lucilla, so happy that nothing 
 more practical than poetry could touch her ; 
 Mordaunt, so contented that time stood still for 
 him. 
 
 It was an unpleasant reminder when the maid, 
 who had waited on them at dinner, came in and 
 said that ‘ missus wanted to shut up, as master 
 was away at Henley, and she did not care to keep 
 open so late.’ • 
 
 ‘ So late !’ ejaculated Rivers in dismay, looking 
 at his watch. 
 
 ‘ It is past ten, sir.’ 
 
 It was past ten, and, as he knew, the last train 
 went at 9.47. He looked at Lucilla with dismay. 
 She laughed, and clapped her hands with childish 
 glee. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. i6i 
 
 ‘ How splendid ! Now we shall stay here, and 
 spend another glorious day to-morrow.’ 
 
 Mordaunt was the embarrassed one — Lucilla 
 evidently pleased. The girl stood at the door and 
 waited instructions. He waited a minute. 
 
 ‘Do let us stay,’ she said pleadingly; ‘it will 
 be so sweet !’ 
 
 Mordaunt saw vividly that she had no more 
 idea of anything strange or out of the way in her 
 spending the night here, in this village inn, with 
 him, than if she had been seven instead of seven- 
 teen ; and it must be considered a point in his 
 favour that no thought or idea that would sin 
 against her innocence entered his mind while he 
 looked at her and thought over what he should 
 do. 
 
 She coaxed him to stay, and, indeed, he had 
 little choice. He knew Nettie and Roily were at 
 Henley, so he did not fear her being missed at 
 home. He was less troubled by conjectures as to 
 what the servants might think than if she had a 
 different home-world, and, telling Lucilla that ‘ it 
 was all right — he would manage,’ he left her alone 
 while he made arrangements. 
 
 They were soon made. The landlady, a kind 
 motherly sort of woman, to whom he explained 
 
1 62 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 the situation in a few simple words, agreed to look 
 after Lucilla ; for him there was another inn in 
 the village, where he could get a bed. 
 
 So it was settled, and when they parted for the 
 night Lucilla accompanied her good-bye kiss to 
 Mordaunt — which she stood on tiptoe to give, and 
 which, it may be said, he scarcely responded to, 
 so uneasily circumspect was he — with renewed ex- 
 pressions of delight at the prospect of such another 
 day. 
 
 And Lucilla slept that night a happy, restful 
 sleep — full of rose-coloured dreams of summer 
 sights and sounds. But Mordaunt tossed about 
 uneasily ; he did not think, yet could not keep 
 from thinking. If he slept a troubled sleep for a 
 few moments Lucilla’s form filled his arms, or her 
 hand clasped his. He was possessed by her ; he 
 could not shake off the trammel. Sometimes he 
 cursed himself for his idiotic scruples ; sometimes 
 he called himself an unutterable villain for having 
 won the child’s affections — for having so far led 
 her from the right path. But whether he blamed 
 himself for the one thing or for the other, he 
 could not sleep at all. Always before him was 
 Lucilla — her fair skin, her short hair, the down 
 on her cheeks — his imagination brought her before 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 163 
 
 him in his half-sleeping, half-waking state, in every 
 conceivable and inconceivable situation. It was 
 years since he had spent such a night, so full of 
 mingled feelings, so unrestful. Yet at times he 
 tasted happiness. This sweet girl-child loved 
 him, and in his dreams he was a free man, and 
 was loving her in return. 
 
 1 1 — 2 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The morning dawned. Lucilla, rising early, threw 
 open her window ; she gazed over the greenness of 
 the earth with rapture. To breathe the fresh, pure 
 air was happiness ; she heard the young thrushes 
 singing in the trees. 
 
 The atmosphere was lighter and brighter than 
 she had ever seen atmosphere ; the river’s gleams 
 were transparent, giving coolness and beauty to 
 the open landscape. In the distance, through the 
 haze of early morning, the green of the trees 
 melted into gray : they seemed as clouds against 
 the sky ; above them the clouds on the horizon 
 looked like the dim outlines of untrodden moun- 
 tains. 
 
 Once again the spirit of Nature possessed her, 
 and thrilled her into a warmth that was almost 
 womanhood. During the day, this beautiful July 
 day, that she and Mordaunt spent again together 
 on the quiet river, with the sun shining in bright 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 i6s 
 
 patches on the waters, and the blue sky reflected in 
 their depths, her happiness was calm and bound- 
 less. But to Mordaunt there was a difference. 
 His night haunted him ; he could not look upon 
 her any more as a child, and in this new develop- 
 ment of his feelings he knew not what to do. He 
 dared not caress her ; and she also — warmed by 
 Nature, not by him, into a deep love — could only 
 sit silent and enraptured, never questioning the 
 secure foundations of her reveries of engrossing 
 delight. 
 
 The canoe drifted with them here and there, at 
 the sweet will of the waters, among the green 
 flowering flags, beneath tender new branches of 
 trees. The morning warmth blazed into the noon- 
 day heat, the noonday heat waned into the cool of 
 the evening. 
 
 Then it was all over for them — this two days’ 
 summer idyl. Mordaunt, fully awake to the 
 situation, would not risk missing another train, 
 and Lucilla’s eyes filled with tears as she gave a 
 last look round ; but Nettie would be home to- 
 morrow morning ; go they must. Lucilla, feeling 
 it inevitable, submitted. 
 
 In the railway-carriage, which they had to them- 
 selves, she gave way entirely ; she cried, and 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 1 66 
 
 Mordaunt took her into his arms and let her cry 
 there. As he bent over her, as he held her, he 
 felt the tide of his feelings growing higher ; it was 
 by an effort he prevented himself from telling her 
 they need not go home at all — they would stay here 
 together always. 
 
 He did not know what restrained him ; it was a 
 proposition that a month or two ago would have 
 seemed to him the easiest and most natural. But 
 now he could not do it ; he could not find the 
 words in which to ask her. It was her trust in 
 him, the utter confidence with which she gave her- 
 self up to him, that had aroused some dormant spirit 
 of a manliness he yet retained, and made him vow to 
 himself, while longing for her, that she should not 
 come to harm through him. He formed no plans 
 for the future, made no resolution, but he kept his 
 arms around her loosely; he would not tighten 
 them. He kissed her feverishly, often, but he kissed 
 her lightly. He kept the mastery over himself 
 while he wiped away her tears and soothed her into 
 quietness. 
 
 But he asked himself now and afterwards why 
 he had done so. Roland’s daughter, Nettie’s step- 
 daughter ! They reached Southampton Row. The 
 oppression on Lucilla’s heart deepened, the sense 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 167 
 
 of impending misfortune grew crushing. It was 
 fully realized. 
 
 Nettie herself opened the door to them. She 
 stood on the threshold and saw them together. 
 For hours she had been working herself into this 
 passion, barely hoping the objects of it would come 
 here so that she might wreak it upon them — a mad 
 unreasoning passion of jealousy against Mordaunt, 
 of spite — murderous spite — against Lucilla. 
 
 Mordaunt, with one glance at her working face, 
 dark with its unuttered rage, realized what was 
 coming, and his first thought was to spare Lucilla. 
 But it was too late. Lucilla was already out of the 
 cab, standing by him ; Mordaunt closed the hall- 
 door. 
 
 Nettie made a step forward, as if to strike the 
 girl. 
 
 ‘You . . . how dare you come here !’ she hissed 
 out. Mordaunt put his arms around the shrinking, 
 terror-stricken girl. 
 
 ‘ Shut up !’ he said harshly to Nettie ; ‘ don’t 
 make a fool of yourself ; the girl is all right. We 
 missed the train last night.’ 
 
 ‘ How dare you bring your . . . into my 
 house !’ Nettie could scarcely bring out the 
 words; she was almost incoherent. She barred the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 1 68 
 
 way to the dining-room door, and raved at them 
 in the hall, before a limited audience of servants, 
 who crowded up the kitchen-stairs to see the 
 fun. 
 
 There was not a foul name she did not hurl at 
 the girl, who only shrunk closer and closer to 
 Mordaunt’s side, to shelter from the storm, whose 
 full significance she failed to understand. 
 
 Her clinging to Mordaunt, her dumb appeal to 
 him, maddened Nettie yet further. 
 
 ‘ Go out of my house !’ she shrieked — ‘ go at once ! 
 I won’t have you here, not a moment, not a 
 second ! Take her home to your wife if you want 
 shelter for her ; she is just such another . . . they 
 will be good companions.’ She stamped her feet, 
 and even made a step towards them, as if to 
 physically enforce her commands. 
 
 At the words ‘ Take her home to your wife,’ 
 Lucilla started from Mordaunt’s side. She looked 
 up at him with an appealing, startled glance. Free 
 from her, he made a step forward and grasped 
 Nettie’s shoulder. 
 
 ‘ Be quiet !’ he almost shook her ; ‘ don’t give us 
 any more of your foulness. I know you’ve got a 
 lot more of it in you — keep it there. The girl is 
 as pure and innocent as possible ; she is going to 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 169 
 
 Stay here. And you are going to hold your tongue, 
 or I’ll ’ 
 
 Nettie wrenched herself free from him ; she was 
 beside herself with rage, or might have been more 
 careful of her words. 
 
 ‘ Or you’ll tell Roland that it is not only with 
 his daughter, but with his wife, you have 
 shown your friendship to him. You cur !’ she 
 shrieked. 
 
 ‘ Wife !’ sneered Mordaunt bitterly. 
 
 ‘ How dare you — how dare you !’ she yelled, and 
 sprang at him like a wild cat. He used his 
 strength to keep her at arm’s length. He could 
 not shut her mouth, he could not prevent her 
 giving vent to some of the vilest thoughts that ever 
 disfigured the brains or lips of woman, and he could 
 not close Lucilla’s ears against the torrent. 
 
 Sickened by it at length, and seeing no end to 
 Nettie’s invectives, he pushed her away ; and going 
 over to Lucilla, he said almost roughly : 
 
 ‘ Come away ; this is no place for you.’ 
 
 He took her by the arm. Her face was white, 
 and she was trembling in every limb. She could 
 hardly see before her. The world, so bright an 
 hour before, was blotted out now ; and in her 
 wretched brain everything seemed blurred with 
 
170 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 the close smell of the house, the dust in the 
 corner, the stains on the carpet. Nettie’s face 
 was old and lined, her hair rough ; she was dis- 
 hevelled, soiled, and this soiling of Nettie’s spread. 
 This spreading, general uncleanliness, this dirt, 
 this decay, was real life. Sinclair Furley had 
 always been telling her so, though she never had 
 understood him until now. She was tainted with 
 it, and Mordaunt ; it was spreading everywhere. 
 Was it spreading from Nettie } She was turning 
 giddy, sick, dying, choked with the filth of this 
 universal rottenness. There had been another 
 world — a green, pure, beautiful world — she had 
 forgotten it ; it was only a dream. 
 
 What were these terrible words Nettie was 
 saying.^ and why was she looking at her.^ Was 
 it all her fault ? What had she done ? And 
 Mordaunt, and Mordaunt’s wife . . . another vile 
 thing, like Nettie. 
 
 ‘ Oh, go away, phantoms! go away, Mordaunt, 
 everybody ! . . .’ tier head was going round 
 and round, and she could not see or hear. The 
 pain was more than she could bear ; she must 
 shriek out, she must. . . . Quietness fell upon 
 her. Nettie’s and Mordaunt’s faces were indistinct, 
 and their voices had gone a long way off. Some- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 171 
 
 one had hold of her arm, was leading her into 
 a cab. They were rolling away ; an arm was 
 around her, her head, heavy and dull, was resting 
 somewhere. She was getting better from that 
 hideous dream. 
 
 Marius, her twin brother, was not to be the 
 only sufferer for a parent’s sin ! The vertigo that 
 seized her — and that held her down and dulled 
 her senses — was but a feeble echo of those wild 
 fits of his ; but it was an echo of the same 
 strain. 
 
 Consciousness returned slowly, imperceptibly. 
 The cab had stopped, she knew not where ; the 
 arm was still around her, supporting her. There 
 was a door banged behind her. Some harsh, female 
 voice called out : 
 
 ‘ It’s another of them drabs he is bringing 
 in.’ Then she found herself resting on a sofa, 
 a pillow behind her back. She struggled to re- 
 gain her senses, but felt dulled ; she could not 
 think very clearly, her head was aching violently, 
 and of what had passed about her, what she had 
 seen or heard, she could not quite remember the 
 significance. 
 
 She sat up and looked around her. She was 
 alone, but she could hear footsteps in the adjoin- 
 
172 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ing room ; the door that connected the two was 
 slightly ajar. The one she was in, evidently the 
 front one, was simply furnished. A big writing- 
 table, 'many-drawered, ink-splotched, and untidy 
 with papers, was in the centre, a wooden arm- 
 chair in front of it. There were a few other 
 chairs, the horsehair bursting out of the shabby 
 green leather ; the rickety sofa she was lying on, 
 and that was almost all. On the walls, hung 
 with some dirty and faded paper, were many 
 bookshelves, on which were many books in con- 
 fused and irregular heaps ; beneath one set of 
 shelves was a cupboard, the glass doors cracked, 
 and hanging loosely. Through the open window, 
 with its dirty panes of glass, came a roar of voices 
 and vehicles, that told her she was somewhere in 
 the heart of the great City. 
 
 And further she had no time to get, for Mor- 
 daunt came in. 
 
 ‘ Drink this,’ he said. He had a glass in his 
 hand. ‘ It is eau-de-Cologne ; it will revive you, 
 but you look better already.’ 
 
 She did not look much better ; though some 
 colour had come back to her cheeks, her eyes 
 were still glazy, immobile. 
 
 She drank the cordial, and Mordaunt stood 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 173 
 
 looking at her, in a silence that must be described 
 as embarrassed. 
 
 ‘ You feel all right now, don’t you ?’ he asked. 
 
 ‘ Yes, thank you.’ 
 
 She made an effort to rise, but he stopped 
 her. 
 
 ‘ Sit still ; you are not well yet.’ 
 
 ‘ Where am I .?’ 
 
 He took a chair beside her. 
 
 ‘ In the Strand, Cecil Street ; you are quite 
 safe. That wretched woman frightened you, 
 didn’t she ?’ 
 
 He took her hand. 
 
 Lucilla freed it, and put it to her aching head ; 
 tried to remember what frightened her ; pushed 
 back her straw hat. She took it off and looked 
 at it. It was the hat she had bought specially 
 for the day on the river, out of some money her 
 father had given her. Looking at it, memory did 
 not seem so far off. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ she answered slowly, staring at the hat 
 with its brightly-coloured ribbon, ‘ she frightened 
 me.’ 
 
 ‘ You will not go back to her,’ he said, very 
 softly, and placed his arm around her. 
 
 ‘No.^’ said Lucy questioningly, looking at him 
 
174 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and disengaging herself. ‘ Where shall I go I 
 don’t know. I have nowhere to go.’ She stood 
 up again, and this time she was stronger ; her 
 legs did not tremble so much. ‘ I must go back, 
 I think.’ 
 
 He too stood up, but he did not touch her. 
 He said to her, very softly and tenderly : 
 
 ‘ You will stay with me.’ 
 
 ‘ With you ?’ 
 
 ‘ With me, dear.’ 
 
 There was more gentleness, more tenderness 
 than passion, in his voice, in his manner, as he 
 drew her to him and held her. She was a child 
 — an unprotected, desolate child — but as he 
 clasped her, as he thought of what his words 
 meant, his feelings grew, he held her closer, he 
 stooped down to kiss her lips. Her lips were 
 cold ; he pressed them warmly, yet more warmly ; 
 Lucilla drew back — shrank from him. He would 
 not let her go, he would not yield to her ; he held 
 her tightly, kissed her again and again, grew from 
 warmth into passion, startled her into full con- 
 sciousness. He could feel, then, there was a 
 response to his ardour — slight, maidenly, but still 
 a response. 
 
 ‘ My darling,’ he said to her, ‘ you will stay 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 175 
 
 with me always. Don’t try to get away from 
 me ; I shall never let you go. You will never 
 repent it. I love you, my darling, and I have 
 never loved another woman like this. You love 
 me — say so — don’t you love me.? Forget Nettie, 
 forget everything, but just that you love me, and 
 we are going to be very happy together.’ 
 
 Mordaunt was growing excited and eager ; 
 there was something in Lucilla’s manner that 
 did not quite satisfy him — a quietness, a hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 ‘ I can’t stay here,’ she said slowly. 
 
 She looked around her. 
 
 ‘ Only for this one night — to-morrow we will 
 find somewhere better. Some nice little place in 
 the country. You will like that ; you love the 
 country.’ 
 
 ‘ I did ! — I did !’ said poor Lucilla, clasping her 
 head with both hands. ‘ But it is spoilt ! it is 
 soiled ! We were there together, and Nettie 
 said 
 
 ‘ Never mind what Nettie said. Nettie is mad. 
 Forget her. Listen only to me.’ 
 
 He held her again. He pleaded with vigour, 
 with ardour. 
 
 And Lucilla listened, her head against his 
 
176 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 shoulder, his brown beard mingling with her gold 
 curls. The chill that she had felt passed away 
 from her, a new warmth seemed thrilling through 
 her veins, her heart began to beat with rapid 
 throbs. He was no longer her hero, her pro- 
 tector ; he was something dearer, closer than that. 
 Every minute she was growing better from her 
 faint, feeling more acutely. She loved him. 
 There was no one else who cared for her like 
 this — whom she cared for like this. There was no 
 happiness on earth like this she was beginning to 
 feel. 
 
 After a time Mordaunt left her for a moment 
 while he went to give his landlady some instructions. 
 
 ‘ I will be back in five minutes, sweetest ; we 
 shall never be parted any more.’ 
 
 He went out through the bedroom, leaving the 
 door open. That answering thrill that Lucilla 
 had felt as he kissed her was still in her — a thrill 
 of pleasure, excitement, joy beyond all words or 
 expression. Yes, while he was with her ; but 
 now she was alone the excitement, the throbbing 
 was still there. But it was not pleasure, memory, 
 
 expectation. It was — it was 
 
 ‘ O God ! what shall I do ? — what must I do 
 It was fright; it was terror. There was some- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 177 
 
 thing unknown before her. Her heart was beating 
 so fast ; she was suffocating. She could not sit 
 still ; she was in deadly terror of something — she 
 knew not what. It must be Mordaunt — it was 
 Mordaunt ! She could not stay to see him — she 
 would not stay. She must run away somewhere 
 — anywhere. The door ! No, she would not go 
 through that room. She was shuddering — 
 frightened. She took up her hat, she rushed 
 from the room, as one who fears pursuit ; her 
 breath coming fast, and that strange thrill still 
 exciting her. She must run away ; she must 
 hide. Her lips were warm and full with his 
 kisses; but she did not want them — she fled from 
 them. Down through the dark, narrow staircase, 
 swiftly, timidly ; out through the open door, into 
 the thronged, full streets, away from that narrow 
 room where she had found something — had fled 
 from something — knowing neither what nor why 
 she had run, but running on. 
 
 Thus did her sex assert itself, and her innocence 
 prove its own safeguard. Maidenliness, modesty, 
 — uncultivated, unsuspected — broke out and drove 
 her forth in the middle of the night, to seek from 
 her lover’s arms the shelter of the open streets ! 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Mordaunt’s interview in some back region with 
 his landlady took him some time longer than he 
 had anticipated. He was impatient to be back with 
 Lucilla; he was still conscious of her kisses, of 
 the love she had so freely given him. But certain 
 arrangements had to be made, and his landlady 
 was not very complaisant. It was fully half an 
 hour before he returned to the sitting-room, eager, 
 loverlike. 
 
 He could scarcely believe his eyes when he 
 found it empty. Dumbfounded for the moment, 
 he stood still. He was conscious of a shock of 
 chill and disappointment, of even anger at the 
 girl ; but to that feeling quickly succeeded another, 
 namely, fear and anxiety for the girl herself Of 
 course he went feverishly through the two rooms, 
 down the staircase, looking wherever he could 
 look. But Cecil Street, Strand, is not a palatial 
 abode, and there are no elaborate curtains or 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 179 
 
 draperies wherein she might be hidden. Hope of 
 that sort was very soon over. 
 
 He went back into the room and sat down on 
 the well-worn wooden chair. 
 
 ‘ Damnation !’ 
 
 That was the first word that rose to his lips ; 
 not meaningless it seemed to him in the first sick 
 moment of dread. ‘ Damnation !’ — his or hers 
 The blow was sudden, and he could not realize its 
 import. Again and again he searched ; behind 
 curtains, in corners, under the sofa, even in the 
 bedroom, where perchance she might have doubled 
 back on him. He questioned the landlady 
 feverishly again and again, until that irate person 
 resented it by an insinuation so foul that the man 
 fell back from her, white and aching, with fear and 
 a feeling about his heart of pain so great that he 
 could not stand with it. 
 
 ‘ Lucy, Lucy, child !’ he cried ; ‘ come back !’ 
 But there was no answer. ‘ My God ! what have 
 I done.^ where has she gone?’ he cried again. 
 But the silence, full of wheels and horses’ hoofs, 
 was empty of Lucilla. Up and down the stairs 
 again, and into the streets even, where the 
 thronged pavements echoed hurrying footsteps, 
 but hers were not among them. Back into the 
 
 12 — 2 
 
i8o 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 room again, empty, cold, and maddening, in that it 
 gave no answer to the question that broke again 
 and again from him in his despair : ' Where is the 
 child?’ 
 
 His arms were empty, his heart as heavy as 
 lead. Where was the child? His heavy heart 
 turned him sick with the tenderness thrown back 
 upon itself, and the dread and fear that found no 
 words. He put his head down on his arms, and 
 groaned aloud in his impotence that saw no help. 
 
 But now a hope burst upon him, and he sprang 
 from his seat and commenced walking up and 
 down the room. She was not gone from his reach 
 altogether ; conscience had stung her that she was 
 at fault, and the child, tender and easily moved, 
 had but rushed back to Southampton Row to plead 
 again with Nettie for belief and forgiveness. 
 Vividly he pictured the trembling, terrified girl, 
 the enraged woman ; Mordaunt had no hopes in 
 Nettie. He groaned again as he thought of the 
 scene, but he could not leave her to brave it alone, 
 now the idea possessed him she was at Southamp- 
 ton Row ; he would not listen to any doubts that 
 still intruded. She had gone home, away from 
 his love that had startled her; he had not been 
 gentle enough ; his poor little timid girl had been 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. i8i 
 
 frightened at him, but she would be more 
 frightened with Nettie — and Nettie, brute that 
 she was, might even still fail to believe her story. 
 Those two together, Lucilla and Nettie! and he 
 not there to protect her ! Why, this certainly was 
 worse than the nameless dread that filled his heart 
 when he found her gone from his rooms, and 
 scarcely free from her faint, alone and in such a 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 He rushed out again hatless ; the passing han- 
 som that he hailed was all too slow — it crawled ; 
 and meantime Nettie might be talking to the girl, 
 or might, even worse, or yet, perhaps, not worse, 
 have thrust her back into the streets, and he not 
 there to help. 
 
 He was out of the hansom and at the door long 
 before the phlegmatic cabman had pulled up. And 
 then for a moment his senses came back ; the house 
 was quiet ; there was a light in the hall : that showed 
 Roily was not yet home ; and what did it all mean, 
 and was the girl there ? 
 
 He rang, and the footman opened the door. He 
 stared at Mordaunt’s pale, distracted face ; he held 
 the door, not knowing whether to let him in or not. 
 
 Mordaunt answered that question by pushing his 
 way in, and closing the door behind him. 
 
1 82 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Is anyone up, John ?’ he asked in an agitated 
 tone. 
 
 ‘ The missus ain’t gone to bed, sir, but she is up 
 in her room,’ replied the factotum, full of curiosity. 
 
 Mordaunt went into the dining-room, followed 
 by the man. And Mordaunt, Mordaunt Rivers, 
 was actually too nervous to ask the next question 
 that trembled on his lips. 
 
 ‘ Tell me,’ he said at length, ‘ what happened 
 when she came home ?’ He was full of anxiety and 
 fear for the answer. 
 
 ‘ The missus 
 
 ‘No, no ; damn the missus ! I mean now, just 
 now, when Miss Lucilla came in.’ 
 
 ‘ When you and Miss Lucy came in.^’ repeated 
 the man in perplexity, looking at Mordaunt as if 
 he had gone out of his mind. 
 
 Mordaunt nearly shook him, so mad and im- 
 patient was he. 
 
 ‘ Hasn’t Miss Lucy been here since then.^’ 
 
 ‘ Since then No, sir, I should think she ain’t,’ 
 added the man emphatically. ‘ And wouldn’t be 
 likely to if she could hear how the missus has been 
 going on ever since she came home, and Jane let 
 out quite accidentally that Miss Lucy went out with 
 you yesterday, and hadn’t come home yet.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 183 
 
 Mordaunt’s legs refused to bear the burden of 
 their master ; he sat down. ‘ What am I to do ? 
 what am I to do.?’ he said, almost mechanically. 
 Mechanically, too, he drew out his watch ; an hour 
 and a half now since he left her. Not in his rooms, 
 not in his house, not here ! ‘ Lucy, Lucy !’ All 
 
 these last two days she had been with him, growing 
 deeper into his heart ; his dreams had been of her, 
 and she had filled his waking — his waking and his 
 sleeping — hours. Now his arms — his arms were 
 empty ; and the girl — what of the girl, and where 
 was she.? 
 
 ‘ I did hear, sir,’ went on the man confidentially, 
 as he sat there immobile, ‘ that there had been a 
 awful row between the missus and master ; that 
 Signor Antonelli, he’d been too civil to Miss Gay, 
 and the missus had insulted her, and the master 
 took her part, and,’ here he sank his voice to a 
 whisper, ‘ I don’t think there’s no good you wait- 
 ing, for the master ain’t coming home to -night.’ 
 
 It all went empty through Mordaunt’s brain. 
 Lucilla ! What had become of Lucilla.? 
 
 He asked the man again and again if he were 
 sure she had not come home. He even insisted on 
 his going up to the girl’s room to see if she had not 
 come home perhaps without his knowing it. 
 
184 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 All of no use — the girl was not there. He rushed 
 back to Cecil Street ; no trace, no tidings. It was 
 nearly three now; two whole mortal hours. He was 
 not going to think of it ; he clenched his teeth hard. 
 Lucilla, in her fair childish beauty, rose before 
 him ; the bright, happy girl who had begged him 
 to stay until to-morrow, to have one more delight- 
 ful day in the country. 
 
 He could not rest in the room. He went out 
 in the street and stood still so long that a cuidous 
 policeman, who had been watching him, thought 
 perhaps that he was too drunk to get on, and 
 wanted assistance. 
 
 ‘ Fine night, sir,’ he said tentatively. 
 
 It was a fine night, warm and bright, the moon 
 at its fullest, the dark night clouds star-spangled. 
 Moi'daunt looked at the policeman. 
 
 ‘ Suppose you lost a girl in the middle of the 
 Strand, and you did not know where on earth she 
 had got to, what would you do ?’ 
 
 ‘ A wrong ’un ?’ interrogatively. 
 
 ‘ Curse you, no ; a girl, a child.’ 
 
 ‘ I should inquire at Bow Street.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course, what a fool I am. Here, take this,’ 
 he threw him a half-crown. ‘ And find me a 
 hansom if you can.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 185 
 
 He drove to Bow Street as quickly as he could, 
 though what he expected to find there, and what 
 was to be the upshot of it, God knows — he did 
 not. 
 
 The inspector received him civilly, and listened 
 to his rather lame story. 
 
 ‘ You were taking the girl home, and you 
 suddenly lost sight of her just near Cecil Street, 
 Strand, and this was at one o’clock. Was there 
 anyone in sight he asked, pausing in writing 
 down the account. 
 
 Mordaunt was non-plussed. There were two 
 policemen in the room as well as the inspector ; he 
 could not explain matters before such an audience. 
 
 ‘ Look here,’ he said abruptly to the man, ‘ let 
 me speak to you alone, and I’ll explain matters. I 
 must have the girl found.’ 
 
 The requisite orders were given ; but Mordaunt 
 did not find the inspector a sympathetic audience. 
 The matter seemed mysterious to him ; this fine 
 young man, for Mordaunt still looked a young 
 man, with his halting story about taking a girl 
 home, and losing her in the streets. A young girl, 
 a pretty girl, a girl to whom he said he was not 
 related. And even now Mordaunt put his case 
 very badly. 
 
1 86 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ The girl had been away with me for a day, 
 and when we got back there was a row at home. 
 She . . . they turned her out of the house, and I 
 had no choice ; I took her home with me ; I left 
 her for a few moments to give some orders ; when 
 I came back she was gone.' 
 
 He waited. 
 
 ‘ She has run back home, probably.’ 
 
 ‘ I have just come from there. She has not 
 been heard of’ 
 
 ‘ Well, sir, if you will give me a description ’ 
 
 preparing to write — ‘ I will have inquiries made. 
 I have no doubt, under the circumstances you tell 
 me, she has gone to some of her friends.’ 
 
 ‘ She hasn’t a friend in the world, but my- 
 self’ 
 
 ‘ Then you think . . 
 
 ‘ I don’t know what I think, or fear ; I am half 
 mad with suspense.’ 
 
 The inspector began to unbend, as he saw 
 the gentleman was really in trouble, the girl he 
 was after a good girl, and the whole affair 
 genuine ; in fact, so far sympathetic did he grow, 
 that when he was relieved from duty, he volun- 
 teered to go round with him to all the likely 
 places where they might get information. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 187 
 
 What a night Mordaunt spent ! From police- 
 man to policeman, from station to station, finally 
 from hospital to hospital. Nobody had seen a 
 fair, young girl, almost a child, in a white flannel 
 dress and a sailor hat ; yet surely the costume is 
 not common in the middle of the night. Sug- 
 gestions were made, opinions were given ; sug- 
 gestions that were maddening in their hideous 
 uncertainty, opinions for any one of which Mor- 
 daunt could have murdered the giver on the 
 spot. 
 
 It is needless to dilate on the horrors they 
 saw, or the fearful places they went into. They 
 searched every possible and impossible place in 
 the West End of London ; they questioned every 
 vile woman whom they met, and they tried to 
 wring news from people, who had it not to give, 
 by threats and bribes ; but from all their exer- 
 tions they gleaned nothing. One or two women 
 told them they had seen such a girl, as they 
 described, ‘among the lot’ that were in Piccadilly; 
 but they could not get this confirmed, and Mor- 
 daunt would not hear it or credit it. 
 
 The moon faded, and the twinkling stars died 
 in the dawn. The sun arose redly from out of 
 its hot-bed of mist, and a life that was not the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 1 88 
 
 foul life of the night began to stir in the streets. 
 Blinds were pulled up, like human eyes opening 
 lazily to the morning work. Milk-carts rattled 
 over the stones ; London began to bestir itself in 
 the daylight, but still they had discovered no trace 
 of what they were seeking. 
 
 Mordaunt looked haggard and ill ; his eyes 
 were bloodshot. 
 
 ‘ You’d best go home now, sir ; we’ll bring 
 you news the instant we get it. There is nothing 
 more you can do just now.’ 
 
 He went home, and sat in the room he had 
 left the girl in. What he had seen, what he had 
 heard — though none of it new to him, though 
 nothing he had not known of, perhaps contributed 
 to — bore a different aspect when looked at as he 
 had looked at it to-night, through Lucilla’s pure 
 eyes. The uncertainty of her fate weighed on 
 him like a hideous nightmare, and neither Roland 
 nor Nettie, nor himself, found place in his 
 thoughts. 
 
 He buried his head in his hands. Every 
 imaginable horror that could have befallen a girl 
 pressed about him. He did not feel like a lover 
 whose promised mistress was torn from his arms ; 
 he felt like a man who had let an innocent child 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 189 
 
 sink into a bottomless pit for want of a restrain- 
 ing hand. He loved her more during this 
 wretched night than he had loved her before. 
 Before, she had been a sweet episode in his daily 
 life; now she became to him his one responsibility, 
 his one crime. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 But Mordaunt Rivers was not an idle gentleman, 
 living on his means. He was a man whose brain 
 had to find his daily food. He could not afford 
 to be idle any longer. This was Tuesday, Foot- 
 lights came out on Wednesday ; after his two 
 days’ idleness he had work to do. 
 
 A journalist and an actor are the real slaves of 
 the public ; the one must write, the other must 
 act, no matter what tragedy is going on in that 
 little of private life they either of them possess. 
 
 So Mordaunt took his tub and his breakfast, 
 and sat down like a brave man to forget the 
 incidents of the night, and of the last two days, 
 and to get up funny or spicey paragraphs, or 
 columns, for his paper. But his work came 
 heavy and hard to him this morning. To write 
 a suggestive lie, or even truth, about ‘ Maudie 
 Vavasour,’ or the girl who had just made her 
 last appearance on the boards of the Royal Music 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 191 
 
 Hall, seemed rather sickening to him, when he 
 had just come away from seeing where such 
 ‘ Maudies ’ and such ‘ girls ’ ended the career that 
 he foreshadowed. 
 
 He could not work at all in this humour. 
 The room was too full for him of remembrance 
 and of regret. He still saw Lucilla there, as he 
 had carried her in last night, as he had held 
 her in his arms and felt her clinging, vaguely 
 answering lips. 
 
 He thought he could finish better at the office ; 
 but walking down the busy Strand, looking under 
 every bonnet, watching every hurrying figure, the 
 girl was not less present to him. 
 
 Footlights offices consisted of two rooms ; one 
 was ink-splashed and papers-littered, and here the 
 work was done. The other communicated with 
 it only by a trap-door arrangement in the wall. 
 It was approached by a different staircase ; this 
 was Roily’s sanctum ; it was comfortably, almost 
 luxuriantly furnished. 
 
 Mordaunt thought of Roland sitting there at 
 his ease, perhaps with Tessie Gay, perhaps with 
 Jenny Farrell ; and he thought of Roland’s 
 daughter, and Roland’s little care for her, and his 
 heart grew hot and bitter against his whilom friend. 
 
192 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 He did his work as well as he was able for 
 thinking of all this. Then he left the office, but 
 somehow he could not leave ; it pressed upon 
 him, these two pictures ; Roily lounging in a 
 chair or sofa, or with his half empty glass, his 
 eager, voluble talk ; Roily’s daughter, with her 
 appealing eyes, and wistful smile, in some dire 
 strait, alone. 
 
 He paused, irresolute, a moment ; then hastily 
 running upstairs, broke in upon the editorial 
 repose. 
 
 ‘ Hallo, Mordaunt, old man ! Come in ; shut the 
 bally door, it’s cold. Got copy enough.? I’m not 
 up to work myself this morning ; you can manage, 
 I suppose?’ 
 
 Roily was sprucely dressed; frock-coat. He 
 was one of those stout men who affect frock-coats 
 and gardenias. His high hat well-brushed and 
 glossy, his patent-leather boots shining. 
 
 ‘ You’re glum. Anything wrong ?’ Roily 
 avoided Mordaunt’s eye; he seemed a little ner- 
 vous and shaky. ‘ Seen Nettie?’ 
 
 ‘ I saw her last night.’ 
 
 Both men waited. Roily wanted to hear if 
 Mordaunt had heard of his row with Nettie, and 
 what he thought of it. Mordaunt wanted to know if 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 193 
 
 Roily had heard of Lucilla’s disappearance, and if 
 he blamed him for it. 
 
 ‘ What did she say ?’ 
 
 ‘ She was like a lunatic. God knows what she 
 didn’t say.’ 
 
 ‘ I’ve half a mind not to go back there.’ He 
 looked inquiringly, irresolutely at Mordaunt. ‘I’ll 
 tell you how it was. Lusher had two house-boats, 
 and he’d asked the usual party. Nettie was to 
 be in the first boat with the steady ones — the 
 McDougals, and that semi-respectable lot — and 
 Tessie Gay and Arthur Campbell, and all the 
 music-hall division, were to be in the other. Lord 
 Sandel was going to bring her down, but it seems 
 he missed the train. That Whitechapel brute, 
 Antonelli, came with her. The instructions about 
 the boats were muddled, and we were all together. 
 We had a fairly jolly day, though the women 
 were sparring at each other ; but in the evening 
 . . . Tessie was singing. We were all a little “on.” 
 Antonelli joined in the chorus, or said something, 
 I am not very clear about it; you see, it was after 
 dinner, and there had been a lot of wine flying 
 about. Anyway, Nettie fired up and insulted 
 Tessie ; said she wasn’t fit company for her to 
 have been asked to meet. Of course Tessie 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 couldn’t stand that ; there was a row royal. I 
 took Tessie’s part ; you see, it was chiefly through 
 me she was asked. The upshot of it was, Nettie 
 came back to town. I slept at Long’s. What 
 did she say to you ?’ 
 
 ‘ It was about Lucilla.’ 
 
 ‘ Good Heavens ! By Jove ! do you know. I’d 
 clean forgotten the girl’s existence. I say, I hope 
 she won’t wreak her spite against me on the girl. 
 Poor little Lucy ! Extraordinary thing, on my 
 word ; until this moment. I’d never given the girl 
 a thought.’ 
 
 ‘ No,’ answered Mordaunt bitterly. ‘ I don’t 
 find it so difficult — so very difficult — to believe.’ 
 Roily finished up his brandy and soda. Mordaunt 
 strove to gain the command over his speech — he 
 was boiling with rage and indignation at Roily’s 
 utter selfishness. ‘ We missed the last train. 
 Lucilla hadn’t been home all night. . . . Nettie 
 said ’ 
 
 ‘ Why, what on earth is the matter. Rivers, old 
 man You’re as white as a ghost. What is it 
 all about ? Have a drink. Where was Lucy, 
 and what was it to Nettie ^ I’m quite at sea. I 
 don’t know what you’re taking about.’ 
 
 Mordaunt leaned heavily against a chair. He 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 195 
 
 had the wildest, most unreasoning inclination to 
 take hold of Roily and murder him for his neglect, 
 for his indifference, for his coldness. 
 
 Something he must do or say, or tell him. For 
 once he took the proffered drink ; he was just 
 going to begin, and to tell Roily the history of 
 the night, when the door was flung open noisily. 
 
 ‘ Well, upon my word ’ 
 
 Nettie, nearly black in the face with rage and 
 surprise and baffled hate and spite, stood between 
 the two men. 
 
 Roily had not been home all night ; but that 
 had not alarmed her for his allegiance. But she 
 had spent the night nursing wild schemes 
 of vengeance against Mordaunt ; so unreasoning 
 an animal was Nettie, that Tessie and Antonelli 
 and Roily had all sunk into the background. All 
 her concentrated evil tempers had fixed themselves 
 upon Mordaunt and the unhappy Lucilla. 
 
 ‘ Get out of here,’ she said harshly to Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 ‘No,’ he returned quickly; ‘I have not yet 
 spoken to Roily.’ 
 
 Roily looked from one to the other ; looked 
 round the room, with its Maple upholstery, its 
 sofas and easy-chairs, as if for some means of escape 
 
 13—2 
 
196 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 from the explanation he saw was impending ; but 
 there was no such means. 
 
 ‘ If Roily had the spirit of a mouse he’d put 
 you out, or send for a policeman.’ 
 
 He looked at her, and what she read in the look 
 maddened her. She sprang at him like a wild cat. 
 He caught her by the two hands, and held her 
 there tight. 
 
 ‘ I’ll call a policeman ; I’ll give you in custody; 
 it’s a punishable offence. I’ll make it as hot as I 
 can for you. I’ll produce your wife ; I know 
 where she is.’ 
 
 ‘ I dare say. Have you done .^’ 
 
 ‘No, I shan’t have done vnth you until you’ve got 
 your board and lodging at Government expense ; and 
 then I shan’t, for I’ll come and see you on visiting 
 days, and tell you what the boys are saying, and 
 what the girl is ’ 
 
 ‘ My patience is nearly exhausted. Say a word 
 about that girl, let her pure name pass your foul 
 lips, and I’ll ’ 
 
 He had almost lost his self-control. He put 
 his hand on her throat. 
 
 Roily jumped up and came between them. 
 
 ‘ Here, drop that, Mordie, old man ; what is it 
 all about 
 
 In two terrible sentences Nettie told him. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 197 
 
 ‘ It is a criminal charge !’ she shrieked out. ‘ I’ll 
 have the law of him !’ 
 
 Roily grew white. For the moment he was a 
 father. 
 
 ‘ Send for a policeman !’ she shouted. 
 
 Roily moistened his lips before he spoke, and 
 his voice was harsh and unnatural. 
 
 ‘ You are quite right, Nettie,’ he said. ‘ It’s — • 
 it’s a criminal offence.’ 
 
 Mordaunt sneered bitterly. 
 
 ‘ Prosecute me,’ he said, dropping his hands 
 from Nettie, facing them both. 
 
 ‘ I will,’ answered Nettie, hoarse with passion. 
 
 ‘ Do you know what my plea would be .^’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t care.’ 
 
 ‘ I should plead guilty. I should plead that I 
 took the girl out of a disreputable house, where 
 you live with a woman who is not your wife. I 
 should call Lady Lusher and Miss Farrell as 
 specimens of your visiting circle. I’d have Nettie 
 and you in the witness-box together. My God !’ 
 losing his patience, ‘ to think of people like you 
 talking of law. My God ! what people you are ! 
 And you dare to threaten me, because I have 
 taken her out of the sink before she was as foul as 
 the rest of you there.’ 
 
 There would have been murder done if Nettie 
 
198 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 could have had her way. Mordaunt stood quiet 
 enough under her onslaught, now that he had his 
 say. Roily had been his friend, and Nettie had 
 been his friend ; but in these moments a loathing 
 and disgust for them both filled his mind. He 
 would deny nothing, and explain nothing. Nettie’s 
 inflamed countenance and disordered apparel were 
 no more to him than Roily’s spruceness and his 
 white face. He had an inclination to seize him 
 by the throat, and squeeze out his selfish, loose- 
 living existence. He was Lucilla’s father, and 
 Nettie — Nettie was all she had known of a 
 mother. 
 
 He leaned up against the door, while Nettie 
 poured forth her vituperation, and Roily stood 
 still and listened. 
 
 ‘ There, there, that’s enough,’ he said at length. 
 ‘ All that garbage won’t sink me. I can’t stand 
 any more of it ; I am going. Roily, when you 
 are alone, I have something to say to you.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t want to have anything to do with you.’ 
 
 Mordaunt shrugged his shoulders and went. 
 He left the well-assorted couple together. He 
 had not told Roily how far he was blameless ; he 
 had not told Roily, as he had meant, of his 
 misery about the fate of the girl. He thought, 
 as he went out, that he would break every tie 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 199 
 
 that still bound him to these people ; give up his 
 editorship of Footlights ; find some pursuit or 
 occupation that could give him back his self- 
 respect and independence. 
 
 He went home, and sent in his resignation to 
 the paper. Then his heart failed him ; the most 
 terrible, overwhelming pity surged over him for 
 the lost girl. She was lost from her birth, lost 
 in her childhood ; there had never been any hope 
 for her, but it appalled him. The day crushed 
 over him, heavily over him ; the moments were 
 hours, the hours days, and yet when night came 
 he could have prayed out aloud : ‘ O God, put 
 back the time!’ — so vividly did the night horrors 
 she might be seeing press before his phantom- 
 haunted brain. 
 
 He wandered about all that night ; he wan- 
 dered many weary nights. His days were empty 
 of everything, save his useless search, his brain 
 acting only in the one direction. 
 
 But days passed, and weeks passed, and months 
 passed, and the juggernaut of time, in its pass- 
 ing, erased all trace and footstep of the girl he 
 sought. She had vanished in the abyss, been 
 swallowed up in the darkness of the city, and the 
 darkness gathered deeper around him, and shut 
 him out from his fellows. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 There were times when the memory of her, as 
 he had seen her that day, with her blue eyes full 
 of tears at the happiness the mere sight of green 
 trees and cool waters had given her, would almost 
 drive him to suicide, with the uncertainty as to 
 what those eyes would be gazing on now, as to 
 the hopelessness of that pure trusting look ever 
 again turning on him. He would sit in that 
 comfortless room of his in Cecil Street evening 
 after evening, with the roar of the street falling 
 ever on his ears ; going over and over again the 
 last time he had seen her ; feeling again the 
 slender form in his arms, the lips growing warmer 
 under his kisses. He would go to bed and lie 
 awake hours, haunted by her, unable to rest, un- 
 able to think of anything save where she might 
 be, what she might be going through, with no 
 one by to aid her, no one by for her to lean on, 
 whatsoever of degradation and misery she might 
 be enduring. 
 
A BABE JN BOHEMIA. 
 
 201 
 
 Everyone accredited him with the girl’s dis- 
 appearance. The idle chaff, the hardly-veiled 
 paragraphs, and ‘ answers to correspondents,’ 
 burned him like vitriol. The whole set, the 
 drinking, bar-loafing, loose-living set, amongst 
 whom his life had passed, became repulsive and 
 degrading to him for the moment. 
 
 Mordaunt Rivers was five-and-thirty. Luxury 
 had surrounded his boyhood ; he was the petted 
 and only child of his mother ; she lived luxuriously, 
 and nothing was too much for her boy to have. 
 He was educated at Marlborough, and when he 
 left he was captain of the school, full of promise 
 and talent, a handsome, fearless lad, that any 
 mother’s heart might rejoice over. 
 
 He had never asked the source whence came 
 the boundless means. Boys take these things 
 more unquestioningly than girls. His holidays 
 had been spent travelling with a tutor. Now that 
 he came home, at nineteen, to consider his career, 
 and rest from his school honours before plunging 
 into life, there was no hand to guide him, no 
 voice to restrain him ; he had only the experience 
 of a schoolboy to aid him in keeping afloat on the 
 sea of life in London. 
 
 He learnt to drink, to gamble, and to live 
 
202 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 loosely, and never asked whose money supplied 
 his daily wants ; he took it from his mother 
 without shame or blame, as a child does. It was 
 not until he was a married man — a married man 
 of twenty years of age, and awoke from a fevered 
 love-dream of a week to find himself mated to 
 a woman whose womanhood had vanished almost 
 before he was born — that he learnt from her foul 
 lips that his mother would have no cause to com- 
 plain of him for his choice of a wife. Brought 
 up to spend money like water, unthinkingly to 
 see all things costly at his free command, he 
 heard first, in the dawn of his manhood, from his 
 wife’s lips, how all these things had been obtained. 
 In those first few months of despair and abandon- 
 ment he placed it out of his power to free himself 
 from the fetters he had forged. 
 
 From the shock of all that knowledge there 
 emerged the grown man : a man without faith in 
 humanity, in woman, in God. But still a man. 
 At his tainted mother’s feet he flung them all, 
 spurning her away with bitterest words when she 
 prayed him not to turn from her, not to take 
 from her the one thing that saved her from the 
 hell she had drifted into since his father died, 
 and left her penniless with an unnamed child. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 203 
 
 Sin succeeds sin, and sin succeeds sin, in ever- 
 broadening circles. Mordaunt Rivers lived to 
 outgrow his horror of his mother, to kiss her 
 before she died, and never expect her to die 
 repentant for what she had done. He had lived 
 to see the woman he had made his wife go deeper 
 down into the depths, as the drink-fiend grew on 
 her with her age. Had seen her in the streets, 
 and saved her from the streets, and seen her fall 
 back again. He had lived even to outgrow his 
 horror of her, and such as her, and to look upon 
 it all as trivial and ordinary. 
 
 He had lived to laugh at his boyish despair, 
 and to teach other lads to laugh when their eyes 
 were opened and they had seen what he had seen — 
 had learnt to think that all women were as these 
 women, and that there was no life worth living but 
 this life of revel, no city open to him but Bohemia. 
 
 He had made his way in that city ; forgotten 
 or fought down his good instincts, made friends 
 and a place for himself among people where his 
 birth was never a reproach, where his wife was not 
 worse than other men’s wives, and where morality 
 and right were as unknown words as duty and 
 responsibility. He ate and drank and made merry 
 — merry over vice, merry over misery, merry over 
 
204 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 degradation of every kind. Had no ambition, 
 save to keep himself from want ; had no desire, 
 save to refrain always from thinking. 
 
 Then there came Lucilla into his life, and, like 
 a pure stream flowing into a muddy river, dis- 
 turbed its even surface. 
 
 Lucilla had disappeared, but Mordaunt could 
 not be as he had been before he knew her. 
 
 He had an odd, sudden growth in moral 
 strength. Linder the influence of it, the scandal, 
 the vulgarity, the coarseness that distinguished 
 Footlights became distasteful to him. He sought 
 for, and easily obtained, a post on another paper. 
 He had never drank, but he gave up just now the 
 habit of taking a brandy-and-soda for breakfast. 
 And when the drunken outcast who called him 
 husband made her next appeal on his purse, he 
 even went the length of making a last final effort 
 to save her from her life of public-houses and 
 street corners and induce her to enter a Home. 
 
 She laughed at him ; she enjoyed her life in her 
 own way, she said. He ought to allow her more, 
 she grumbled. The next time she was up before a 
 magistrate she would tell him her husband drove 
 her to the streets through his meanness, and so 
 forth. The miserable woman was known at every 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 205 
 
 police-court in London ; and Mordaunt, pur- 
 posely poor, purposely unknown, still had the 
 pleasure of seeing his name constantly dragged 
 through the mud by her. 
 
 He had grown callous to that. Not to think, 
 that had been the watchword of his years, and in 
 the end the philosophy had almost conquered the 
 man ; the passing hour had claimed all his thought, 
 and he had been comparatively happy. Bitter 
 enough, with a tongue and pen that lashed and 
 stung. All possibilities he had sneered at, because 
 for him there were none. He had forgotten, or 
 perhaps did not know, that he could still feel as 
 other men feel ; Lucilla had taught him. Still the 
 years had left their mark, and gradually he drifted 
 back again ; his virtue became attenuated for lack 
 of nourishment, he had only himself to feed on. 
 The hopelessness of his life became merged in the 
 hopelessness of finding Lucilla, and the two 
 miseries, finding a man wedded to suffering, could 
 do no more to hurt him. 
 
 Months passed. He had kept away from Roily 
 from the Cormorant, from everywhere and every- 
 one ; he had lived alone in those rooms whence the 
 girl had fled. But this could not last. There 
 came a time when the peopled solitude oppressed 
 
2o6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 him too deeply. A great man, or even a bad man, 
 might have been driven to some course of action 
 that would have changed his career. But Mor- 
 daunt had not in him the elements of greatness ; 
 under happier auspices one could imagine him a 
 man ; but his youth-crisis had destroyed that 
 chance, and he was only a Bohemian. 
 
 Sick of the room, sick of his solitude, of the 
 mild platitudes with which he filled his column on 
 the Post., he went out in the streets. There was 
 no burning house for him to wreak his energies on, 
 no adventures, no accidents to distract his attention. 
 
 So what did he do ? Nothing great, or grand, 
 or even startling. He was sick of himself, and he 
 wanted to be amused ; he did not feel like going 
 to the club ; he still shrank from the chaff, for he 
 failed to realize that the story had been forgotten. 
 The streets were dull, the theatre boards did not 
 attract. Idly he strolled for a moment into a 
 music-hall. 
 
 The music-hall he turned into was the Eden. 
 Scarcely interested, he stood for a few moments 
 at the door, his thoughts hardly on the scene. 
 But presently, emerging from thought, he noted 
 a something unusual in the air of the place. Once 
 attracted, his attention became concentrated. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 207 
 
 To begin with, the place was crowded, the 
 amphitheatre and the stuffy little boxes, the gallery 
 and the entire hall of the building. All the ‘boys’ 
 were there. There was a stir and an excitement 
 among the audience, a surging to and fro, coarse 
 chaff and comment, unceasing popping of corks. 
 The atmosphere was heavy and thick with gas and 
 smoke. 
 
 ‘ What is on he asked of the first bystander ; 
 for the stage was empty and gave him no informa- 
 tion. 
 
 ‘ They’ve got a new singer. Tessie Gay’s got 
 the “chuck” for being drunk ; and Tessie’s friends 
 are going to make a row, they say.’ 
 
 Mordaunt, knowing well who Tessie’s friends 
 were, thought he was glad he came. As the cry of 
 battle to the war-horse, so was the promise of a 
 row to Mordaunt. He wanted something to take 
 him out of himself — here was the something. 
 After all, it was the boys who were his friends, and 
 Roily — well, in truth, Mordaunt was longing for 
 a sight of Roily’s face, and Ted’s and Tom’s, and 
 all of them. He had stayed away too long, and 
 for nothing ; where were they all.? Somewhere 
 about, of that he might be sure, and eager to wel- 
 come him in their band. He had always been with 
 
2o8 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 them, head and chief when the town was painted 
 red ; the one man with a head on him when con- 
 sequences were to be averted. 
 
 He made his way through the buildings carefully 
 but steadily, and soon he reached the bar that runs 
 parallel with the platform underneath, and at the 
 right side. 
 
 He easily found what he sought. Tessie her- 
 self was drinking at the bar. Tessie, with her bold 
 face, and pretty dimples, arrayed in rustling silk, 
 diamonds in her ears, a white hat with feathers 
 crowning her costume. Her elbows were on the 
 bar, and she was talking volubly ; she was sur- 
 rounded by a body-guard, of whom Roily was the 
 foremost, but supported by the whole staff of Foot- 
 lights., and the Southampton Row habitues : Tom 
 Furley, Charlie Morgan, Lord Lusher, Ted Smith 
 — all Mordaunt’s old pals. 
 
 Mordaunt took up his position behind a pillar ; 
 he did not want to be seen just yet, only to see. 
 And his judgment told him there would be plenty 
 for him to see. Tessie was obviously half drunk. 
 Roily not far off ; all the rest of them a little 
 on. 
 
 Sticks and umbrellas were rapped on the ground, 
 cat-calls and impatient cries began to resound from 
 
A BARE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 209 
 
 all parts of the house — loudest of all from the 
 bar corner. 
 
 At length the little hand-bell was struck. 
 
 ‘ Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced the prosy 
 chairman, ‘ Miss Tottie Tartkins will next 
 appear.’ 
 
 A momentary hush, during which a blowsy 
 young lady, dressed in true music-hall style, 
 liberal low neck, half short skirt, high-heeled 
 shoes, advanced to the footlights. 
 
 The band struck up ; she commenced. Her 
 voice was no worse than other music-hall voices — she 
 was not more vulgar or less vulgar than other 
 music-hall artistes ; but the public, who had re- 
 sented the dismissal of their favourite, would 
 have none of her. They shrieked her down with 
 falsetto imitations, they stamped her down with 
 sticks and umbrellas, they hissed her and cat- 
 called her down with every variety of noise they 
 could devise. Loudest of all, most prominent of 
 all, Tessie and her little group of supporters in 
 the corner. 
 
 Three times did the unfortunate girl commence. 
 She grew pale underneath the rouge. It was her 
 daily bread — and beer — they were depriving her 
 of; but it was of no use. They didn’t and they 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 A BABE- IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 wouldn’t hear her. Presently shouts for Tessie 
 began to mingle with the other cries. Tessie, from 
 her corner, acknowledged the cries, calling out to 
 this or the other person she recognised, in her 
 voice that seemed so common as it issued from 
 the pretty lips ; nodding her head at them, while 
 the feathers danced about. 
 
 Three times the chairman rose to order, three 
 times he was yelled down, and the row went on 
 worse than ever. Mordaunt, noting, saw the hall 
 was filling quietly with policemen — saw them 
 making their observations, then edging their way 
 gradually toward the bar. 
 
 ‘ Ladies and gentlemen !’ shouted the chairman 
 loudly, hoarsely, rapping on the table with all his 
 might. ‘ Ladies and gentlemen !’ 
 
 ‘ Tessie ! Tessie Gay !’ 
 
 ‘ “ O what a lark, out after dark,” ’ 
 
 they began to strike up the first verse of the song 
 by which their favourite had gained her reputation. 
 
 ‘ Tessie ! We want to hear Tessie ! 
 
 ‘“O what a lark . . . ’ 
 
 More loud rapping. 
 
 ‘ Ladies and gentlemen, in the unavoidable 
 absence of Miss Tessie Gay ’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 211 
 
 ‘ Oh, you liar !’ 
 
 Up went Tessie’s shapely arm; in it a cham- 
 pagne-bottle, the first missile handy. The chair- 
 man got a broken head ; the policemen made a 
 rush. Some miscreant turned olfi the gas. Such 
 a shrieking and howling as defies description 
 followed. Before the gas went out Mordaunt 
 had marked where Roily stood. He went for 
 him. 
 
 ‘ That’s you. Roily, isn’t it ? Get out of this ; 
 here, hold on to me.’ 
 
 ‘ No, no; .1 must look after Tessie.’ 
 
 ‘ Tom’s looking after Tessie. I saw him 
 before the gas went out. You don’t want all this 
 in the papers to-morrow. Better clear ’ 
 
 He took Roily’s arm. By the time lights were 
 procured and arrests being made, he had hurried 
 him down the side and nearly to the door. Then 
 Roily tried to get free. 
 
 ‘ I must go back. I must look after Tessie.’ 
 
 ‘ Tessie is all right ; everybody will look after 
 her. The police are batoning the crowd like 
 mad. Come along.’ 
 
 ‘ Look out, look out. Rivers ! Footlights to the 
 rescue ! Hurrah !’ 
 
 Tom had caught sight of him — Tom Furley, 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Ted Smith, and Charlie — and the whole crowd 
 of them, bearing Tessie triumphantly in their 
 midst, were shoving their way towards the door. 
 There was no doubt they were thoroughly en- 
 joying the fracas ; but Tessie wouldn’t be saved 
 and wouldn’t be hurried. She said she would 
 sing, and she did sing. They had almost forcibly 
 to carry her, while she shouted all the time : 
 
 ‘ O what a lark, out after dark,* 
 
 and the people took it up. 
 
 Law and order won. Tessie was arrested, and 
 the Footlights contingent, in their rush to the 
 rescue, narrowly missed the same fate. Some 
 heads were broken — Roily’s among the number. 
 He had all the awkwardness of obesity, and could 
 neither help himself nor others ; but, in the end, 
 Mordaunt half led, half carried him into the 
 streets, and, hailing a hansom, drove quickly to 
 Cecil Street. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Rolly had been knocked about in the fracas. The 
 blow on the head and the drink rather muddled 
 his faculties. It seemed to him nothing strange 
 that he should be in Mordaunt’s room, and that 
 Mordaunt should be helping him to get straight. 
 And presently the other fellows came in, and to 
 them also it seemed nothing strange that there had 
 been a row, and that Rivers had been with them. 
 Rivers’s place was with them ; he had always been 
 with them. 
 
 But to Mordaunt it seemed very strange that Rolly 
 should be sitting on the sofa where he had laid 
 Lucilla that night; that these men should be in 
 the room that had been the scene of his short 
 love-story. But he was glad. He could not 
 doubt it; their presence banished the spectres. 
 
 They talked over the affair while drinks were 
 produced and wounds bound up. 
 
 ‘ But what is to become of Tessie ? One of us 
 must go and bail her out.’ 
 
214 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ I’ve arranged for that,’ answered Tom. 
 
 ‘ Lusher has gone, I don’t believe they would 
 have stood one of us, and Sandel did not want to 
 appear in the affair at all. He was dead against it 
 from the first. I say, how drunk Tessie was !’ 
 
 ‘ How did you manage about the gas ?’ 
 
 ‘ That’s my secret. As a matter of fact, bribery 
 and Ted did it between them ; but we mulled it 
 afterwards. I meant Tessie to have given her 
 song while the gas was out, and then the whole 
 lot of us to have hoofed it before it was re- 
 lit.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, well, let’s go round to the Cormorant, 
 and see what people are saying about it. They 
 collared Ted, you know, but we got him away. 
 I don’t believe they’ve arrested a single one of the 
 right people, and they’ve got about fourteen poor 
 devils altogether.’ 
 
 ‘ Come on. Rivers, there’s some sparring on to- 
 night. I’m just in the humour for it. There will 
 be some sport to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ I’ll follow you with Roily when he has made 
 himself look a little more decent,’ answered Mor- 
 daunt, seeing an opportunity. And they left him 
 alone with Lucilla’s father. 
 
 Roily was still on the sofa. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 215 
 
 ‘ Nettie will kick up a row when she hears I’ve 
 been in this ; she’s got the needle about Tessie.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, you’re still with Nettie ?’ 
 
 ‘ Always shall be, I suppose. Mordaunt, old 
 man, we’ve missed you awfully.’ 
 
 ‘ And I’ve missed you.’ 
 
 The two men did not look at each other. The 
 memory of Lucilla was between them ; but 
 drawing them together were all the ties of old 
 association. The paper, that Mordaunt had been 
 on from the first ; Nettie, whom Mordaunt had 
 always known ; the Southampton Row clique, that 
 Mordaunt had always dominated. 
 
 ‘ The paper is going to the devil.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no, the paper is an accomplished fact. 
 I’m sure it’s circulation hasn’t gone down. You’ve 
 got all the rest of the old set, I see.’ 
 
 ‘ But there’s no go in it without you. It’s flat 
 and stale.’ 
 
 Neither of them spoke of Lucilla ; both were 
 thinking of her. 
 
 ‘ How does your head feel now 
 
 ‘ All right ; I shan’t go to the Cormorant. It’s 
 an age since we’ve had a chat.’ 
 
 ‘ What would Nettie say if she knew where you 
 are ?’ 
 
2i6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ She got over it a long time. Nettie’s tempers 
 don’t last long, that’s one good thing about them. 
 She’d be very glad to see you if you came.’ 
 
 ‘ No, I won’t do that.’ 
 
 There was a pause ; Roily was rather at a loss 
 what to say. He wanted Mordaunt back very 
 badly ; he missed him in so many ways. He was 
 willing to forgive him, but his own willingness 
 made him uncomfortable ; he was afraid of what 
 Mordaunt would think. 
 
 ‘ Roily,’ began Mordaunt, rather unsteadily, 
 getting up from his chair, walking to the window, 
 and talking with his back turned to her father, 
 
 ‘ Lucilla is not with me.’ 
 
 ‘ Let’s agree not to talk about that. You’ve 
 
 taken her, and ’ there was positively a break in 
 
 emotional Roily’s voice, ‘ I hope you’ll be good to 
 her — better than ever I was. Come back to Foot- 
 lights ; you can have double screw, or I’ll give the 
 girl an income. Perhaps some day you might take 
 me to see her. Poor little girl ! she hadn’t much 
 of a chance ; you were the best fellow in our lot, 
 Mordie. I’d like to tell her I don’t think any the 
 worse of her.’ 
 
 ‘ From the night Nettie turned her out of the 
 house until this moment, I swear to my God I 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 217 
 
 have never set eyes on the girl, I would give my 
 
 right hand at this moment to know where she 
 
 • > 
 
 IS. 
 
 Mordaunt had turned round and faced him. 
 He was flushed, and his manner was so earnest 
 and intense that Roily sat up, pale, and stared at 
 him curiously. 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ; what on earth do you 
 mean.^’ 
 
 Roily sat up on the sofa, and Mordaunt, turn- 
 ing his back on him, again told him shortly, but 
 with an emotion he could not conceal, of Lucilla’s 
 disappearance, of his vain search for her, of the 
 efforts he had made, and their non-result. 
 
 Breathless, Roily listened ; the inference both 
 men drew was obvious. Roily covered his face 
 under his hands. 
 
 ‘ Oh, Mordie, why didn’t you take better care of 
 her he groaned. 
 
 That was Roily all over, Mordaunt thought 
 bitterly. Why had not he taken better care.^ 
 The ice broken, however, the two men felt better. 
 Mordaunt told Roily all he had done ; there was 
 nothing further he could suggest. Together they 
 thought over every possible and probable con- 
 tingency. The problem remained unsolved. Far 
 
2i8 
 
 A BADE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 into the morning they talked, and they parted 
 friends. 
 
 ‘ I’ll not give up my place on the Fast., Roily ; 
 but I can work in some time on Footlights. You 
 can rely on me ; I’m glad we’ve had this chat.’ 
 
 ‘ You’ll come up to-morrow and see Nettie .^’ 
 said Roily, pausing, hat in hand, at the door. 
 
 ‘ N — o, I think not.’ 
 
 ‘ You’d better.’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t press it. Roily. When I think how she 
 flung her in Sinclair Furley’s way, what she said to 
 her, how she spoke to us both that night, I can’t 
 do it. Some day, perhaps, not yet — not until I 
 know what was the end of it.’ 
 
 ‘ Poor old Sinclair ! he couldn’t do anybody 
 much harm.’ 
 
 ‘ Dirty beast! By the way, why hasn’t he been 
 writing for you lately 
 
 Roily, with his hat on, came back into the 
 room. He was the irresolute sort of man who 
 always does come back into the room with a for- 
 gotten question or answer after he has made his 
 farewell. 
 
 ‘ Why, haven’t you heard .?’ 
 
 ‘ No, what 
 
 ‘ Furley has joined the Salvation Army ; goes 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 219 
 
 about the streets in a red jersey, and a cap like a 
 German band.’ 
 
 ‘ Anything for an advertisement. I suppose he 
 has the titles of all his shows printed in front of 
 his jersey.?’ 
 
 ‘ No. He got awfully chaffed about Lucilla ; 
 you see, he had boasted, it seems, about her, his 
 intimacy with her, and just at the same time 
 that slashing article against him came out, and 
 he was slated worse than ever. He got hipped 
 over the two things together ; of course, the 
 advertisement may have had something to do 
 with it. Anyway, he wrote to all the papers 
 that he had seen the error of his ways, and had 
 joined the only true Army, with a vague promise 
 that he would write his experiences in the future. 
 Some of them inserted it, and there were a few 
 comments ; not as many as he would have liked, 
 but still some. That is about a month ago, and 
 since then nobody has heard anything of him. 
 I suppose he is really worming himself into their 
 ways, and will give, in a revelation book, ‘ Ex- 
 periences of a Showman in the Salvation Army ’ 
 — not a bad idea, is it.? You always had your 
 knife in Sinclair; I don’t know why — he’s clever 
 and original.’ 
 
220 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ He is neither one nor the other. You think he 
 is original, because you haven’t seen the French 
 cafe singers he steals his ideas from. I am glad 
 you’ve got rid of him on the paper ; he is the 
 very sort of man that, after a time, no public will 
 stand. I shouldn’t be surprised if he got himself 
 into trouble one day.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, don’t let us quarrel about him. I must 
 go now ; send me some ‘ copy ’ for next week, 
 there’s a good fellow. We’re short, as usual ; there 
 has been no racing — none of consequence, at least. 
 Ted is getting very shaky in his tips ; not a winner 
 for a fortnight.’ 
 
 ‘ We must think of something new.’ 
 
 ‘ Do ; good-night, old man.’ 
 
 ‘ Good-night.’ 
 
 He was gone. Mordaunt went to bed feeling 
 lighter-hearted and happier. Roily had cared, after 
 all, for the girl’s fate ; he was not utterly heartless. 
 Mordaunt’s unutterable pity for the girl, who had 
 no one but himself to miss her, or to search for 
 her, was lessened a little by thinking Roily cared. 
 
 He had missed his work on Footlights more 
 than he realized, until now that he had it back 
 again. Five years he and Roily had worked it 
 together ; they had fought the uphill battle of a 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 221 
 
 new paper and had conquered. It was his — or 
 their — creation, and Mordaunt, now that the dis- 
 taste for the entire set had evaporated, felt some- 
 thing of his old interest revive. 
 
 There was, after all, something attractive about 
 the thoughtless, light-hearted set of young men, 
 who lived only in and for the day’s pleasure. 
 And there was something attractive about Roily, 
 when Roily was sober. His weakness, his emotional 
 ways and impulsiveness, reminded Mordaunt of 
 Lucilla, and therefore Roily’s company became 
 again very desirable to him. 
 
 In point of fact, he drifted back very nearly 
 to where he had been before that eventful July 
 day on the river. Very nearly, but not quite ; 
 for to Roily’s house, or in Nettie’s company, he 
 did not go. And although he worked again, and 
 although he frequented again his old haunts of 
 pleasure, from the Gaiety bar to Romano’s, from 
 the Cormorant to the Aquarium, he was not 
 absolutely content, he did not quite lose the 
 sense of his responsibility, nor of his loss. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 And, meanwhile, what of Lucilla ? 
 
 Lucilla had rushed out of Mordaunt’s room, 
 out of his arms, urged by an instinct for which she 
 had no name. Her cheeks were hot and burning, 
 her heart throbbing loudly and fast. She rushed 
 down the narrow staircase, out into the street ; 
 the night-wind fanned her curls, she pressed her 
 hand to her side, and ran on, on — into the night. 
 She ran on as if she were pursued, and pursued 
 she was, by a. dread that had overcome her timor- 
 ousness, and sent her forth alone to seek shelter 
 in the streets from something more terrible even 
 than the unknown. 
 
 She ran on, and ran ever, until her breath 
 failed, until the throbbing in her heart beat time 
 to the throbbing in her head, until the cheeks 
 that had been hot grew hotter, and the dread 
 that she had run from seemed to assume a shape 
 and substance in what she saw around her. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 223 
 
 The moon was shining as brightly, was shed- 
 ding as soft a light, as it had done on the broad 
 river ; and even the stars, in a silver network, 
 gazed down peacefully and clearly. 
 
 But on what a scene ! Women — women in 
 brave apparel — shining jewels; women painted 
 and dyed out of every semblance to humanity. 
 Girls, mothers, grandmothers, talking, laughing 
 shrilly, begging, praying . . . for what.^ Silks 
 and satins, rouge and powder, fighting wildly 
 under the quiet stars . . . for what } 
 
 Three or four policemen, furtive smiles on the 
 faces ’neath the helmets, driving these human 
 animals somewhere ; anywhere out of sight and 
 hearing. 
 
 ‘ Move on, now ; move on, there ; keep moving, 
 can’t you 
 
 ‘ Come with us, bobby. That’s right, bobby 
 dear. Bobby’s drunk to-night ; he shan’t come 
 home with me,’ 
 
 ‘ Never mind, he shan’t go home alone. See, 
 what will his missus say when she sees what a nice 
 girl he has brought home with him.^’ 
 
 ‘ Now then, move on, keep on moving. Why 
 don’t you move on.^’ 
 
 No one heeded the policemen ; they were there 
 
224 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 to perform an impossible duty : perhaps they tried 
 to do it. 
 
 Laughing young men, white-shirted, were the 
 centres of attraction. They were full of the small 
 change of a coarse chaff ; they could even use 
 their stick to keep at bay the tawdry creatures 
 when they came too near, or laid imploring hands 
 on their immaculate linen. And there were old 
 men too in the crowd — men with gray hair and 
 bowed shoulders — and now and again some dread- 
 ful woman, painted, golden-haired, gay, would 
 walk away with one of them, clinging to his 
 arm, and her companions would shout : 
 
 ‘ Good-luck to you, Sal.’ 
 
 How Lucilla was entangled in this crowd she 
 knew not. She heard around vile thoughts put 
 in viler words, she heard the men laughing with 
 the women, and the furtively smiling policeman 
 call out his monotonous : 
 
 ‘ Move on ; can’t you keep moving ?’ 
 
 By her side a fair woman, young in years, asked 
 her some foul question. Lucilla could only 
 shrink^ back and gaze at her with terror-stricken 
 eyes. 
 
 ‘ Are you saved 
 
 The fair woman turned round quickly, and a 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 225 
 
 tract was shoved into her hand. She dropped it as 
 if it had stung her. 
 
 ‘ Damn you ! now I shall have no luck to- 
 night.’ 
 
 She pushed angrily away through the crowd. 
 
 But the same voice was now in Lucilla’s ear. 
 She turned quickly, put out her hand. 
 
 ‘ Are you saved V 
 
 Two women, with long, blue cloaks, and poke 
 bonnets, strangely incongruous, were working 
 their way among the people, tracts in their hands ; 
 quickly they gave one to Lucilla. 
 
 ‘ Are you saved ? Have you found salvation ?’ 
 
 ‘ No, no ; I am lost,’ she moaned out, and 
 caught hold of the long cloak. 
 
 ‘ Come to Christ — salvation full and free. Do 
 you love Jesus .^’ 
 
 ‘I don’t know, I don’t know! Help me, save 
 me !’ 
 
 She clung to them, half fainting, while around 
 her the gay crowd laughed and jeered, and chaffed. 
 
 ‘Do you mean it.^ Are you in earnest.^ Do 
 you want to be saved ?’ asked the elder of the 
 v/omen quickly, eagerly, and looking into the 
 girl’s face, dropping her sing-song voice and 
 stereotyped phrase. 
 
 
226 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 For answer Lucilla clung to her tighter ; her 
 senses were reeling. Her intense physical nature 
 was feeling keenly the degradation of the touch 
 of those around her ; her instinct taught her the 
 safety of those long blue cloaks. 
 
 ‘ Take me away, take me away !’ was all she 
 could say, for the streets were going round her 
 and the people, and there was a whirring sound in 
 her brain that shut out thought. 
 
 ‘ We’ll take you, never fear. We’re in the 
 army of the Lord, and we’ve got His rescue work 
 to do. Hold on ; help her. Patience.’ 
 
 They began to work their way out of the 
 throng, bearing the half unconscious girl with 
 them, but never ceasing to give away their tracts, 
 never ceasing that question which they hoped 
 would bear fruit, would go deep into some mind 
 and find an answer. They were assailed in their 
 passage with bitter words, with blows even ; feet 
 were put forward to trip them up, and even the 
 white-vested young exquisites, in their double 
 capes and gardenias, did not scruple to add their 
 voices to the general chorus. 
 
 They got out of the herd at last, aided, when 
 possible, by the policemen, who had seen enough 
 of their work to respect, at least, its purpose, and 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 227 
 
 the strength and endurance they brought to bear 
 on it. Got out of the gay, shrieking, half- 
 drunken crowd, into stiller streets, where the 
 moon could assert itself. 
 
 Half leading, half supporting Lucilla, they 
 brought her at length to a sort of court, stone 
 paved, which would have been a square, had not 
 its fourth side opened into the streets. Three 
 tall rows of houses, all high, all built of stone ; 
 and into one of them, one no different from the 
 rest, they helped the half-sinking girl. 
 
 ‘ Make an effort, child,’ said the captain ; 
 ‘ it’s a long way up. We’ll help you all we 
 can.’ 
 
 And help her they did, to good purpose, up 
 the cold stone stairs, five weary flights up. 
 
 ‘ Help her on to the bed.’ 
 
 They helped her, and she lay there for about 
 half an hour in a curious, physically acute, but 
 mentally barren state, gradually taking more 
 and more interest in her surroundings, gradually 
 noting more exactly each detail of the room she 
 was in. 
 
 It was a depot of the Salvation Army, where 
 the recruits came for three weeks’ practical experi- 
 ence of work under Captain Nelly’s care and 
 
 T5— 2 
 
228 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 guidance, prior to their admittance into the train- 
 ing-home at Clapton. 
 
 The room she lay in was small and narrow, 
 lit by a grated window. There was a bit of worn 
 felt on the floor, a wooden table and three chairs 
 to match— hard, cheap, wooden chairs — and there 
 was another narrow bed besides the one she was 
 on. Opening into this room were two even 
 smaller ones, each with a bed, a washstand, 
 but little else. Such was the entire estab- 
 lishment at No. 4, Newport Buildings, Drury 
 Lane. 
 
 I'he two Salvationists who had brought Lucy 
 here in safety went down on their knees and 
 prayed aloud in colloquial, unpicturesque lan- 
 guage, giving thanks for their success in this 
 night’s work. Captain Nelly prayed aloud, the 
 other one joining in the refrain, or shouting 
 ‘Amen !’ or emitting a sort of groan of acquiescence 
 in the words. 
 
 And as they prayed, two more women came in, 
 similarly attired — long cloak, big bonnet, with the 
 words ‘ Salvation Army ’ printed across them in 
 red letters. 
 
 ‘ Any souls, captain V 
 
 ‘ We stormed the citadel, and one soul yielded. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 229 
 
 A glorious victory! We’ll sing a hallelujah! 
 Now then, girls ! — 
 
 ‘ On my knees I fall, 
 
 Give Theefup mine all ; 
 
 To comfort live or die — 
 
 For my Lord crucify.’ 
 
 Captain Nelly led the tune ; the others all 
 joined in, shouting, clapping their hands, exhibit- 
 ing every symptom of joyful excitement. 
 
 The girl who had been out with Captain Nelly 
 pulled up the skirt of her dress, and showed a 
 great, big, bleeding bruise on her leg, that some 
 brute had given her as she passed. This was the 
 signal for a fresh outburst of song ; the excitement 
 increased ; they sang : 
 
 ‘ I will be a soldier, 
 
 I will volunteer 
 To light for Jesus 
 In the army here/ 
 
 And all the time Lucilla lay on the bed with 
 open eyes, watching them and wondering, but 
 never speaking. 
 
 After, maybe, an hour of these devotional 
 exercises, they all calmed down. They shook 
 hands and kissed each other, congratulating them- 
 selves on the glorious time they had had ; great 
 
230 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 victory they said, all their ammunition exhausted, 
 meaning they had given away all their tracts. 
 And one enemy conquered ! Poor Lucilla ! 
 
 Captain Nelly was a short, squat-figured young 
 woman, of between thirty and forty. She had a 
 big head, and her pale hair was cut short ; her 
 face was large and square, colourless : out of it 
 gleamed a pair of light eyes, with a curious 
 sparkle in them. When she prayed they sparkled 
 and lit up her whole face ; when she was not pray- 
 ing they settled down into monotonous accord 
 with her heavy countenance. 
 
 I'he praying and congratulations over, she 
 dismissed the tired recruits to bed, and disposed 
 of Lucilla by asking her if she could get so far 
 as the next room. The girl acquiescing dully 
 — she was still benumbed — Nelly showed her 
 the way, and after a few words joined her and 
 closed the door. 
 
 Now these two were alone together — Lucilla, 
 still in her white-flannel river-dress, with the 
 cherished sailor hat, her childish face, and startled 
 expression ; Captain Nelly, the Salvation Army 
 captain. 
 
 ‘ Well, child, and how long have you been 
 leading this dreadful life was the captain’s first 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 231 
 
 question, giving Lucilla the only chair the room 
 contained, and seating herself on the bed. Captain 
 Nelly had left humanity and its study far behind 
 her in her desperate race for salvation ; she only 
 saw in Lucilla a girl rescued from the streets. 
 
 ‘ Always,’ answered Lucilla simply, thinking of 
 Nettie — Nettie’s words ; contrasting them with 
 what she had heard to-night from the woman 
 before her. 
 
 ‘ Shocking, shocking ! but the Lord has wonder- 
 ful ways with the heart ; He led you to us at last. 
 But tell me who first led you astray ; tell me all 
 about the life you have led,’ eagerly. 
 
 Captain Nelly was a good woman according to 
 her lights, and leading souls to Christ was her sole 
 occupation in life, bringing the Gospel down to 
 those who would not look up for it, forcing those 
 who shut their ears to open them and hear. But 
 Nelly, who had trodden down all interests but 
 this, as her sect demanded — who, in accordance 
 with their laws, read no newspapers, looked in no 
 shop windows, took no relaxation from her work, 
 had abandoned without a sigh her friends and her 
 relations — had forgotten in the general holocaust 
 of self to sacrifice up her feminine curiosity. 
 
 Nelly had never been married ; she had passed 
 
232 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 through childhood right up the tragic stream of 
 ugly girlhood, ugly womanhood, longings for she 
 knew not what, discontent, unhappiness, repining, 
 and, at last, into the safe harbourage of a religious 
 enthusiasm, where her energies found outlet, and 
 the passion that might have turned domestic had 
 changed instead into an hysterical fervour of love 
 for Christ. 
 
 She meant well, she lived well, she lived a blame- 
 less life, dashed with the excitement of monster 
 meetings, glorified by the wounds she received in 
 battle (such as the bruises shown to-night), made 
 full by her work and by her belief in it ; but for 
 all her blamelessness of life, for all her earnest 
 goodness of purpose, she tortured Lucilla to-night 
 as through all her misery the girl had never before 
 been tortured, made her suffer as she had never 
 before suffered, took from her finally, and for 
 ever, her ignorance of sin and her purity of 
 thought. 
 
 Lucilla sat at first on the chair and tried to 
 answer the questions that her rescuer put to her ; 
 questions as to the life she led. She did not know 
 Nelly was under a misapprehension, she did not 
 know to what she was acceding when she answered 
 ‘ Yes.’ But Nelly does not come from a mealy- 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 233 
 
 mouthed clan, nor from one who treat things 
 lightly, or from the surface. 
 
 Lucilla was asked about things of which she had 
 never heard, told of crimes that horrified her, ex- 
 plained everything in a manner that turned her sick 
 and faint with fear and terror. 
 
 If, trembling and terrified, she answered ‘ No ’ 
 to some question she could not grasp, the dangers 
 she had escaped were pointed out to her in words 
 whose meaning was so plain that she could not fail 
 to understand. She sank on her knees and buried 
 her face in her hands as Nelly went on praying 
 with her and cross-examining her, exhorting her to 
 change her mode of life, to turn aside while there 
 was yet time, before Jesus had put His finger on 
 her, as Cain was branded for another sin. 
 
 As the dreadful night wore on, and the fanatical 
 woman, abandoning rest, gave herself up to the task 
 she thought God had set her of rescuing this child ; 
 she worked herself up into a fervour of hysterical 
 excitement, drawing a fearful picture of a life of 
 profligacy, dwelling on its physical, as well as on 
 its moral, degradation ; alternately sinking on her 
 knees and shrieking to Jesus to save this soul, 
 praying, singing, shouting, with her eyes blazing, 
 and her dull, square face working, waving her 
 
234 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 arms, rocking herself to and fro, appealing, pray- 
 ing, until Lucilla, still mentally weak from the 
 shock of her fainting seizure, sick and terrified, 
 caught some of the hysteria, and joined her voice 
 in prayer to the God to whom she had never 
 before prayed to rescue her from a life that she 
 had not even commenced to lead. 
 
 The morning dawned into that little narrow 
 room, its bareness cold in the struggling light, and 
 on to these two, with red faces and wild eyes, cry- 
 ing aloud for salvation . Nelly calling out to Jesus 
 to come down and help Lucilla — Lucilla joining in 
 her prayers and entreaties ; Nelly’s fervour grow- 
 ing greater and greater, and the child’s working 
 up with her, until, more like maniacs than sane 
 persons, they shrieked and stamped and gesticu- 
 lated, standing up and flinging up their arms as if 
 to clasp Him, kneeling down with their faces 
 buried as if to hold Him, until at last nature, un- 
 heeded so long, asserted her sway, and half uncon- 
 scious, swooning, fainting, they fell down in their 
 places on the floor, and passed gradually into the 
 dreamless sleep of exhaustion. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The next morning Nelly, after dismissing the re- 
 cruits to their daily work, took Lucilla, more 
 numbed, more quiescent than ever, to the Rescue 
 Home of the Salvation Army at Clapton. 
 
 They talked but little on the way. Captain 
 Nelly was suffering from the reaction of the over- 
 excitement of the night before ; she had gloried 
 too much over her victory over sin, her capture of 
 a soul. Vanity had entered and shut out God, 
 and she repented. She thought that at the next 
 ‘ holiness ’ meeting she would come out into the 
 hall and kneel on the penitent form, and of how 
 the brothers and sisters would come to her, and, 
 with their arms about her, would comfort her, 
 and remind her of where she could find absolution. 
 And she would receive a fresh consecration, and 
 prayers would be offered up aloud for her, and then 
 the drums would sound and the band would play, 
 and the red-jerseyed soldiers clap their hands and 
 shout at the victory over self 
 
236 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 As for LucilJa, last night and the days before, 
 and Mordaunt and Nettie, were all fading pictures. 
 A throbbing in her temples, a surging in her ears, 
 and above all, a remembrance and a terror out- 
 weighing all else, born of that pressure on the head 
 she had heard him complain of, kept her silent 
 and Marius-haunted during the journey. 
 
 At length they reached the Refuge. It is a low 
 house, old, with a long garden behind it, where 
 once were trees and greensward, but now are clothes 
 lines with washing hung therefrom. As they entered 
 the door a close smell penetrated their nostrils, 
 and the girl turned yet paler. The hall was bare 
 and narrow, not over clean ; opening into it were 
 two rooms. Captain Nelly led the way into the 
 first, a barely-furnished tiny office. A big book 
 in which entries were made lay on the desk. 
 Terrible histories these entries showed. There 
 was no one in the room, and Nelly opened 
 the book and turned over the leaves with 
 curiosity. 
 
 ‘ Ah,’ she said, ‘ there was hope for these. 
 Listen to this,’ she read out a few terrible lines. 
 ‘ I knew her. She got beautifully saved here ; she’s 
 in respectable service now, and getting her sixteen 
 pounds a year,’ reflectively. ‘ I must go and find 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 237 
 
 the officer in charge, though I won’t leave you 
 alone ; you’d best come with me.’ 
 
 Nelly was afraid her capture might escape. It 
 is not unusual for girls entering these places for 
 the first time to ‘ shy ’ at the restraint, or change 
 their mind about their conversion. 
 
 They went into the next room. It was full of 
 girls and women ; two of them had babies in their 
 arms — wizened, dreadful babies. They were all 
 knitting ; the whirr of the machines joined the 
 other sounds in Lucilla’s head. The matron was 
 superintending, but at the moment of their entry 
 the clock chimed twelve ; the matron, an anxious- 
 looking, pock-marked woman, rose. 
 
 ‘Ten minutes’ private prayers!’ she announced. 
 The machines stopped as if by magic ; down on 
 their knees went all these outcasts, aud hid their 
 faces in their hands. God alone knew which of 
 them prayed, or where their thoughts wandered, 
 but they had their chance. And the quieting of 
 the machines comforted Lucilla a little. She, too, 
 knelt and covered her face. 
 
 When the ten minutes were over, the matron 
 went outside with Nelly, and heard when, where, 
 and how Lucilla was found. And then these two 
 good women gossiped a little — a religiously inter- 
 
238 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 jected gossip of the horror of the lives these girls 
 led, and a little Salvation Army gossip ; for the 
 barracks are in Clapton, and it was an open secret 
 that ‘ Mother,’ the superintendent of them, was 
 about to wed one of the commissioners. 
 
 This gossip was a rest from their labours — all 
 they ever had of recreation ; for from the religion 
 of the Salvation Army all entertainments but 
 ‘ variety ’ prayer-meetings are strictly prohibited. 
 
 Meanwhile Lucilla was left alone with these 
 twenty or thirty girls and women — refuse of the 
 London streets ; left with them and classed with 
 them. 
 
 They asked her questions ; her blue eyes, fever- 
 stricken and anguish-haunted, gazed at them wide 
 open. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know, I don’t know,’ that was all the 
 answer she gave. Mordaunt’s heart would indeed 
 have sunk could he have seen his darling thus ; 
 but there was no one to help her, and the pressure 
 on her head grew worse. 
 
 Well, the matron returned. She told Lucilla to 
 fall into rank with the others ; to-day she was too 
 busy to attend to her, to-morrow she would be 
 examined and helped. 
 
 Downstairs, when they went to dinner, Lucilla 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 239 
 
 began again to turn faint and sick, for the illness 
 that was coming upon her sharpened to agony- 
 point her senses of taste and smell. But she was 
 able to go through the routine of the day ; to watch 
 them washing, to watch them knitting, to kneel 
 with them for private prayer ; to listen with them 
 to an exhortation, very broad, to God to guard 
 them from relapsing into vice. 
 
 At last the day was over. She went to bed. Her 
 bed was in a room with four others, narrow pallet- 
 beds, each with its red counterpane, with the words 
 ‘Salvation Army’ engrained in it, and the Salvation 
 Army motto, ‘ Blood and Fire,’ in the centre. 
 
 To undress before all these women, to get into 
 one of these little beds, to sleep with one of these 
 terrible counterpanes pressing on her — Lucilla 
 could not do it. She looked wildly around her 
 for some means of escape. 
 
 She made a sudden rush to the door, but some 
 hand was put out to stop her. 
 
 ‘ I must go, I must go !’ she gasped, poor child, 
 knowing not where. 
 
 ‘ I felt like that when I first came,’ said a large- 
 eyed skeleton of a girl, looking at her with some- 
 thing like pity, but standing, nevertheless, between 
 her and the door. ‘ It’s a dog’s life, the working 
 
240 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and the praying, but it’s better than the other. 
 You’re younger than me. Stay a bit ; they won’t 
 let you go if they can help it. She’ll catch you 
 as you go out. Best stay ; you’ll get used to it. 
 We’ll go out together when I get stronger.’ She 
 put her hand to her side ; the exertion of speak- 
 ing brought out that dreadful hollow cough. 
 ‘ Best stay.’ 
 
 ‘ They’ll nurse you if you’re ill,’ said another, 
 who looked as if she wanted nursing. 
 
 ‘ Let her go !’ shouted a third. • ‘ Don’t keep 
 her from the streets ; I’ll go with you, my girl. 
 I’m sick of this. The streets and publics, they’re 
 more cheerful. Out we’ll go, this very night ; 
 they can’t keep us.’ 
 
 Lucilla’s wild appeal for freedom had aroused 
 the drowsing instincts in this unreclaimed one. 
 She made a rush to the door, seizing Lucilla’s arm 
 and dragging her with her, but Lucilla shrank back. 
 
 ‘ No, no !’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I ain’t good enough for you, I ain’t.’ 
 She turned round, her coarse features inflamed 
 with passion. ‘ Well, you just shall come ; we’ll 
 see about that.’ 
 
 She seized her by the waist, her hot breath was 
 on Lucilla’s cheek, her face so near that the eyes 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 241 
 
 seemed touching her ; but yet it was the breath 
 that did it, that encompassed her, and stifled her, 
 and prevented her breathing. 
 
 She did not see the other girls interfering, 
 dragging away the harridan ; she did not see the 
 matron, roused by the noise, enter the room. 
 She saw nothing but ‘ blood and fire !’ with a hot 
 breath fanning her cheek, and stopping her breath 
 as it came, until her life was stopping with it, 
 and she felt as if she must struggle for life, and 
 room for breathing, until she must shriek . . . 
 for breath ... for space . . . for life. 
 
 And shriek she did, and foam at the mouth, 
 and her sweet, slender form was convulsed-as she 
 rolled on the bare floor of that poor room, her 
 nails dug into the tender flesh of her hand-palms, 
 writhing and biting the dust, with her fair hair 
 dishevelled, and the unanswered appeal of the blue 
 eyes changed into terror and wild animal pain. 
 
 Poor Lucilla ! Her birthright came to her in 
 hideous form. 
 
 But she was with Christians. Unbelievers, 
 Atheists, Agnostics, Reason-worshippers, must 
 grant them that this religion they practise is a 
 brotherhood of self sacrifice. 
 
 It was a terrible night in the Refuge. The 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 spirit of revolt against decency and order, roused 
 by the war-cry of Lucilla’s assailant, spread rapidly 
 in the congenial soil of the Home. 
 
 The matron saw with bitterness one by one 
 of these lambs she thought she had led back to 
 the fold become wolves again, untamed. She 
 heard language that fell on her like reproaches, 
 in that she had taught them no better ; sentiments 
 that appalled her, insomuch as they seemed to 
 show her a year of wasted teaching, wasted prayers. 
 And through it all, through the girls struggling 
 to get away from the Home, and the women 
 struggling to hold them back, through broken 
 discipline, and disorder, and hopelessness, Lucilla’s 
 terrible epileptic cry and writhing form had 
 appealed to all her womanliness and feeling. 
 
 This band of workers in unprofitable vineyards 
 have a commander-in-chief ; and in sheer despair 
 she was sent for. At length she came. The 
 great Evangelist, and the light and fire about her, 
 subdued the girls and quieted the women. 
 
 Then she saw Lucilla, and at a glance decided 
 that the Home, with its inflammable material, and 
 smouldering elements, was no place for her to 
 be nursed back from this acute nerve - storm, 
 through which her womanhood must evolve. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 243 
 
 She did — Mrs. General Booth — what few 
 women would have done. She took the struggling, 
 shrieking, epileptic home with her, carrying her 
 into the cab, carrying her from the cab into the 
 house — that unpretending private house in 
 Clapton — where dwelt the brains of the Salvation 
 Army. 
 
 When Lucilla awoke, to find herself strangely 
 weak, with all power and energy faded from her, 
 she was in bed, some kind woman was by her 
 side ; there was no trace to tell her how or why 
 she had come there. This terrible convulsion 
 they had seen her pass through they did not 
 mention to her. She had not the complicating 
 misery in her weakness that the revived spirit of 
 Marius would have evoked. The fit had left her 
 very weak, very feeble, in mind and body. Un- 
 questioningly she took the care and the attention, 
 but not ungratefully. 
 
 These strangers, who had taken her in, nursed 
 her tenderly, went about their day’s work un- 
 weariedly, and spent the night watching by her 
 sick-bed ; grudged themselves meat that she might 
 have strong beef-tea, spared themselves what little 
 comforts they had so that she might have jellies, 
 and cool grapes, and custards. 
 
 16 — 2 
 
244 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 In this household, self-sacrifice was as much a 
 law of daily use and necessity as pleasure-seeking 
 had been at 200, Southampton Row. They ate 
 meat three times a week, and tea and bread on 
 the other days ; they spared from their own sub- 
 stance to give to the poor around them, and to 
 spread the work which seems to them so vital and 
 so immediate. And now that there was a stranger 
 within their gates they managed to spare yet 
 more — mother, daughters, sons, gladly giving 
 up their time to nurse her through her illness, 
 and esteeming such sacrifice no sacrifice in that 
 they did it in the name of the Lord. 
 
 And their sacrifices and their lives inspired 
 others. The doctor that came to see her accepted 
 no fee from any member of the army. He had 
 watched them at their work, and he knew the 
 motives by which they were led. His connection 
 with them, the aid he had given them in exposing 
 some foul places in our civilization, had once nearly 
 ruined both his reputation and his practice. 
 
 His name had stood high among his medical 
 brethren, his voice had been heard on many a 
 council board. He did not go all the way with 
 the fervent religionism of the sect, he did not 
 argue on the matter of religion at all ; but he 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 245 
 
 took his stand on what he knew of the life and 
 aims of the leaders of the movement, and when 
 they had come to him, knowing him for a good 
 man, and said to him; ‘ We want a man — a man 
 known in some other world than ours — to do a 
 deed for us that we cannot do ourselves, to prove 
 that there is a foul blot on our humanity, and by 
 proving help to erase it : will you be the man ?’ 
 Dr. Strawood-Jones never hesitated, although he 
 knew what acquiescence meant to him. The point 
 was proved. He aecepted the censure of a narrow 
 judge, of a timorous professional clique ; he went 
 on doing his duty bravely and steadily, and he 
 lives to prove that conscience is a surer guide than 
 popular clamour. 
 
 Under his care — and she could have had none 
 better than the Salvation Army doctor — Lucilla 
 slowly struggled back into life and consciousness, 
 though the attack had left her feeble in mind as 
 in body, ready to catch at anything that should be 
 as a support to her weakness. 
 
 Her old life began to seem to her dream-like 
 and unreal. She had seen nothing in it but a 
 constant craving for pleasure, a living in the 
 present, with no thought for any to-morrow but 
 a same to-morrow. She had seen Marius die. 
 
246 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 but the death of the idiot boy had awoke in her 
 no deep sense of what death meant. There was 
 no bright intelligence to be quenched, or beam- 
 ing eye to be dulled ; no tears, prayers, regrets 
 for Marius. But now death, an ‘ unsaved ’ 
 death, was presented to her in a new light, as 
 she lay weak, but recovering, on her little bed. A 
 terrible picture was drawn for her, one from which 
 she shrank appalled. To be delivered from which 
 she prayed with them, shrinking and cowering 
 in terror when the night came on. But all the 
 time she was told, she was taught, that if she were 
 ‘ saved,’ that is, if she believed as they believed, 
 took Jesus as they took Him, as her Lord and 
 intimate, leaning on Him as a personal friend, 
 fear would pass away from her, and that from 
 which she shrank in terror would be to her as a 
 joy to be looked forward to. 
 
 It is easy to picture her mental state. As she 
 lay there, sometimes alone — for even for her they 
 could not neglect their other duties, the thousands 
 of other unsaved souls waiting for them — she 
 thought of these people, and all they had done for 
 her. 
 
 They had taken her from the streets. She was 
 no longer ignorant of what that meant ; no 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 247 
 
 innocence is allowed in the Salvation Army ; 
 all things are spoken of by their right names — sin 
 is called sin broadly, and its consequences here as 
 well as hereafter, physical, as well as moral, 
 specified. Regardless of what depth it may have 
 been from, they had taken her in ; she had been 
 ill, they had nursed her. 
 
 Not strong-minded by nature or education, she 
 saw these things, and she saw no further. Whenever 
 she thought of her old life, of her father’s home, 
 which was Nettie’s home, she could not but feel 
 there was no more any place in it for her. When- 
 ever she thought of the people she was with — of 
 Captain Nelly, who had rescued her ; of Mrs. 
 Booth, who had nursed her ; of Doctor Strawood- 
 Jones, who had doctored her, she was seized with a 
 very spasm of gratitude. And what could she do 
 for them in return ? Nothing ; they asked nothing 
 from her, they wanted nothing from her, but that 
 she should subscribe to their doctrines, believe as 
 they believed. 
 
 If she only could ! It seemed to her it was a 
 beautiful religion, and they who preached it led 
 beautiful lives. She heard of Christ and of His 
 sacrifice, and of His power to save. 
 
 She thought of nothing but this belief, that 
 
248 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 somehow she had not got, as she lay slowly 
 crawling back into life and strength. And she 
 prayed for it day and night, night and day. 
 And she had other visitors, but all one way of 
 thinking. 
 
 ‘ Are you saved ? God bless you, my dear ; if 
 you could only get salvation, what a happy girl 
 you’d be!’ was the text that came to her from all 
 sides ; and wanting peace, yearning for it, what 
 wonder that she tried to obtain the salvation they 
 all told her of.? 
 
 They have a human, personal way of praying, 
 these Salvation Army people. To many ears it 
 sounds blasphemous ; but that was not the view 
 of it Lucilla took. It is hard to have to write 
 of the association of ideas such methods of praying 
 produced in the girl’s mind ; impossible to trace 
 the thought-cycle. But as she learnt to pray as 
 they did, with a personal fervour, so in her weak- 
 ness the fervour, as it passed away, left her 
 possessed by Mordaunt’s image, that until then 
 had been faint. Her cheeks would be dyed in 
 darkness by the remembrance of him, and why she 
 had left him ; she would long for him in his 
 strength and his manliness with all the power of 
 her being ; he would come between her and her 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 249 
 
 prayers. That one passionate kiss she had given 
 him became mingled with all the passion of their 
 religion, keeping her unsatisfied. She battled 
 against this, feeling it wicked ; but in the end 
 conquered that emotion ; and the praying and 
 fervour became almost necessary to her. 
 
 She recovered sufficiently to go out, and the 
 occasion being propitious, they were able to take 
 her to a monster meeting. She went with them, 
 she sat with them — the priests and priestesses of 
 the religion — on the platform. They went as to a 
 great feast, fasting beforehand, pitying her tenderly 
 in that she could not enjoy it with them ; and their 
 tenderness and their pity moved her, and her throat 
 was full of sobs, and her eyes of tears. 
 
 She wept, and, to hide her tears, knelt when 
 they knelt, and sobbed with her face in her hands. 
 
 Then the soldiers of the Cross marched into the 
 hall in their bright red jerseys, playing their loud- 
 sounding brass instruments, followed by a crowd 
 they had attracted from the outside. They played, 
 and suddenly the vast congregation lifted up their 
 voices and joined in the song — 
 
 ‘ I am a Christian soldier, 
 
 One of a noisy crew ; 
 
 I shout when I am happy, 
 
 And that I mean to do. 
 
250 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Some say that I’m too noisy — 
 
 I know the reason why — 
 
 And if they felt the glory 
 They’d shout as well as I. 
 
 Chorus . — ‘ I’m a soldier ; 
 
 Should you want me, 
 
 You can find me 
 In the Salvation Army.’ 
 
 ‘ They sing and shout in heaven, 
 
 It is their hearts’ delight ; 
 
 I shout when I am happy, 
 
 I shout with all my might. 
 
 ‘ I’ve Jesus Christ within me, 
 
 He’s turned the devil out ; 
 
 And when I feel the glory 
 It makes me sing and shout. 
 
 Chorus . — ‘ I’m a soldier,’ etc. 
 
 The enthusiasm spread from the platform to the 
 hall, men clapped their hands and shouted, women 
 joined their voices, one and all singing and calling 
 out — 
 
 ‘ I’ve Jesus Christ within me, 
 
 He’s turned the devil out,’ etc. 
 
 They sang and shouted, and they clapped their 
 hands. Weak with illness, dazed by long kneel- 
 ing and by fasting, Lucilla heard the acclaims 
 around her. 
 
 Suddenly the song ceased, the music stopped. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 251 
 
 there was silence in the hall. Mrs. Booth rose in 
 her place. 
 
 ‘ Brothers,’ she said simply, and as she spoke she 
 laid a hand on Lucilla’s head, ‘ there is a poor soul 
 trying to struggle into light. Can you help ? God 
 bless this meeting ; if we can win even this one soul, 
 the meeting is blessed. What shall we do for her 
 
 ‘ Pray for her !’ 
 
 ‘ Sing for her !’ 
 
 ‘ Shout for her !’ 
 
 ‘ Clap hands for her ! ’ . . . ‘ Jesus will hear !’ 
 resounded on all sides. 
 
 Mrs. Booth sank on her knees and set the ex- 
 ample. All followed this — 
 
 ‘ Hark ! the voice of Jesus calling, 
 
 Come, ye laden, come to Me ; 
 
 I have rest and peace to offer — 
 
 Rest, thou wretched one, for thee. 
 
 Take salvation — take it now, and happy be !” ’ 
 
 Gradually the congregation and their leaders 
 worked themselves up further and further into a 
 spiritual frenzy bordering upon delirium. The 
 instruments were clanged and the drums beaten. 
 They called on Jesus to come down and help them ; 
 they shook themselves about on their knees in their 
 places. 
 
252 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Sinner, heed the gracious message, 
 
 To the Blood for refuge flee ; 
 
 Take salvation —take it now, 
 
 And happy be 
 
 and poor Lucilla, hearing them, longing for the 
 rest and peace, yearning to feel as they felt, to 
 shout and be happy . . . yielded. 
 
 ‘ Is it coming.^ is it coming ?’ they asked. 
 
 ‘ I see a light !’ she whispered faintly, and indeed 
 a thousand stars seemed dancing before her dazzled 
 eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Booth caught the words. 
 
 ‘ She sees a light, brothers and sisters ! she sees a 
 light !’ 
 
 ‘ Glory, glory, hallelujah ! Hurray ! Bravo, 
 Jesus ! I knew He could do it. I knew He was 
 at this meeting. She’s got it ; she’s got salvation ! 
 God bless you ! God bless you !’ 
 
 ‘ We are Christian soldiers, 
 
 We’re a noisy crew ; 
 
 We shout when,’ etc. 
 
 It was a glorious meeting ; afterwards they all 
 shook hands with one another and wept and 
 laughed aloud, and crowded round Lucilla with 
 congratulations and a colloquial rhapsody that 
 might almost be called religious chaff ; such as 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 253 
 
 ‘ Didn’t we tell you so, eh ? Didn’t we say He 
 could do it ? Ha, ha ! you’ve got Him now, and 
 no mistake !’ The girl was overcome with grati- 
 tude and thankfulness; she was going to be happy, 
 she put away the misgivings ; they were all so 
 happy, and she had seen a light. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Booth led her from the hall, and she did 
 not know what a splendid collection was the result 
 of her sudden salvation, so had it worked upon the 
 people. 
 
 She did feel happy at first, as they caressed and 
 rejoiced over her when they went home. And the 
 General was there, too, the first time she had seen 
 him, for he had been away on a foreign mission, 
 and he was told of the collection, and of the 
 enthusiastic meeting, and he, too, rejoiced in a 
 fatherly way over her ; and at last she felt she had 
 a family, a home, a purpose in life. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Conversion accomplished, work and discipline 
 began, and Lucilla very gratefully yielded implicit 
 obedience. Orders from headquarters were that 
 she was to have six weeks in the Training Home, 
 and then to repair to London to work in the very 
 field whence she had herself been plucked. 
 Strange, her spirits did not sink at the notion. 
 Her conversion was very recent. She would 
 comfort herself with its newness, and the hope held 
 out by her companions that she would feel more 
 and more the nearness of Christ. Just at present 
 she rested on the fact that she had got ‘ salvation,’ 
 drawing ease from the satisfaction she was expected 
 to feel. 
 
 Salvation Hall, the Training Home, is an impos- 
 ing building, situated at the end of a wide cul-de-sac. 
 It is a divided building, one half for men, one half 
 for women. It bears its title boldly in prominent 
 letters, and beneath them the motto, ‘ Blood and 
 Fire.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 255 
 
 Lucilla entered, was presented with a uniform, 
 was, as it were, given the freedom of the guild. 
 The routine of the life was told her ; she was 
 shown her bedroom. The bedrooms are curious. 
 In a large, high room, two rows of cubicles are 
 erected, with one partition running along between 
 them. The effect can be likened to nothing more 
 exactly than the stalls erected for animals exhibited 
 at cattle-shows. In each stable, or cubicle, there 
 is a narrow bed, two texts and a Bible ; the 
 washing apparatus is outside. 
 
 In the Training Home were collected together 
 twenty or thirty young women, ranging perhaps 
 from sixteen to thirty, drawn mostly from the 
 ranks of middle-class life, daughters of professional 
 men, lawyers, architects and clergymen. 
 
 Girls who have ‘got religion’ suddenly by a 
 revelation, or girls whose dull provincial life had 
 led them always to religion as a pastime, but who 
 had found in the music and excitement of the Army 
 that something resembling dissipation which their 
 spiritual lives had hitherto lacked. Some of them 
 had been good daughters to widowed mothers ; but 
 ‘ Christ had called,’ and, forsaking home and all 
 natural ties, they had left those homes desolate and 
 those mothers childless, and had gone out at the 
 
256 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA, 
 
 call, glorious martyrs to religion. There were 
 even two or three young wives, who had left their 
 husbands and their children at this same call. And 
 all these young hysterical, religious-mad young 
 women, thrown together, acted and reacted upon 
 one another, under the extraordinary regime in 
 which they were placed, until there were times 
 when, instead of a religious assembly, an outsider 
 might well imagine himself in some new and 
 strangely managed institute for neurotics. 
 
 The superintendent, called ‘ Mother ’ by the 
 inmates, a highly-strung, delicate young woman, 
 did her best to foster this spirit. The idea 
 in taking these girls into a training-home is to 
 teach them to conduct a meeting. ‘ Conducting a 
 meeting’ means simply working it up into that 
 stage of excitement in which reason is entirely over- 
 come and feeling exerts its unlimited sway. To be 
 able to move a meeting, then, is a much-prized 
 quality ; but it demands first the power of being 
 personally moved. 
 
 Lucilla had had a fit of nervous excitement ; it 
 had been followed by a violent epileptiform seizure. 
 Brain-weak, full of thoughts of Mordaunt as she 
 had been for months past, full as the heart of a 
 young girl can hold of love for him, bearing 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 257 
 
 about with her now the knowledge that this love 
 was evil, the passionate religionism of the sect 
 appealed to her, and seemed to set her free to love. 
 
 The girl was no hypocrite, although difficult to 
 understand. She knelt with her companions, 
 prayed with her companions, fixed her mind, as 
 she was told to do, on Jesus, His love and care 
 for her. 
 
 Down on her knees, her eyes hidden, she would 
 think of Him as King and Comforter, and pray. 
 But her introspection was not deep or searching. 
 She prayed to the Spirit of love and gentleness and 
 kindness, and only one had been kind and gentle 
 to her. 
 
 So she lived out her six weeks, growing stronger, 
 going through an extraordinary mental phase, feed- 
 ing her heart and mind on love, going through 
 religious exercises, but absolutely, although she did 
 not know it, untouched by religion. 
 
 But one day, the time of probation being over, 
 she was sent out to sell the War Cry in the streets. 
 It is generally the first work entrusted to a recruit ; 
 by their success their fitness for further work is 
 demonstrated. 
 
 Lucilla, grown into womanhood, looked never 
 more beautiful than now, and even the unbecoming 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 costume could not disguise it. The short-cropped 
 golden hair persisted in curling, and the little 
 rings would lie on the forehead under the shadow 
 of the big bonnet. Level brows and blue eyes, 
 complexion fair and pale, lips soft, full, glowing 
 red. The bonnet would be pushed back from the 
 white forehead, and opening the sweet mouth she 
 would cry, ‘ War Cry., sir ? War Cry T and would 
 push it into the hands of a passer-by. She never 
 went out without hoping that she would meet 
 Mordaunt ; she never went home without feeling 
 that the next day might bring her that supreme 
 moment. And yet her nature, childish still, 
 although her emotions had grown to womanhood, 
 kept her passive and obedient to orders, docile and 
 attentive to her duties. 
 
 But one day, as she went out as usual to sell, an 
 incident occurred. It was November ; it was semi- 
 dusk, and as the girls turned out, six of them, to 
 tramp about the streets, six men on similar duty 
 issued from the other side of the building. Even in 
 the Salvation Army girls are girls, and men are men. 
 
 The two little processions stopped ; they began 
 to talk ; they split into pairs. Lucilla found by 
 her side a man red-jerseyed, sloping shouldered, the 
 Army cap slipping far over his narrow forehead. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 259 
 
 ‘ It is more interesting, it is more picturesque, 
 if we work together,’ said a voice beside her. 
 
 She started at the voice in the dusk ; she looked 
 up ; their eyes met. 
 
 ‘ Good God !’ 
 
 ‘ Mr. Furley !’ 
 
 ‘ But how, but why — — ’ He was bewildered, 
 
 incoherent. 
 
 ‘ Don’t tell anybody.’ 
 
 ‘ How I have longed for you !’ 
 
 ‘You?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, I ; when you left me, when you preferred 
 an empty-headed Philistine like Mordaunt Rivers 
 to me, life was valueless. I joined the Salvation 
 Army.’ 
 
 ‘ When I preferred Mordaunt . . . ’ she 
 
 stammered. 
 
 ‘ When you went to live with Mordaunt. I 
 am no purist ; everyone must do as he likes, it is 
 no one else’s concern ; I don’t believe in im- 
 morality. But you had encouraged me to think 
 you mine. I had thought of you as mine, and 
 talked of you as mine. You behaved very badly 
 to me.’ 
 
 ‘ I never thought of you,’ she said cruelly — 
 Sinclair’s presence and Sinclair’s words reminding 
 
 1 7 — 2 
 
26 o 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 her of Mordaunt, torturing her with Mordaunt’s 
 absence. ‘ I never went to live with Mor- 
 daunt. ’ 
 
 ‘ You left Southampton Row with him.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ Where did you go with him ?’ 
 
 ‘ I ran away from him.’ 
 
 Her voice had such a sound in it ; could it be 
 she was regretting that running away 
 
 ‘ When .?’ 
 
 ‘ At once.’ 
 
 ‘ The night you left home?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ And joined the Salvation Army ?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘What did Mordaunt say?’ 
 
 She burst into tears. ‘ I don’t know, I don’t 
 know ; I have never seen him since.’ 
 
 She longed for him in that moment ; she 
 had no pride in that moment ; she wanted him 
 desperately. 
 
 Sinclair and she walked along side by side, to 
 passers-by an uninteresting couple — a Salvation 
 lassie and her comrade, two importunate War Cry 
 sellers. 
 
 But Lucilla was abroad on a sea of passion, and 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 261 
 
 Sinclair was thinking how pleasant an episode this 
 might prove to him. 
 
 Already he was tired of the Salvation Army. 
 He had joined it ‘ to be talked about,’ but now he 
 wanted to get back to the world, and enjoy the 
 conversation and comment he had foreseen. But 
 Lucilla Lewesham was here, and if it were all true 
 that she had told him — if, indeed, she had left Mor- 
 daunt Rivers as she had said — how gloriously it 
 would add to his re-entry ! His reputation as 
 un homme galant would indeed be assured when 
 it got about that Lucilla had been with him in the 
 Army. 
 
 Lucilla’s emotion subsided. She had been for 
 some time now out of the reach of all intellectual 
 companionship. Her mental food had been 
 War Crys and Little Soldiers. Literature and 
 journalism had been strangers to her, all topics but 
 religion banned and barred. She turned to Sin- 
 clair Furley with interest once she had recovered 
 from the shock of seeing him. She asked him 
 eagerly for news of her father, of Nettie, of Foot- 
 lights. 
 
 ‘And how did your show succeed.^’ 
 
 ‘ My show } Oh, my show ! Do you remember 
 when I described that scene where she was in the 
 
262 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 boudoir waiting for him, and he was in the garden, 
 and dancing with glee at the thought of her pro- 
 longed expectation ! It was an extraordinary scene. 
 Ha, ha !’ he laughed, this Salvationist soldier, ‘ it 
 has never been done before. It took, you know ; 
 it was very widely noticed.’ 
 
 ‘ The show was a success, then V she asked with 
 interest. 
 
 ‘Well, you know. . . . What is success.^ It 
 is not popular, it does not suit the bourgeois mind, 
 and it is the bourgeois who make popularity. I 
 don’t want to be popular ; if a show of mine be- 
 comes popular I know I have failed. Originality 
 is never popular.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh,’ said Lucilla. ‘ But was it well criticised.^’ 
 
 ‘ Criticised !’ with scorn. ‘ What are criticisms ? 
 Bubbles !’ He snapped his fingers. ‘ They don’t 
 live. Who will read criticisms in ten years’ time ? 
 By the way, though, the Unfurled had a very good 
 notice ; they have a very intelligent man on the 
 Unfurled! 
 
 ‘ I thought you used to write for it,’ said Lucilla 
 innocently. 
 
 He blushed. 
 
 ‘ I } Oh no ; I don’t write for it any longer. 
 Perhaps I shall again when I leave this.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 263 
 
 He rattled his bundle of War Crys, and offered 
 one to a little servant-girl with a beer-pot in her 
 hand. 
 
 ‘ You are not going to stay ?’ 
 
 ‘ No, no ! Why, really, it is too absurd ; the 
 knee-drill, and the penitent form, and the band. 
 But I shall use it ; it is picturesque : the Sunday- 
 morning marches through country lanes, with 
 bands playing, and flags flying, and the brown- 
 skinned children with their wondering eyes coming 
 out to listen. It is very picturesque. It will 
 make a play.’ 
 
 ‘ But,’ she asked him timidly, ‘ you are saved } 
 you found salvation here.^ you are happy now about 
 your soul .^’ 
 
 ‘ Ha, ha !’ laughed the dramatist. ‘ Ha, ha, ha ! 
 ’pon my word, that is very funny ! I shall use 
 that.’ 
 
 Lucilla was silent. She had not meant to be 
 funny ; but now that he had laughed, the incongruity 
 of Sinclair Furley and salvation struck her, and she 
 pondered over it as they walked home together, 
 and although Sinclair talked on, she did not heed 
 him much. 
 
 When they were within a few streets of the 
 Home, Sinclair stopped : 
 
264 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘Give me your War Crys,' he asked, holding 
 out his hand for them. ‘ I always leave them 
 here.’ 
 
 ‘ Where.?’ 
 
 She withheld hers, looking around her in 
 astonishment. 
 
 They were alone in a little narrow Clapton 
 street ; they were standing on the pavement. It 
 was cold, it was late, and they had not disposed of 
 one of their papers. 
 
 ‘ Here.’ He pointed to a grating — a sewer- 
 grating in the gutter of the road. ‘ I plant mine 
 here. Sow the good seed ; ha, ha, it is well 
 manured ! Let me put yours there, too ; count 
 them first ; I must know how many pennies to 
 refund.’ 
 
 She held her War Crys tight. 
 
 ‘ It is very wicked ; you are a hypocrite ! I 
 will not put my War Crys there.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 He could not persuade her to obtain a good name 
 as a soldier by such means ; there was nothing 
 mean or underhand about Lucilla. She felt her 
 old repulsion for Sinclair returning. 
 
 ‘You will meet me at the same time to-morrow ^ 
 he said, holding her hand as they parted. 
 
 His hand, soft, boneless, damp, pressed hers. 
 
 She ran off without answering. 
 
 But that night, on her knees, her thoughts were 
 confused ; the beautiful harmony was gone. She 
 could not pray. She listened to the talk around : 
 all of Jesus, and of salvation, of ambition for the 
 saving of souls, and of thanksgiving for personal 
 sanctification. 
 
 She went to her narrow bed miserable, unhappy. 
 Did she believe ? Did she not believe ? What 
 had Sinclair done to her, or what had his laughter 
 done for her, that she could no longer pray ? She 
 passed a miserable night, feeling like a hypocrite ; 
 
266 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and a miserable morning, full of prayers she could 
 not join in, gratulation she could not share. 
 
 It was after dinner that ‘ Mother ’ used to 
 exhort these young soldiers. Lucilla thought she 
 would wait until then and speak to her, and tell 
 her her new doubts and troubles ; for she felt that 
 in ‘ Mother ’ belief was living and real. But the 
 girl was very shy of speaking of her feelings, very 
 reluctant of dissection — so shy, indeed, of speaking 
 of herself, that she had never even corrected the 
 false impression that had been created about her 
 by Captain Nelly’s capture of her. 
 
 Lucilla assisted in clearing away the dinner — 
 took her turn in the washing-up. They did all 
 the menial tasks by turns, as a discipline, and in 
 that vast barrack of a building the work was not 
 light. Then nervously she went on her knees in the 
 room where the trestle- tables had been removed, 
 and only the benches ranged in order remained. 
 
 Twenty or thirty girls on their knees, in an 
 absolute silence ; the large white-washed room, 
 text-hung, echoing a pin-sound. ‘ Mother ’ 
 entered : with her, -her lieutenant. 
 
 ‘ We will commence by a hymn — number 172,’ 
 she said, opening the little red hymn-book of the 
 Army. ‘ Sing it standing.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 267 
 
 ‘ Jesus, T my cross have taken, 
 
 All to leave and follow Thee : 
 
 Naked, poor, despised, forsaken, 
 
 Thou from hence my All shalt be. 
 
 Perish every fond ambition. 
 
 All IVe sought, or hoped, or known, 
 
 Yet how rich is my condition — 
 
 God and heaven are still mine own ! 
 
 ‘ Let the world despise and leave me. 
 
 They have left my Saviour too ; 
 
 Human hearts and looks deceive me, 
 
 Thou art not like them, untrue ; 
 
 Men may trouble and distress me, 
 
 ’Twill but drive me to Thy breast ; 
 
 Life with troubles hard may press me. 
 
 Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.’ 
 
 They sang this all together, passionately, 
 ‘ Mother ’ leading. After each verse they sang 
 as a chorus, their voices rising higher and higher : 
 
 ‘ At Thy feet I fall. 
 
 Give Thee up my all.’ 
 
 ‘ All together. Now, then, sing it again ! All 
 who feel it hold up the right hand ; all who feel it 
 with all their hearts hold up both hands. Sing it 
 so, with both hands up. Make a joyful noise 
 before the Lord ! Laugh ! 
 
 ‘ Men may trouble and distress me, 
 
 ’Twill but drive me to Thy breast ; 
 
 Life with troubles hard may press me. 
 
 Thou wilt give me sweeter rest.” 
 
268 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Now sing it clapping your hands. Once more ; 
 we will have it once again !’ 
 
 She clapped her hands, and they joined her, 
 keeping time as their shrill young voices rose to 
 heaven. 
 
 Such an earnest-faced young woman, with a 
 sweet, penetrating voice that went straight to her 
 hearers. When, excited by the noise and the 
 sound of their own voices, and the emotions with 
 which the words had touched them, she arose to 
 address them, they were all on fire. She knelt 
 down after they had finished singing, and prayed 
 aloud for them. She prayed that their hearts 
 might cleave to Jesus, and their souls might be 
 full of love for Him ; that the love might over- 
 flow all other feelings, and drive out all other 
 thoughts ; that they would give ' up everything 
 for their love, sacrifice on the altar all of self ; 
 that they might cling to Him, and let the 
 precious blood wash over them, and never loose 
 their hold, but walk with Him, holding His 
 hand and doing His commands. Then she 
 begged them, for His sake, to go out and fight ; 
 not to be ashamed of their love, or to hide it, 
 but to be always ready to talk of it, and to teach 
 others the glory of it. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 269 
 
 Then, suddenly as she had knelt, she arose to 
 her feet, and, with eyes upturned to the ceiling, 
 sang dramatically : 
 
 ‘ “ We’re marching on to war, we’re marching on to war ; 
 
 We care not what the people think nor what they say we 
 are. 
 
 We mean to fight for Jesus, and His salvation bring ; 
 
 We’re blood-and-fire soldiers, and we’re fighting for the 
 King.” 
 
 ‘ Be good soldiers, real blood-and-fire soldiers, 
 always on the war-path ; ready with your bom- 
 bardment, your testimony of what this over- 
 powering love has done for you. I want you to 
 grow into real hallelujah captains, and your work 
 be blessed.’ 
 
 She prayed then that the ‘ slain of the Lord 
 might be counted in thousands through them 
 and she prayed so fervently, so feelingly 
 about them, that their hearts were moved, and 
 their tears ran down their cheeks, and they longed 
 for the fighting and the battle — for the day when 
 they might go out from the Home, be drafted 
 into corps, and lead in the fight as she was lead- 
 ing them. 
 
 Suddenly, when all were in tears, all hearts 
 beating for battle, she rose to her feet : 
 
270 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Who will fight for Jesus ? 
 
 Who will volunteer 
 For a lifelong service 
 In the Army here ? 
 
 Who will fight the battle ? 
 
 Who will face the strife ? 
 
 Who will brave the hardships 
 Of a soldier’s life ?’ 
 
 And, as if with one accord, and one voice, they 
 answered with clapping of hands, in loud-voiced 
 harmony-: 
 
 ‘ I will fight for Jesus, 
 
 Year by year, far or near ; 
 
 I will be a soldier, 
 
 I will volunteer.’ 
 
 ‘ Down on your knees, then.’ They dropped. 
 ‘ Commune with your hearts ; get near to God. 
 The orders have come ; are you prepared V 
 
 They prayed silently. Then she rose and ad- 
 dressed them again. She told them their time 
 of probation was over, their sojourn in the Home 
 at an end. Now they must work, each one at 
 her allotted task. Then she told them of the 
 orders from headquarters : how some were to 
 be drafted to one corps, and some to another. 
 Those who were well and soundly saved were to 
 go back to their dwelling-places, that their former 
 comrades might see and follow their examples ; 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 271 
 
 and as for LuciJIa, Lucilla was to go to London, 
 back to Captain Nelly, to work with her, to save 
 such sinners as she had been herself, to show her 
 grateful heart by leading other souls to God and 
 the Army. 
 
 And Lucilla’s heart, bursting with love, yielded 
 to the influences around her, and she, too_, prayed. 
 
 The next day saw her installed in the depot in 
 Newport Buildings, sharing a room with a con- 
 verted sinner from the mining district — a girl who 
 could neither write nor read, but whom the Army 
 had converted, and who was, in their own words, 
 beautifully saved. 
 
 But Lucilla had been growing all this time. 
 From the moment she had left Mordaunt, until 
 now, she had been developing from an ignorant, 
 innocent girl into a woman. All the influences 
 around her, so long as they had kept her excited, 
 had kept her satisfied. But now she was no 
 longer satisfied. Praying, fasting, singing, were 
 empty, and life itself was empty. And although 
 she knew not whither the instincts in her were 
 leading, she felt that they were not leading her 
 heavenward. 
 
 The brigade she belonged to is what is known 
 as the ‘ Gutter, Slum, and Garret Brigade.’ They 
 
272 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 went out in the mornings into the very poorest 
 houses, in the very lowest localities, and intro- 
 duced the Gospel, instead of offering temporal 
 assistance to the poor wretches whose homes they 
 invaded. At night they went out into the streets, 
 as they had done the night Lucilla had been 
 found. 
 
 In this work Lucilla, unbelieving, uncomforted 
 by the faith that they relied on, joined. She 
 went into wretched rooms, where drink and vice 
 lived together ; she strove to give away tracts and 
 War Crys, she joined in choruses of ‘Hallelujah!’ 
 she went to Regent’s Hall on a Sunday and 
 sang, 
 
 ‘ On my knees I fall, 
 
 Give Thee up mine all,’ 
 
 going through all the routine, and making no 
 sign to those around her that the work was dis- 
 tasteful to her. Only one thing there was that 
 she begged to be let off. That was the night- 
 work. It was not that the vice shocked her, 
 but ... it attracted her. 
 
 Not the women, tawdry, coarse, loud-voiced ; 
 not the street-life, bad, brazen, bestial ; but 
 there was something in these young men in 
 evening-dress, with their flowers — something in 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 273 
 
 these old men, their refined accent, their gloved 
 hands, even their sneers and their sarcasm — that 
 touched some inner chord of self, and chimed 
 with it in harmony. 
 
 When she was in the streets, something there 
 was that rose in her, that attracted, excited, 
 shocked her. She thought constantly of Mor- 
 daunt ; she caught herself always looking round 
 her, expecting to see him. She would go home 
 burning hot, and that heat that came, she knew 
 not whence, rose like a sea of fire between her and 
 heaven, and blotted it out. 
 
 18 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Then Sinclair Furley came to see her, and, seeing 
 him, she took a sudden resolve. She would speak 
 to him, she would ask his advice ; she could not 
 go on living like this. He would advise her, he 
 would help her — he who, like her, had known 
 another life. 
 
 She was alone in the depot when he came. 
 The others were out on duty ; hers was to 
 prepare dinner for them on their return. Roily 
 Lewesham’s fair daughter, in her Salvation Army 
 dress and bonnet, prepared boiled beef and carrots 
 for Captain Nelly and her recruits ! 
 
 ‘ I am glad to see you,’ she said simply, holding 
 out her hand. 
 
 ‘ I could not come before. These absurd re- 
 strictions, these crude regulations and arrange- 
 ments, interfered with me. I have learnt enough 
 now, and I have found you again. I shall give it 
 all up.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 275 
 
 ‘ You can go back into the world,’ she said 
 wistfully. 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, I must begin my new play ; I must 
 exploiter this new religion. It is a good sub- 
 ject ; it has never been done on the stage before.’ 
 
 It was one of Sinclair’s minor weaknesses to 
 believe his every idea was absolutely original. 
 Yet, as he leaned against the table in his red 
 jersey and peaked cap, he did not give the im- 
 pression of originality or genius. His narrow, 
 sloping shoulders, his white hands, with their 
 yellow nailtips, looked neither strong nor im- 
 pressive. 
 
 ‘ And you do not believe ?’ she questioned with 
 anxiety. 
 
 ‘ Ha, ha ! No, no ! I mean to use it like this.’ 
 He was at his best now, serious and superficial. 
 ‘ I shall prove that religion is not an instinct, 
 neither is it a fact ; it is a habit V 
 
 ‘ A bad habit .^’ echoed Lucilla feebly. 
 
 ‘ A had habit r he repeated dogmatically, and 
 with emphasis. Emphasis always took the place 
 of argument with Sinclair. ‘ I find among all 
 these converts, among all these saved, there have 
 been Methodist or Evangelical fathers, mothers, 
 grandmothers — that the habit has been there, in 
 
 I 8 — 2 
 
2/6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 the family ; that there has been an enlightenment ; 
 but with temptation, with someone who asks them 
 about their soul, the weakness of the old family 
 taint is exposed, and they relapse into religion — 
 into a sensual abandonment to the idea of a future 
 empty of work or pain.’ 
 
 ‘ Sensual ?’ 
 
 ‘ Certainly. They are all sensualists — ascetic 
 sensualists— their minds taking the place of their 
 bodies.’ Sinclair delighted in antithetical phrases. 
 ‘ They talk and think of nothing but love and 
 future ease.’ 
 
 He talked more on this theme, and Lucilla 
 listened and grew soul-sick. 
 
 ‘ Then, to prove my point,’ he went on, ‘ look at 
 you and at me. We are not touched, not con- 
 vinced ; the habit has never been there : it cannot 
 be created. We went in Bohemian atheists. All 
 the dipping in the fountain of light and of glory 
 leaves us Bohemian atheists ; our birthmarks are 
 not washed out.’ 
 
 ‘ Birthmarks of Bohemia ?’ questioned Lucilla 
 slowly. 
 
 ‘ Yes, indelible.’ 
 
 ‘ Birthmarks of Bohemia !’ The alliterative 
 phrase seized on Lucilla’s fancy, and fastened there. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 277 
 
 What was she who had escaped from Southampton 
 Row, fled from her lover’s arms, consecrated herself 
 to the service of God ? Stamped and birthmarked, 
 and, as the instincts of her womanhood to light and 
 joy rose in her, she felt permeated with the stain 
 that had filtered through her entire system. 
 
 Birthmarked ! That was why she could not 
 believe; that was why she could not pray ; that was 
 why the streets had for her a mysterious fascination, 
 and her heart beat fast, and she thrilled under 
 wanton glances that passed her companions un- 
 heeded. It was terrible. And yet there was a 
 compensation in it. If it was her birthmark, then 
 she must yield to it ; then she need no longer fight 
 against her instincts nor smother them ; then she 
 must . . . There was a light about her. 
 
 ‘When you hide your face like that, I can just 
 see the nape of your neck ; the curve is charming.’ 
 
 Passionately as she revolted against the thoughts 
 his words seemed to find substance for, she raised 
 her head and looked at him. 
 
 ‘ You talk about my birth-stain, and in the same 
 breath about my beauty ! Is corruption beautiful?’ 
 
 ‘ In decay there is a charm,’ he began. 
 
 ‘ You can talk and I can think, and in the end 
 there is no foundation and no rest. I am weak. 
 
2/8 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 and the God of these people was strong. I wanted 
 to lean upon them, miserable, despairing as I am. 
 Then you tell me of this taint, and in my soul I 
 feel it, and that there is no salvation for me, and 
 that I do not want salvation, but rather corruption. 
 You have talked down heaven and argued away 
 God. What can you give me instead 
 
 And there being nothing in him to rise to this 
 appeal, he fell under it. 
 
 ‘You cannot believe in this God they play the 
 drum to,’ he answered ; ‘ you cannot love Christ, 
 the abstraction ; you can love me, the man.’ 
 
 He advanced to her. 
 
 ‘ No, I cannot and she shuddered back from 
 him. 
 
 ‘ But,’ he persisted, ‘ there is nothing else in the 
 world but this ; it is the meaning of everything, 
 the kernel of art. The love of the man for the 
 woman, of the woman for the man. Religious 
 love is for the ugly : it is the effort of the imagin- 
 ation to feed the senses.’ He did not know he 
 was illogical ; he warmed to Lucilla as he spoke. 
 He loved her as much as such men as Sinclair 
 Furley can love. ‘ Human love is for the beauti- 
 ful.’ He took her hand ; he noted the bare white 
 arms, the sleeves rolled up above the elbow to 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 279 
 
 allow ease for her cookery operations. A feeble 
 access of passion came over him. 
 
 ‘And you are beautiful ; really, you are beautiful,’ 
 admiration looking from his dull eyes. 
 
 ‘ I — I,’ she stammered, putting up her hand to 
 pull her bonnet over her face, an involuntary 
 gesture of modesty. The bonnet fell back, hang- 
 ing to her neck only by its strings. The childish 
 fair face was uncovered. 
 
 ‘ Charming ! charming !’ he said again, his artistic 
 instincts keeping him spell-bound. 
 
 So long it was since she had heard a word of 
 love, so love-sick was she for the yearning for love, 
 that even Sinclair Furley’s words and looks brought 
 a glow to her cheeks and an added beat to her 
 breast. 
 
 ‘ I want to kiss you. I have never kissed you,’ 
 he said, as he drew nearer to her. Then, before 
 she could draw back, while still the glow of being 
 once more loved remained on her cheek, he caught 
 hold of her, and his lips touched her cheek in lieu 
 of the quickly averted mouth. Her purity, lost 
 in thought, but still retained in deed, revolted. 
 She drew back. Neurotic, eager, yet the touch of 
 Sinclair Furley chilled and repelled her. She pushed 
 him back from her, and with a smile so weak, so 
 
28 o 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 watery, it might have meant triumph or mortifica- 
 tion, he yielded to her, 
 
 ‘ Did you mind ?’ 
 
 She was hot and cold, excited, attracted, re- 
 pelled ; she did not understand her own sensa- 
 tions. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know.’ 
 
 The deformed femininity of his nature made 
 him glad in her shrinking and obvious fears. 
 
 ‘ You are so charming, so original !’ Again his 
 lack-lustre eyes endeavoured to express his admira- 
 tion. ‘ Do you know I love you ?’ 
 
 ‘No, no; you do not love me.’ She put the 
 idea away from her. Was this indeed the love she 
 had been yearning for ^ ‘ You do not love me.’ 
 
 But the proffered love, the weak caress, the 
 instinct she had felt to accept this love — any love, 
 — showed her, in a terrible instantaneous flash of 
 knowledge, the birth-stain he had told her of. 
 
 And then there rushed into her mind the thought 
 of Mordaunt, her lover, from whom she had fled, who 
 had known her pure, modest — who had loved what 
 was best in her. In her falling, in her abasement 
 • — for so did her sensitive nature regard this new 
 instinct — she recognised her one conscious gladness 
 was that Mordaunt was not here to see her — that 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 28 i 
 
 he did not know the wanton thoughts that arose in 
 her breast for the kisses she had not had, and the 
 arms that had loosed her too soon. 
 
 ‘ I love you,’ said Sinclair Furley. ‘ I want to 
 marry you.’ 
 
 ‘Marry — marry you.^’ she stammered. 
 
 ‘ Yes, yes. We will leave the Army together, or 
 we might be married in the Army : it would make 
 a great sensation ; it would be in all the papers.’ 
 
 The idea excited him ; he pressed his suit 
 eagerly. 
 
 The picture seized upon him of a platform 
 marriage in Exeter Hall, of the streets placarded 
 with the announcement, of himself in uniform 
 and cap, with the fair Lucilla at his side, the 
 central figure of a large assembly. 
 
 Lucilla’s strangely-born adolescence left her no 
 character, but all yearning. She was quivering with 
 fear and self-knowledge. She looked upon herself as 
 vile. That Mordaunt should see her so, should 
 know her so, was her first deadly terror. That she 
 should succumb to the temptation pulling at her 
 heart-strings, that she should be unable to keep 
 from him now all that belonged to him, made her 
 tremble and sick with apprehension. 
 
 She did not know her strength in that moment. 
 
282 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 nor that her virtue was rising, not falling ; nor 
 that she was more pure now than she had been 
 when she fled from him, unknowing why. 
 She did not know this. She thought that at all 
 risks, at all hazards, she must put a barrier between 
 herself and him ; and all the time she was feeling 
 this so acutely, her weakness, and the strength of 
 her temptation, Sinclair Furley was urging her to 
 marry him. 
 
 At length and suddenly, she put out her hand to 
 him, eyes dimmed and cheeks white and drawn. 
 
 ‘ Yes, I will marry you,’ she said, and submitted 
 to his kisses — to his mucilaginous, soft-skinned 
 personality. 
 
 And then they heard the sound of voices on the 
 stairs. 
 
 ‘We will march through the world 
 With the fire and the blood ; 
 
 Lord, the power and the glory are Thine. 
 When we’ve turned guilty sinners 
 By millions to God, 
 
 Like stars in the heaven we’ll shine.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 That evening Sinclair, discarding his uniform, 
 went round to Caroni’s, where he knew he 
 would find his brother. 
 
 Caroni’s is a restaurant in the Strand. It was 
 the fashion for the staff of Footlights to stroll in 
 of an evening, to commence or finish their process 
 of getting drunk there, to collect their anecdotes, 
 to chaff the ladies who lounged about the portals, 
 and generally to enjoy themselves. 
 
 It was early in the evening when Sinclair ar- 
 rived. Tom was lounging against the counter, 
 endeavouring to derive humour from the somewhat 
 flat operation of ‘ getting a rise ’ out of Mrs. 
 Caroni. From such an occupation he turned 
 gladly to his brother. 
 
 ‘ Hullo, old man ! where is your uniform 
 
 Sinclair’s yellow face was surmounted by a hat 
 like an Italian brigand’s. He was ill-dressed in a 
 short coat, with check trousers, and a coloured 
 
284 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 handkerchief round his throat. Tom, long, 
 black, and untidy, had reached the point at which 
 untidiness merged into uncleanliness. 
 
 But they were good friends, these two brothers. 
 Tom was tolerant of his brother’s weaknesses, 
 and could not forget the time when, as children, 
 they had gone through scrapes together. Sinclair 
 looked to Tom as his refuge in time of need. 
 
 ‘ I have left the Army.’ 
 
 ‘ Left the Army ! Dear, dear, what a misfortune 
 for the Army !’ 
 
 ‘ Be serious a moment, Tom ; I have some- 
 thing to tell you.’ 
 
 ‘ Then you must stand me a drink. I can’t 
 listen to any of your stories under a bottle of 
 “ the boy.” Here, Beauty ! Pommery sec — and 
 hurry up.’ 
 
 ‘ You remember Roily’s daughter ?’ commenced 
 Sinclair eagerly, proudly. 
 
 ‘ Your “ distinctively virginal ” maiden, who 
 bolted with Mordie Rivers 
 
 ‘ No, no, she didn’t. Do listen ! She has been 
 with me.’ 
 
 Tom stared at him a moment, then burst out 
 laughing — throwing back his big head, pealing 
 it out heartily and unconstrainedly. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 285 
 
 Irritated, and trembling with anger, Sinclair 
 said : 
 
 ‘ What are you laughing at ? What are you 
 laughing for? You are growing coarser than ever. 
 Can’t you listen ?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I’m coarse, am I ? And Roily’s daughter 
 preferred you to Mordaunt Rivers? I can’t help 
 laughing ; but there, go on, old man, and keep 
 your hair on! I am all attention.’ 
 
 ‘ She never was with Mordaunt Rivers — she 
 joined the Salvation Army. We are engaged. I 
 am going to marry her. I shall use her experiences 
 as well as my own : “ A Refuge in the Salvation 
 Army.” It will make a splendid play ; plenty of 
 singing I can work in, and dancing too. I think I 
 shall take the “ Leggeries ” for the season, and 
 run it there. It will be a great success.’ 
 
 ‘It is a rotten title,’ said Tom, more frankly 
 than elegantly, staring at his brother curiously. 
 
 ‘ Who on earth cares about the Salvation Army — 
 howling vulgarians ! What do you mean about 
 marrying? You are not a marrying man.’ 
 
 Sinclair flushed. 
 
 ‘ Why should I not marry ? there is not any 
 hurry.’ 
 
 ‘ You’ve got funny ideas of enjoyment,’ he 
 
236 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 answered drily. ‘ How are you going to support 
 her ? I suppose you have been saving money 
 lately ?’ 
 
 ‘ No, no.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, do you think Roily is going on keeping 
 you ? You could make a living at the singing 
 and dancing, if you’d moderate it a little. Yours 
 is a rum game for a gentleman. I suppose 
 we are gentlemen, by the way ; the governor 
 was. And now you are going to marry Mordie 
 Rivers !’....’ 
 
 At the moment they heard loud voices in the 
 street, and a knot of men talking in thick 
 and excited voices. The glass-door was burst 
 open, and the whole staff of Footlights and their 
 supporters entered. 
 
 Ted Smith was drunk ; he had a lady on his 
 arm ; it was easy to see where he had found her. 
 Two or three girls followed them in; in a moment 
 the whole place was in an uproar. Drinks were 
 called for, and devilled anchovies, and grills of 
 various kinds. The waiters came, and the bustling 
 little Italian proprietor — all was confusion ; for the 
 men and women all ordered together, and chaffed 
 the men, and it was impossible to attend to them 
 all as quickly as they desired. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 287 
 
 Roily and Mordaunt Rivers were among the 
 others ; Mordaunt cool enough, Roily just 
 sufficiently ‘ on ’ to be brilliant. Mordaunt leaned 
 against the counter watching the scene. He was 
 commencing to look middle-aged ; there were lines 
 on his handsome face. 
 
 ‘ Ha, Roily ! how are you ? I’ve been through a 
 remarkable experience since we’ve seen you — re- 
 markable. I must tell you all about it.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I know. You have been collecting details 
 for a new “ Maiden Tribute.” They say the 
 Salvation Army got the whole thing up. It will 
 just suit your peculiar style. Here’s luck to his 
 new venture, boys.’ Roily seized a glass and 
 tossed it off. He insisted upon drinking Sinclair’s 
 health on his return, and he made the temperate 
 realist join him. 
 
 The word and the wink passed round were enough. 
 Everyone insisted upon drinking Sinclair’s health, 
 and no one would hear of Sinclair refusing the 
 toast. As his weak eyes got bloodshot, as his talk 
 grew thick and more boastful than ever, they re- 
 doubled their exertions. 
 
 ‘ Make him blind — make him paralytic ; it will 
 do him good,’ whispered Roily. 
 
 Tom did not interfere. Tom had a weak- 
 
288 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ness : it was free drinks ; he joined in the joke and 
 toasted his brother with the others. 
 
 Then the fun grew fast and furious. The 
 women, loud and full, began to joke with Sin- 
 clair ; and Sinclair, his timidity vanquished by 
 the wine, flattered and overwhelmed, presented 
 a curious picture of excited, yet trembling, 
 weakness. 
 
 Mordaunt, who, always with these people, found 
 his level instinctively when he sank to theirs, 
 yet watched the scene with a wholesome disgust. 
 
 ‘ The first lady who has ever loved you, isn’t it V 
 he asked Sinclair, with a smile that scarcely con- 
 cealed his contempt, as one of the miserable 
 creatures flung her arms around Sinclair’s neck, and 
 held the wineglass to his lips. 
 
 ‘ Drink it up, and I’ll kiss you,’ she said ; ‘ you 
 shall have a kiss for your pluck.’ 
 
 ‘ No, no, she isn’t,’ stammered Sinclair, as he 
 drank the liqueur she proffered, and with a leer, 
 made more hideous by his condition, staggered to 
 his feet to claim the promised reward. 
 
 ‘ No, she isn’t,’ he went on with half-drunken 
 gravity ; ‘ there’s Lucilla, beautiful Lucilla.’ 
 
 ‘ Blackguard and liar !’ Mordaunt sprang at him, 
 but Roily, a man for once, intercepted him. 
 
A BABE JN BOHEMIA. 289 
 
 ‘ He doesn’t know what he is saying. Leave him 
 alone,’ he said hurriedly. 
 
 ‘ Lucilla ! who’s Lucilla.^ Tell us all about her,’ 
 shouted Ted. ‘ How she loved you, where she loved 
 you, when she loved you ; spit it out, old man.’ 
 
 ‘ No, no, it’s a secret,’ he said with drunken 
 gravity, nodding his head toward Roily, putting 
 his fingers on his lips ; ‘ it’s a secret. I know 
 where she is, ha, ha !’ with an attempt at his old 
 laugh, interrupted by a hiccough. 
 
 White and sober went Roily’s face as he noted 
 Mordaunt’s. The men questioned Sinclair ; the 
 name ‘ Lucilla ’ had aroused no thought in their 
 breasts ; they scarcely had heard, certainly barely 
 remembered, the name of the shy and silent girl 
 who had for a few weeks haunted with her white 
 face Roily’s festive house. The bare idea of Sinclair 
 Furley and a girl tickled their fancy. They drew 
 him out, and he deprecated and chuckled loosely, 
 and implied much, while the fun grew fast and 
 furious, and the comedian more and more helpless. 
 
 ‘ Wait until we can get him away from these 
 fellows,’ Roily had begged Mordaunt ; ‘ they don’t 
 know of whom he’s talking.’ 
 
 ‘ ni wring his neck.’ 
 
 ‘ Do, but wait ; they’ll turn on to something else 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 presently, and we’ll get him away and question 
 him ; no good making a fuss — for her sake, 
 Mordie, for mine, keep quiet here.’ 
 
 Through the fumes of wine and smoke, across 
 these hot and drunken men and women, there 
 came to both men the image of the girl, fair and 
 young, her sensitive lips and blue eyes. 
 
 Mordaunt saw the justice of Roily’s plea, 
 although the rage of a wild beast was in his heart 
 and his hands were tingling for Sinclair’s throat : so 
 acutely vivid was his impression that he could even 
 feel the repulsion as the soft flabby flesh yielded 
 under his grasp. 
 
 ‘ Roily, I can’t, I can’t !’ he gasped. Roily held 
 him. 
 
 Fortunately there was a diversion at the moment. 
 A glass door leads from the shop to the entry 
 of the private rooms ; through this Ted Smith 
 just caught sight of a man : he thought he saw a 
 sneaking desire to be unnoticed. 
 
 ‘ Hullo, Bill !’ he shouted, and flung a cham- 
 pagne bottle smash through the semi-transparent 
 panels. Attracted by the noise the proprietor 
 hurried out. The gentleman, who did not happen 
 to be Bill, burst through the damaged door and 
 resented the assault in a muscular manner. That 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 291 
 
 he chanced to hit upon the wrong man, and com- 
 menced to pommel Tom Furley instead of Ted, 
 was the worse for him, but only added to the 
 general hilarity. Then they all surged away from 
 Sinclair, and joined in the free fight with gaiety 
 and lightheartedness. The insult was finally wiped 
 out with more glasses round. The gentleman, 
 whose name was not Bill, found himself in con- 
 genial company, and the lady with him was not 
 embarrassed at being seen. Ted promised to pay 
 for the repair of the glass-door — promising to pay 
 was an amiable characteristic of Ted’s ; and the 
 night set in wet. 
 
 Mordaunt could not stand the loose atmosphere, 
 once Lucilla had again established herself in him. 
 He needed all his strength to save himself from 
 flying at the wretched boaster, or cramming his 
 words down his unmanly throat. But he did re- 
 strain himself, and he walked up and down the 
 street, arm and arm with Roily, neither speaking, 
 until at length Sinclair, staggering, uncertain in 
 his steps, talking loudly, incoherently, reeled out, 
 two or three young men guiding his way, encourag- 
 ing him in the talk which Mordaunt could feel was 
 still of Lucilla. 
 
 ‘ No, no, he wash n’t goin’ to give her ’dress, 
 
 19 — 2 
 
292 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 washn’t likely ; knew better. Find it out for 
 themselves . . . Ha, ha !’ 
 
 Mordaunt exchanged glances with Roily, then 
 he took his resolution in an instant. 
 
 He met the little cortege ; none of them were 
 quite steady enough to know or question whence 
 he had come ; he joined them naturally, and 
 equally naturally they let him into the joke. 
 
 ‘ There, you fellows,’ said Mordaunt as quietly 
 as he could, ‘ leave him with me. I’ll see him 
 home. I am going that way. And if he lets out 
 anything more entertaining. I’ll let you know it 
 in the morning. You’d better see each other 
 home ; it is very nearly the day after to-morrow, 
 so you can’t complain you’ve not had enough of it.’ 
 
 ‘ Take him carefully,’ shouted Ted, ‘ he’s a 
 valuable party ; never laughed so much in my life !’ 
 
 The laughter rang out again. Mordaunt put 
 his arm into Sinclair’s, and commenced to pilot 
 him carefully home. Roily taking the other side. 
 
 Sinclair was for going on with the conversation ; 
 he could not quit the subject. 
 
 ‘ Hold your tongue,’ said Mordaunt sharply, 
 ‘ you’ve said enough for one night.’ 
 
 Sinclair stared at him sharply, and said nothing 
 
 more. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 They went home with him; Mordaunt and Roily 
 took him up the two pairs of stairs, and into his 
 rooms. Roily left him to Mordaunt. Mordaunt 
 half led, half pushed him into a chair. 
 
 ‘ Sit there,’ he said roughly. 
 
 Sinclair’s head fell gently forward. 
 
 ‘ Very comfortable,’ he muttered ; ‘ shall get 
 drunk again.’ 
 
 ‘ Beast !’ ejaculated Mordaunt. 
 
 And Sinclair Furley, sober, being a weak-kneed, 
 flabby individual, it may be imagined what sort of 
 a sight was presented by Sinclair Furley drunk. 
 The loose jaw had fallen, and the thick lips no 
 longer concealed the decayed and yellow teeth ; his 
 long straight hair tumbled over his half-open 
 bloodshot eyes. 
 
 ‘ Beast,’ said Mordaunt again with emphasis. 
 
 ‘ What do you want with him ?’ asked Roily. 
 
 Mordaunt turned on him savagely. 
 
294 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ I want the girl’s address. I want to know 
 where she is and what she is doing. You may 
 leave her to a thing like that.’ He made a 
 gesture of utter disgust toward Sinclair. ‘ I 
 can’t.’ 
 
 ‘ Shan’t give her ’dress ; shan’t give her ’dress,’ 
 mumbled Sinclair, with the unreasoning obstinacy 
 of the intoxicated. 
 
 ‘ But you can’t get it from him now,’ answered 
 Roily. ‘ Wait until to-morrow, or have him 
 followed ; but I don’t believe he has it, or there 
 may be other Lucillas. It is not such an un- 
 common name.’ 
 
 Mordaunt gave Roily a glance of bitter 
 contempt, and said : 
 
 ‘ Or do any other damned thing that will relieve 
 you of present responsibility.’ 
 
 Then he strode over to Sinclair, and grasped 
 him firmly by the throat. Roily made a start 
 forward. 
 
 ‘ What are you doing } Don’t kill the man.’ 
 
 ‘ Mind your own business,’ answered the 
 other. 
 
 He gave a slight shake, and Sinclair opened his 
 eyes and looked about him feebly smiling. 
 
 ‘ Beautiful Lucilla, don’t hold me too tight.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 295 
 
 ‘ I’ll throttle you, you blackguard, if you don’t 
 tell me her address.’ 
 
 ‘ Her ’dress, her ’dress ? Oh, no, no, never give 
 her ’dress.’ 
 
 Mordaunt tightened his grasp. Roily sprang 
 forward. 
 
 ‘ I won’t have it, Mordaunt, I won’t have it. 
 You’ll kill him. Good God, man, think of what 
 you are doing. Are you mad.^’ 
 
 ‘ Mad } Yes, I am mad.’ He looked up with 
 his white face and flaming eyes. ‘ He shall tell 
 me, or I’ll kill him.’ 
 
 But Roily pushed him on one side, and he fell 
 back. The passion that had seized him when he had 
 looked at the man and imagined Lucilla in his 
 keeping or in his power had passed. 
 
 ‘ Why did you not let me do it V he said with 
 a bitter laugh. ‘ I should have deserved a medal 
 from the National Vigilance Society if I’d killed 
 Sinclair Furley.’ 
 
 ‘ You don’t know how to manage him,’ said 
 Roily indignantly. ‘ I’ll get your information for 
 you in ten minutes without killing a man who 
 can’t defend himself.’ 
 
 Mordaunt was more miserable than anything 
 else now. He just subsided into a chair, resting 
 
296 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 his head in his hand ; tried to realize what it would 
 mean to him if he heard that this girl had fled 
 from his arms, not from fear, not from modesty 
 and maidenly alarms, but with treachery and some 
 perverted instinct, to Sinclair Furley. 
 
 Very gently Roily dealt with him. If he felt re- 
 pulsion or disgust, he concealed it, 
 
 ‘ Here, Furley, wake up, we want a drink. 
 Can’t you find us anything ? Let us have a jolly 
 evening together,’ 
 
 ‘ Yesh, yesh, a jolly evening. I want another 
 drink myself.’ 
 
 ‘ Where shall I find it 
 
 ‘ Find it in the cupboard — get it myself. Can 
 walk quite straight. Ha, ha !’ 
 
 He staggered to his feet, but would have fallen 
 against the table had not Roily assisted him. 
 
 ‘ No, no, old man. I’ll get it ; you sit there.’ He 
 turned his back to him as he went to the cupboard 
 but continued talking. ‘ Quite right of you not 
 to give the girl’s address to-night, whatever the 
 other fellows may have said. I always did think 
 you were a man of discretion. It isn’t as if they 
 were such pals of yours either. Which do you 
 take, a wee “ drappie ” of Scotch, or some “ three 
 star ” ?’ He mixed him a stiff tumbler of whisky 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 297 
 
 with a very little water, then came back to the 
 table. ‘ Here you are ; as I was saying, it isn’t as 
 if they were pals of yours. You wouldn’t give 
 anyone the address; quite right. I should have 
 been awfully annoyed with you if you had ; so 
 would Lucy.’ 
 
 ‘ So would Lucy,’ hiccoughed Sinclair, raising 
 the glass spillingly to his lips ; ‘ pretty Lucy. But 
 how do you know ? Who told you ? It’s a 
 shecret,’ he replied suddenly. 
 
 ‘ Who told me ? Well, that’s good.’ 
 
 ‘ I’m going to marry Lucilla.’ He had got the 
 contents of the glass down his throat, and for the 
 moment woke up again. ‘ The General will marry 
 us himself. You’ll come. Roily trying to catch 
 hold of him. ‘ You’ll be best man ? No, no, can’t 
 be best man ; you’ll give her away ; forgot you 
 were a father — not like anybody’s father. Roily 
 isn’t — Roily Lewesham. Ha, ha!’ 
 
 ‘ Why didn’t she change her name .^’ asked 
 Roily suddenly. 
 
 He had winced, though, a little, when Sinclair 
 had laughed at his fatherhood, but he meant to 
 prove to Mordaunt his skill in getting the in- 
 formation he wanted. 
 
 ‘ Change her name ? She’ll change her name ; 
 
298 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 she’ll have my name. Ha, ha ! What ’cher 
 talkin’ about ? Lucilla Furley, Newport Build- 
 ings, shan’t give her ’dress to anybody ; teach 
 her too much. She’ll kiss them too, pretty 
 Lucilla.’ 
 
 Mordaunt sprang to his feet, but again Roily 
 restrained him by a glance. He was so near at- 
 tainment now, he filled the glass up again. 
 
 ‘ But you won’t be able to see her in the morn- 
 ing. Shall I give her any message from you 
 
 ‘ Tell her ’bout that girl to-night ; pur her 
 arms round me. No, she’ll be jealous ; don’t tell 
 her. Give my love.’ 
 
 He was getting very drowsy again. Hastily 
 Roily said : 
 
 ‘ All right. I’ll give her your message ; No. 7, 
 Newport Buildings V 
 
 ‘ What ’cher talkin’ ’bout ? Twenty-six. Oh, 
 Lord, what a way up ! I must lie down.’ 
 
 ‘ Lie down and be !’ wound up Roily, 
 
 turning away. ‘ Now, Mordaunt, you’ve got 
 all you want to know, come on.’ 
 
 ‘ I should like to kick him first.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, leave him alone ; he’ll have hell in the 
 morning, and he can’t drink his bath, because it’s 
 ten to one against his having one.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 299 
 
 Then they got out of the room, and Mordaunt 
 drew a breath of relief, yet of pain. Roily could 
 hardly look at him. 
 
 ‘ It’s very rough on you, isn’t it ?’ he said at 
 length. 
 
 ‘ Don’t think of me ; I am not thinking of 
 myself — I am thinking of the girl. Some foul 
 trickery there must have been. You must go to 
 her.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, yes ; I’ll go.’ 
 
 ‘ Tell Nettie to-night. See if you can take 
 her home, if — if she wants to come.’ 
 
 Mordaunt’s voice was curiously low, and even 
 he was feeling too intensely for emotion to find 
 vent in accent. 
 
 ‘ I will. I’ll tell Nettie the whole story. I 
 never told her she wasn’t with you. I didn’t 
 want a row ; I’ll tell her to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ You let her think she was with me?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; but it will be all right now. Nettie will 
 be all right. She’s got over her tempers ; she’s 
 not a bad sort at bottom.’ 
 
 ‘ Good-night.’ 
 
 Mordaunt left him suddenly. In truth, Mor- 
 daunt’s capacity for concealing his feelings was 
 pretty nearly at an end. He thought of the scene 
 
300 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 at the restaurant, of the spectacle of Sinclair at 
 his rooms ; he remembered the shy, first yielding 
 of Lucilla’s girlish lips, and his pure, keen delight 
 as he recognised the answer to his love struggling 
 through the maiden shyness. Then he thought 
 of Sinclair — Sinclair as he had known him and 
 read him — his style of conversation, and his way 
 of regarding women ; and of Nettie, who had 
 flown into a rage at hearing that Lucilla had 
 been with him ; and of Nettie’s reconciliation 
 with Lucilla when it was known that Sinclair 
 Furley had been with Lucilla. 
 
 Mordaunt did not wish to think again as he 
 had thought in those first few weeks of the 
 Bohemia he had lived and worked in, but un- 
 consciously it again revolted him. The whole 
 world around him. Footlights and its concomitants, 
 were base, and vile, and filthy ; and he, man as 
 he was, with his birth, with his wife, could yet 
 see and feel the depths of moral degradation in 
 which he and they had all sunk together. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 However, he met Roily the next day in his 
 usual manner. He wanted to hear what Nettie 
 had said — whether Roily would be able to take 
 the girl home with him, if she were willing to 
 go. He could not piece together the story of 
 the girl’s disappearance from his room that night, 
 nor find the connection between it and Sinclair 
 Furley’s words. 
 
 He was irritable in his questioning of Roily ; 
 and Roily, ill-at-ease himself over the task he had 
 before him, responded as shortly as he could. 
 Nettie said the girl could come back if she liked. 
 Nettie said she didn’t care a curse if Lucilla had 
 been with Mordaunt or Sinclair, as long as she 
 no longer set up for a saint, and made them all 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 If Mordaunt writhed under Nettie’s words. 
 Roily did not attempt to make them more savoury 
 to him. But Nettie had said some coarser things, 
 and these Roily did not repeat. 
 
302 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 They walked together, and at length they 
 reached Newport Buildings. 
 
 ‘ Will you come in with me ?’ Roily asked 
 Mordaunt nervously, 
 
 ‘ No,’ he answered, with some bitterness show- 
 ing through his voice. ‘ She left me ; if it’s true, 
 as that beast suggested, that he has known all the 
 time where she was, that she has been with him, 
 then God knows I don’t want to see her again. 
 I don’t want to share his privileges.’ 
 
 The building, large and grim and ugly, was 
 before them, but Roily held back. 
 
 ‘Wait a bit ; wait a bit, Mordaunt.’ He took 
 hold of his arm, ‘ Look here, old fellow, if you 
 think, don’t you know, or if you believe she is with 
 Furley, what am I to go to her for.^ I can’t play 
 the heavy father ; I can’t come the virtuous over 
 her, or ask her to return to the path of duty.’ 
 
 Mordaunt stopped short and faced Roily, his 
 face working with emotion, and very pale. 
 
 ‘ Roily,’ he said with concentrated passion, ‘ I 
 don’t believe one word of it. So help me, God, 
 I don’t credit one single syllable of it ! I don’t 
 believe she left me for Sinclair Furley. Why, 
 man alive ’ — his voice grew deeper, and trembled 
 a little — ‘ she loved me !’ He moistened his lips 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 303 
 
 and paused for half-a-minute, as certain lincidents 
 forced themselves on his memory, and told him it 
 was indeed true that she had loved him. ■ I 
 know she has not been with him, but on the 
 merest chance that she has, / cannot go to her. 
 It is your place ; you must question her, you must 
 find out the whole story from beginning to end — 
 where she has been, what she has been doing ; she 
 will tell you the truth — Lucy is the soul of 
 truth.’ 
 
 He walked with him up the courtyard. He 
 wrung his hand when they parted. 
 
 ‘ Do your best for her, old man.’ 
 
 ‘ I will,’ answered Roily, and pressed his in reply. 
 
 Up the five pairs of stairs went Roily, lightly 
 at first, less so as he neared the fifth floor. 
 
 ‘ God, it doesn’t look like affluence !’ he thought, 
 as he noted the bare stone stairs, the pauper smell 
 that hung about the building. He was really 
 nervous about the meeting with his daughter. He 
 did not believe, or hardly believed, that she had 
 been with Sinclair, but he could not guess how he 
 would find her ; the whole thing was an enigma to 
 him — one that he hesitated at solving. 
 
 Yet of all the situations he imagined none 
 approached the reality that met his gaze, as without 
 
304 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 knocking he opened the door and stood on the 
 threshold, too thunderstruck to advance. 
 
 A small, bare room, a little bed in one corner, a 
 deal table pushed against the wall. In the middle 
 of the room four women were kneeling, in dark 
 blue uniforms, a red ribbon round their bonnets. 
 They were more than kneeling, they were almost 
 grovelling on the floor, rocking themselves to and 
 fro, their hands before their faces, as they sang in 
 chorus — 
 
 ‘ On my knees I fall, 
 
 Give Thee up my all.’ 
 
 ‘ I beg pardon,’ he stammered, ‘ I have come to 
 the wrong room.’ He would have retreated, he 
 was on the point of retiring, when one from out 
 these kneeling women rose hurriedly. Under that 
 bonnet gleamed a face he knew, fair, though not so 
 childlike as he had seen it. 
 
 ‘ Father, father !’ she cried, and in a moment was 
 in his arms. 
 
 All the past she had forgotten, all the sorrow, 
 all the shame ; the mysterious blood-love moved 
 her ; up from the Father in heaven she sprang to 
 the father on earth. 
 
 ‘ Lucy, Lucy !’ The ready tears started to his 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 305 
 
 eyes ; he kissed her, and the soft warm flesh appealed 
 to him, and the round contours ; his arms were 
 around her, and the glow of affection was warm 
 between them, and melted them one to another. • 
 
 He held her close to him ; for the moment for- 
 got the scene he had interrupted, her dress, the 
 whole mystery of the situation. 
 
 Then it flashed into his mind v/here Sinclair had 
 been these months — repelled, he drew backfromher. 
 
 ‘You followed him into the Salvation Army.^’ 
 he exclaimed, dismayed. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ answered Captain Nelly for Lucilla, 
 whose sensitiveness had already taken alarm at her 
 father’s expression. ‘ He said “ Arise and follow 
 Me,” and she obeyed the voice. Glory, hallelujah.’ 
 
 Roily stared at her ; his wit was at fault for once. 
 
 ‘ What does she mean.^’ he asked, staring from 
 his newly-found daughter to Captain Nelly, from 
 Captain Nelly to her recruits, and again to his 
 daughter. ‘ Who is she ; what does it all mean 
 
 ‘ Captain Nelly rescued me from the streets.’ 
 
 ‘ From the streets,’ repeated Roily, and a pain 
 shot through him ; he stretched out his arm again 
 for his daughter, and held her to him. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ she answered simply, although blushing 
 red ; ‘ I ran away — I ran into the streets.’ A sob 
 
 20 
 
3o6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 rose in her voice. ‘ I had no one to run to. They 
 brought me here, and I have been here with them 
 ever since.’ 
 
 ‘ Praise His name !’ ejaculated Nelly, and the 
 recruits echoed her. She had been listening with 
 interest to Lucilla’s halting story, and missed the 
 salt of Biblical quotation. 
 
 Lucilla caressed her father’s hand, and clung to 
 him ; the warmth of his human love seemed more 
 precious to her in this moment than ail the life of 
 faith and renunciation. 
 
 ‘ Who told you where to find me V she asked him. 
 
 ‘Sinclair Furley,’ he answered, and was em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 ‘ It is time to go out,’ interrupted Captain Nelly ; 
 
 ‘ but stay with your father, and we will work the 
 vineyard alone. Try and bring the truth home to 
 him ; be faithful to your Master’s commands.’ 
 Lucilla felt the effect Nelly would be having on 
 her father, and glanced at him nervously. 
 
 His lips had a humorous expression, but he 
 said nothing until with a parting ‘ God bless you,’ 
 in their long cloaks they sallied forth, and in the 
 distance their voices sounded together as they sang 
 in the going downstairs : ‘ Only the Blood can 
 save us.’ Then he turned to Lucilla. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 307 
 
 ‘ Can’t we sit down and be a little more com- 
 fortable ?’ he asked. She drew a chair up to the 
 fire for him, and took up her place at his feet, 
 resting against him. 
 
 ‘ Take that revolting head-gear off.’ She 
 obeyed him, and then he caressed her hair. 
 
 ‘ Well,’ he said at length, ‘ tell me all about it.’ 
 
 ‘ There is so little to tell.’ 
 
 ‘ About Sinclair ^ 
 
 ‘ He asked me to marry him, and I said “ Yes,” ’ 
 she hid her face against his knee. 
 
 ‘ He hasn’t been keeping you V 
 
 ‘ What !’ she raised her head, and read the 
 meaning of his question in his expression of doubt 
 and disgust. 
 
 ‘ O, father, father !’ she moaned out, then burst 
 into tears and wept with her face hidden. She 
 was abased by the question, but it seemed to bring 
 home to her again the indelibility of that birth-stain 
 he had told her of Oh, she was vile ! and her own 
 father thought of her only as this. 
 
 And Roily, tender-hearted Roily, who could not 
 bear to see her cry, to see her slender frame shaken 
 by the sobs that broke from her, caressed her. 
 
 ‘ Don’t, don’t, Lucy ; don’t cry. You can’t help 
 it ; it isn’t your fault. I don’t want to know 
 
 20 — 2 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 30S 
 
 anything, I won’t ask any more questions. It’s in 
 the blood, I suppose. Don’t cry.’ 
 
 She left off crying. After all, it was sweet to be 
 comforted and caressed, and again the softness of 
 Roily’s nature appealed to her, and she loved him. 
 He loved her, even though he thought her vile. 
 He who had loved her, thinking her pure and 
 good ; only he, she must hide from and shrink 
 from ; only he, must never know. 
 
 ‘ Come home,’ said Roily at length ; ‘ if you are 
 going to marry Sinclair, you can do it from 
 Southampton Row.’ 
 
 ‘ He hasn’t kept me,’ she said, the blood burn- 
 ing in her cheeks ; ‘ these people have.’ 
 
 ‘ Look here,’ said Roily desperately, ‘ I don’t 
 know what to think. You ran away from Mor- 
 daunt, and you went in the streets. Why ? why ? 
 why? There you met Sinclair and joined the 
 Salvation Army with him.’ 
 
 ‘ No, no, I was in a Refuge.’ 
 
 Roily winced under that.' 
 
 ‘ Where does Sinclair come into the story? For 
 God’s sake, try and explain yourself!’ 
 
 ‘ I met him at the training-home. I saw him 
 twice. He asked me to marry him. I couldn’t 
 live always like this, so I said “ Yes.” ’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 309 
 
 ‘ When was this?’ 
 
 ‘ Yesterday.’ 
 
 Roily was relieved. Everything else faded into 
 insignificance. 
 
 ‘ Come home with me,’ he said again. 
 
 He saw Lucilla miserable, and he wanted to 
 make her happy. She was no longer the delicate 
 girl -child before whose pure eyes his home seemed 
 debased and his comrades degraded. Now she was 
 what her mother had been, and Nettie, and the 
 women amongst whom he lived. Very deep down 
 in his heart there was a regret — a feeling he could 
 not explain ; shame or sorrow ? But outside there 
 was only the thought that now she and Nettie 
 would get on better, now he need no longer mince 
 his words nor guard his deeds before her. 
 
 And she, poor child, knowing her hope of 
 Heaven left her thirst for life unslaked, accounted 
 herself as vile, simply because she was human. 
 She knew she could no longer lead the saint’s life 
 of the women around her, with eyes on God alone. 
 
 The doors of Bohemia were open to her — 
 laughter and music and love. Her thin mantle of 
 religion, in the falling, had left her bare and cold. 
 In the word ‘ home ’ there was something that 
 warmed her. Was it indeed home where she and 
 
310 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Marius had lived their lives? Why should she 
 feel a glow and a thrill at the thought of going 
 back to Southampton Row, where she had heard 
 laughter in which she could not share ; where 
 Nettie and Nettie’s lovers had played and sung and 
 kissed, while she had sat in that small back-room 
 and listened to Sinclair Furley — while her eyes 
 were riveted on the door, and her ears were 
 strained for a step, a voice that was not his ? 
 
 Home ! was it indeed home to her — that scented 
 house, close and warm, filled with fumes of smoke 
 and the scent of spirits ; where the bells were never 
 silent and the rooms never empty ; where humanity 
 exposed its nakedness, and laughed through its 
 days gaily ? 
 
 ‘ Come away,’ said Roily. 
 
 Lucilla looked around her. She had clung to 
 Captain Nelly in her direst extremity ; these walls 
 had seen her anguish on the night she realized what 
 she had been saved from. Could she leave them ? 
 Could she go back to where her father and Nettie 
 lived together ; where there was loose living and 
 light talking, and no God to pray to for help? 
 Where Mordaunt sometimes came ? 
 
 Could she abandon salvation ? 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 And her heart answered, she could. 
 
 Four months ago her young and tender maiden- 
 hood, waking to her perils, shrank back afraid, and 
 she had fled. And for refuge she had turned to God. 
 Then she had found there was no God for her, and 
 Sinclair Furley drove the truth home with his loose 
 hammer of lewd suggestion. She was very weak 
 — morally, intellectually, physically — a girl that 
 had needed the calm of domesticity and house- 
 hold love in which to rear a soul ; and in the 
 slow heating-house of family affection she might 
 have grown strong and healthful. But she was 
 Roily’s daughter and her mother’s daughter, and 
 for domesticity there was Nettie, and for com- 
 panions there was the staff of the Guzzler s 
 Gazette^ and for teacher there was Sinclair Furley, 
 the realist — the man whose mental excreta soiled 
 every word that percolated through the laboratory 
 of his diseased imagination. 
 
312 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 But what makes Lucilla interesting in spite of 
 her other weaknesses is the instinct that kept her 
 from Mordaunt. 
 
 She went with Roily back to Southampton Row, 
 where Nettie received her warmly, as a pal — a 
 degradation that, instead of resenting, Lucilla 
 responded to and rejoiced over. 
 
 The life in Southampton Row was what it had 
 ever been. The enervating mornings in bed ; the 
 long afternoons, when the staff came, or Nettie’s 
 new lover came, and brandies-and-sodas were 
 drunk, and songs were sung over, and the creeping 
 dusk found them all in noisy intimacy. When the 
 women sat or lounged about on sofas, and the men 
 sat by them. The evenings after the theatre, with 
 the supper-parties at which they all got drunk; 
 the horseplay and the strange songs and anecdotes, 
 the unchanged dionysiac atmosphere. 
 
 But Lucilla was aloof no longer. No longer 
 was song hushed, or anecdote expurgated ; she was 
 one of themselves. Soon she ceased to blush when 
 Ted Smith would pass her a letter, or ask her 
 opinion on a verse. She grew in intimacy with 
 Nettie ; coarseness ceased to jar upon her. After 
 all, it was not the coarseness of the Refuge, nor of 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 313 
 
 the streets; there was wit in it, and more sugges- 
 tiveness than exposure. 
 
 And Sinclair Furley added to the development of 
 her nature. They were engaged ; there was no 
 talk of marriage between ; he never asked her to 
 name a date, near or distant ; but he claimed her 
 companionship, and he sat by her side. 
 
 He read his Salvation Army play to her, and 
 sang the blasphemous songs into which he had 
 altered their earnest lines ; he confided his ambi- 
 tions to her, and they all ran on the same lines. 
 Notoriety, that was his god. His unsavoury 
 reputation gave him no pain ; his uneasy vanity 
 was ever on the alert for notice. Also he told the 
 girl stories of women — women who had offered 
 themselves to him, and whom he had repulsed. 
 She grew to loathe his sallowness, his white hands 
 with their yellow nails, his light eyes and loose 
 lips, with a loathing that turned her sick, and 
 made her brain reel, as she sat beside him, and 
 the breath of him was about her. 
 
 But she did not hate the other men about the 
 house, nor the anecdotes about them that Nettie 
 had told her, nor their attentions to her. She 
 joined in the life about her ; the only thing she 
 
3‘4 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 pushed away from her constantly was the thought 
 of Mordaunt. For the rest, she grew to think 
 constantly of lovers, and love in its phases of con- 
 summation ; she grew to look with eyes no longer 
 pure on men and women. 
 
 A terribly dangerous phase for a girl to be in. 
 She was all alive to love and to be loved, and her 
 mind was filled with no other thoughts. If Ted 
 Smith, with his fair beardless face and laughing 
 mouth met her on the stairs, and put his arm 
 around her, she dreamt of him all night. If Tom 
 Furley, big and blackbearded, took advantage of 
 his future relationship to take a kiss in the dusk 
 or gloaming, she was filled with his presence for 
 hours after. 
 
 And she grew in beauty. Even Roily was sur- 
 prised sometimes at the fairness of her when he 
 saw her in evening dress, and he would look away. 
 Roily never grew fond of Lucilla’s company, never 
 heard her laugh with the others without a feeling 
 of uneasiness crossing his mind ; never saw her 
 sitting on a sofa, with some man lounging beside 
 her, without a frown settling on his face. But 
 Sinclair Furley cared nothing that womanhood 
 should fail and virginal fears and flushes 
 melt under those long lascivious hours with 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 315 
 
 shoulder touching shoulder and breath meeting 
 breath. 
 
 So the weeks went on, and the Salvation Army 
 faded into the background of her mind, and Mor- 
 daunt’s image was dim. Her engagement to 
 Sinclair seemed as a liaison that would never reach 
 a climax — a somebody like these other women had 
 in husband or lover — from whom to conceal senti- 
 ment and action. 
 
 The paper flourished firmly. The paper kept 
 them all — all these men, and the hospitable house 
 where champagne was drunk out of soda-water 
 glasses, and big Havanas were as plentiful as 
 blackberries. Over the bare shoulders of the 
 actresses they undraped. Footlights and its staff 
 reached ease and affluence. 
 
 And at the office, Mordaunt Rivers wrote and 
 edited, and spoke of Lucilla only once, and then 
 worked on. 
 
 He did not see Roily for two or three weeks 
 after Lucilla had gone home ; then he met him at 
 Footlights office. Roily nodded to him, took his 
 pen and worked silently ; equally silently Mor- 
 daunt’s pen scratched on a few minutes, though 
 his hands were hot and his heart beating. 
 
 Then suddenly, abruptly he said : 
 
3i6 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Did you see her ?’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, she is at the Row ; she is going to marry 
 Furley.’ 
 
 Roily recognised that Lucilla was not what she 
 had been, and held Mordaunt’s love so highly, to 
 think that if he saw her now it would not live ; 
 and the good in Roily, never quite dead, made 
 him sympathetic enough to wish to spare his friend 
 the knowledge. And Mordaunt read his reticence 
 wrongly, and he avoided Roily’s house, and Roily’s 
 party at theatres and music-halls. 
 
 So it might have gone on, until deterioration 
 had been followed by decay, and decay by utter 
 rottenness ; but such was not to be Lucilla’s 
 fate. 
 
 Mordaunt had avoided all places where Roily 
 and his party were to be met, and Roily had 
 assisted him tacitly and silently in so doing. But 
 accident accomplished what design had frustrated 
 so long. 
 
 It happened this way : the Tessie Gay fever had 
 vanished for Roily, and Roily for the moment was 
 without an object of devotion. As usual under 
 such circumstances, he was much at home. Every 
 night there would be company to dinner. Ted 
 Smith would come, and not only Lord Lusher, 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 317 
 
 but Lord Sandel, who had shared with Roily the 
 affections of the dethroned Tessie. 
 
 It was a cheery little dinner-party. Ronald 
 Saunders, the young tenor, who was Nettie’s lover; 
 Lord Sandel, low-browed and coarse-nosed, but 
 strong, broad-chested and lean-flanked ; Johnnie 
 Targer, a young lady who had been the missing 
 witness in a notorious divorce case. There was 
 nothing else noticeable about her : neither her 
 appearance, nor her talents, nor her intelligence ; 
 but she had disappeared and reappeared in a con- 
 veniently startling manner. It had been a cause 
 c^lebre, so she was given a leading part at a 
 west-end theatre, and walked ungracefully through 
 it, to the gratification of the audience who came 
 to see and not to hear. Roily had paragraphed 
 her. Nettie had been introduced to the co-re- 
 spondent whom she had assisted. Johnnie Targer 
 now made Southampton Row her headquarters. 
 
 Lucilla sat opposite Lord Sandel ; presently she 
 noted his eyes fixed upon her. She returned the 
 glance. 
 
 ‘ Here’s luck,’ he said, lifting his glass, and she 
 bowed and smiled her acknowledgments. 
 
 Nothing else passed during that dinner, yet the 
 glance set Lucy’s heart beating. What had she 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 heard of Lord Sandel ? She remembered ; he had 
 a wife in his own sphere who did not know of 
 Nettie, nor of Tessie Gay. Lord Sandel was 
 rich ; he was heir to a dukedom ; he was very, very 
 fast, and when he had grown sick of Tessie he 
 had given her ^10,000 ; but she had cost him as 
 much more. 
 
 ‘ What are we going to do this evening ?’ 
 Nettie asked, as she lit his cigarette. 
 
 ‘ Let’s take the ladies out somewhere,’ suggested 
 Sandel. 
 
 He did not look at Lucilla. 
 
 ‘ There is nothing we haven’t seen,’ Roily 
 objected. ‘ It’s too warm for the Troc., and I 
 can’t stand those beastly performing dogs at the 
 Pav. Lottie Stephens has got a supper-party, but 
 we can’t take them there.’ 
 
 ‘ Sims Reeves is advertised at the Albert Hall,’ 
 put in Ronald Saunders timidly. 
 
 He was very young. Nettie’s lovers seemed to 
 grow younger as she grew older. Ronald Saunders 
 was also going to be a great singer, presently, 
 when she had trained him. In the meantime, the 
 boy hung about her, and fancied himself in love 
 with her, and sang to her accompaniments. 
 
 Sandel looked at him under his heavy brows. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 319 
 
 when he made the proposition. The Albert Hall 
 with this party did not suit him at all. 
 
 ‘ Let’s go to the Aquarium,’ he said, ‘ and see 
 the tattooed man ; he has just come back.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes,’ came in chorus from Nettie and 
 Johnnie Larger. 
 
 The men went on smoking and drinking, while 
 the ladies withdrew to make the necessary changes 
 in their toilettes. Lucilla put on her sealskin 
 toque and jacket over her black dinner dress. She 
 felt excited ; she thought it was because she had 
 never been to the Aquarium. The carriage came 
 round — Footlights could support a carriage now — 
 and the three ladies went in it. But Sandel ob- 
 jected to them going alone ; he would accompany 
 them, and Roily and Mr. Saunders would follow in 
 a hansom. 
 
 He sat with Lucilla, their backs to the horses. 
 Sometimes the carriage jolted, and their knees 
 touched. But he did not speak to her. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The Aquarium was gloomy and cold, and half- 
 empty. A few respectable parties, with labour- 
 stained hands, carrying babies, leading younger 
 children — a few women, gaily dressed, leaning 
 against the pillars, or talking in groups, depressed 
 and quiet. 
 
 ‘ It’s very early,’ said Roily, as if apologetically. 
 
 All together they went to where there is a plat- 
 form and seats in front, and dreary music-hall 
 artists divide the stage with poses plastiques and 
 worn out tableaux vivants. The gloom of the 
 place seemed to settle on the party, and the warmth 
 of the dinner and drink evaporated from them. 
 
 Soon they had had enough of tho. poses plastiques 
 and the entertainment generally. But before they 
 went to the reception of the tattooed gentleman 
 upstairs they went to the bar, and endeavoured to 
 supply the lack of external warmth by setting up 
 an inner conflagration. Then they shook hands 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 321 
 
 with the cold and silky-feeling Prince of Tattoo- 
 land, and somehow or other — his room was full, 
 and that may account for it — the party got sepa- 
 rated. Lucilla found herself outside with Lord 
 Sandel. 
 
 It was later now, the groups larger, many more 
 young men, many more women, the hall warmer 
 and more full of life. 
 
 ‘ Take my arm,’ said Sandel, and Lucilla obeyed 
 him. ‘ I think they went to see the swimming ; I 
 heard Roily say something about it. We had 
 better go.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘ let us try and find them.’ 
 
 But she was not nervous or apprehensive of not 
 doing so. They went with a struggling crowd, 
 consisting chiefly of the women with husbands 
 and babies, towards the vault-like apartment in 
 which Professor Beckwith gives demonstrations of 
 his art. They took their seats right at the ex- 
 treme corner, near the top of the room, furthest 
 from the door. 
 
 Lucilla watched the swimming; the men, broad 
 and sinuous, cleaving their way through the grimy 
 water with long side stroke, their muscles big and 
 prominent. Then the women, their long hair 
 streaming as they floated on their backs, and the 
 
 21 
 
322 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 well-directed limelight made them metallically 
 bright against the dark waters. They swam this 
 way and that with their feet only and with their 
 hands only ; they swam through hoops, and dived 
 one over the other. It all amused her, and Sandel 
 watched her smiling interest. She was all so 
 pretty : blue eyes and dimpling mouth, and fair 
 skin against the dark seal. 
 
 Last feat of all, the professor would undress in 
 the water, smoke a cigar, and let off a pistol. And 
 as the loud report of the pistol rang through the 
 air Lucilla started, and her companion grasped her 
 hand and kept it. 
 
 ‘ Were you frightened r’ 
 
 ‘ Only for a second.’ 
 
 She tried to withdraw her hand. 
 
 ‘ I’ll take care of you ; don’t try to get away. 
 Say, you and I get on well together, don’t we .^’ He 
 looked at her from under his heavy-lidded eyes. 
 
 She dropped hers. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ she said hesitatingly, then looked up 
 with a gleam of coquettishness. ‘ But we haven’t 
 known each other very long.’ 
 
 ‘ I caught your eye at dinner. I knew I liked 
 you then. I only came here to talk to you.’ 
 
 ‘ Did you .^’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 323 
 
 ‘ You know I did.’ 
 
 The performance was over, but in getting out 
 Lucy and Lord Sandel were quite the last; he 
 kept hold of her hand, and the clasp of his was 
 warm, and a thrill ran through her. She felt ex- 
 cited. Had he fallen in love with her ? Just as 
 they left the hall the lights went out. As if to 
 protect her from the crush, he released her hand 
 and put his arm round her waist. She grew hot 
 and nervous. 
 
 ‘ It’s all right — keep close to me.’ She had no 
 choice but to do so. 
 
 Now the hall was full of people — warm with 
 life and liquor. Men and women were talking, 
 and she could guess of what. 
 
 ‘ Where are the others .?’ asked Lucilla. 
 
 ‘ Oh, we shall find them. Would you mind if 
 we didn’t 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, it must be late.’ 
 
 ‘ If we didn’t find them, I could take care of 
 you. Stay here — we can watch for them from here.’ 
 
 He leaned against a pillar. Up to now Lucilla 
 had enjoyed it all : the ugliness and brutal strength 
 of the man, the histories she had heard of him, 
 and those looks, heavy and sensual, that thrilled 
 her with excitement, pain or pleasure. 
 
 21 — 2 
 
324 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 But now he leaned against a post, and as she 
 stood to talk to him it flashed into her mind all 
 at once that she looked like those other women 
 around her, and then the blushes came, and she said : 
 
 ‘ Come and find them ; we cannot find them 
 staying here.’ 
 
 ‘ There is time enough. I say ’—he seized her 
 hand — ‘ I want to talk to you. I haven’t talked 
 to you at all yet. I think you and I are going to 
 be very good friends.’ 
 
 She did not want to stay there with him, but 
 she did not want to drive him right away from 
 her. She had a desire for conquest ; but in the 
 art she was unlearned, therefore she was timid, 
 and did not know how to answer. 
 
 ‘ Don’t you think so 
 
 His gaze fixed her; her head drooped under it. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know,’ she answered. 
 
 ‘ A fellow like me wants some dear little girl 
 like you to take an interest in him. What a little 
 hand you’ve got.’ 
 
 ‘ Yours is so big.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! perhaps that’s it.’ He squeezed it. ‘ I can 
 scarcely feel it in mine. I suppose I seem an ugly, 
 coarse chap to you altogether ; you are such a little 
 thing.’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 325 
 
 ‘ Oh no, no.’ She would not hurt his feelings 
 for the world, or anybody’s feelings for the matter 
 of that ; she raised her eyes to his. ‘ You are not 
 ugly,’ she said. 
 
 But he was, for his hair grew low, and his thick 
 eyebrows nearly met, his lips were thick under the 
 moustache, and he was heavy jawed and rough 
 skinned. His figure, carriage, swaying movement 
 from the hips, alone redeemed him from the Old 
 Bailey type. He laughed. 
 
 ‘So you don’t think me ugly. I am glad of 
 that. Who gave you your coat ?’ 
 
 ‘ Papa.’ 
 
 ‘ He ought to have given you a nice little brooch 
 to fasten it with. A little bar of diamonds. Don’t 
 you like diamonds ?’ 
 
 ‘ I like pearls best,’ she answered innocently ; 
 ‘ but do come now and find the others.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t want to go. I’m quite happy here ; 
 you’ve got a little dimple in your chin,’ he touched 
 it with his finger. 
 
 So they talked a little while. Lucilla feared and 
 thrilled, and grew nervous under words and looks 
 and touches. She did not know if she wanted to 
 find the others, or if she did not. It was exciting, 
 and she knew she would enjoy it more in retro- 
 
326 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 spect, when her imagination would run riot, and 
 give her all the pleasure without the little flaws she 
 saw now ; when his rough skin and coarse hair 
 repelled her notwithstanding herself. 
 
 It was very late. Lord Sandel, as he stood there 
 talking, knew that Roily and the others had left 
 the hall, when they had gone to see the swimming, 
 but he kept his knowledge to himself Noblesse 
 oblige, but the greatest obligation noblesse was 
 under was to enjoy itself. Lucilla was fair, 
 pretty. Notwithstanding where he had found 
 her — Lord Sandel did not overrate Roily’s circle 
 of friends — she was not quite the same as the girls 
 or women he had met. He had tired of Tessie’s 
 coarseness ; Tessie was never satisfied unless public 
 attention was drawn to her ; she was loud-voiced 
 and loud-mannered, and Lord Sandel had grown 
 tired of it. Now here was quite a different girl, 
 soft and gentle, not too difficult. Sandel never 
 took too much trouble over this sort of thing. So 
 they stood and talked. And they might have 
 talked until it was too late to talk more ; but as 
 Lucilla stood there in the dusk by the pillar, she 
 saw a man lounge past arm in arm with Ted 
 Smith, and at the sight the colour forsook her 
 cheek, and all the fear and excitement and the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 327 
 
 dreams of weeks past vanished, and like heavy 
 hammers fell the beats of her heart. 
 
 ‘ Mordaunt,’ burst from her lips unguarded. 
 And he turned and saw her standing there with 
 Sandel, and across his face there swept an expres- 
 sion, too bright for sneer, too contemptuous for 
 scorn, but he stopped. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! it’s you ; well, and how do you find your- 
 self.^’ he said as coolly as if they had shaken hands 
 and parted but yesterday. But the tone, the 
 manner! Not so had he spoken to her in the 
 olden days. And her head drooped and her cheeks 
 flushed hotly as he spoke to her, and she did not 
 hold out her hand to him. 
 
 The drooped head, and the ready blush, shocked 
 Mordaunt more than would a ready repartee, or a 
 skilled glance. Ted and Lord Sandel spoke, and 
 the latter asked him if he had seen Roily. 
 
 ‘ They went home. I saw them about an hour 
 ago ; they were going to see “ Martinetti ” at the 
 Royal ; some of the boys are there, and we are 
 going on to sup at the Row before we go to Lottie 
 Stephens’s party. We’d better all go together, if 
 you are ready.’ Ted glanced at Lucilla ; he rather 
 admired Lucilla, but Ted never soared higher than 
 a barmaid, when he got really mashed ; refinement 
 
328 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 was such a bore ! Still, he didn’t quite see leaving 
 the girl with Sandel, 
 
 ‘ Yes, yes,’ said Lucilla quickly. Now she 
 wanted desperately to get away. Glamour had 
 vanished, nothing remained but Mordaunt, and he 
 stood there with the love-light gone out of his eyes 
 and his lips sneering. 
 
 Now a long descent, a public school, a university, 
 and an acknowledged place among nobles cannot 
 give morals, but they can undoubtedly provide 
 manners. 
 
 ‘ Let us all go home together,’ said Lucilla 
 feverishly. 
 
 ‘ Certainly ; a very good idea,’ was Lord Sandel’s 
 prompt reply. 
 
 ‘ I can’t come,’ said Mordaunt shortly, stopping 
 as the others walked on. ‘ I’ve got an engage- 
 ment.’ 
 
 ‘ Rot! you’re going to Lottie’s, you told me so; 
 you can’t have an engagement between then and 
 now.’ 
 
 Lucilla said not one word ; yet what made 
 Mordaunt hesitate ? Why had he stayed away ? 
 Why should he not meet her ? see her now that he 
 knew she was ‘ like the others.’ And Nettie: what 
 had Nettie done or said to keep him from her so 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 329 
 
 long? And Roily would be so pleased to see him, 
 Mordaunt could picture how his face would light 
 up to welcome and . . . and . . . and . . . 
 
 ‘A four-wheeler is beastly, let’s take two han- 
 soms. Jump in,’ Ted said to Lucilla, as the 
 hansom he called drove up to the curb. 
 
 Who would go with the girl ? Sandel ? Ted 
 prevented that, for he thought Sandel had had 
 time enough ; no real reason, but he didn’t care 
 that Lucilla, with whom he had had a light stair- 
 case flirtation, should forsake him for Sandel. 
 
 ‘ You go with Miss Lewesham, Mordaunt,’ he 
 said ; ‘ I’ll go with Sandel.’ 
 
 It was impossible for Mordaunt to refuse. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Side by side those two drove. Mordaunt would 
 be cool and calm, now the girl was nothing to him. 
 
 ‘ Will you have the window shut ?’ he asked 
 politely. ‘ The wind is very cold.’ 
 
 She shivered slightly. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know ; I don’t care.’ Her voice was 
 so low he could scarcely hear her. 
 
 ‘ Was there a good entertainment on — I came 
 in late,’ he asked. 
 
 He wanted to hear her speak, to know the gulf 
 that lay between his Lucilla of that summer day 
 on the river, and the Lucilla who was going to 
 marry Sinclair Furley — who leaned up against the 
 pillar at the Aquarium and talked to Lord 
 Sandel. 
 
 But she did not answer. 
 
 Then he looked down upon her— so small, so 
 frail, so ... so cold — and a rush of tenderness 
 came over him. He could not help it. He took 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 331 
 
 her little hand and raised it to his breast all 
 suddenly. She snatched her hand away, and shrank 
 into the corner of the cab away from him. 
 
 Then the loose window rattled, and the wind 
 came in under it ; and the skeleton of a cab-horse, 
 under the lash, made spasmodic efforts to increase 
 his speed, but Mordaunt and Lucilla seemed to 
 have nothing to say to each other. 
 
 They reached Southampton Row, and he as- 
 sisted her to alight. To both of them the drive 
 had been short. Her throat and her heart were 
 too full for words ; but as he helped her from 
 the cab, she left her hand in his, and in the eyes 
 that looked up to him, he saw swimming tears 
 and a timid pleading look. 
 
 They had no time now for words, for Teddie 
 and Sandel were there as soon as they ; and soon 
 they were in the house. The room was full when 
 they entered. The party had been reinforced at 
 the Aquarium, and there seemed to be no longer 
 any talk of going to Lottie Stephens’s party. As, 
 indeed, why should there.? for every ingredient 
 that could go to make Lottie Stephens’s party plea- 
 sant was here, without the trouble of moving. All 
 the ‘ boys,’ the innocent name under which all the 
 young men about town were designated — good 
 
332 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 old Jenny Farrell, Johnnie Targer, Lady Lusher, 
 and one or two other sirens of the same water. 
 
 Such a laughing and talking and popping of 
 corks, as the men were helping the women off 
 with their cloaks, for they all seemed to have just 
 come in ; and jewels gleamed on white necks and 
 arms through the atmosphere, in which the stale 
 smoke smell soon gave place to fresher fumes. 
 
 Nettie greeted Mordaunt as if they had met 
 but yesterday. She gave him her finger-tips, 
 signified to him that the cigarette-box was in its 
 old position, and then went on with her conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Saunders. 
 
 But Roily was more enthusiastic ; he left 
 Charlie ; he shook him by both hands. 
 
 ‘ I am glad to see you, old boy. I am glad to 
 see you,’ he said, two or three times. He was 
 effusive with his hospitality, in calling for drink 
 for him, in standing and talking to him to the 
 disregard of his other friends. 
 
 And Mordaunt Rivers stood up against the 
 mantelpiece, talking to Roily, but thinking that 
 it was eight months since last he stood here, and 
 nothing had altered. The same faces, laughter, 
 red lips and gleaming teeth, jests and gestures. 
 Tom still smoked as quickly as possible in order 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 333 
 
 to get through as many cigars, while he was 
 smoking for nothing, as time would allow. Ted 
 Smith still played his practical jokes ; now he was 
 elaborately preparing a chair with pins, ready 
 for Charlie, when he should sit down. Lord 
 Lusher was talking ‘ racing notes ’ with Mrs. 
 Montini, already a little muddled and didactic, on 
 the road drunkenwards, as Mordaunt could see. 
 John moved about quickly with glasses, lights, 
 cigarettes, called now here and now there. The 
 room was unchanged in its draperies and broken 
 bric-a-brac ; its photographs of undraped actresses, 
 its pampas grass and bulrushes dropping to pieces 
 in their dirt and decay. 
 
 Nothing was changed, save that Nettie, instead 
 of having Antonelli sprawling with his ungainly 
 length beside her on the sofa, sat on the piano 
 stool and talked softly to Ronald Saunders. 
 
 Nothing was changed, save that Charlie had 
 been rechristened ‘Jack the Ripper’ since he had 
 taken to do the Art criticisms for the paper, and 
 that Lucilla seemed no longer incongruous. The 
 men exchanged chaff with her, the women con- 
 fidences. Jenny Farrell offered her the use of her 
 powder puff. Lady Lusher handed her her cigarette- 
 
 case. 
 
334 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 As the evening wore on, Mordaunt, still talking 
 to Roily, noted how the company split up into 
 couples; Nettie and Mr. Saunders talked low; the 
 red lamp on the piano did not shed light enough 
 to show the lines on her face. The young tenor 
 was moved by her : Mordaunt could see how his 
 hands trembled, and the sudden flushes on his 
 beardless cheek, as Nettie played her flsh carefully 
 and gently. 
 
 Then Mordaunt’s eyes, leaving them, as he 
 smiled slightly, talking all the v/hile to Roily, 
 sought Lucilla. He did not know the rose in her 
 cheeks was not habitual ; did not see that she was 
 as one in a dream ; and of all those in the room, 
 knew only of his presence. 
 
 He knew nothing of this. He saw her, past 
 the portiere, standing, one white hand holding the 
 curtain, eyes cast down, and Sandel beside her, 
 talking, talking, talking as the evening wore on. 
 
 She let go the curtain, and Mordaunt could see 
 no more. The room he knew so well seemed 
 fetid and close ; the low laughter of the women 
 and the murmur of the men’s voices jarred on his 
 nerves. He rose abruptly ; he was about to say 
 ‘ Good-night ’ to Roily, when the curtains at the 
 end of the room parted, and Lucilla, white. 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 335 
 
 nervous, came through them to where Mordaunt 
 stood talking to her father. 
 
 ‘ Hullo, Lucy ; where have you been 
 
 ‘ In there, with Lord Sandel,’ she replied, with 
 white lips, trembling, and eyes all shocked and wet. 
 
 Careless Roily answered : 
 
 ‘ Well, you’d better go back to him ; I want to 
 talk shop with Mordaunt.’ 
 
 Lucilla looked at Mordaunt, a look of anguish. 
 What prompted the man, seeing clearly as he did 
 what she was looking for ? He could not tell ; 
 but he answered the appeal in her eyes by holding 
 out his hand and saying : 
 
 ‘ Oh, I forgot. Miss Lewesham; let me take this 
 opportunity of congratulating you on your engage- 
 ment to Mr. Furley.’ 
 
 A moment more, and the girl was gone. His 
 heart felt heavy and cold within him ; he talked 
 on, but scarce knew of what. 
 
 ‘ You look seedy, old man ; have a glass of 
 “ Scotch ” neat ? It will pull you together.’ 
 
 Whether he looked seedy or not, he must have 
 turned pale, or Roily would have noticed nothing. 
 He took the proffered drink and others, presently. 
 Minutes passed ; half-an-hour passed ; an hour 
 passed. 
 
336 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Good-night, Roily,’ he said abruptly ; ‘ I 
 must be off.’ 
 
 ‘ Good-night, then, if you must go. Now you’ve 
 broken the ice, come often.’ 
 
 Mordaunt did not disturb the party by formal 
 adieux. Roily went out into the hall with him ; 
 Sandel was there, talking to John. He made a 
 pretence of looking for his coat and hat, but Mor- 
 daunt’s eyes, sharpened by remorse, saw a meaning 
 in his every gesture — in the something he slipped 
 into John’s hand, in the glance of intelligence he 
 thought he saw pass between them. 
 
 Mordaunt went out into the streets after Sandel 
 had departed ; the door closed behind him, he went 
 a few steps, then paused irresolute and returned. 
 High up in the attic room that was Lucilla’s, he 
 saw a light, dim white, behind the blind. Maidenly 
 pure looked the dim light behind the blind. 
 
 Lucilla, poor frightened child, how she had 
 come over to him for protection, and to her father ! 
 His heart melted — his, who thought his love for 
 her had died in the hour he heard she was going 
 to marry the performer. 
 
 He went back into the house ; the hall was 
 empty, save of John, who let him in. 
 
 ‘ John,’ he said quickly, in a manner unlike 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 337 
 
 Mordaunt’s, ‘ I want five minutes with Miss Lucy ; 
 go up and tell her so. I’ll wait in the library. 
 Tell her I want to speak to her. Mind you tell 
 her I am waiting.’ 
 
 Wooden-faced John answers : 
 
 ‘ Miss Lucy has gone out ; she went out ten 
 minutes afore you did.’ 
 
 Mordaunt’s teeth went right through his under- 
 lip, and he never felt the hurt. He went out 
 of the house. 
 
 T oo late, too late ! He thought Sandel had 
 asked her and she had gone. She had come to 
 him first, had looked at him : he felt it now, for 
 some sign or token that his love for her or his 
 care for her was not all dead or vanished. Had 
 looked to him, and he had failed her. 
 
 Russell Square was empty, deserted and chill, 
 the moon on the pavement might have been snow, 
 it was so white and cold. She had gone to Lord 
 Sandel — she, his little Lucy, who had fled from 
 him ere her womanhood had had time to bud in 
 his arms ; whom he could yet have held, although 
 nothing had been explained and nothing said, but 
 now — now it was too late. 
 
 There surged over this man a very passion of 
 regret ; he cursed himself for his forbearance, his 
 
 22 
 
338 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 consideration in time past. His heart was hot and 
 sick within him, as it had been before, and it was 
 as if Time’s finger had not passed over the raw 
 place whence she had been torn away; his Lucilla, 
 with the child’s face and the eyes that twice to- 
 night had pleaded with him, once for love, once 
 again, with fear and agony, for help and succour. 
 
 Those eyes of hers burned themselves into his, 
 and seemed with him wherever he turned. He 
 walked along with them before him ; they pleaded 
 with him all the way. He could not rid himself 
 of them in the quiet streets, nor in the noisy club, 
 into which he turned for a moment to escape their 
 appeal. 
 
 He stood for a few moments at the bar of the 
 ‘ Ooferies ’ — the click of the billiard-balls, the in- 
 flamed faces of the betting men and sporting men, 
 and of the famous comedian, holding forth there 
 with the expurgated portions of one of his songs, 
 could not shut out the gaze that haunted him. 
 
 Again he felt the life he led and they all led 
 was foul beyond words. To have known her in 
 one of those Bayswater drawing-rooms, whose dull 
 respectability he had spent his journalistic life in 
 deriding, would have been happiness to him. 
 
 And so thinking he reached his home in Cecil 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 339 
 
 Street, turned the key in the latch, walked up the 
 narrow dingy stairs, put his hand to the door, and 
 received his first faint shock on seeing there was a 
 light in the room ; then he turned the handle, 
 and paused on the threshold. 
 
 Yes, his eyes had not played him false, though 
 he put his hand up to them, as if to shade them 
 from too bright a light. 
 
 She stood there very white, nothing of the child 
 left about her. 
 
 ‘ I have come back,’ she said, with the ghost of a 
 laugh, that turned bitter in her mouth. 
 
 ‘ Lucilla ! Lucilla !’ 
 
 Never was a lover more pitiful kind than he in 
 soothing the agony of self-abasement that sobbed 
 itself out in his arms. 
 
 ‘ Forgive me, forgive me !’ 
 
 ‘ My darling, after this I can have nothing to 
 forgive. May God forgive me if ever I let you 
 regret it !’ 
 
 ‘ Did you want me ? do you love me ?’ she asked 
 feverishly. 
 
 And his answer satisfied even her. 
 
 22 — 2 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 He was her lover, not her judge. Who shall be 
 her judge.^ Had she ever a chance of leading a 
 cleanly or an honourable life ? Was instinct un- 
 trained by education sufficient to keep her pure in 
 such surroundings ? 
 
 The fire of love in her heart had smouldered to 
 ashes under the cold wind of separation. They 
 burst into flames when she saw him ; and the kiss 
 Lord Sandel had wrested from her in that inner 
 room had driven her into her lover’s arms. 
 
 It was a terrible thing she did. 
 
 The streets, empty and cold, smote her from her 
 purpose that grew more terrible as it grew nearer. 
 The servant who showed her to his room cut her 
 to the soul when she looked at her with coarse 
 laughter that dwelt in the silence when she had 
 gone. And then the waiting with sinking fear, 
 and hopes more sickening than fear, so full of 
 shame they were ; when her cheeks flushed hot 
 
A BABE JN BOHEMIA. 
 
 341 
 
 and her loud heart-beats shut out the footsteps she 
 listened for. 
 
 In agony she would hide her face in her hands, 
 moan and sob ; she would crouch down in the 
 corner of the sofa and wish the earth would cover 
 her. Minutes seemed hours until he came, then 
 she would have put time back for ever, so that it 
 might not look upon her shameful face. 
 
 ‘ I have come back,’ was all she could say with 
 pitiful down-drawn mouth, and eyes that could 
 not look at him. 
 
 He clasped her like a lover, spoke words to her 
 that she drank in as one who dies of thirst, drove 
 fear and shame away with kisses ; with protecting 
 arms held close around her, with whispers that 
 thrilled her, and made her put her head upon his 
 breast, and love him with a love that brought her 
 peace. 
 
 Then she knew happiness. He took two rooms 
 for them at Twickenham ; the woman who kept 
 Lucilla from wifehood kept him poor, but he did 
 the best he could. This was the first home Lucilla 
 had ever known. Mordaunt would sit and write, 
 and she would watch him ; she never liked to be 
 far off him. She would sit in a chair so close 
 beside him that she could touch his coat-sleeve 
 
342 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 now and then to assure herself that she was not 
 dreaming, but awake and with him, never more to 
 be parted. When they walked out she would hold 
 his arm, keep close to his side. Her eyes never 
 seemed to leave his face ; she could not bear that 
 he should be out of her sight for a moment. 
 
 They led a life isolated from the world, living 
 solely for and in each other. Mordaunt would 
 write in the mornings, Lucilla beside him ; in the 
 afternoons, hand in hand like two children, they 
 would wander about the country, or, strolling 
 down to the river, would idly float to Rich- 
 mond, all the green around them framing 
 peace and happy love. So long as she could 
 touch him, hold his hand, know he was near, 
 Lucilla was happy. She neither read, wrote, 
 worked nor thought ; her entire being was ab- 
 sorbed by him. 
 
 This lasted a month. 
 
 Then he had to go to London on business, for 
 the day only. She wept and clung to him, and 
 entreated him not to go. He took her into his arms. 
 
 ‘ Be reasonable, my darling ! I must go. We 
 must live ; and if I don’t work we can’t live. I 
 shall only be gone a few hours. Come down to 
 the station to meet me ; that will shorten the 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 343 
 
 time. Sweetheart, don’t cry so ! You break my 
 heart. Another kiss. No, not that way ; raise 
 your head, so that I can see you are not crying 
 any more. Give me your lips.’ 
 
 He left the kisses on her lips to keep her com- 
 pany in his absence. She had no occupation ; no 
 woman’s work had she ever learned to keep fingers 
 busy or thoughts clean. She sat idle, her thoughts 
 not swerving an instant from him, filled full with his 
 last kiss, his presence, his personality ; murmuring 
 his name, slipping down from her seat to rest her 
 head against the place where his dear feet had trod. 
 
 That was how Sinclair Furley found her. He 
 had taken a great deal of trouble to trace her, 
 for Roily gave him no information — said he had 
 none to give. And in a measure that was true ; 
 for Mordaunt supplied his copy, came to the office, 
 and did his work. Roily asked no questions, and 
 Mordaunt volunteered no information ; but the 
 men seemed drawn more closely together in an 
 invisible bond of sympathy. 
 
 Sinclair Furley found out where she was — no 
 matter how — and now he stood before her in the 
 room made sacred to her by her lover. 
 
 She saw him, shuddered, hid her face. 
 
 ‘ Go away ! go away !’ 
 
344 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 ‘ Oh no, no ! You don’t mean it.’ 
 
 ‘ Go away !’ 
 
 She was feeble, but his very presence was hateful 
 to her. He poisoned the atmosphere to her, stood 
 between her and what was light to her ; for she 
 could not see Mordaunt while Sinclair Furley 
 stood there in his place. 
 
 ‘ I shall not go away. You are engaged to me ; 
 I have never released you. You have promised to 
 marry me. This ’ — he waved his hand depre- 
 catingly — ‘ is merely an episode, an experience, 
 interesting, but — but it has been done before. I 
 am no purist, but it is “banale,” utterly “banale.”’ 
 
 She knelt with face averted from him, praying, 
 praying that he would go away ; for she dreaded 
 each word he might utter. She had thought no 
 more of sin or shame since she had been with 
 Mordaunt, but only of love ; now, every word 
 seemed as a blow that fell effacing love, leaving 
 only sin. The very air seemed soiled as he talked 
 on, and would not go. 
 
 ‘ I will come every day while he Is away. You 
 know, now you have begun this kind of life, that 
 that sort of thing is quite usual. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 What would he say to see me here ? But we 
 must be very careful. Do not be shy with me,’ 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 345 
 
 he said ; and with that put his hand on her 
 shoulder, and would have caressed her. 
 
 She sprang to her feet, with white face and 
 wild eyes. 
 
 ‘ How dare you.? — how dare you.?’ she gasped 
 out, choked with disgust and fear. 
 
 His face — that sallow, unhealthy face of his — 
 seemed very near, shutting out Mordaunt, en- 
 compassing her and stifling her, until she could 
 hardly breathe for it. 
 
 ‘ Oh now ; really now,’ he began, ‘ you allow 
 Mordaunt to ’ 
 
 And again he would have grasped her hand. 
 She flung it away, and raised both arms to Heaven, 
 which saw the tragedy ; and then she shrieked and 
 fell. Sinclair heard the shriek — it rang in his 
 ears for months — saw the figure lying white, 
 silent and still, with a little foam in the corners of 
 the mouth and the features drawn and distorted ; 
 then turned and left her for ever. 
 
 Poor Lucilla ! She awoke from this attack 
 before Mordaunt returned, was able to find her way 
 into her room, gaze into her looking-glass, recog- 
 nise, and remember ! Then she saw her doom 
 before her, a doom so terrible that a stouter 
 heart than hers might have quailed before it. 
 
346 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 She remembered the blood-shot eyes and 
 bitten lips of that demon Epilepsy, whose every 
 trace she recognised with awful distinctness. And 
 she knew this was not its first attempt upon her. 
 Memory took her back to that night when Nettie 
 had turned her from the house, to that illness 
 that had come upon her in the Refuge. 
 
 She looked in the glass. Blood -shot eyes 
 staring wildly and bitten lips, with the dried 
 blood on them. Ah ! she had reason still, and 
 her heart was still human, and she looked upon 
 herself and dreaded the growth from Lucilla 
 into Marius — the dreadful, dreadful growth ! 
 
 Now she knew, looking at herself with those 
 wild eyes that gave her back her look, that Marius 
 had always been with her. He was her twin soul ; 
 he had suffered and died. Everyone had looked 
 upon him with horror. O God ! O God ! would 
 Mordaunt so look upon her } 
 
 She shut out her eyes with her hands, and saw 
 her lover, Mordaunt, in whose love she lived, 
 shrinking back from her with horror, dreading as 
 she had dreaded those shrieks, her wild grimaces, 
 her hopeless, helpless, dreadful self. 
 
 Then her brain grew mad with the pain of it, 
 as she writhed and groaned and saw the doom 
 
A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 347 
 
 roll up and over her, and her barque of Reason go 
 down under it ; and the terror and the torture 
 burned her eyeballs, and set her brain on fire. 
 
 With eyes that could not see and head that 
 could not feel for pain, she snatched the razor 
 from the table. And the edge was keen — she 
 could feel with her fingers. And the sob that 
 arose in her throat must be let out. And then 
 the image of Marius, whom she had become, 
 mingled itself with the image of Sinclair, who 
 said she belonged to him. And she belonged to 
 both of them, Marius and Sinclair, Sinclair and 
 Marius — changing loathsome figures, encompassing 
 her and stifling her. 
 
 Oh ! that is Marius, his cold hands about her 
 throat. No, that is Sinclair ; weak, he cannot 
 hold her. No, no ! it is Mordaunt, who sees her 
 changing. ‘No, no !’ she shrieks, ‘ he shall not 
 see her so.’ Be stronger, Sinclair ; be stronger, 
 Marius. Throttle her, strangle her ! Don’t let 
 him see — don’t let him see her with them both 
 over her and about her. 
 
 She is on the floor, with swollen head and veins 
 congested ; her right hand holds the razor open, 
 but she cannot use it ; for the demon has seized 
 her again, is stiffening her and throttling her, as 
 
348 
 
 A BABE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 she writhes and shrieks, and Mordaunt is almost 
 at the door. 
 
 A moment more, and he would be here ; a 
 moment more, and he would see her thus. But 
 reason is not quite obscured. One effort, one — 
 O God, help her now ! And then the bright red 
 blood gushes forth on the floor, and gushes, and 
 gushes, from red to black, until Mordaunt comes. 
 
 For all that others sinned, Lucilla suffered. 
 But the last suffering of all she was spared. She 
 never saw the love-light die out of his eyes or his 
 bonds gall him. She was not strong enough to 
 live and suffer ; she was strong enough to do 
 and die. 
 
 The one flower that bloomed and faded in this 
 foul soil, died out seedless. But the soil remains. 
 And it will bear bitter fruit. Who will purify 
 the soil ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
35i St, Bride Street ^ Ludgate Circus ^ E,C» 
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 K^rown 8uo, Pnce^ picture hoards^ 2s,; cloth gilt ^ 2s. 6a, Postage^ a^d. 
 
 “Miss Russell writes easily and well, and she has the gift of making 
 her characters dejscribe themselves by their dialogue, which is bright and 
 natural. ” — Athenceum, 
 
 1. Footprints in the Snow. 
 
 ‘ ‘ There are here all the elements of tragedy. Miss Russell’s scenes 
 are of a dramatic kind.” — Daily News, 
 
 2. The Vicar’s Governess. 
 
 “Undoubtedly a clever and well-written story. A book which 
 contains a good deal that is interesting, and indicates a reserve 
 of something still better.” — Times, 
 
 3. Beneath the Wave. 
 
 “ Certain to become popular. The story is cleverly told. There is 
 a strong sensational interest in each chapter.” — Lloyd's Weekly 
 News, 
 
 4. Annabel’s Rival.' 
 
 “Some of the characters, especially that of the clever, worldly 
 schoolmistress, are very cleverly drawn,” — Standard, 
 
 6. Lady Sefton’s Pride. 
 
 “We recommend ‘ Lady Sefton’s Pride ’ to anyone who has the 
 toothache, and, unable to cure it, wishes to forget it. The tale 
 is especially calculated to take the reader’s attention away from, 
 himself. ’ ’ — L iter ary World, 
 
SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 17 
 
 DORA RUSSELL’S NOVELS — continued. 
 
 Crown 2>vo, Price^ picture beards^ 2 s,j cloth gilt^ 2s, (id. Postage^ \d, 
 
 6. Quite True. 
 
 “Possesses that one merit in a novel without which all others are 
 apt to be of little avail— it is exceedingly interesting.”— 
 
 7. The Broken Seal. 
 
 “The mystery is maintained with a sVill which w^ould not disgi'ace 
 that master of this form of craft — Mr. Wilkie Collins .” — Daily 
 News, 
 
 8. CrcEsus’s Widow. 
 
 “ Miss Russell has a very good story to tell, and very well she tells 
 itP—Life. 
 
 9. Hidden in My Heart. [Shoj'tly, 
 
 “ The plot is well constructed. It is an absorbing tale which has 
 the wherewithal to become popular.” — Morning Post, 
 
 *** The Author's other Works will follow in due succession. 
 
 W. STEPHEN HAYWARD’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown 8uo, Price ^ picture boards, 2 s. ; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d, Postage, ^d. 
 
 4 . Ethel Grey. 
 
 5. Caroline. 
 
 6. Maude Luton. 
 
 7. The Three Red Men. 
 
 8. John Hazel’s Vengeance. 
 
 9 . Barbara Home. 
 
 11. The Woman in Red. 
 
 12. The Stolen Will. 
 
 13. The Black Flag. 
 
 14. Diana’s Defender. 
 
 15. Colonel’s Daughter. 
 
1 8 SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 
 
 F. E. M. NOTLEY’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown Sz'o. Price, picture boards, 2s, ; cloth gilt, 2s, 6d.; half morocco, 
 
 3 j. (id, each. Postage, d^d. 
 
 1. Red RidiDg Hood. 
 
 ‘‘We feel in reading this pure story that a mind speaks to our 
 mind ; that it is not a mere voice telling an idle tale to be 
 forgotten in an hour.” — Sunday Ti files, 
 
 2. Beneath the Wheels. 
 
 “It may be affirmed that a larger accumulation of mysteries has 
 seldom or never been heaped into one novel before, while the 
 author may be complimented on having provided a satisfactoiy 
 key for every one of them.” — Athenceum, 
 
 3. Love’s Crosses. 
 
 “The author has written a fervent love story, abounding wdth 
 passages of great warmth, and including a most sensational 
 homicide.” — Athenceufn, 
 
 PERCY B. ST. JOHN’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown 8uo, Price, picture boards, 2s. 
 
 1. Sailor Crusoe. 
 
 2. Snow Ship. 
 
 3. Young Buccaneer. 
 
 4. My Beautiful Daughter. 
 
 5. The Daughter of the 
 
 Sea. 
 
 E. S. DREWRY’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown 8 m Price, picture boards, 2s,; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.; half morocco, 3 ^. 6.7. 
 
 1 . Only an Actress. 
 
 2. On Dangerous Ground. 
 
 3. Baptised with a Curse. 
 
 4. A Death-Ring. 
 
SPENCEJH BLACKETT'S PUBLICATIONS 19 
 
 MRS. JOHN KENT SPENDER’S NOVELS. 
 
 Ctcwh^vo, Price, pictureboards, 2 s.j cloth gilt, 2St6d,j half morocco, ^s, 6 </. 
 
 1. Mr. Nobody. 
 
 2. Parted Lives. 
 
 3. Both in the Wrong. 
 
 4. Recollections of a 
 Country Doctor. 
 
 MISS E. SPENDER’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown Zvo, Price, picture boards, 2s.; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.; half morocco, ^s. 6d. 
 
 1. Restored. 4. Kingsford. 
 
 2. A True Marriage. 5. Until the Day Breaks. 
 
 3. Son and Heir. 
 
 MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown %vo. Price, picture boards, 2s.; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.; half morocco, ^s. 6d. 
 
 1. Vera Nevill. i 2. Pure Gold. | 3. Worth Winning. 
 
 MRS. POWER O’DONOGHUE’S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown %vo. Price, picture boards, 2s.; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.; half morocco, '^s. 6d. 
 
 1. Unfairly V/on. 
 
 I 2. A Beggar on Horseback. 
 
20 SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 
 
 VARIOUS AUTHORS’ WORKS. 
 
 Crown 8vo, Prices picture hoards^ 2s.; cloth gilt, 2s, 6d, Postage, 4 c/. 
 
 Scullydom. By P. A. Egan. 
 
 The Nick of Time. By W. T. Hickman. 
 Expiation. By E. P. Oppenheim. 
 
 The Morals of Mayfair. By Mrs. Edwards. 
 Britain’s Slaves. By George Ciiallis. 
 Love’s Strategy. By Adolphus Silberstein. 
 The Tichborne Trial. The Summing up of 
 
 the Lord Chief Justice. 
 
 Misses and Matrimony. By Lieut. -Colonel 
 
 Knollys. 
 
 The Black Band ; or, Mysteries of Midnight. 
 
 Illustrated by Gustave Dor^. 
 
SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 21 
 
 BLACKETT’S SELECT SHILLING NOVELS 
 
 BY 
 
 POPULAR AUTHORS. 
 
 Price y paper cover^ P$stage^ 2d, 
 
 99, Dark Street. By F. W. Robinson. 
 
 “Who loves a good mystery persuasively handled and sustained 
 should be gratified by Mr. Robinson’s ‘ 99, Dark Street.’ ” — 
 Satu 7 ‘day Review, 
 
 Price ^ paper cover ^ \s. Postage^ 2 d, 
 
 A Wicked Girl. By Mary Cecil Hay. 
 
 “The story has an ingeniously carried out plot. Miss Hay is a 
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 Price ^ paper cover ^ \s. Postage^ 2 d, 
 
 Gabriel Allen, M.P. By G. A. Henty. 
 
 “Those who do not read Mr. Henty’s story of ‘ Gabriel Allen, M. P. ,’ 
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 Pi'ice^ paper cover, is. Postage, 2d, 
 
 The Argonauts of North Liberty. By 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
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 Academy, 
 
 * ‘ The story is sure of a wide success. ” — Scotsman, 
 
 Crown 8 vo, paper cover, is. Postage, 2 d, 
 
 The Abbey Murder. By Joseph Hatton. 
 
 “ The story of ‘ Mary the Maid of the Inn ’ forms the basis of ‘ The 
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 Hatton with all his usual skill and dramatic force.” — The 
 Worlds 
 
22 SPENCER BLACKETT'S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 SELECT SHILLING continued. 
 
 Crown paper cover ^ ij-., or cloth, is. 6d. Postage, 2d, 
 
 A Mere Child. By L. B. Walford, 
 
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 the author’s agreeable style.” — Athenceum. 
 
 Crown Svo, paper cover, is. ; cloth, is. 6d, Postage, 2d. 
 
 Love Until Death. By R. Whelan Boyle, 
 
 “A pathetic story of powerful interest.” — Scotsman. 
 
 Crown Svo, faper cover, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. Postage, 2d. 
 
 The Queen’s Token. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey. 
 
 Crown Svo, paper cover, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. Postage, 2d. 
 
 The Haunted Fountain. By Catherine 
 
 MaCQUOID. IShortly. 
 
 Crown Svo, paper cover, is.: cloth, i.r. (id. Postage, 2d. 
 
 Favour and Fortune. By Minnie Young. 
 
 {Shortly. 
 
 *** This Series will be exclusively reserved to the works of well-known 
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 Just ready, croton Svo, paper cover, is.; cloth, is, 6d. Postage, 2d. 
 
 In the Shadow of Death. By Sir Gilbert 
 
 Campbell, Bapt. 
 
SPENCER BLACKETT’S PUBLICATIONS 2,3 
 
 ONE SHILLING NOVELS —continued. 
 
 Crown Zvo, pape7‘ cover, \s.; cloth, is. 6(t. Postage, 2d. 
 
 Galloping Days at the Deanery. By 
 
 Charles James. iin November. 
 
 Neiv Edition. Price, paper cover, is.; cloth, is. pid. Postage, 2d. 
 
 At What Cost. By Hugh Conway, Author 
 
 of Called Back/^ etc. 
 
 Twenty-fifth Thousand. Price, paper cover, is. ; cloih, is. 6d. Postage, 2d. 
 
 Sappho : a Romance of Art and Love. By 
 
 Alphonse Daudet. 
 
 “No man or woman of sense can say that it is anything but a good 
 book, and a book to read .” — Court and Society Review. 
 
 With full-page Illustrations . Price, paper cover, is. Postage 2d. 
 
 The Wife’s Sacrifice (Martyre!) By Adolphe 
 
 D’Ennery. Translated by H. Sutherland Edwards. 
 
 “ The story is a very exciting one, full of strong situations and start- 
 ling incidents, so that the reader is carried along breathless. ” — 
 People. 
 
 Pi'ice, paper cover, is. Postage, 2 d. 
 
 The Divorced Princess (Divorcee). By 
 
 Ren^: de Pont-Jest. 
 
 “Abetter shillingsworth to while away the tedium of a railway 
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 Price, paper cover, is. ; cloth, i^. 6d. Postage, 2d 
 
 Memoirs of Cora Pearl. Written by Herself. 
 
24 SPENCER BLACKETT'S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 ONE SHILLING continued. 
 
 Uniform with “Memoirs of Cora Pearl.” Price, is. Postage, 2 d, 
 
 Memoirs of Rose Pompon. Written by 
 
 Herself. 
 
 Price ^ paper cover ^ IJ*. Postage ^ 2d. 
 
 Baffled. By Shirley B. Jevons. 
 
 “A really clever, realistic story, full of strong character-drawing 
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 shilling. ” — Society. 
 
 Price^ paper cover ^ is.; cloth ^ is, 6d, Postage^ 2d, 
 
 Siowborough ; or, Rural Felicity. By Frank 
 
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 Price ^ paper cover ^ is.; cloth, is. 6a. Postage, 2d. 
 
 Innocent or Guilty? By Marion Greenhill. 
 
 Crown 8 VO, paper cover, is. Postage, 2d. 
 
 The Marriage Stopped. By Robinson 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Price, paper cover, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. Postage, 2d, 
 
 The Silent Shore. By John Blounhelle- 
 
 Burton. 
 
 '‘It is really admirably written, and fro^ first to last it has strong 
 dramatic interest. It may fairly ta^^ its place among the best 
 stories of the kind.” — Scotsman. 
 
 Price, paper cover, is. Postage, 2d, 
 
 Three Lucky Shots. By Oscar Park. 
 
 “ It is an extremely good story of the sensational type. The incidents 
 are natural, the plot is pieced together in a workman-like 
 manner, and the book is altogether very pleasant reading.” — 
 Whitehall Reviezv. 
 
SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 25 
 
 ONE SHILLING NOVELS — continued. 
 
 Price ^ paper cover ^ is. Postage ^ 2d, 
 
 Musical Snares. By Annabel Gray. 
 
 “ A smart expose, in fictional form, of the wiles of musical agei^s, 
 told in a bright and telling fashion. ” — Society, 
 
 Price, paper cover, is, ; cloth, is. 6d, Postage, 2d, 
 
 The Cabman’s Daughter. 
 
 “A simple and unpretentious tale of London life. Humour is not 
 wanting, and the love-making will please by its naive prettiness.” 
 — Lloyd's. 
 
 Price, paper cover, is. Postage, 2 d. 
 
 Darker than Night. By Henry Constable. 
 
 “We can recommend this to our readers as a good shillingsworth, 
 in which quality rather than quantity has been the object 
 aimed at.” — Sheffield Telegraph. 
 
 Price, paper cover, is. ; cloth, i.r. 6</. Postage, 2d. 
 
 The Cithern: Poems for Recitation. By Mrs. 
 
 Aylmer Cowing, Author of “Ballads and Poems,” etc. 
 
 “ Mrs. Gowing’s verse is easy and flowing, and her poetry heart- 
 stirring and vigorous. There is nothing in this little volume 
 that is not deserving of praise.” — Tablet, 
 
 Crown Svo, paper cover, price is. 
 
 The Great Landlords of London. With 
 
 Map of the Estates. By Frank Banfield, M.A. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I recommend this book to all who wish to understand the working 
 of the great landlord system in the metropolis.” — Truth. 
 
 “We commend the study of this book to every tenant interested in 
 the power wielded by the ground landlord.” — Daily Chronicle, 
 
 Price, paper cover, is. Postage, 2d, 
 
 Imprisoned in the House of Detention 
 
 for Libel. By John Dawson. 
 
 ‘ ‘ This is a well- written and readable account of the experience of a 
 well-known journalist and dramatic critic, written during a 
 period of temporary obscurity within the walls of Her Majesty^s 
 prison at Clcrkenwell.”- — Lady's Pictorial. 
 
2 6 SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 
 
 SIXPENNY NOVELS. 
 
 GUSTAVE AIMARD’S INDIAN TALES, 
 Author’s Copyright Cheap Edition. 
 
 Crown 8vo. Price, paper cover, 6d. ; cloth lUnp, i s. Postage, 2ei. 
 
 First Series. 
 
 1. Trappers of Arkansas. 
 
 2. Border Rifles. 
 
 3. Freebooters. 
 
 4. White Scalper. 
 
 Second Series. 
 
 5. Guide of the Desert. 
 
 6. Insurgent Chief. 
 
 7. Flying Horseman. 
 
 8. Last of the Aucas. 
 
 Third Series. 
 
 9. Missouri Outlaws. 
 
 10. Prairie Flower. 
 
 11. Indian Scout. 
 
 12. Stronghand. 
 
 Fourth Series. 
 
 13. The Bee Hunters. 
 
 14. Stoneheart. 
 
 15. Queen of the Savannah. 
 
 Fifth Series. 
 
 16. Buccaneer Chief. 
 
 17. Smuggler Hero. 
 
 18. Rebel Chief 
 
 Sixth Series. 
 
 19. The Adventurers. 
 
 20. Pearl of the Andes. 
 
 21. Trail Hunter. 
 
 Seventh Series. 
 
 22. Pirates of the Prairies. 
 
 23. Trapper’s Daughter. 
 
 24. Tiger Slayer. 
 
 Eighth Series. 
 
 25. Gold Seekers. 
 
 26. Indian Chief 
 
 27. Red Track. 
 
 Ninth Series. 
 
 28. The Treasure of Pearls. 
 
 29. Red River Half Breed. 
 
 Each Series also published in volume form^ price ^ cloth gilt, 2s. 6d, 
 The whole carefully revised and edited by Percy B. St. John. 
 
 Price f paper covers^ 6d,; doth limp^ u. Postage^ 2d, 
 
 How to Live on a Shilling a Week. By 
 
 One who has Tried It. 
 
 The author shows how it can be done. As exhibiting possibilities 
 the suggestions are interesting.” — News of the World, 
 
 Cheaper Edition^ price^ paper cover, 6d. Postage, 2d, 
 
 The Cithern : Poems for Recitation. By Mrs, 
 Aylmer Gowing, Author of Ballads and Foemsf etc. 
 
 “A most charming little volume, containing many pieces that are 
 suitable for recitation, and are by this time widely known and 
 appreciated.” — Lady's Pictorial, 
 
SPENCER BLACKETT’S PUBLICATIONS 27 
 
 ATTRACTIVE PICTURES AND STORIES 
 FOR YOUNG CHILDREN. 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY COLOURED TOY BOOKS. 
 With Stories Written by Miss F. M. GALLAHER. 
 Carefully printed on superfine paper in large clear type. 
 
 Eleven Coloured Plates, Price, picture boards, is. 6a. Postage, ^a. 
 
 Children’s Chums. Stories by Miss F. M. 
 
 Gallaher. 
 
 Contains bright and pleasing pictures of children and their pets, and 
 simple stories in large type. 
 
 S?x Coloured Plates. Price ^ stiff picture wrapper., 6d. Postage, id. 
 
 A Night at the Circus. Stories by Miss 
 
 F. M. Gallaher. 
 
 Contains attractive coloured illustrations, and simple reading in 
 large type. 
 
 Six Coloured Plates. Price, stiff picture ivrapper, 6d, Postage, id. 
 
 Baby’s Book. Stories by Miss F. M. 
 
 Gallaher. 
 
 Contains brightly coloured pictures and reading suited to very 
 young minds. 
 
 ‘‘Jessie Rayne,” in Truth, says : “I have only time to mention 
 three children’s picture books, ‘ A Night at the Circus,’ 
 ‘Baby’s Book,’ both fairly good, and ‘ Children’s Chums,’ very 
 good indeed.” 
 
 “ Delightful books for the small children in the nursery. The type 
 is large and easy to read by those who have gained that accom- 
 plishment, and the stories are not beyond the comprehension 
 of very little ones.” — Court Circular. 
 
SPENCER BLACKETrS PUBLICATIONS 
 
 BRITISH STANDARD HANDBOOKS. 
 
 Price ^ picture covers^ Illustrated^ 2d, each. Postage^ Y^d, 
 
 A NEW SERIES OF ILLUSTRATED PRACTICAL HANDBOOKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES. 
 
 Each book is complete in itself. These Handbooks are perfect ency- 
 clopaedias of information upon their respective topics. They readily 
 commend themselves as marvels of cheapness. 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
 1. Rowing and Sculling. 
 
 2. Cricket. 
 
 3. Bicycling and Tri- 
 
 cycling. 
 
 4. Fishing. 
 
 5. Swimming. 
 
 6. Athletic Exercises for 
 
 Health and Strength. 
 
 7. Field Sports. 
 
 8. Fowls. 
 
 9. Pigeons. 
 
 10. Rabbits. 
 
 11. Card Games. 
 
 12. Chess. 
 
 13. Football. 
 
 SECOND SERIES.' 
 
 14. Athletic Games of 
 
 Skill. 
 
 15. Skating and Games 
 
 on the Ice. 
 
 16. Draughts and Back- 
 
 gammon. 
 
 17. Song Birds. 
 
 18. Fireworks. 
 
 19. Parlour Conjurer. 
 
 20. Book of Pets. 
 
 21. Boxing, Wrestling, and 
 
 Fencing, or the Art 
 of Self^efence. 
 
 22. Chemical Wonders for 
 
 Home Exhibition. 
 
 23. Gymnastic Exercises. 
 
 24. The Magic Lantern. 
 
 25. The Student Collector. 
 
 26. Dogs : How to Keep 
 
 and Train them. 
 
 THIRD SERIES. 
 
 27. Lawn Tennis. 
 
 28. Puzzles and Riddles. 
 
 29. Riding and Driving. ' 
 
 30. Hand and Finger 
 
 Tricks. 
 
 31. Archery. 
 
 32. Vocal and Optical 
 
 Deceptions. 
 
 33. Toy Boats and Sailing 
 
 Craft. 
 
 34. Fencing. 
 
 35. Burlesque Giants and 
 
 Dwarfs. 
 
 36. Thought Reader. 
 
 37. Billiards : Ball and 
 
 Cue Games. 
 
 38. Punch and Puppets 
 
 39. Young Play-Actor. 
 
 * Also published in 3 volumes. First, second, and third Series, each 
 containing thirteen books, price, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. ; cloth, gilt edges, 
 3s. 6d. each. 
 
SPENCER BLACKETT'S PUBLICATIONS 29 
 
 ILLUSTRATED GIFT BOOKS. 
 
 [ Handsome, Useful, and Well Bound. 
 
 GIFT BOOKS AT TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE EACH. 
 
 Illustrated with Htmdreds of Comic Cuts. Price, cloth gilt. Illustrated, 2s. 6d. 
 Postage ^t^d. 
 
 Merry and Wise : a Book for all Seasons. 
 
 By Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Max Adeler, 
 Danbury Newsman, etc. 
 
 With Coloured Plates. Crown Zvo. Pricey clothy gilt edges, 2y. (id. 
 PostagCy 4d. 
 
 Gulliver’s Travels in Lilliput, Brobding- 
 
 nag, and Houyhnhnmland, with an account of the Yahoos. 
 By Lemuel Gulliver, Mariner. 
 
 Crown Zvo. Price^ clothy bevelled boards^ gilt edges, Illustrated, 2s. 6d. 
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 The Pierced Heart: a Romance. By Cap- 
 
 tain Mayne Reid. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
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 The Star of Empire : a Tale. By Captain 
 
 Mayne Reid. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
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 Stories Grandma Told. By Mary D. 
 
 Brine. With numerous fine Engravings on Wood. 
 
 Crown Zvo. Price, cloth, elegant, gilt edges, Illustrated, 2s. 6d. Postage, 4!. 
 
 Frank Weatherall. By W. C. Metcalfe. 
 
 A Story of Adventures in the Merchant Navy. With 
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30 SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED GIFT BOOKS-conPnued. 
 
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 The Golden Rangers. By Gabriel Ferry. 
 
 An exciting Tale of Treasure-seeking among the Indians. 
 Illustrated by Gustave Dore. 
 
 Crown %vo. Price, cloth gilt, Illustrated, 2s, bd, each. Postage, ^d. 
 
 The British Standard Illustrated 
 
 Practical Handbook of Sports and Pastimes. Vols. L, IL, 
 and III. With Diagrams, Plans, and every design pos- 
 sible for all Games, Sports, and Pastimes, forming a com- 
 plete Encyclopaedia on the various topics. 
 
 Price, picture paper boards. Illustrated, 2s, 6d. Postage, t[d. 
 
 Twice Round the Clock. By George 
 
 Augustus Sala. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 Croivn 2>z>o, Copyright Edition. Price, picture cover. Illustrated, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. 
 
 By William Carleton (Ireland's Greatest Novelist). 
 With the whole of the Plates by D. Maclise, R.A. Con- 
 taining several Traits and Stories never before published. 
 
 GIFT BOOKS AT THREE SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE. 
 
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 The Boy’s Birthday Book. By Mrs. S. C. 
 
 Hall, William Howitt, Augustus Mayhew, Thomas 
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 The British Standard Illustrated 
 
 Practical Handbook of Sports and Pastimes. Vols. I., II., 
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SPENCER BLACKETTS PUBLICATIONS 31 
 
 ILLUSTRATED GIFT BOOKS — continued. 
 
 Demy Svo. Price^ cloth gilt^ Illustrated., 3^. 6</. Postage, 5</. 
 
 Twice Round the Clock. By George 
 
 Augustus Sala. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
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 Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. 
 
 By William Carleton (Ireland’s Greatest Novelist) 
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 The Boy’s Own Treasury. Contains Amuse- 
 
 ments of all kinds — indoor and outdoor. 
 
 Illustrated with 500 descriptive and original Engravings, comprising 
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 of Home Amusements and Healthful Recreations. 
 
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 George Oauldfleld’s Journey. By Miss 
 
 Braddon. And other Stories. Profusely illustrated by 
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H. Rider Haggard’s New Novel 
 
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 MR. MiBBSON’S WILL 
 
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 SPENCER BLACKETT 
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