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WAS HE JUSTIFIED 
 
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WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 a #o&ti. 
 
 BY 
 
 C. J. WILLS. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 “ The Land of the Lion and Sun," “ The Pit Town Coronet" “ John 
 Squire s Secret" “ The Great Doremi " 6 ~c., &c., 
 
 AND OF 
 
 “ The Fatal PhryneJ' 11 Sibyl Ross's Marriage," “ The Scudamores 
 “ A Maiden Fair to See " {in collaboration with F. c. philips). 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SPENCER BLACKETT, 
 
 35 ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/washejustifiednoOOwill 
 
©etucation 
 
 TO 
 
 HENRIK IBSEN. 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK TO THE GREAT 
 SCANDINAVIAN MORALIST, AS A SORT 
 OF APOLOGY FOR TRESPASSING 
 ON HIS PRESERVES. 
 
 C. J. Wills. 
 
 Oriental Club, 1891, 
 
 I i 5037 1 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chap. 
 
 Prologue - 
 i. A Pistol Goes Off 
 il A Left-Handed Life - 
 hi. Enter Lord Tintock - 
 
 iv. Born in Nether-Bohemia 
 
 v. The Garden Party 
 
 vi. A Hasty Engagement - 
 
 vii. Bride and Bridegroom 
 viil The Blue Envelope - 
 
 ix. Was Desdemona Unfaithful? 
 
 x. On the Cliff 
 
 xi. The Mercy of Sir Galahad - 
 
 Page 
 
 I 
 
 19 
 
 41 
 
 7 1 
 
 89 
 
 101 
 
 123 
 
 141 
 
 159 
 
 183 
 
 201 
 
 2I 5 
 

WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 It was a stormy evening. Over Lynden Heath 
 the clouds sailed with a swift, steady motion, for 
 the wind was constant and strong. There was no 
 thunder, but the lightning flashed silently. Lyn- 
 den Heath is about two miles long and one mile 
 broad. It occurs so suddenly, and is so distant 
 from any land of the same kind, that the inhabitants 
 of the western division of Wellingshire, where it lies, 
 regard it as one of the wonders of the world. 
 There is a little hill which overlooks it called 
 Lynden Rise. Had any belated traveller crossed 
 Lynden Rise on that wild autumn evening, he 
 would have stopped in spite of the weather to 
 
2 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 watch a figure that, spectre-like, moved up and 
 down the heath. Swiftly the figure strode along 
 a grassy path, turned, and strode back. Let us 
 leave the supposed traveller, and, concealed under 
 the invisible cloak, which is one of the belongings 
 of all story-tellers, approach this figure nearer. 
 On a closer inspection the figure loses its spectral 
 appearance, and we find a tall, handsome man, who 
 looks somewhere over thirty. He wears a horse- 
 man’s cloak that hides his dress ; but his three- 
 cornered hat is richly laced, and there are gold 
 buckles on his shoes. The frown on his face, 
 deepening as he walks up and down into a thun- 
 derous scowl, is crossed occasionally by a twitching 
 of the eyebrows, as his thought lightens and flashes 
 through the night that has suddenly fallen on 
 his life. Above is the broad sailing rack and 
 the wide sky, around him the silent earth, but he 
 is as effectually a prisoner on that little furlong 
 of heath, where he moves backwards and forwards, 
 as if he were a demon about whom a powerful 
 
PROLOGUE . 
 
 3 
 
 enchanter had drawn a magic circle. His thought 
 holds him, and from that patch of land he may 
 not go until he has picked the lock of his mental 
 prison. 
 
 Under his cloak he holds a letter, which tells 
 him that which a loving husband most dreads 
 to hear. 
 
 He looks up, but he finds his own tragic 
 thought on the face of heaven. Had he known — 
 could he have known Lenan, he might have mut- 
 tered : 
 
 u The cold moor shivers and the wind is sighing, 
 
 And from the heathland shimmering mists rise up ; 
 
 The melancholy sky is slowly dying — 
 
 Lo, from its hand the sun drops like a cup ! ” 
 
 Twilight passed, and night came — a moonless, 
 starless night, and still he walked and wrestled 
 in the spirit with himself upon that lonely path. 
 The wind increased in fury, bringing up immense 
 battalions of' clouds, then ceased with a long wail ; 
 some big drops fell; the thunder came, and with 
 
4 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 it a thunder-shower; but he heeded it not. The 
 lightning blazed out, and he paused now and 
 again to watch the ghostly landscape that ap- 
 peared so distinctly, and then, like a fleeting 
 vision, suddenly dissolved into the inky black- 
 ness of the night. Once, in one of the flashes, a 
 hand clutched at his throat, and a haggard face 
 and two wild eyes looked into his — only for a 
 second ; the replying glance was of such un- 
 earthly fierceness that the would-be robber slunk 
 away before the man in the horseman’s cloak had 
 time to strike him. 
 
 Will he never make up his mind ? 
 
 The forehead under that laced hat is a broad one. 
 The man in the cloak knows that the resolution he 
 takes now will be final. Is it not a strong man — 
 it may be the strength of madness — who goes out 
 to a lonely moor, and walks there from sunset till 
 midnight until he has made up his mind, or is it 
 merely a vacillating fool ? He makes it up. Is it a 
 powerful expression that every-day one, to make up 
 
PROLOGUE . 
 
 5 
 
 the mind ? Kneaded, and rolled, and beaten, and 
 baked, or burned to ashes in the crucible of 
 jealousy and mixed with fell poisons, bis mind 
 is made up, and he says under his breath, but 
 with an intensity of meaning that might etcli 
 the words in fire on the black tablets of the 
 night, “If she will confess, though I cannot for- 
 give her, I will leave her punishment to God.” 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The lady of Lynden Manor is ill, and no one 
 sees her except her physician and her husband. 
 She has been confined to her room for a week, 
 sobbing and moaning; and now she is frequently 
 delirious. She calls her husband by name, 
 angrily, tenderly ; she cries for her son, for her 
 father and mother. Alas ! her father and mother 
 are dead ; her little two-year-old boy has been 
 sent away ; and there is no woman about her 
 but the grim and silent old housekeeper, who 
 never leaves her side. Her husband watches her 
 
6 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 night and day. Every morning and every night 
 he asks her sternly, “ Have you anything to con- 
 fess ? ” and every time the question is put she 
 turns her face to him and says with all her force 
 — “No!” That is all that ever passes between 
 them ; if she addresses him he makes no reply. 
 
 Her delirium never prevents her from under- 
 standing and answering that question — “Have 
 you anything to confess ? ” She puts all her 
 strength into her “No;” and, on the ninth 
 morning after she took to her bed, she put her 
 life into it ; and from the pale lips there issued, 
 after the little fierce word, a red stream that 
 stained her white neck and bosom. The world 
 was told that being ill with a fever she had burst 
 a blood-vessel in her delirium ; but there were 
 whisperings in the kitchen of anguished cries for 
 bread and for water ; and the woman who dressed 
 the corpse told of a healthy body dreadfully 
 emaciated, and of the marks of little teeth on 
 the wasted arms, 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 7 
 
 A week after the death of his wife, the master 
 of Lynden Manor sat in his low-ceiled study with 
 letters on the table before him which he read and 
 re-read. At last it was clear, as clear as day- 
 light ; his wife had been ingeniously calumniated. 
 He read the letters over finally and then burnt 
 them. Once more he had to make up his mind 
 on a matter of life and death. He thought of the 
 moor, but it was beautiful weather and the moon 
 was full ; he could not be alone in the dark there. 
 “ Ah ! ” he cried with a start. He knew where 
 to go. In a wood behind the house stood the 
 mausoleum of his family, the grim resting-place 
 of his dead ancestors, and thither he bent his 
 steps. 
 
 The silence of the charnel-house brought a 
 nameless satisfaction, and when he knelt beside 
 the new coffin, a flood of tears burst from him — 
 from him, the strong man who had never wept 
 before in all his life. He bent his head on the 
 coffin, and knelt so for an hour. 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 When he left the mausoleum there was a 
 radiance on his pale face, as of one who had 
 talked with the blessed dead. 
 
 Until long after midnight he was busy in his 
 study. His light was seen burning in the early 
 morning by some roysterers returning home from 
 the market-town ; but nobody saw him steal into 
 his little son, and kiss with trembling lips his 
 rosy cheeks ; nobody saw him leave the house. 
 On his study table lay this brief note : “ I am 
 going on a long journey, and shall perhaps never 
 return.” 
 
 For thirty years from that morning nothing was 
 known of his fate. 
 
 His son grew up* married, and there was again 
 an heir. The young wife and mother, happy in 
 the devotion of her husband and the smiles of her 
 baby, hardly knew the meaning of the word care. 
 She had been only half in love when she married ; 
 her husband was so reticent, so difficult to under- 
 stand, that fear and affection strove together in 
 
PROLOGUE . 
 
 9 
 
 her heart; but, before the honeymoon had passed, 
 perfect love had cast out fear. Understand him 
 she never would, but she could trust him, trust him; 
 ay, and love him too, which was far better. The 
 effect of her gentle nature and deep, calm love for 
 her husband upon the haughty aloofness (Coleridge 
 used the word, and it’s the only one that expresses 
 what is meant), which was an heirloom in his 
 family, became the talk of the country-side. At 
 Christmas and at Easter, Lynden Manor, which 
 in former times had known only a chance guest, 
 was full to overflowing ; until gossip said its 
 master was ruining his estate — and not without 
 some truth, as his heir subsequently discovered. 
 
 Gossip said also that there was a curse on the 
 family, when the squire was brought home one 
 night shot through the heart by a poacher. 
 
 It’s a hard saying that — “ Let the dead bury 
 their dead,” and can be wrested to many meanings. 
 If it means — which probably it does not, theo- 
 logically — that those only should mourn for the 
 
IO 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 dead , attend them to their last resting-place, and 
 visit their graves, whose hearts are, so to say, 
 under the earth with the bodies of their loved ones : 
 in her case it was a behest which the young widow r 
 fulfilled devoutly. For many months her heart 
 was dead. It was not alone the sad end of her 
 husband that had numbed her affections ; but a 
 dreadful thing came to light, the thought of which 
 made her shiver to her dying day. 
 
 It was on the afternoon of the second day after 
 her husband’s murder, as she sat with dry eyes 
 and pale face, holding in her listless hand a lock 
 of dark hair, that the butler came to her mys- 
 terious^, and, with awe-stricken face, told her 
 something that froze her to the marrow. But if 
 she had softened and humanised her husband, 
 he had given her a share of that unbending 
 spirit of his, which had yielded and put off its iron 
 independence only at her gentle suasion. She 
 mastered herself, and although her steps tottered 
 at first, when she came to the open air she walked 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 i r 
 
 before the servant towards the mausoleum without 
 faltering. Arrived at the gloomy portal, she rather 
 hung back ; but again she controlled herself, and 
 entered first. For some seconds she saw nothing 
 in the semi-darkness. 
 
 Here, madam,” said the butler hoarsely, for 
 she was looking in the wrong direction. 
 
 She turned about and saw the thing he had 
 told her of. 
 
 Upon an open coffin hung a mildewed suit of 
 black clothes enclosing a skeleton, the right arm 
 of which lay round the neck of another skeleton 
 in the coffin. The two skulls were side by side ; 
 the empty eye-sockets glared into each other, 
 and the lipless teeth grinned together. These 
 were the remains of the father and mother of 
 her dead husband. Long she stood and looked, 
 while the servant retired respectfully to the en- 
 trance of the building. Her horror gradually gave 
 place to fascination, and she touched with her cold 
 finders the white skulls. Then she examined the 
 
12 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 coffin, and saw that the lining of lead had been 
 hacked open, evidently with some inadequate 
 instrument. As she moved, her foot struck 
 against something; she stooped and picked up a 
 rusty pocket-knife ; one blade was broken, and 
 the other so dented and ragged that thirty years’ 
 rust had not been able to hide its saw-like 
 appearance. Again her foot struck against some- 
 thing ; she picked it up, it was a pistol. She 
 took it to the door and asked the faithful old 
 servant to examine it. The rusty weapon was 
 still loaded. 
 
 “ How can he have died ? ” she said. “ He 
 must have taken poison ; ” and she went back 
 to the coffin to search. 
 
 She did not find a vial or anything to indicate 
 poison, but she did find a half sheet of paper 
 covered on both sides with writing in pencil. At 
 first she thought she would not be able to read it, 
 but having gone out into the light of day, she 
 gradually deciphered the faded, old-fashioned 
 
PROLOGUE . 
 
 13 
 
 scrawl, for it was very ill- written. It made her 
 breath come short, and brought the tears to her 
 eyes. This is what she read : — 
 
 “The tenth day, and I am still alive and able to 
 write this. I did not mean to leave any message, 
 but my mind has grown weak with my body, and 
 I must write. There is one pang that makes this 
 prolonged, physical agony as nothing ; my innocent 
 wife — the wife I have foully murdered — w T as 
 racked with these pains for nine days. Merciful 
 powers, keep me alive for many days yet, that I 
 may suffer more, much more than she did. Even 
 had she been guilty — but how could I dare to 
 think it of her ? What a foul wretch I was to 
 stain her spotless soul with a sin as impossible to 
 her as to one of God’s angels ! — but had she been 
 guilty, this was no punishment for her, these 
 frightful pangs that have made me bite my tongue 
 through, lest in my agony I should cry aloud. 
 
 “ I must have swooned. It is almost dark now, 
 and I began writing about mid-day. I am feebler 
 
14 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 and fear I shall die before my expiation has half 
 satisfied myself. Oh ! I should have brought with 
 me bread and a little water ! I could have kept 
 myself alive to suffer longer. Assuredly, Heaven 
 will never forgive me. What have such as I to 
 do with Heaven — that Heaven in which murderers 
 have no place ? Misery, pain unending must be 
 my portion here and hereafter ; I could not be 
 happy in Heaven remembering the pain I caused 
 my dear wife. My brain is going. Heaven ! 
 Hell ! Annihilation ! Ah ! those nine long days 
 and nights that she moaned and screamed in 
 wondering agony ! Oh, God ! blot them out of 
 time, that they may cease in my memory. I shall 
 go mad. But perhaps my wife loves me still, and 
 perhaps her happiness will be incomplete in Para- 
 dise without me — perhaps ! 
 
 “ I have only a minute or two’s strength, a 
 minute or two’s life. No one has thought of 
 searching for me here. Should I yet be discovered, 
 the pistol will serve my turn* I am slaying my- 
 
PROLOGUE . 
 
 15 
 
 self, as I slew my innocent wife. God have mercy 
 on my soul.” 
 
 When she had finished reading, she walked a 
 few paces up and down in front of the mausoleum; 
 then she re-entered it calmly, and, having placed 
 the paper in the coffin, summoned her servants. 
 She instructed them to place the husband’s remains 
 in the coffin with the wife’s ; and, when they had 
 replaced the lid, she bade them reveal nothing of 
 the gruesome tragedy of a bygone time. 
 
 It was almost a year after the death of her 
 husband before the young widow T began to live 
 again. The worst symptom of her unfortunate 
 condition during that time was her indifference to 
 her child. Many attempts were made to rouse her 
 maternal instinct, but they all failed, until Nature 
 took the case in hand. They told her one morning 
 that her son had scarlet fever. 
 
 “ Get a nurse from London,” she said. 
 
 But in the height of his fever she heard her 
 boy moaning at night. She sat up in bed and 
 
1 6 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 listened. The poor little fellow had ceased for 
 many months to talk of, and apparently to think 
 of, his neglectful mother. That night, however, 
 some memory of old caresses stirred in his fevered 
 brain, and he cried, “ Mother, mother ! ” The 
 feeble cry reached her heart. She hurried to his 
 side, nor did she leave his couch until he was con- 
 valescent. Her interest in the world returned 
 with the re-awakened mother’s love. 
 
 The boy grew up very like his father. When 
 he came of age he married, and finding his finances, 
 owing to the too generous hospitality of his father, 
 in a bad condition, he sold the estate, and put the 
 bulk of the proceeds into the funds. With the 
 remainder he bought a commission, and being sent 
 to the Crimea, was killed at Balaclava. 
 
 Shortly after his death his wife bore a son, who 
 is the hero of our story. 
 
 There is no doubt that the butler told his wife 
 of the discovery in the mausoleum, for the story 
 was known to all the neighbours of the family ; 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 1 7 
 
 but the grandmother kept her secret, and neither 
 her son nor her son’s son knew of the vengeance 
 wreaked by their ancestor on his unfortunate wife, 
 and the subsequent j ustice which he wrought upon 
 himself. 
 
 B 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 Robert L’Estrange swung a hammock in his 
 sitting-room in King’s Bench Walk, and deter- 
 mined to pass the summer in London for a change. 
 
 He was tired of travel ; tired of hot summers 
 and cold summers — his experience of them ranged 
 from Reikiavik to Timbuctoo ; tired of Switzer- 
 land, tired of Norway — after a fortnight of each ; 
 tired of summers anywhere — and of winters, and 
 springs, and autumns. What he wanted was a new 
 season, neither spring, summer, autumn, winter, 
 nor a mixture of these in any proportion, but some- 
 thing entirely original ; and so he stayed in Lon- 
 don. Nature has a habit of repeating herself, 
 
 especially in the matter of the seasons. Spring, 
 
 J 9 
 
20 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 summer, autumn, winter are, no doubt, four capital 
 ideas ; ideas that bear repetition and that have 
 been of great benefit to the world ; still it is only 
 a song of four verses, and it becomes monotonous, 
 even in England, where Nature makes many not 
 wholly unsuccessful attempts to sing it backwards. 
 Robert L’ Estrange had been disgusted with the 
 spring. It had, pretty much as usual, lasted 
 from the middle of November till the end of 
 February, with a violent eruption of summer at 
 the beginning of the year ; for Nature was taking 
 it rather ad libitum on the occasion of this per- 
 formance. Winter had also been very tiresome. 
 Beginning in March with three weeks of intense 
 frost, it had boomed along with sleet and snow 
 almost till the end of April, where it picked up 
 the first two lines of spring, wdfich, by rights, 
 ought to have come in the beginning of November, 
 and trilled them ofl* with magnificent bravura 
 passages into the middle of May. It was then, 
 just when Nature was accustomed to drone out 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 21 
 
 the remainder of the English winter, that 
 L’Estrange used to fly from the tedious incon- 
 sistency of the thing. In the year of our story, 
 however, Nature forgot herself entirely, and before 
 she knew what she was about, had plunged right 
 into the heart of her summer song, and was so 
 entranced by it herself that she couldn’t stop, but 
 kept singing it, “ in full-throated ease,” straight 
 on till the very end of July. 
 
 On the fifteenth of May the sky was of such a 
 deep blue, and the air so delightfully soft and 
 sweet, that Robert L’Estrange became interested 
 in the weather. Next day the blue of the sky 
 was deepened a shade, and the air, even in the 
 precincts of the Temple, seemed much less jaded 
 than is habitual with the metropolitan zephyr. 
 L’Estrange grew critical and forebore to pack. 
 From dusk till the dawn of the seventeenth a bird 
 sang in the Temple Gardens. L’Estrange would 
 have sworn it was a nightingale, and waited one 
 day more on the chance of its singing again. It 
 
22 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 sang again, and for four nights in succession. 
 Unable to find anywhere absolute originality in 
 the weather, and thinking there was every pro- 
 mise in England of something only less rare, the 
 true old English summer, that poets have sung 
 and novelists have bragged of, but of which the 
 oldest inhabitant can’t remember an example — 
 on the morning after the bird’s second song, Robert 
 L’Estrange swung liis hammock in his sitting- 
 room in the Temple, and determined to pass the 
 summer in London. 
 
 What sort of man was this dilettante of the 
 weather ? On the first glance not a man to be 
 influenced, in his going out to Piccadilly or to 
 Peru, and in his comings in from the street or from 
 farthest Ind, by any considerations of shine or 
 shower. In no assemblage of men could the least 
 observant have failed to note him. He stood six 
 feet in his socks ; but he was so compactly and so 
 proportionately built, and carried himself with 
 such ease, that, when he stood alone, he seemed 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 23 
 
 only of average height. He had a clear olive com- 
 plexion ; black, curly hair ; teeth, perhaps a little 
 large, but perfect, and dazzlingly white ; his lips, 
 though thin, were so firm and red that men said 
 the} T were too full, and women said — nothing, but 
 looked twice and sighed ; his chin was round, 
 strong, and slightly cleft ; he wore no hair on his 
 face except a slight moustache — it was slight, be- 
 cause his upper lip had never felt the razor. His 
 nose was short and straight ; his eyes gray and 
 large, inclining to the almond shape ; his eyebrows, 
 firmly marked and almost straight, the reverse 
 of bushy ; and his forehead low and broad. The 
 head was long, and the neck rounded but sinewy. 
 A man, you would have said, fitted to undertake, 
 and succeed in, enterprises like the chosen ones of 
 the earth ; an ample man with capacity for any- 
 thing; a man most likely to rise to eminence in 
 the army — certain, at all events, to carve his name 
 deeply in the adamant, and high up among the 
 loftiest climbers. For years his head had been 
 
24 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 filled with ambitious dreams, and most of his 
 friends still deemed him capable of scoring a big 
 success, if he only cared to exert himself. One or 
 two of those who knew him better had a slightly 
 different story to tell, and among those who knew 
 him best was Eobert L’Estrange. Let the reader 
 judge. Here is an extract from his diary, dated 
 eighteenth of May, the very day on which he 
 determined to spend the summer in London: — 
 
 “ I am thirty-eight to-day, and it is high time I 
 confessed here that I am a failure. I do not make 
 any reservation — a failure absolute. I have begun 
 many things, and never once succeeded. What am 
 I ? A barrister who has never practised; a jour- 
 nalist who never wrote a leader ; a poet who 
 never published a verse ; a lover who was never 
 in love ; a student who knows neither everything 
 of something nor something of everything, but 
 who has scantily furnished a room or two in his 
 brain with bric-a-brac and waifs and strays of 
 useless knowledge; a traveller who has followed 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 25 
 
 in the footsteps of others — a discoverer of other 
 mens discoveries. Without any reservation, a 
 failure ; for the things that I have tried to do 
 are do-able, and are done daily. I can’t console 
 myself with the knowledge that I have failed 
 where only one man in a generation can possibly 
 succeed ; scores of men have struggled trium- 
 phantly past me over difficulties which I gave the 
 go-by as soon as they cropped up in my path. I 
 was certainly heavily handicapped. Six hundred 
 pounds a year of clear income is a terrible dead 
 weight to carry. It needs a much more powerful 
 ambition than mine to obtain anything like a 
 place, when the saddle-bags are too well furnished. 
 I once tried to make myself poor ; I thought if I 
 brought myself to my marrow-bones, the having 
 to do or die would stand me instead of ambition. 
 Many a man whom I saw advancing steadily to 
 eminence and fortune had no other incentive than 
 the dread of starvation; but even the career of 
 spendthrift, in spite of the broadness of the way 
 
25 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED .? 
 
 and the splendour of the company, was beyond 
 me. The misery of my first and only debt, when 
 I had exceeded my quarter’s income by five pounds, 
 I shall never forget ; it made me feel as if I had 
 sold my soul to the devil, and were doomed to 
 perdition beyond reprieve ; the earth turned un- 
 steady ; the elephant seemed to be tottering and 
 the shell of the tortoise about to ‘ cave in ; ’ and 
 the clouds that muffled the sky looked like im- 
 mense, dingy feather beds, with which justice, who 
 on this occasion took the likeness of a blaek-a- 
 moor, intended to smother me — and all on account 
 of that miserable fiver.” 
 
 It was in the afternoon that he scribbled this, 
 swinging in the hammock, which he had hung in 
 a shady corner of his room. He used a pencil, 
 and employed the little note-books in which he 
 wrote his exceedingly non-diurnal diary for pipe- 
 lights. Two or three leaves were left in them 
 sometimes, but, as a rule, although he wrote 
 irregularly, he kept his pipe in up to date, light- 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 27 
 
 ing it at night with the page written in the morn- 
 ing, if there happened to be one. He did not 
 parade this habit ; none of his acquaintances knew 
 it ; and yet it was arrogant. There was no man 
 more esteemed as a companion by all who knew 
 him. Had he been less reticent many men were 
 ready to swear eternal friendship, and to love him 
 as men are seldom loved by men — it is so very 
 easy to love a man with six hundred a year of 
 his own ; and as for the women, a glance of his 
 wonderful gray eyes, frank as a boy’s, yet deep, 
 sultry and mysterious, was more fatal than a 
 week of marked attention from adepts in flirtation. 
 No woman, however, got more than a glance from 
 Robert L’Estrange. It is a very high type of 
 man of whom it is sufficient to say, and that 
 without any limitation, “ He is a gentleman.” It 
 means, as we all know, that there is no flaw in 
 his birth, breeding or character. The sentence is 
 often used conventionally of very ordinary men ; 
 but then it is spoken in an ordinary tone which 
 
28 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 implies a limitation, and lowers the standard ; 
 more often the expression is, “ He is a thorough 
 gentleman/’ the “ thorough ” meaning, of course, 
 that there is a vulgar fibre in the speaker, and, 
 in all likelihood, in the individual characterised. 
 On the rare occasions, when Robert L’Estrange 
 was discussed, if any one said, to sum him up, 
 “ He is a gentleman,” the tone implied that he 
 was something over and beyond a gentleman, if 
 that be possible. Indeed, with the exception of 
 the “ common cry of curs,” who, having bitten 
 each other mad with hate of everything better 
 than themselves, yelp detraction at the heels of 
 all, there were none of L’Estrange’s acquaintances 
 who did not regard him as apart from other men, 
 as gentler, more modest, less sinful than other 
 men, and withal devoid, as far as a man may be, 
 of self-consciousness ; in fact a Bayard, sans peur 
 et sans reproche. Yet there was probably no 
 more arrogant man in London on that afternoon 
 than Robert L’Estrange, scribbling his confession 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 29 
 
 in pencil to be burnt in the worship of St. 
 Nicotine at the Convivial Cannibals at night. 
 Take his diary as an illustration. If he were 
 in the mood he would spend hours over it, polish- 
 ing and re-writing his sentences ; and it was just 
 those pages over which he spent most labour 
 that he was certain to burn. Nobody knew 
 anything of it but himself ; he was arrogant only 
 to himself. Applause for the performances of 
 others, sympathy for their trials and successes, 
 he had to bestow in abundance, and of genuine 
 quality ; for himself he had only the most arro- 
 gant scorn, and it also was genuine. It was an 
 admirable point of view in many respects from 
 which to regard oneself. We shall see, however, 
 to what it led this man. In the meantime it 
 led him to stay in London for the summer, and 
 to give to himself a meteorological whim as a 
 reason for doing so. He knew better, however. 
 Behind the calm front which he showed the 
 world, there beat a storm of unrest and. dissatis- 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 3 ° 
 
 faction, that knew no lull and increased in vehem- 
 ence as he grew older. This man had done 
 nothing, absolutely nothing he told himself. In 
 his bitterer moments he sometimes felt as if it 
 would have been better for him had he ruined 
 himself — in pocket, body, and soul. He had 
 realised simply Zero. A course of transcendental 
 dissipation would have been something, for if we 
 can’t mount above Zero, let us get down below it, 
 into the abyss, as far as possible ; anything is 
 better than a cypher, “ Hateful to God and to the 
 enemies of God.” 
 
 The page quoted from his diary was all he 
 wrote that afternoon. He meant to write more ; 
 but he had hardly finished the last sentence in 
 the extracts given, when the report of a pistol 
 startled him out of his hammock. The shot 
 seemed to have been fired just outside his room. 
 He opened the door at once, and saw a strange 
 figure standing in the lobby. It was the figure 
 of a man dressed in a very old-fashioned, broad- 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 3i 
 
 cloth suit, still a dead black, for the stuff was 
 admirable although the cut was bucolic, not to 
 say Hyperborean, and a very old-fashioned beaver 
 hat. The man was examining a smoking pistol 
 he held in his left hand. The weapon seemed to 
 be a very deadly engine, with a bore like a 
 mortar and a flint-lock. The lobe of the man’s 
 right ear was shot away, and blood streamed 
 copiously down bis neck ; but he stood looking 
 intently into the barrel of the pistol, the muzzle 
 of which was bigger than the eye-piece of a fair- 
 sized telescope, as absorbed as if he had been a 
 boy at a peep-show. 
 
 “ It gae’d off*,” he said at last, looking round, 
 and holding out the pistol with some pride — 
 whether in the pistol itself, or in the fact that it 
 had “ Gae’d off,” it would be difficult to say. 
 
 “ I’m kitty, ye see,” he said, having expended 
 some more admiring glances on his weapon. 
 
 “ Kitty ? ” queried L’Estrange, looking dubiously 
 at a strong, iron-gray beard. 
 
32 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ Ay , a kitty, left-handed, ye ken ; or I would 
 ha’e shot rnysel’.” 
 
 “ But you have shot yourself.” 
 
 “Ay, my lug,” he said, putting up his hand to 
 his wounded ear indifferently, and shaking away 
 some blood. “ Ye see, my haun’ trim’elt. I’m ane 
 o’ the lame kitties, an’ the pistol skited off my 
 broo’. But I beg your pardon,” he added, cor- 
 recting the dialect with evident labour, and 
 retaining a very strong accent ; “ some left-handed 
 men a, re as dexterous as your right-handed billies, 
 but I’m the most sinistrous individual it has been 
 my misfortune to meet. I think my very soul’s 
 left-handed.” 
 
 “ Come in here,” said L’Estrange. 
 
 The man stepped in at once, and L’Estrange 
 shut the door, at which a Temple porter knocked 
 almost immediately. 
 
 “ There’s nothing wrong,” said L’Estrange, as he 
 opened the door and nodded familiarly. 
 
 The porter muttered something and withdrew ; 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF. 
 
 33 
 
 and the voices and hurried footsteps which had 
 resounded in the building after the discharge of 
 the pistol, gradually died away. 
 
 With the tenderness of a woman L’Estrange 
 bound up the man’s ear ; and having given him a 
 glass of brandy, made him lie down on a couch, 
 while he resumed h‘s hammock. 
 
 The two men surveyed each other with interest 
 and wonder ; the one delicate, brilliant, tempered 
 like a Damascus blade ; the other coarse-grained, 
 dusky, tough, like a scythe, or a bill-hook. When 
 their gaze met the thought of either was, “ There 
 is something about this man that attracts me. 
 I wonder how much we have in common ? ” 
 L’Estrange was the first to speak. 
 
 “ You chose a strange place to attempt suicide,” 
 he said. 
 
 “ I didn’t choose it,” returned the other, with 
 some special meaning. 
 
 “Did you mean to kill yourself?” 
 
 “ Not exactly,” was the cautious reply. 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ I see,” said L’Estrange, smiling ; “ you were 
 just having a shot at yourself ; probably you 
 have not been long in London.” 
 
 “A week.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I should have thought you would have 
 observed in that time that, however customary it 
 may be in Glasgow and Edinburgh for men to 
 chip pieces off their heads with bullets as an 
 afternoon amusement, the game is not recognised 
 here ; it’s illegal, and, in this benighted land,' 
 punishable.” 
 
 “ I’ve been long enough in London,” said the 
 other, smiling grimly, “ to understand that what 
 you’ve said about Glasgow and Edinburgh is a 
 joke. I didn’t quite make out that English style 
 of joke at tirst, but it’s so common that I begin 
 to be able to distinguish it from lying.” 1 
 
 “ Without a surgical operation ? ” 
 
 1 Out of consideration for the reader, it is perhaps con- 
 venient to drop the homely Doric which the old Scot 
 habitually used. 
 
A PISTOL GOES OIF \ 
 
 35 
 
 “Ay.” 
 
 “ Are you sure you weren’t trying to make 
 an entrance for some difficult English joke a 
 moment ago ? ” 
 
 “ Quite sure. It was a practical joke I was 
 trying to get into my head ; not English, hut 
 universal.” 
 
 “ Death ? ” 
 
 The other nodded, and both sat silent for a 
 second or two. 
 
 “ Well,” said the Scotchman at last, “ I’m very 
 obliged to you, sir. I’ll go about my business 
 now.” 
 
 “ You’d better rest a little ; there’s no hurry,’’ 
 said L’Estrange kindly. 
 
 The Scotchman, who had risen, lay down again, 
 and asked suddenly : “ Where is Lord Tintock ? ” 
 
 “ Lord Tintock ? ” echoed L’Estrange. 
 
 “ Ay ; Charles Mountstuart — Lord Tintock.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Mountstuart : I forgot he was Tintock 
 now. I don’t know.” 
 
36 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ But he lives on the same floor as you, sir.” 
 
 “ He did until three days ago. He gave up 
 his chambers when his father died. If hes not 
 at Tintock I don’t know where he is. I very 
 seldom saw him, during the last three months 
 not at all, for he rarely came to his rooms.” 
 
 “ He’s not at Tintock.” 
 
 “ Do you know him ? ” 
 
 “I saw him once,” he said carelessly. Then lie 
 added, speaking rather to himself than to L’- 
 Estrange, in a low but distinct and strangely 
 solemn voice, “ and I shall see him once again — 
 please God.” 
 
 L’Estrange looked at him intently. The Scotch- 
 man raised his eyes, and seeing the interrogation 
 in L’Estrange’s gaze, said : “ I can’t tell you 
 anything about myself. I did mean to take 
 my life, there’s no use in denying it. I failed, 
 and I won’t try again. Good-bye.” 
 
 Much interested, and wishing to retain him, 
 L’Estrange said, pointing to the pistol which the 
 
A PISTOL GOES OPT. 
 
 37 
 
 Scotchman was pocketing : “ How could you 
 
 expect to kill anything with that piece of anti- 
 quity ? ” 
 
 “ Anything will kill a man when his time 
 comes/’ was the evasive answer. 
 
 “ Must you go ? ” asked L’Estrange. 
 
 “ Ay, I must/’ said the other. 
 
 “ Shall I see you again ? ” 
 
 “ Maybe.” 
 
 “ Could I see you again to-night ? Come back 
 at twelve to-night, will you ?” 
 
 “ Well, if nothing comes in the way, I may, 
 sir.” 
 
 “No, but make the appointment,” said L’- 
 Estrange somewhat imperiously. There was a 
 distraught look about the man, and he wished 
 to try and save him from himself. The Scotch- 
 man’s remarks had been self-contradictory, and 
 L’Estrange did not quite trust the assurance 
 which he had given that he would not attempt 
 suicide again. He understood human nature — 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED 1 
 
 38 
 
 that is, the male portion of it, well ; and he felt 
 that if this man promised to visit him at twelve, 
 he would do so. He thought the Scot looked 
 like one who, having failed in some enterprise, 
 had now nothing to live for ; and he judged 
 that the proposed appointment would supply a 
 motive quite sufficient to make his remarkable 
 visitor desire to live a little longer ; when life 
 and death are on the balance a feather weighs. 
 L’Estrange was mistaken, however ; the Scotch- 
 man had in the meantime abandoned the idea of 
 suicide. 
 
 “ I’ll come,” he said with decision, after a little 
 reflection. 
 
 “ That’s right,” said L’Estrange. He then 
 mentioned his name. 
 
 “ They call me Angus Frazer,” said the other. 
 “ Good-bye.” 
 
 “ Good-bye for the present,” said L’Estrange. 
 
 There was much in this old man that grated 
 on L’Estrange ; and he w r as astonished at him- 
 
A PISTOL GOES OFF . 
 
 39 
 
 self when he realised that he had admitted to 
 a certain degree of intimacy a half-educated 
 stranger, evidently belonging to the lower orders ; 
 but “ one touch of Nature makes the whole 
 world kin,” and the powerful emotions which 
 had led the man who had called himself Angus 
 Frazer to attempt suicide found an echo in 
 L’Estrange’s breast. We are all a little mad in 
 this “mad world, my masters.” In spite of the 
 veneer of civilisation on which each new age 
 has rubbed a polish of its own, a little scratch 
 reveals the knotty, stubborn human nature be- 
 neath that loves madly, and avenges madly, 
 and levels all orders. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 The idea of suicide has a strange fascination for 
 the modern mind. Few men and women, whose 
 skulls enclose anything in the shape of brains, 
 escape the contemplation of it in relation to them- 
 selves ; for if unsatisfied desire or unachieved 
 ambition does not supply the motive, that famous 
 foreign importation, ennui — the French, as a Dutch 
 compliment to us, call it le spleen — is quite a 
 sufficient incitement, not only to the contempla- 
 tion, but to the commission of self-slaughter. We 
 have all heard of the delightful and eminently 
 foreign Englishman who hung himself one morning 
 to avoid the daily necessity of donning and doffing 
 
 his clothes. Suicide as a means of escape from the 
 
 4 * 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 sad array of broken columns — to vary the skeleton 
 metaphor — the unaccomplished aims that were 
 crowded away in his soul’s inner chamber, occurred 
 to L’Estrange occasionally; but he also believed in 
 a kind of platonic species which he called ideal 
 suicide. On one of his pipe lights he wrote it 
 down thus : “ The highest prayer, according to a 
 certain philosopher, is an action ; suicide — naked, 
 bloody, practical suicide is the most heartfelt 
 prayer possible to the uneducated, to the pagan, 
 and to the very young ; because it is the act of an 
 optimist, a believer in this at least, that the 
 universe is intended for man, and that there is 
 happiness — peace to be found, somewhere, some- 
 how, if only in annihilation. But the cultured 
 man, the man who has seen and groped a little way 
 into the mystery of life, knows of a higher suicide 
 — the slaughter of the darling object of his soul, 
 however high and noble, because it is his. The 
 man who could do that would attain peace, which 
 is happiness.” Then followed some remarks about 
 
4 LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 43 
 
 Renunciation, and Nirvana ; for L’Estrange per- 
 ceived that he had simply phrased in a new way a 
 very old idea. The reader must not regard this as 
 the mere lazy philosophising of an idle man* 
 L’Estrange was in earnest — dead earnest ; any man 
 who knows the world, will take as sufficient proof 
 of that, the fact of his constant failure. What he 
 had sought was a key, or some explanation, of the 
 mystery of existence — which everyone seeks con- 
 sciously or unconsciously. He had thought to find 
 it in success ; having failed, he began to wonder if 
 he had not stumbled on it blindfold ; to probe and 
 test his failure to see if by any chance in the 
 sorrow and misery of that failure there lay not the 
 solution he sought so earnestly. 
 
 The necessity of this glimpse into L’Estrange’s 
 inner life, however tedious the reader may have 
 found it, will now appear. Credence for what is about 
 to follow could not have been expected, unless the 
 speculative quality of the man’s mind and the spiritu- 
 ality of his nature had been exhibited in some degree. 
 
44 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 In the first chapter it was said that no woman 
 ever got more than a glance from L’Estrange. 
 This is true, not only in substance but literally ; 
 and the full meaning of what is intended must be 
 stated explicitly. Madam, you need not shut 
 this book, or if you wish to read it, you need not 
 keep it from your daughter —that is, if you allow 
 vour daughter to read Enid and Elaine and 
 Guinevere , and to witness the performance of 
 Hamlet and Othello . As for you, Mrs. Grundy, 
 there is nothing to be said, except “ good-bye.” 
 We part company with you, madam, at the next 
 sentence you will find, for it contains a statement 
 which you, with your intimate experience of the 
 frailty of humanity, cannot but deem absurd. Not 
 only had Robert L’Estrange never been in love, but 
 he had never so much as kissed any woman ex- 
 cept his mother, from the time that women ceased 
 kissing him, for he had been a most beautiful boy. 
 Like Sir Galahad, he was a maiden knight, he w T as 
 not of those, in the Laureate’s fine-filled phrase, 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 45 
 
 “ who keep their winged affections clipped with 
 crime.” Neither love nor lust had ever exerted 
 any dominion over this man. “ He was eight-and- 
 thirty,” the reader says — not Mrs. Grundy, she has 
 already closed the book, but the gentle reader — 
 with some pardonable dubiety. True : all that 
 can be said here, however, is to insist on your 
 believing it. You have seen how his mental and 
 physical energies have been devoted in the past ; 
 and an endeavour has been made to show you 
 something of his spirituality. If you cannot credit 
 what is here asserted of him, then you had perhaps 
 read no further, like the lady to whom we have 
 bidden a respectful farewell. But you will surely 
 believe it : the world is not so black as it is 
 painted, and even in this gross and sordid London 
 of ours there are unspotted men to be found, as 
 well as unspotted women. Unspotted men who 
 are not fanatical, not pietists, but men of the 
 world, engaged in business, or, like L’Estrange, in 
 their own culture, or leading simply the ordinary 
 
4 6 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 fashionable life. You believe this, gentle reader ? 
 Yes ; for you have a soul of your own, and re- 
 ligions, conventionally or not, you believe in God, or 
 you believe in man. But to the business of our tale. 
 
 When Angus Frazer left him, L’Estrange went 
 out, revolving in his mind once more this idea of 
 suicide which haunts the mill-girl and the princess, 
 the cadger and the lord. But he had to dine some- 
 where, and in the matter of eating Robert 
 L’Estrange was a Conservative. His soul did not 
 hunger after flesh-pots, in the shape of mysterious 
 Italian delicacies, or he might have dropped in at 
 Pantaleoni’s and satisfied his craving. No man 
 finds rest in a restaurant ; perhaps that was why 
 Robert L’Estrange made up his mind to dine at the 
 Studio Club. The Studio Club is exclusive ; but 
 if a man is a good fellow, a real good fellow, they 
 will elect him at the Studio, if he’s a worker, and 
 if he’s honest he’s pretty nearly certain to get in to 
 the very home-like establishment not a hundred 
 miles from Hanover Square, which is opposite the 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE , . 
 
 47 
 
 Eastern Crematorium, where decayed Generals 
 without livers and with tempers, China merchants, 
 and people who have passed their time persistently 
 pulling at the pagoda tree in some way or other, go 
 to dream away the remainder of their existence, 
 and to talk over old times and the depreciation in 
 the value of the rupee. The old gentlemen at the 
 Crematorium always speak contemptuously of the 
 members of the Studio as the “ persons who occupy 
 the house over the way,” while the Studio men 
 refer to their opposite neighbours as the “Nautchers.” 
 No member of the Studio has ever entered the 
 doors of the Crematorium ; the reason for this is 
 very simple. There is an unwritten law at the 
 Crematorium Club that no person is admitted at 
 the front door except in uniform, or wearing a tall 
 hat. Now the Studio men, as we all know, affect 
 eccentric head-coverings and fancy beards. It need 
 hardly be said that a Nautcher never enters any 
 other club but his own eastern paradise, except a 
 service one occasionally. 
 
4 8 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 They give you a very decent dinner at the 
 Studio. L’Estrange ate the decent dinner, and 
 then he went into the billiard-room and listened 
 to and joined in the talk, which was, of courge, 
 of the shop — shoppy. Wackerbath the critic was 
 there ; in the columns of his own paper Wacker* 
 bath is a very great man indeed ; he lets every- 
 body have it freely all round, and Apollo couldn’t 
 have flayed Marsyas with greater pleasure than 
 Mr. Wackerbath did his artistic friends and 
 enemies ; he slated the friends, and he rubbed 
 Cayenne pepper into the wounds of the enemies. 
 “ I’ll make ’em squirm,” Mr. Wackerbath would 
 say, as he sat down before his sheets of lined 
 foolscap and emptied the vials of his wrath on 
 the artistic world generally. Wackerbath had, of 
 course, begun life as an unsuccessful artist ; no 
 one had ever bought a picture of his ; but Wacker- 
 bath made a very good thing out of criticism. 
 The wives, sisters and daughters of all artists 
 were civil to Wackerbath, and smiled their sweetest 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 49 
 
 upon him ; for their husbands’, brothers’, or fathers’ 
 sakes. He was invited to delicate little dinners, 
 which were offered as a sort of sacrifice to the 
 infernal gods ; he was bowed down to, and koo- 
 tooed to, and made much of in artistic circles ; 
 but at the Studio Club Art was avenged ; there, 
 nobody played up to Wackerbath, it would have 
 been bad form. 
 
 They were playing pool. Wackerbath was just 
 dead, he had starred you know, but all in vain ; 
 fellows played for safety, or they played for lives, 
 but whenever they had a chance they took a 
 mean advantage of Wackerbath ; they would plant 
 him over a pocket if they got the opportunity 
 they would cannon him in ; and when Wacker- 
 bath died, a great shout of delight resounded 
 through the billiard-room. 
 
 “ I’m awfully sorry, old fellow,” said young 
 M‘Gilp, “ these things will happen, you know.” 
 
 “ They’re always happening here,” said Wacker- 
 bath, who was very red in the face. “I call it 
 
5o 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 a most ungentlemanly thing. I wish artists 
 would try to be gentlemen.” 
 
 “ Some gentlemen are sorry they’ve tried to be 
 artists/’ retorted M‘Gilp. 
 
 And then the man whose last life had been 
 taken seated himself at L’Estrange’s side, yearn- 
 ing for sympathy. “ It was precious hard lines, 
 wasn’t it ? ” he said. 
 
 “ It always is hard lines,” remarked L’Estrange. 
 
 You remember the Japanese definition of the 
 game ; two men walk round a table with sticks, 
 one swears, and the other says, ‘Hard lines.’” 
 
 “ It isn’t the being put down, sir,” said Wacker- 
 bath, “that I object to ; it’s the paltry, revengeful 
 spirit of these men that makes my gorge rise ; 
 they’ve had half-a-crown out of me, sir, by a 
 foul conspiracy. Look at those five men, sir,” 
 said Wackerbath in a hoarse whisper, “ they’re 
 still chuckling over the success of their own 
 villainy. We are both literary men, L’Estrange ; 
 you can understand what these fellows can never 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 5i 
 
 comprehend. I have to sit in judgment on these 
 men ; I love them, sir ; that is to say most of 
 them, as brothers ; but, sir, I cannot hesitate to 
 do my duty to the public, and to the journal 
 from which I draw an annual screw. There’s 
 M'Gilp, as nice a young fellow as you’d meet in 
 a day’s march, but his drawing’s faulty, his com- 
 position’s defective, and there’s a want of lumin- 
 osity about his aerial perspective. It is my duty 
 to put the British public and the British picture- 
 buyer on their guard against a man like that. 
 And shall I hesitate, L’Estrange ? I don’t mind 
 telling you, in the strictest confidence, that I 
 shall not hesitate. I need hardly say that a 
 deficiency in the luminosity of his aerial perspec- 
 tive is a capital offence in an artist; the man 
 who sins in that direction, sir, is worthy of 
 artistic death. And then he errs, too, in matter 
 of detail ; that man, sir, has had the audacity to 
 paint a farm-yard with a girl feeding Dorking 
 fowls ; they are Dorkings, sir, unmistakable Dork- 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 5 2 
 
 ings, and they’ve only four claws. He might just 
 as well paint a man with four toes instead of live. 
 
 I mean to bring it home to him, sir. I shall not 
 flinch. Then there’s Bagge. Between you and 
 me and the post, sir, that man hasn’t a single 
 original idea. And yet that man is an R.A. ; it 
 is not my fault that Bagge is an R.A. I have 41 
 warned the public for years against Bagge ; there 
 isn’t an academician that I haven’t spoken my 
 mind to very freely upon the subject of Bagge. 
 He’s only showing one picture, sir, this year ; 
 that’s his swagger. The other men exhibit the 
 full number, of course they do. Bagge has sold 
 his picture already for four figures, the villain. 
 He’s stolen the sky from one of the National 
 Gallery Claude’s ; the nondescript tree in the fore- 
 ground, the thing with the trunk of a beech and 
 the leaves of a willow, which the public will 
 admire, because Bagge ’s the fashion, and an R.A. 
 forsooth, he’s cribbed from the big Ruysdael. I 
 caught his daughter, Jane, copying it.” 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 53 
 
 At that moment, one of the players fluked 
 Bagge, R.A., into the middle pocket. 
 
 “ Good stroke, sir, good stroke indeed,” cried 
 Mr. Wackerbath, drumming with the butt of his 
 cue upon the floor. 
 
 And then Bagge, R.A., glared fiercely at Mr. 
 Wackerbath, and Wackerbath blew out his cheeks 
 in derision. 
 
 “I’m sorry for Bagge,” said Wackerbath, 
 “ awfully sorry for him, poor fellow, because he has 
 a large family of girls ; but I shall unmask him, 
 sir, I shall unmask him without mercy. Duty 
 before everything is my principle, L’Estrange.” 
 
 And Robert L’Estrange sat in the billiard-room 
 of the Studio and listened to the artistic “shop,” 
 and I am bound to say enjoyed himself. And 
 then he took his leave and marched off down 
 Regent Street, and so to the Strand, resolved to 
 finish his evening at the Convivial Cannibals. 
 
 Two men were talking in whispers in one 
 corner of the great smoke-room, and arranging 
 
54 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 the plot of a piece they were about to write in 
 collaboration. Mr. Jumps, the low comedian, was 
 fast asleep in a large easy-chair, a copy of the 
 €< Era ” upon his lap. M‘Turk, Screamer, and 
 Blowhard, political leader-writers, sat peacefully 
 side by side meditating their midnight philippics 
 for the morning journals. Then a crowd of men 
 streamed into the room within the next ten 
 minutes, men who had been to the play, not for 
 pleasure, but because they were paid to go. Then 
 everybody began to talk at the full pitch of his 
 voice and compare notes upon the romantic melo- 
 drama that had been brought out that even- 
 ing. 
 
 “ It’s bound to catch on,” cried Deadwig, “ it’s 
 bound to catch on, because it’s so devilish original. 
 Cribbe’s nothing if he isn’t original, and the thing’s 
 magnificently staged ; besides, there’s a lot of 
 poetry about it.” 
 
 “I don’t think much of his poetry; most of it 
 is adapted from “ Familiar Quotations ; ” what- 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 55 
 
 ever’s good isn’t original, and what’s original ain’t 
 either good, or poetry,” said Mr. Mummery of the 
 “ Evening Flasher,” as he ordered a sixpenny 
 Muria and an Irish whisky. 
 
 “ It’s all one to Cribbe,” remarked another man, 
 “ they’re bound to take his stuff for the next two 
 years under their agreement. Cribbe was original 
 enough once, but that was when he wrote dramas 
 for the ‘Bird of Prey.’ A fellow can’t go on being 
 original all his days. It’s in low life that Cribbe 
 shines, he understands that ; and when he wants 
 poetry he just goes to Starveling and buys it by 
 the yard ; and we all know where Starveling gets 
 his poetry from.” 
 
 “A combination of Walker’s rhymning diction- 
 ary and three star Henessey, I should think,” 
 remarked another man. 
 
 “ Well, he gives the B.P. what it wants, at any 
 rate,” cried Mr. Deadwig ; “ and so long as they 
 turn money away at the doors for ten months in 
 the year at the Peristyle, they’ll go on with 
 
56 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 Cribbe : and when Cribbe don’t draw they’ll go 
 back to Flesher and lime-light effects.” 
 
 “ Here’s the Popular Educator,” cried a voice, 
 as a slight, delicate-looking man, with restless, 
 sparkling eyes, and a nervous, irritable manner, 
 made his appearance, a large book under his arm. 
 The book was Webster’s “ English Dictionary.” 
 The little man took his seat in the middle of a 
 large settee, and placed the dictionary on a small 
 table in front of him. He was immediately sur- 
 rounded by some dozen Cannibals, who gazed at 
 him with respectful attention. 
 
 “ G,” said the little man. 
 
 “ A,” said his next-door neighbour. 
 
 “ G,” said Mr. Jumps, the low comedian, who 
 was now wide awake, with a sort of ecstatic smile. 
 
 “ You’re always thinking of ’em, Jumps,” re- 
 marked the little man with the restless eyes ; “ gag 
 is a word, and costs you a penny.” 
 
 Mr. Jumps sighed deeply and placed a penny 
 upon the table. “J,” he remarked very briskly. 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 57 
 
 “ E,’’ said the next man without hesitation. 
 
 “ J,” said Mr. Mummery, spitefully, and with 
 a superior smile. 
 
 “U,” burst forth his next-door neighbour look- 
 ing fixedly at the ceiling. 
 
 “ J — E — J — U, that’s kid,” remarked Mr. Blow- 
 hard, who sat next him, “ there ain’t no such 
 person, and I challenge.” 
 
 “ Then you fork out twopence, Blowhard,” 
 remarked the little man. 
 
 “ Word, word,” shouted everybody in chorus. 
 
 “ Jejune,” explained the Popular Educator, '‘as 
 Blowhard’s readers know, if he doesn’t ; it means 
 vacuous, empty, dry, or barren. Try and look 
 pleasant, my Blowhard, and give a letter.” 
 
 And so the spelling-bee went on, and at the 
 end of about twenty minutes there was quite 
 a pile of coppers in front of the Popular Edu- 
 cator. 
 
 “ You can order fourpenny drinks, my boys,” he 
 said with a pleased smile. 
 
58 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ I’m hanged if this drink hasn’t cost me seven- 
 pence/’ said Mr. Blowhard indignantly. 
 
 “ That’s because you’re not an educated person,” 
 cried Mr. Mummery consolingly. 
 
 At that moment, Mr. Mugger, the popular 
 favourite, entered the room; the hero of a thou- 
 sand farces thrust his head in first and made a 
 hideous grimace; he was accustomed to do this upon 
 the stage, and he retained the habit in private life. 
 
 “ Oh, lor,” cried Mr. Jumps, “ here’s Mugger, just 
 as we were all so comfortable. Mugger without 
 his make up is absolutely unbearable ; a very 
 little of him goes a long way, don’t it, L’Estrange?” 
 continued Mr. Jumps. 
 
 And then quite unconsciously Mr. Jumps became 
 suddenly afflicted with a tremendous double squint; 
 the left hand corner of his mouth was drawn 
 towards his ear, while what doctors call his hairy 
 scalp began to twitch violently as though it were 
 being pulled by a string : he appeared to be 
 attacked with face-ache, first on the right cheek, 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 59 
 
 and then on the left : then he made a sudden loud 
 popping noise with his lips, which sounded like 
 the opening of a soda-water bottle, nodded to 
 L’Estrange and hurried from the room. 
 
 It’s a very curious fact that there isn’t a room in 
 London big enough to hold Jumps and Mugger 
 at the same time, perhaps it’s just as well ; one 
 low comedian is enough for most men, and we all 
 know that enough is as good as a feast. 
 
 After about three quarters of an hour of Mugger, 
 his imitations, his stories in three different voices, 
 and his professional experiences, it will not perhaps 
 be wondered at that Robert L’Estrange fell asleep. 
 When he awoke, nigh on midnight, the spelling-bee 
 was still continuing, Mugger was still telling comic 
 stories, and Robert L’Estrange, feeling that he had 
 “ an exposition of sleep come upon him,” started off 
 for his rooms in the Temple. 
 
 Punctually at twelve o’clock Angus Frazer ap- 
 peared in L’Estrange’s room, and the two men re- 
 sumed their positions of the afternoon — L’Estrange 
 
6o 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 in his hammock, and Angus on the couch. 
 L’Estrange, always studying the men he met, had a 
 habit in conversation of allowing his companion, 
 whoever he might be, to break the silences when 
 they occurred ; he had an idea, and a shrewd one 
 too, that character peeps out very strongly in the 
 first utterance, and in the remark of him who 
 resumes a conversation when it has been in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 “ Its an unchancy thing to be left-handed/' said 
 Angus. 
 
 “ Have you found it so ? ” asked L’ Estrange. 
 
 “ I have. Nobody but a left-handed man can 
 conceive the misfortune of it. You see the world 
 in general is accustomed to deal with right-handed 
 people, and it holds out its prizes to that side. 
 While your sinister man, like me, is stretching his 
 hand across his body, a dozen dexter chaps grab 
 everything. My father was kitty ; it's hereditary ; 
 it’s an awful thing that heredity. I'm not saying 
 it’s wrong that the bairns should suffer for the sins 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 of their fathers. No ; I’m thinking its a good law, 
 and the world would be a better world, if it was 
 recognised by Parliament ; but — ” 
 
 “ Stop now/’ interrupted I/Estrange, amused and 
 interested. “How could Parliament recognise it?” 
 “ Well, that’s no for me tae say ; but I’m think- 
 in’ it micht resolve itsel’ intae a kin’ o’ matrimonial 
 committee, and dae somethin’ towards stampin’ oot 
 hereditary diseases an’ improvin’ the breed o’ men. 
 But I forgot ; you’ll not be understanding me : I 
 can speak English well enough. As I was saying 
 heredity is a terrible thing, and sometimes unjust. 
 Suppose a man’s ancestor got his right arm shot 
 off at the battle of Drumclog when he was a halflin 
 —what do you call it ? 1 hobbledehoy, half-man half- 
 boy — and had to employ his left ; and suppose his 
 son, half by inheritance and half by imitation of 
 his father, became a kitty; and his son, and his 
 son’s son, and so on down to me. Is it not unjust ? 
 Mark you, it’s not a mere difference of tweedle-dum 
 1 Pace , Mr. Thackeray who spells the word differently. 
 
62 
 
 WAS IIE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 with this thumb, or tweedle-dee with that. It 
 means that a man’s whole life is left-handed, that 
 he has a left-handed soul; and I sometimes think 
 it means that he’ll find himself on the left-hand on 
 the Judgment Day — that’s a gruesome thocht ! ” 
 
 “ But don’t you see that while it was no sin in 
 your ancestor to lose his arm at Drumclog, it was 
 reprehensible in him not to educate his son to use 
 his right hand ; and a sin of omission apparently 
 in all your forefathers ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! ” said Angus, “ ay, man ! I never looked 
 at. it that way.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by having a left-hand 
 life ? ” asked L’Estrange. 
 
 “ Well,” said Angus, “if you really want to 
 know, an example would be the best explanation.” 
 
 “ I do want to know.” 
 
 L’Estrange was in one of those sympathetic 
 moods which his more intimate acquaintances — 
 few and not very intimate at the best — found so 
 seductive* There were one or two hard-headed, 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE . 
 
 63 
 
 iron-nerved men of affairs who always looked 
 back with amazement to an occasion when “that 
 curious chap L’Estrange sat with me for an hour 
 or two; and, by Jove! before I knew where I 
 was I had told him all my life, sir. Most remark- 
 able man! He said hardly anything, yet I couldn’t 
 help myself, and was quite glad to tell him — things, 
 too, that I haven’t dared to tell myself since.” 
 
 “ I really don’t know,” said Angus Frazer, 
 evidently under the subtle spell of L’Estrange’s 
 sympathy, “why I should be talking to you in 
 this way. I feel as if I wanted to tell you all 
 about myself ; but I won’t ; I’ll tell you about 
 another kitty I knew. He was called — eh — 
 James Wask. It was inherited in his case too ; 
 and he was a postman. His father had been a 
 postman before him, and had given him a very 
 fair education — even postmen are educated in 
 Scotland— but, you see, his mind was left-handed, 
 and he could never do a sum right, or spell a word 
 of three syllables correctly, except at the second 
 
6 4 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 attempt. His father got him into the post-office, 
 in the little town in Perthshire where they lived, 
 as a clerk. They suffered his sinister penmanship 
 and blotted accounts for a week, and then gave 
 him a letter-bag. A postman’s is one of the few 
 jobs that suits a kitty. The heaviest part of his 
 manual labour falls on his left hand, you see. 
 Every postman is left-handed so far as his occu- 
 pation goes; he grasps the bundle with his left 
 hand and delivers with his right. Then it suits a 
 man whose mind’s left-handed, too, because, you 
 see, he can take whichever side of the street he 
 likes first. Well, I made a good enough postman.” 
 Neither Angus nor his auditor noticed the 
 change to the first person. L’Estrange knew from 
 the start that it was himself the Scotchman talked 
 of ; and the latter, looking in L’Estrange’s face 
 as he told his story, forgot the little ruse with 
 which he had begun, so glad was he to talk about 
 himself, and so confident was he of the sympathy 
 and loyalty of his confessor. 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 65 
 
 “ I fell in love with a ploughman’s daughter. 
 Man, but she was a bonny, blue-eyed girl. And 
 so did a bakers vanman. The ploughman’s 
 daughter loved the vanman, but he jilted her, and 
 she married me. She kept me very miserable for 
 two years ; and then just when she was beginning 
 to be gentle and kind, for I was very patient with 
 her, she died. She left a daughter, who grew up 
 to be a great beauty, like her mother — heredity 
 again. I managed to give her a good education. 
 And when she was seventeen she could play and 
 sing, and talk fine English with any lady in the 
 land. She had been a kitty as a little girl ; her 
 teachers managed, however, to train her out of 
 it, so far as her hands went, but they had no effect 
 on her mind, or her life. She was left-minded, 
 left-fortuned, left-fated. She inherited all that 
 was sinister in me, and all that was bad in her 
 mother. Ill-tempered, dishonest, ambitious, and, 
 worst of all, lovely, she fell a prey to a lord’s son 
 in the neighbourhood — that very Charles Mount- 
 
66 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 stuart, now Lord Tintock. I don’t think any man 
 ever loved his daughter in the same way that I 
 did. There wasn’t a fault she had that I didn’t 
 know and love her better for ; I used to think 
 that I understood how God loved this sinful world 
 better than He loved the angels, just because it was 
 sinful. When she came home, disgraced, and more 
 ill-tempered and harsh to me than before, I loved 
 her better than ever. She had a baby, and the 
 change began in her, that had begun in her mother. 
 She grew gentle and tender, and I used never to 
 tire of watching her and the little one. I didn’t 
 bother then about the illegitimacy o’ the bairn at 
 all. We were a left-fated family, j^ou see; it was 
 our lot, and we had just to thole it. As my 
 daughter grew sweeter, and lovelier, and kinder, I 
 watched her fearfully; and it happened just as I 
 dreaded. Both she and her bairn died a month 
 or two after it was born. Then I found that my 
 poor left-handed life was of no use to me ; there 
 was nothing even for me to live for. I got to 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 67 
 
 brooding about Mountstuart ; but I staved off the 
 thought that came to me, by saying it wasn’t his 
 fault. He couldn’t help my daughter’s hereditary 
 left-souledness. It was my fault for marrying at 
 all, and for choosing a wife with such an unfor- 
 tunate disposition. But you’d wonder at the 
 things that’ll happen to a left-headed man. That 
 old pistol you laughed at in the afternoon hung 
 above the chimney. It was the pistol used by my 
 ancestor at the battle of Drumclog, for we come 
 of an old family, that were once lairds of the very 
 lands that Tintock owns now. It had been loaded, 
 nobody knows how long, and I used to sit at night 
 glowering at it. Eight days ago I had looked at 
 it for such a time that I fell into a kind of trance. 
 In stepped my daughter, my own daughter, 
 Maggie. She had on a white, glistening dress, and 
 her golden hair came down past her waist in a 
 waving, rippling cloud. She looked at me, and 
 she was so bonny that I began to sob — I had to ; 
 but she sang over some music, a melody not of this 
 
68 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 world, and it made my whole body shiver with 
 delight. Then she stepped to the ingle and lifted 
 down the old horse-pistol, or I thought she did, 
 and gave it to me ; then she kissed me. As she 
 vanished I saw what I hadn’t noticed at first, I 
 was just so happy to see my own lassie again. 
 She had her wee bit bonnie bairn lying in her 
 bosom, smiling and crowing quietly; and it minded 
 me of an old Scotch ballad that ye’ll maybe have 
 heard of, where it tells about 'the young mither 
 wi’ her bairnie in her airms.’ I sat for hoars with 
 that pistol, wondering what I was to do. At last I 
 understood clearly what was meant. I was to try 
 and shoot Mountstuart with it. It seemed to me 
 that there was a kind of divinity about the idea. 
 If this old frail weapon, with a charge in it, per- 
 haps for a hundred years, should kill the man who 
 had betrayed my daughter, then he had been most 
 to blame ; if it failed to kill him, then the fault 
 was mine in marrying and begetting a daughter, 
 knowing well my own left-handedness. Here you 
 
A LEFT-HANDED LIFE. 
 
 69 
 
 see was something to live for. I started for Lon- 
 don at once to find out Mountstuart. To give the 
 man a still better chance than the old pistol gave 
 him, I didn’t hurry in my search. Then his father 
 died, just when I discovered his whereabouts, and 
 
 he became Lord Tintock. After three days, that 
 
 0 m 
 
 is, this morning, remembering what a bad son he 
 had been, I thought it might be a good thing 
 to send him after his father. When I came here 
 he was gone. A curious desire came over me to 
 see if the pistol would really go off; and it also 
 occurred to me that if I killed myself, then Tin- 
 tock couldn’t die by my hand, but if I didn’t, 
 then it was foreordained that I was to be his 
 executioner.” 
 
 Angus here took out his pistol from his pocket, 
 and handed it to L’Estrangfe. 
 
 “ There ; keep that ; lock it away somewhere. 
 That gives Tintock another chance, for if I had 
 that in my possession I should certainly load it 
 again, and use it. Now I must find out another 
 
76 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED f 
 
 way of killing him — I mean another way of kill- 
 ing him must be suggested to me by something 
 outside of me, before I lay hands on him.” 
 
 L’Estrange locked up the pistol in his desk, 
 and then for several minutes the two men sat 
 and looked at each other in silence. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ENTER LORD TINTOCK. 
 
 “Well,” said Angus, rising at last, “I must go 
 now.” 
 
 “ Where too ? ” asked L’Estrange pointedly. 
 
 “ I don't know,” Angus replied, not without 
 some consideration. 
 
 “You say that,” returned L’Estrange, “ as if you 
 were suddenly confronted with a subject, an 
 abtruse subject, for the first time.” 
 
 “ It’s very abstruse,” said Angus, scratching his 
 head, and smiling rather shamefacedly. 
 
 “Is it that your money’s done?” asked L’Estrange 
 gently. 
 
 “ I’m thinking so.” 
 
 L’Estrange laughed inwardly at the ambiguity of 
 
 7i 
 
72 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 the answer. Liberal-minded as he was, he shared 
 the common English idea that the average Scot 
 excels the rest of mankind in caution and indirect- 
 ness, when money is in question. 
 
 “ You’ll come and have some supper with me,” he 
 said. 
 
 “ I don’t see anything to hinder ; I’ll be very 
 glad, sir.” 
 
 “ Where are you going to sleep to-night ? ” 
 
 As Angus seemed to be inventing a reply, 
 L’Estrange did not allow him to answer. 
 
 “ Look here, my poor fellow,” he said. “ You’ve 
 no lodging, and you’ve had very little to eat to-day, 
 and your money’s done. What are you going 
 to do ? ” 
 
 Again it was evident that the reply would be far 
 from the truth. 
 
 “ I think you don’t know very well what you’re 
 going to do,” said L’Estrange, before Angus’s 
 answer was under weigh: “so I’ll tell you. After 
 supping with me j 7 ou’re going to sleep on that 
 
ENTER LORD T1NT0CIC 
 
 73 
 
 conch, and in the morning we’ll lay our heads to- 
 gether and devise something.” 
 
 “ You’re certain that I’ll not be incommoding 
 you,” said Angus. 
 
 “ Oh yes, you’ll be incommoding me if that’ll be 
 any satisfaction to you,” returned L’Estrange in a 
 manner peculiar to himself, which contradicted his 
 words. “ Come along.” 
 
 Although Angus Frazer was sixty years old, he 
 carried all his height. He was almost as tall as 
 L’Estrange, and they made a very remarkable 
 couple as they entered the international hall of the 
 Cafe Cosmopolite. L’Estrange went there not on 
 account of the cuisine, but for the sake of the 
 crowd, which was the biggest assemblage of eaters 
 to be found at that time of night in London : he 
 wished to watch it effects upon his companion. 
 
 “ Ay, man,” said Angus, as he sat down, “ there’s 
 a crowd of folk here.” But he betrayed no awk- 
 wardness ; above all there was no pretence ; he 
 looked with interest and wonder at whatever 
 
74 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 interested and astonished him, but appeared to 
 consider himself quite on a level with his surround- 
 ings. L’Estrange couldn’t help thinking of Burns’s 
 patent of nobility direct from the hand of an 
 Almighty God ; at the same time he remembered 
 that this old Scotchman, however lowly a position 
 he occupied, could trace his decent even further 
 back than his grandfather. 
 
 L’Estrange pecked a little to keep Angus com- 
 pany, and when the particularly effectual edge of 
 his guest’s appetite seemed to be turned a little, 
 contrary to his habit, he started conversation with 
 the jocular remark, “ Well, Mr. Frazer, there’s 
 nothing left-handed about your appetite.” 
 
 “Is there not?” said Angus. “You’re but 
 young yet, Mr. L’Estrange, in the diagnosis of left- 
 handedness. Could anything be more sinister than 
 for a man, appetited like me, with tastes that most 
 people need to acquire, to be bred a country post- 
 man ? For forty years I walked sixteen miles 
 every day, that’s two or three times round the 
 
ENTER LORD TINT0C1C 
 
 75 
 
 world Tin thinking. Can you imagine the effect 
 of sixteen miles of frost and snow on my appetite ? 
 Man, I was often sick with hunger. The visions, 
 ay, and the sniffs that I had (with the north-east 
 lashing my face with sleet), of roasts and fries, and 
 puddings, would have done honour to the Barne- 
 cide’s guest. And to come home to pease-brose and 
 sourmilk, or a drop cold porridge with treacle 
 and water ! I’m thinking my appetite’s the most 
 left-handed thing about me.” But there was no 
 regret for his hard life in the laughter that accom- 
 panied his complaint. 
 
 “ What were you going to do to-night, my 
 friend ? ” asked L’Estrange. “ Tell me honestly,” 
 he added. “ I know quite well that your money’s 
 all gone.” 
 
 “ My money is all gone. I spent the last two 
 shillings I had in getting my ear plastered — your 
 bandage came off, but it was a good bandage. I 
 was due my landlady for the week six shillings. 
 I thought my bag and its contents would pay for 
 
76 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 that, so I determined not to go back to my lodg- 
 ings, and just let the landlady make what she 
 could of my few belongings. I meant to live in 
 Chambers, at a shilling, or ninepence, or sixpence 
 a night, according as I could afford it. And for 
 money I had this watch to pawn.” 
 
 He took from his pocket a choice specimen of 
 the taste in chronometers of our ancestors ; a 
 thing about the size of a small frying-pan with a 
 tick like a Nasmyth steam-hammer, or perhaps 
 not quite so loud. 
 
 “ I asked thirty shillings for this, and they 
 offered me five. I didn't understand it, and I 
 don’t understand it. It’s a good watch, never 
 goes wrong, and belonged to my grandfather. I 
 went to another pawn-office, and thinking that 
 perhaps I hadn’t asked enough before, and that 
 the man in consequence had imagined I didn’t 
 mean to redeem it, I said I would take two-pound- 
 ten. The shopman replied that he didn’t doubt 
 it, and he would give me half-a-crown on account, 
 
ENTER LORD TINTOCK. 
 
 77 
 
 and when somebody had paid me for carting away 
 a dozen more such warming-pans, he would ad- 
 vance me the rest of the money on ’em. I was 
 astonished. You see, I had never pawned any- 
 thing before, and knew nothing about it. ‘ Per- 
 haps you think I’ve stolen it,’ I said ; ‘ but I 
 haven’t. It’s my own property, and belonged to 
 my grandfather.’ ‘ Did it ? ’ said the young man, 
 looking astonished ; ‘ I would have thought now 
 that it must have been the property of the great 
 MacSandy that had a boat of his own in Noah’s 
 time.’ Then I saw that the young man was try- 
 ing to make a fool of me, because I hailed from 
 benorth the Tweed, so I gave him three mouth- 
 fuls of broad Scotch, and that frightened him. 
 He slunk back from the counter, and stammered 
 out that he would give me three-and-ninepence, 
 but I wouldn’t have it, and came away. Then 
 there was my hat ; it belonged to my father.’’ 
 
 He took up his beaver, a true chimney-pot, and 
 caressed it. 
 
78 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ I couldn’t think of doing without that/’ he 
 said. “ So I offered in another place this coat, 
 my best one, my only one now. It was my 
 father’s too. It’s magnificent stuff, and there’s any 
 amount of cloth in it. It’s—” 
 
 He got no further in the narration of his ad- 
 ventures with the pawn-brokers. His knife and 
 fork fell from his hands, and he rose, resting his 
 palms on the table. 
 
 L’Estrange followed his gaze, and saw Lord 
 Tintock. 
 
 The whole expression of Angus Frazer’s face 
 changed, and his form dilated, as he raised him- 
 self to his full height and looked across at the 
 young lord. A deep flush overspread his cheeks ; 
 his eyes looked as if they would be consumed by 
 the fire of wrath that burned in them ; and he 
 shut and opened his hands convulsively. 
 
 “ Sit down, you fool,” said L’Estrange, rising 
 and laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder. 
 
 With his eyes fixed on his enemy, Frazer re- 
 
ENTER LORD TINTOCK. 
 
 79 
 
 sumed his seat. I/Estrange thought it best io 
 make him talk ; he might work off the murderous 
 impulse in invective. 
 
 “ No one would think that that pretty fellow 
 was such a villain,” said L’Estrange. 
 
 As a rule, Angus Frazer’s excitement found vent 
 in broad Scotch. On the present occasion he 
 seemed to aid L’Estrange’s purpose in making 
 him talk by constraining himself to speak in 
 English. 
 
 “ No,” he said, turning to L’Estrange, but keeping 
 his eyes fixed on Lord Tintock. Very slowly, and 
 under his breath, he went on. “ He has a woman’s 
 face, with a soft mouth and sweet, blue eyes ; 
 you wouldn’t think he was such a villain. His 
 father has only been three days dead ; he didn’t 
 go to his funeral. His mother is in Scotland ; 
 she has no other children; she hasn’t seen him 
 for nearly a year ; she weeps and prays ; and he 
 is here. Look at his complexion ; it’s like a peach. 
 Look at his eyes, how lustrous they are. How 
 
8o 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 compact and strong, how healthy he is. Curse 
 him ! You wouldn’t think he was such a villain. 
 He takes more care of his health than any woman. 
 His debaucheries are part of his— what’s the word 
 — regime. He wouldn’t spoil his blood, not to be 
 made a duke, not for a million a year. It’s his 
 art to keep it sweet and strong. He lives on the 
 broken hearts of girls and fathers and mothers. 
 You wouldn’t think he was a villain ; no. He’s 
 over thirty, yet his face is like a boy’s — not a 
 wrinkle. Grief and care must not come near him ; 
 he diets his mind as well as his body.” 
 
 He stopped and clutched his knife. A lady, 
 wearing a heavy black lace fall, which effectually 
 concealed her features, had entered the great room 
 and sat down beside Lord Tintock. After a short 
 pause, during which he fumbled with his knife 
 feverishly, the old man resumed his monologue ; 
 he felt it to be a safety-valve. 
 
 “ That’s one of his victims, I’m thinking. She 
 wants mercy of some kind. See, she pleads. He 
 
ENTER LORD TINTOCK. 
 
 81 
 
 turns a deaf ear ; he laughs in her face. She 
 pleads again. It annoys him ; and my lord must 
 not be annoyed. One minute’s annoyance every 
 day for six years will make a wrinkle in the brow. 
 My lord’s brow must not be wrinkled, no matter 
 how many hearts are lacerated. The lady knows 
 my lord well — she has cause, poor thing, not a 
 doubt of it. She pleads again, warmly, passion- 
 ately ; for she knows my lord detests importunity. 
 She has gained her point. What is that he writes? 
 Is it a cheque? No matter; she has it. Good; 
 she sa3'S something stinging, and my lord is 
 annoyed in spite of himself. Now, she sips a little 
 w T ine ; now she goes. She walks well ; I warrant 
 she’s beautiful. My lord is alone ; he meditates, 
 smiles, lights a cigarette, and forgets — forgets ! 
 The things my lord forgets that others remember ! 
 Look at his face ; it’s like a saint’s. He looks this 
 way ; he doesn’t know me — I don’t think he ever 
 saw me. He nods to you. My God ! he’s coming 
 
 over. 
 
82 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ Be a man, Angus Frazer. Say nothing ; read 
 that newspaper.’’ 
 
 “ Good evening. A curious place to meet you, 
 L’Estrange." Tintocks voice is low and musical. 
 
 “ Yes ; and what about you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I had an appointment. Didn’t you see the 
 lady?" 
 
 L’Estrange nodded. 
 
 “ Curious creatures, women. That one insisted 
 on seeing me : and I gave her this place as a 
 rendezvous . It’s safest to see an old flame in a 
 public place. What do you think she wanted ? 
 An invitation to the Sixteenth Century Garden- 
 party. She wheedled it out of me, too. Damme, 
 they always do wheedle it out of you. Shall you 
 be there ? ” 
 
 “ Very likely.” 
 
 “ Good-night, L’Estrange.’’ 
 
 L’Estrange had been watching Frazer. He 
 determined on a bold remedy ; it would either kill 
 
 or cure. 
 
ENTER LORD T/NTOCA. 
 
 “ Don’t go yet,” he said. “ Here’s a friend of 
 mine from your part of the world. Mr. Angus 
 Frazer — Lord Tmtock.” 
 
 Frazer rose, pale and trembling, face to face at 
 last with his enemy. 
 
 “ Frazer,” muttered Tintock. His eyes shifted 
 uneasily from L’Estrange to Angus. Then he 
 bowed frigidly, and turned to go. 
 
 “ Sit down, Charles Mountstuart,” said Frazer in 
 an intense whisper. 
 
 Lord Tintock moved a step away, and hesitated. 
 
 “ Sit down, Charles Mountstuart, or I’ll disgrace 
 you.” 
 
 Frazer lifted his wine glass ready to throw it ; 
 but Lord Tintock sat down. He was very miser- 
 able. The meaning of the alternative was so plain 
 in the old man’s voice and eye that he shrunk 
 together in the wretchedness of his position. After 
 he had seated himself, he half rose : a brief scene 
 would have less misery for him than the old man’s 
 upbraidings, but a glance at Frazer’s face convinced 
 
8 4 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 him that there would be more than a mere scene ; 
 so he sat still — it wasn’t cowardice — Lord Tintock 
 was no coward, but he did hate to be annoyed ; 
 besides, he had never had an experience of the kind 
 before, and he was altogether at a loss. 
 
 “ Charles Mountstuart,” began Angus, and Lord 
 Tintock, in spite of himself, felt like a criminal 
 arraigned at the bar of justice. “ Charles Mount- 
 stuart — Charles Mountstuart ” — there was a lump 
 in the old man’s throat. He glanced rapidly from 
 side to side, a fierce glance, as if he were looking 
 down something, shook back his hair and began 
 again in a less agitated tone. “ Charles Mount- 
 stuart, I have very little to say. I came to Lon- 
 don to kill you. When I found you had left your 
 chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, I was glad, my lord. I 
 would have killed you, had I found you. I 
 thought Providence meant to shield you. To make 
 sure, my lord, I tried to shoot myself, but it was 
 not to be. So I don’t know whether it’s fore- 
 ordained that I’m to kill you or not. My daughter 
 
ENTER LORD TIN TOOK, 
 
 85 
 
 and her wee bairn are dead, my lord. Take this 
 warning : keep out of my way — keep out of my 
 way. That’s all.” 
 
 There was no help for it. Lord Tintock had 
 to leave without a word. He had hardly gone 
 when Frazer turned to L’Estrange and said with 
 
 r 
 
 an effort — the purpose of the question, namely 
 to change the subject, was evident — but quietly 
 and with a curious smile, “What is this Six- 
 teenth Century Garden-party ? ” 
 
 “Have you never heard of the Sixteenth Cen- 
 tury Club?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “I’ll tell you about it,” said L’Estrange, glad 
 of the diversion. “It was founded about six 
 years ago — but surely you must have heard of 
 it ? ” 
 
 “No, I assure you; I never read the papers; 
 and Burns, the Bible and Shakespeare — Burns 
 first, I ought to be sorry to confess, make up 
 my library,” 
 
86 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “Well, you’ve at least heard of the late Duke 
 of London ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I think so. He was the last of his line, 
 wasn’t he, and died just about half-a-dozen 
 years ago?” 
 
 “ Right. His will was a very curious pro- 
 duction. He complained in it of the advance of 
 democracy and the levelling tendencies of the 
 age, and bequeathed his great house and garden 
 and his million of money to six peers, as trustees, 
 with a constitution and bye-laws for the Six- 
 teenth Century Club. No one can belong to it 
 who cannot show an indisputable genealogy as 
 far back as 1550. The club can do what it 
 likes with its income, but it mustn’t touch the 
 capital. In order that there might be an in- 
 ducement for all who are eligible to join, the 
 property belongs to the club, on the tontine 
 principle ; that cuts, of course, two ways ; every- 
 body who has any kind of claim is anxious to 
 join, and those who are in are anxious to keep 
 
ENTER LORD T1NT0CK. 
 
 87 
 
 the numbers as limited as possible; the result 
 being that it is, so far as blood goes, the most 
 select club in Europe.” 
 
 "I wonder if I would be eligible,” said Angus. 
 “ Fifteen fifty ? I'm afraid not. Are you a 
 member ? ” 
 
 “No, my genealogy sticks at fifteen fifty-five. 
 The club gives a number of entertainments every 
 year ; and the first garden party is this week. 
 Men and women sell their souls for invitations. 
 To be a guest of the Sixteenth Century Club is 
 to be hall-marked. So you can understand why 
 this damsel was so importunate.” 
 
 “It’s a strange world,” said Angus. 
 
 “It’s a stupid world,” said L’Estrange, sup- 
 pressing a yawn. “ But if we sit here any longer 
 we’ll begin to get maudlin.” 
 

 / 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA. 
 
 Cecil Dale was a gentleman, a gentleman by 
 education, a gentleman by birth, but not, alas ! a 
 gentleman in his tastes. Eton, Oxford, society, 
 a dilettante taste, a craving for association with 
 Bohemians of both sexes, and the reputation of 
 being a jolly good fellow had been the ruin of 
 Cecil Dale. Bohemians of both sexes, as a rule, 
 mean by a jolly good fellow a person who will 
 lend them money, and be good fellow enough 
 never afterwards to allude to the loan, or request 
 its repayment, for fear of hurting their feelings. 
 I’m quite sure there’s more real pleasure in lend- 
 ing money to one’s personal friend, who, though 
 he may have a decent coat to his back, is hard 
 
90 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 up, deliberately and calmly knowing that you 
 will never see that money again, than in writing 
 a cheque for the Society for the conversion of 
 Kramikoko, King of the Kukulokos, and his like. 
 The one form of charity you see is spontaneous, 
 you like your friend and ) 7 0u lend him the money, 
 but you don’t care a button for Kramikoko, and 
 the money that you invest in attempting to pur- 
 chase salvation through the conversion of Krami- 
 koko is probably thrown away. You see a good 
 deal of the money is swallowed up in office ex- 
 penses, salaries, pensions, etc. ; say nine-tenths of 
 it, to be well within the mark. The missionary’s 
 children have to be fed and clothed and educated 
 out of it, and his continual leaves of absence on 
 full pay at the society’s expense have to be pro- 
 vided for, so that not much out of your original 
 donation actually remains for the conversion of 
 King Kramikoko. Besides, loans to friends, which 
 you don’t expect to be repaid and never mean to 
 ask for, are real charity ; there’s no subscription 
 
BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA. 
 
 9i 
 
 list, the borrower will never reveal your name to 
 your mutual friends, and Cecil Dale earned his 
 title of good fellow by this kind of charity. His 
 was an obliging disposition. Six thousand five 
 hundred doesn’t take very long to get rid of, lock 
 stock and barrel, if you go the right way about 
 it. Dale wasn’t a gambler, he wasn’t a horsy 
 man ; for him the Stock Exchange had no attrac- 
 tions, but he was of an obliging disposition, and 
 fond of “ Shakespeare and the musical glasses.” 
 He ran a theatre ; two years finished his money. 
 In those two years, in addition to having got rid 
 of his money and earned the proud privilege of 
 being slapped on the back by innumerable gentle- 
 men with haggard faces, blue chins, and hoarse 
 voices, Cecil Dale had acquired a taste for drink. 
 His entire income now consisted of two hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year, which was doled out to 
 him by direction of an uncle. Having got rid 
 of his money, he proceeded to blight his prospects. 
 
 Laura Rivers was born in Vinegar Yard, 
 
92 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 Drury Lane. She came of a family of panto- 
 mimists ; she had absolutely no education, but, at 
 the age of seventeen, she was the loveliest girl 
 upon the British stage, and she was just as lovely 
 “ off,” mind you, as she was “ on.” There was 
 nothing against Laura Rivers ; she loved her — 
 ahem ! — profession, and she stuck to it, till she 
 danced like an angel ; the British public said she 
 danced like an angel, and the British public 
 ought to know ; and Monsieur Pasdebasque said 
 she was the best pupil he had ever had, and you 
 don’t often see a girl of seventeen playing Colum- 
 bine at Old Drury. Talk of the poetry of motion 
 — but we are not going to inflict that sort of 
 thing on you — it is sufficient to say that that 
 good fellow, Cecil Dale, having got through his 
 mone\ 7 , and being possessed of two hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year and a taste for strong liquors, 
 married Laura Rivers, took her off the stage — he 
 wasn’t the sort of man to try and live on his 
 wife’s earnings — and retired to cheap lodgings at 
 
BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA . 
 
 93 
 
 Margate to — well, to “ eat liis leek.” At first they 
 were very happy, Cecil Dale and that pretty wife 
 of his. It didn’t seem a bit strange to Mrs. Dale 
 that her husband drank more than was good for 
 him ; her friends and relatives in Vinegar Yard, 
 whenever they could get it, always drank more 
 than was good for them. Was not Cecil Dale a 
 “ swell,” and wasn’t it the experience of the 
 Vinegar-yarders that swells always drank more 
 than was good for them ? Then their daughter, 
 the little Sophie, was born, and very soon after 
 Mrs. Dale became an invalid. Up to the time of 
 her marriage, Laura Rivers had led the life of a 
 professional athlete ; for four or six hours a day 
 that beautiful body of hers had been carefully 
 trained and developed under the fostering care 
 of Monsieur Pasdebasque and his talented assist- 
 ants. From the moment Laura Rivers married 
 she ceased to take any exercise whatever ; within 
 four years of her marriage, what had once been 
 pretty Laura Rivers had disappeared, and the 
 
94 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 mountain of flesh which was known as Mrs. Dale 
 began to terrify her husband, the inhabitants of 
 Margate, and herself. She ate a great deal, she 
 slept a great deal, and she never left her arm- 
 chair, except to go to bed. She never opened a 
 book, she couldn’t even read, poor woman ; and 
 the poetry altogether disappeared; and every night 
 of his life Cecil Dale went drunk to bed. For 
 fifteen years Mrs. Dale dozed in her easy-chair, 
 and the little Sophie, her daughter, sat and read 
 to her aloud, “The London Journal,” “Reynolds’s 
 Miscellany,” and “ The Era.” 
 
 Poor child, she hadn’t had much chance. Strange 
 to say, she spoke the Queen’s English, although her 
 little head was stuffed full of romantic nonsense, 
 and she led a dog’s life. She walked about in 
 ragged clothes, which she was too ignorant to 
 mend : her shoes were ever down at heel, and 
 clattered as she ran. And then Mrs. Dale died : 
 and when the funeral was over, Dale, who had 
 married her for love, sat down and announced his 
 
BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA. 
 
 95 
 
 wife’s death in a letter to his uncle, and he mourned 
 his inability to educate his daughter as her great 
 uncle would naturally desire. The uncle wrote 
 back very shortly indeed : he was a wealthy 
 man. 
 
 “ I am not going to give any more money to a 
 nephew who has disgraced himself by a low mar- 
 riage. As for you, Cecil Dale, you’re beyond help. 
 It may be some small consolation to you to know 
 that, subject to good behaviour, I shall continue 
 your allowance. In consideration of the dreadful 
 position of your daughter, I will give her the 
 education of a gentlewoman, that is to say, I will 
 pay for her schooling and her clothes. If you take 
 her to Mr. Pargiter, my solicitor, and hand her over 
 to him, he will return her to you properly edu- 
 cated at the end of three years. Let me caution you 
 against forming any absurd hopes as to the disposal 
 of my property. I merely do this thing to save my 
 great-niece from the workhouse, or the streets. In 
 the event of your death the two hundred and fifty 
 
96 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 pounds a year will be secured to your daughter 
 during her lifetime.” 
 
 It is easily seen, from the above letter, the sort 
 of terms that Cecil Dale and his uncle were upon. 
 Dale w r as very glad indeed to get rid of the ill- 
 dressed child for whom he felt no affection what- 
 ever. “ It’ll make all the difference in the world to 
 her to be decently brought up,” he thought, “ and 
 perhaps the old man may do something for her, if 
 he takes a fancy to her, after all.” 
 
 Sophie Dale was educated at Miss Worley bone’s 
 establishment at Clapham ; that lady’s terms were 
 very high. Wealthy girls only were sent to Miss 
 Worleybone’s establishment; most of them came 
 from the North ; they got rid of their accent, they 
 received a thoroughly good middle-class education. 
 Miss Worley bone took a great deal of trouble with 
 her girls, individually and collectively ; they were 
 pruned, carefully watered, cut back when re- 
 quired, potted, and repotted, and disbudded when 
 necessary, like geraniums ; and at the end of, say 
 
BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA. 
 
 97 
 
 seven years, they were returned to their parents in 
 a prime condition that did the highest credit to 
 Miss Worleybone and her system. 
 
 Sophie Dale learned to dress herself like a lady, 
 to play, to sing, to dance : she obtained a smatter- 
 ing of all the ’ologies, and committed long portions 
 of the poems of Mrs. Hemans and of Mrs Barbauld 
 to memory. She was instructed in the Church Cate- 
 chism and the faith and duty of a Christian ; and 
 she was taught to darn her own stockings, and 
 initiated into the art and mystery of plain needle- 
 work. If Sophie Dale could only have gone 
 through the entire seven years’ course, which Miss 
 Worleybone provided for her pupils, the process of 
 breaking to harness would doubtless have been 
 carried out in a thoroughly satisfactory manner; 
 but she was fifteen when she went to Clapham, 
 and no girl was ever retained after the age of 
 eighteen at St. Catherine’s College. In her three 
 years she had acquired the manners and appear- 
 ance of a lady, in addition to this she was endowed 
 
 G 
 
9 8 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 with the delicate blonde beauty of her mother, the 
 dancer, which had so delighted the British public, 
 and which had caught the eye of her father, Cecil 
 Dale, the sot, the man who had once been a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Three days before Sophie Dale attained her 
 eighteenth birthday, her father died of delirium 
 tremens at his Margate lodging. Within the week 
 Miss Dales stay at St. Catherine’s College came to 
 an end, and Mr. Pargiter, her great-uncle’s solicitor, 
 personally escorted her down to Belcaster and 
 placed her in the hands of a highly respectable 
 clergyman, her fathers half-brother, who had 
 recently been promoted to the Deanery of the 
 Cathedral city of Belcaster. 
 
 The dean of Belcaster was delighted to receive 
 Sophie Dale and her two hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year ; and the rest of the history, 
 and the ultimate fate of this young lady, whom 
 the reader is earnestly entreated not to look 
 upon as a heroine, will be narrated in due course. 
 
BORN IN NETHER-BOHEMIA. 
 
 99 
 
 There are some women, just as there are some 
 men, for whom it would have been far better if 
 they had never been born ; who, as it were, are 
 predestined from the very outset to early ship- 
 wreck and certain destruction. Sophie Dale was 
 one of these unfortunates ; and everyone of us 
 can point out, or, at all events, remember, one 
 or more such beings ; whose existence, to the 
 ordinary mind, at least, is an absolute misfortune 
 to themselves and the rest of the world. Such 
 people inevitably go under sooner or later 
 generally sooner. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 Next day a remarkable relation was tacitly 
 established between Robert L’Estrange and 
 Angus Frazer. 
 
 In a most unobtrusive way Angus assumed 
 the duties of house keeper and body-servant. 
 The chivalrous spirit in which he performed 
 the most menial offices, changed them into rites 
 — nay, privileges — motive is everything in matters 
 of this kind, and Angus was influenced by the 
 truest gratitude to L’Estrange for befriending 
 him when he required it most. But there was 
 a reason besides that. The old man had an 
 absolute need of some one to love, and Robert 
 L’Estrange had stepped into the vacant chamber 
 
1 02 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 in his heart. He was proud of L’Estrange’s 
 liking and toleration, and his own pride in 
 himself, and his consciousness that he had the 
 true hempstalk of character, were flattered 
 by L’Estrange’s recognition. Finally he felt 
 L’Estrange’s superiority, and, in the old spirit 
 of feudal devotion, would have sacrificed his 
 life to benefit the man whom he acknowledged 
 as his master. 
 
 When L’Estrange attempted at breakfast to 
 open up the question of Angus’s future, the old 
 man evaded it because he had made up his mind 
 that he must stay with L’Estrange, at least for 
 some time. L’Estrange did not press the subject, 
 and when he saw Angus pottering about and 
 doing all over again the ill-done work of his 
 laundress, he divined his purpose, and grew 
 restive at the thought. But after a little con- 
 sideration he determined to let the old man have 
 his way ; he accepted his services in the spirit 
 in which they were offered, and delighted Angus 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 103 
 
 by asking him to do things now and again. 
 He never, however, assumed the tone of a master ; 
 he knew exactly in what his superiority to Angus 
 consisted — in education, in means, and in position; 
 he treated him always as a companion, almost 
 as a friend, this humble retainer who had, as it 
 were, dropped from the clouds. When two men 
 live together one must be subordinate : the menage 
 is ideal when both recognise their true relation 
 to each other. 
 
 It was on the third day after Angus Frazer’s 
 installation in Kings Bench Walk, that an 
 event befel Robert L’Estrange of much greater 
 moment in his life-drama than the arrival in 
 Lincolns Inn of the old Scotchman. This event 
 occurred at the first garden-party of the Six- 
 teenth Century Club, one of the most notable 
 of the fashionable functions of the season. 
 
 From May to the end of August, London — the 
 London of brick and lime — may be said to be 
 in its war-paint. L’Estrange had no sympathy 
 
104 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 with the common cry against London, and he 
 found it, after an absence from England during 
 the summer for several years, more picturesque 
 and attractive than it had ever appeared to him 
 before. The houses, the dull red and dirty yellow 
 houses, drank in the sunshine, and flushed and 
 blazed into crimson and gold ; and the green 
 creepers mantled them and half hid their glowing 
 fronts. The much vilified squares looked soft 
 and bosky ; who could tell what dryads were 
 lurking in their confined recesses ! L’Estrange 
 enjoyed it all as he drove to the Sixteenth Cen- 
 tury Club, for the sun had the same effect on 
 him as it had on the houses, and he blushed with 
 pleasure at feeling himself a boy again. Such 
 lightheartedness was getting rarer year by year 
 with him now, and he meant to enjoy his mood 
 while it lasted. 
 
 Perhaps the dress he wore had something to 
 do with his high spirits. A fancy dress was 
 de rigeur at the garden-parties of the Sixteenth 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 i°5 
 
 Century Club. At first anything later than the 
 sixteenth century was tabooed ; but a desire for 
 variety obtained the abolition of that bye-law, 
 and the time was extended to the middle of the 
 last century. But the dresses had to be histori- 
 cal ; no comic sailor, no pantaloon, no clown, not 
 even Mephistopheles, was tolerated in the famous 
 old garden of the Duke of Londons house. 
 L’Estrange wore the rich costume of the early 
 part of Charles the First’s reign, and had donned 
 with it the brilliant humour of the cavalier. He 
 was always welcome wherever he went, and as he 
 entered the garden from the basement drawing- 
 rooms — the house was furnished exactly as the 
 Duke had left it — a party of ladies and gentlemen 
 who had chosen dresses from the same period laid 
 hold of him with soft acclaim, and carried him 
 off to a spacious oak summer-house, black with 
 age, and thickly thatched with straw that the 
 afternoon sun had turned to bronze. Here the 
 talk was swift and happy, and none returned the 
 
io6 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 ball with a readier and more graceful stroke than 
 L’Estrange. Then they had music : jovial catches, 
 and glees, sweet madrigals and woeful ballads. 
 Then they danced : a specially composed set of 
 quadrilles which sounded very quaint and pretty 
 and Carolean, while a great crowd of good people 
 in fancy dresses looked on approvingly. Then 
 they rested, and another “ period ” went through 
 its ballet. They had enjoyed themselves in the 
 pleasant exercise of their brains, their voices, and 
 their limbs, and now they feasted their eyes. No 
 such sight was to be seen anywhere else in the 
 world except, perhaps, in Germany, where mighty 
 masques are the fashion. The wide terraced 
 garden with its two lawns quilted and diapered 
 with glowing plots of colour, and alive with the 
 moving pictures of lords and ladies in shapely, 
 bright-hued garments of pleasant stuffs, “ stately 
 stepping” on the broad green walks, playing at 
 barley-brake, dancing the hay, or lounging on 
 the grass with laughter and songs, would have 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 107 
 
 made even a German socialist in love with, at 
 least, one side of the old world. 
 
 “ L’Estrange,” said Lord Lyonesse, “in all your 
 travels have you ever seen anything to beat 
 this ? ” He turned to where he had last seen 
 L’Estrange, but he was gone. 
 
 “Bat-like he flits,” said Lady Diana Dunstan. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” cried young Tregarven, a florid, asthmatic 
 youth of twenty-one, who was made up as 
 Rochester — a fat Rochester. “I always wonder 
 how L’Estrange preserves himself.” 
 
 “ I think he must have found the elixir of life 
 in his travels,” said the Countess of Basingbourne. 
 “ Is there no talk of his settling down ? ” 
 
 “ Mamma,” said her daughter, a chartered 
 libertine in conversation, “whose fault is it if 
 there’s no talk of his settling down ? ” 
 
 “ Not yours, my dear, I am sure,” replied her 
 mother tartly. 
 
 “You’ve had me on show for two seasons now, 
 mother, and when I meet the only man I have 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 108 
 
 wanted to marry, you let him slip away like a 
 knotless thread.” 
 
 “ Maud,” said Sybil Romaine, a lazy blonde 
 with sultry fires in her curious amber eyes, “if 
 you do not renounce him at once, I shall hate 
 you and plot against your life. He is like a 
 dream, and his blush is virginal.” 
 
 “ He is eccentric,” said Tregarven. “ He must 
 be forty by this time; and look at his figure! 
 He hasn’t an ounce of — ” 
 
 “ Superfluous adiposity,” suggested Lord Tin- 
 tock. 
 
 “ Extra w T eight,” continued Tregarven, who 
 turned the scale at twenty stone. “ When a man 
 is forty, with the figure of twenty, he’ll go wrong 
 somehow. He has no drag, and he’ll be certain 
 to come to a hill in the course of his life, then 
 he’ll be unable to stop, and he’ll get — ” 
 
 “ To the bottom ? ” suggested Lord Tintock. 
 
 “ Upset,” said Tregarven, who would borrow 
 no man’s phrase. 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY, 
 
 109 
 
 “ Obesity is often a man’s guardian angel/’ 
 said Lyonesse. 
 
 “ And a bald head is better than rubies,” said 
 Sybil Romaine. 
 
 “ L’Estrange is evidently in a perilous state,” 
 said someone else. 
 
 “ Every second or third L’Estrange does some* 
 thing terrible,” said the Countess of Basingbourne. 
 “ What was it this one’s great-grandfather did? 
 It was a climax of horrors. Lyonesse, do you 
 remember ? ” 
 
 “ I do — rather. He believed that his wife had 
 been unfaithful, so he buried her alive. Dis- 
 covering afterwards that he had been mistaken, 
 he starved himself to death upon her grave.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” said Maud, turning pale and shivering. 
 “ I renounce him. Sybil, I would not object to 
 be beheaded. Bluebeard, in fact, has always 
 been a favourite of mine — but buried alive ! ” 
 
 “What must love mean to a man like that?” 
 said Sybil Romaine dreamily, but with lightnings 
 
no 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 playing through her long lashes. “ Some heavy 
 penalty ought to attend the supreme happiness 
 of being his wife,” she added in a whisper to 
 Maud. 
 
 “ Such as being buried alive, dear,” said the 
 other girl with a smile. 
 
 “ That is really an extraordinary family,” said 
 Tregarven. “ For centuries there has never been 
 more than one of them alive at a time.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” interrupted Lord Tintock, “ are the 
 L ’Estranges always posthumous ? ” 
 
 “ Will you allow me to finish my sentence ? ” 
 said Tregarven. “ There never,” he resumed with 
 fatuous solemnity, “has been more than one of 
 them alive at a time, that is, after his father 
 died.” The sentence was difficult to finish. “ Its 
 most extraordinary/’ he added. Tregarven was 
 the eldest of thirteen, eight sons and five daughters, 
 all alive and all bom in lawful wedlock to the 
 Earl of Grandfesse. 
 
 It ought to be observed, that with the excep- 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 in 
 
 tion of Lord Lyonesse, the choicer spirits left the 
 particular circle that had welcomed L’Estrange 
 at the same time as he. Lord Lyonesse now 
 withdrew also, and like a group of society ghouls, 
 the Countess of Basingbourne and her special 
 friends gathered to mumble and snarl over the 
 bones of many a fair, and, it must be admitted, 
 many a blemished reputation, which is a poetic 
 way of explaining that they began to talk 
 scandal, break butterflies on this wheel, etc. 
 
 What had become of L’Estrange ? 
 
 He had sauntered away by himself to the top of 
 one of the lawns, where he watched for a while 
 the wonderful scene, pleased, and, as far as it was 
 possible for him, at rest. “ Chewing the cud of 
 sweet and bitter fancy,” he turned to a part of 
 the garden which seemed to be deserted, and 
 strolled into a conservatory where great fronded 
 plants grew with a languor as of the harem, and 
 a forest of orchids uncoiled their curious or lovely 
 forms, and “ hung out ” to the passer-by their 
 
I 12 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 blushes of varied hues. He walked the length 
 of the conservatory on one side slowly. On 
 arriving at the top he turned sharply, as he in- 
 tended to go out without pausing to examine 
 anything on the other side. The passage at the 
 top was narrow, the plants on either hand high 
 and thick, and he nearly ran against a lady, who 
 was slowly rounding the point as he brushed 
 past. 
 
 In starting aside to avoid him, the lady 
 struck against the stone wall that contained the 
 soil in the centre of the conservatory. He apolo- 
 gised, and the lady murmured something. At 
 the door he met her again. She dropped her 
 hand with a quick motion from her side, where 
 she had been tightly pressing it. The gesture, 
 apparently intended to be hidden from L’Estrange, 
 was noticed by him, and brought out on his cheek 
 that bright blush which Sybil Romaine had called 
 “ virginal.” Afraid that she had been hurt, L’- 
 Estrange apologised again with a bashfulness 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY, \ 
 
 113 
 
 which was particularly attractive to this lady, 
 and would have been to most ladies. 
 
 “ It is nothing/’ she said, breathing quickly. 
 
 “ I am afraid, in saying so, you wish to spare 
 me,” said L’Estrange, who observed her rapid 
 breathing, and still thought it was the result of 
 
 O' o 
 
 restraining some expression of pain. An impartial 
 observer would have said it proceeded from a 
 particularly quick walk down the long conserva- 
 tory. Had she not reached the door as soon as 
 L’Estrange ? 
 
 “ Can I help you ? Will you allow me to escort 
 you to your party ? ” he asked with empresse - 
 merit , as the lady showed signs of increasing 
 weakness. 
 
 “ My party,” she said with an indescribable 
 accent, and a gesture that seemed to chide her 
 own exhibition of weakness. Then she appeared 
 to be angry with herself for having allowed the 
 exclamation to escape her. 
 
 “ I have no friends here,” she said. “ So I 
 
 H 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 114 
 
 thought I would look at the flowers — I love them 
 so ; and then go home ! ” 
 
 L’Estrange did not know what to say. The 
 lady leant over a sensitive plant that stood beside 
 them, and fondled it with her little pink-tipped 
 fingers — fingers that looked the incarnation of the 
 sense of touch. 
 
 She looked up, bowed to L’Estrange and turned 
 towards the door. 
 
 L’Estrange made a slight motion as if to detain 
 her, but said nothing. She stood still, and looked 
 at him expectantly over her shoulder. 
 
 Never, he thought, had he seen anything so 
 lovely. It was her eyes that held him. As her 
 head moved slightly and the light shifted, they 
 changed from the deep violet velvet of the broad- 
 shieldecl pansy to the lighter and more intense hue 
 of the “ corn-flower ” sapphire ; anon they looked 
 like wells of light that had gathered into them- 
 selves the azure of a whole firmament. For a few 
 brief, fatal seconds his soul bathed its fill in the 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 U5 
 
 depths of these blue orbs, and when they with- 
 drew their light, they left him like one who had 
 plunged into an enchanted fountain, the slave 
 for ever of the naiad whose sweet waters had 
 enticed him in. 
 
 She left the conservatory; L’Estrange followed 
 her, and walked at her side in silence, stealing 
 glances at her as they went along. 
 
 She wore an old-world robe of white silk — dull 
 silk, as white and as soft as snow ; no single 
 thread shone, but in its fold and dimples shadows 
 seemed to hide away sweet secrets ; and where it 
 swelled in caressing folds it looked like little 
 feathery clouds whose outward purity gave no 
 token of the soft spendour of the silver lining 
 within, reflected from what moons and stars a lover 
 dare hardly whisper to himself. The hem of the 
 robe was dead gold ; and a little tufted shoe like 
 the very bolts of Cupid peeped cut ever and anon as 
 the lady walked, or rather glided, along the smooth 
 turf, and we all know what that amorous knight, 
 
n6 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 Sir John Suckling, said about the little mice that 
 feared the light. But the undulating grace of her 
 motion and the symmetry of her form were nothing 
 to the wonder of her hair and eyes. The classical 
 convention had been traversed in the arrangements 
 of her golden tresses. They hung loose, down far 
 past her waist, and floated about her like a cloud ; 
 some attempt had been made to restrain them, but 
 the fillet had slipped, and the summer wind did its 
 will on them — happy Zephyr ! and the starry eyes 
 that shone out of his golden cloud — had they not 
 in a few seconds melted the pride and austerity of 
 Robert L’Estrange ? 
 
 “ I think I shall go home now,” she said. 
 
 He turned with her towards the house, still 
 silent and watching her. 
 
 “ I shall never forget this scene/’ she continued, 
 “ it has been one of the dreams of my life to be 
 present at a Sixteenth Century Garden-party. 
 How grateful I shall always be for the invita- 
 tion ! ” 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 ii 7 
 
 “You have, at least, one friend here then/’ said 
 L’Estrange. 
 
 “ A patroness,” was the lady’s emendation. 
 
 “ Shall I take yon to her ? ” 
 
 “Unfortunately she was unable to come at the 
 last moment.” 
 
 “Then you came alone?” 
 
 The lady assented with a little sigh, and a sunny 
 smile. 
 
 L’Estrange did not pity her, she was too lovely 
 to be pitied ; and in all her gestures and move- 
 ments there was a quiet sense of power indicative 
 of great self-reliance : at least L’Estrange thought 
 so ; a more cynical observer might have said that 
 the chief characteristic of her manner was a 
 daring insouciance , indicative certainly of self- 
 reliance, but also of less excellent qualities. 
 Although the little sigh seemed to make a sort of 
 half-hearted appeal for pity, the sympathy that it 
 evoked in L’Estrange was untinged by any feeling 
 of commiseration. Here was a lonely being like 
 
n8 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 himself ; one who, possibly, had numerous acquain- 
 tances but very few friends — none she had said ; a 
 most beautiful creature, that moved like a spirit, 
 hardly touching the earth, a tender, delicate 
 woman, fresh as a girl — yet a woman whose prime 
 had just begun ; with a low, clear voice like a little 
 golden bell, and such a wealthy harvest of golden 
 hair, and such deep blue eyes ! — he felt as if he were 
 sinking and turned giddy, when they streamed 
 their light about him. He did not stop to con- 
 sider what circumstances might distinguish their 
 loneliness. He was a solitary by choice ; it 
 was not likely that a beautiful young woman, 
 sweet-tempered and emotional, would prefer a 
 friendless existence ; but that did not occur to 
 him. Was she ambitious ? How did she occupy 
 herself ? What were her hopes and fears ? 
 He must know this woman ; he must see her in 
 her various moods ; she more than interested him ; 
 already he wanted to enter into her life. Silently 
 he walked at her side, watching, scrutinising; 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 119 
 
 and now and again she glanced at him with 
 wonder: he was also a mystery to her, a great 
 mystery. Could it be possible that she had never 
 met a Sir Galahad before ? 
 
 They had to pass through a crowd in order to 
 arrive at the house. It was a widely dispersed 
 crowd, and there was plenty of room to pierce it 
 without jostling anyone. Why, then, was there 
 a broad lane formed for the passage of L’Estrange 
 and his companion ? What was it that Sybil 
 Romaine whispered to Maud Basingbourne, 
 while the forked lightning flashed through her 
 half-closed lids ? What was it that Lord Tin- 
 tock took so long to tell Tregarven ? L’Estrange 
 did not notice these social phenomena ; but he 
 did notice his companion’s stealthy glance to 
 right and left ; and he thought how modest, how 
 innocent, how fearful of the observation of strangers 
 she was. Could it be that these stealthy glances 
 meant that the lady knew why a lane was formed, 
 and why the sly whisper passed from ear to ear ? 
 
120 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 When they entered the house the lady went 
 to get her wraps ; and the two met once 
 more at the front gates. 
 
 “ Will it be indiscreet to hope that I shall 
 have the pleasure of seeing you at any of the 
 imminent functions ? ” asked L’Estrange. 
 
 “Why not?” said the lady. “You go to 
 the Prayer-book Parade I suppose. Everybody 
 does — and then we can nod distantly,” she added 
 with a little laugh. Could the interrogation in 
 her smile have meant that the lady did not know 
 whether it was an assignation or not ? “ We 
 
 haven’t been introduced, you know.” 
 
 “ My name is Robert L’Estrange,” said the 
 swain, simply. 
 
 “ Robert L’Estrange — the name seems familiar, 
 Mr. L’Estrange,” said the syren. “ Good-bye,” 
 she added, and then she bowed. 
 
 “ An revoir” replied L’Estrange as he raised 
 his hat. 
 
 L’Estrange went to his chambers at once, and 
 
THE GARDEN-PARTY. 
 
 121 
 
 without changing his cavalier dress, lay down 
 in his hammock, and lit a big cigar. He smoked 
 it, and lit another, and j 7 et another. He lay for 
 hours, and burned more tobacco in that evening 
 than was good for him. 
 
 Angus Frazer came down twice from the attic 
 he now occupied, and knocked at the door of his 
 suzerain ; but receiving no answer, returned to 
 the study of the Directory and the map of 
 London ; for Angus thought he might manage 
 to become a London postman, if, or when, 
 L’Estrange tired of him. “This is too good to 
 last,” he said to himself. “ My left-handed luck 
 will overtake me soon.” 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 L’Estrange smoked. 
 
 One ^of ten wonders liow Sir Galahad and Sir 
 Tristram, and Sir Lanncelot of the Lake got on 
 without tobacco. Had there been cigars at the 
 Round Table it is possible that the goodly fellow- 
 ship would not have been “ unsoldered ” in such 
 a hurry. On the other hand, the romantic 
 quests and Berserker expeditions our forefathers 
 undertook on the slightest provocation, or, all 
 the more gloriously, on none, might not have 
 filled the world with the fame of more or less 
 incredible achievements, which our poets seem 
 never tired of telling, had the good knights been 
 
 able to sooth their heated blood and exasperated 
 123 
 
124 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 nerves in the peaceful worship of St. Nicotine. 
 Sir Launcelot might have smoked out his illicit, 
 though lofty passion ; Sir Tristram with a pipe 
 or two might have undone the enchantment of 
 the goblet he drank with Iseult ; and if Merlin 
 had smoked — why he might be knocking about 
 the world still, in spite of naughty Vivien, instead 
 of sitting cooped up in that old oak in the forest 
 of Broceliande ! But Sir Galahad, what of him ? 
 What effect would the seductive, if somewhat 
 gross fumes of the noble plant have had on his 
 ethereal imagination ? Who can tell ? As for 
 our Sir Galahad, it held him dreaming for hours, 
 and then sent him to his note-book. 
 
 “You are not a youth, Robert L’Estrange,” he 
 wrote, “ to be ensnared by a pair of blue eyes, a 
 ripe lip, and a cloud of golden hair. You have 
 not passed through half your life heart-whole 
 to be stricken by the glances of a mere girl in a 
 
 fantastic dress ; nor are you overcome ; love, 
 
 \ 
 
 especially love at first sight, does not sit down 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 125 
 
 with a note-book and a cigar to cross-question itself. 
 You have simply had an unusual experience in 
 the company of this young woman — an unusual 
 experience for you, but a common one, doubtless, 
 with those who frequent the society of women. 
 You met her curiously; and it is certain that you 
 have never talked with any woman so frank and 
 innocent. Perhaps, also, anything so lovely in 
 that purest type of it has not been your lot to 
 observe ; there may be hundreds like her, as far 
 as her mere appearance goes ; but her guileless 
 nature and gentle disposition are perhaps not so 
 common ; and anything like the healthy freedom 
 of her looks and movements you cannot find 
 in your memories of the few drawing-rooms you 
 have been beguiled into visiting. Stop, now, 
 Robert L’Estrange. You’ve to talk to yourself 
 here. Don’t write long, clumsy sentences. Try 
 and put down what you think. Are you think- 
 ing ? Have you once thought, once used your brain 
 consciously, since you left the garden-party ? Not 
 
126 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 you ; you’ve been dreaming, dreaming like a 
 school-boy, about a pair of blue eyes.” 
 
 Here a sentence or two were half- written, and 
 then scored out. He paused for a little, and 
 when he resumed he possibly believed he was 
 thinking. 
 
 “ She is surely the loveliest and purest of all 
 God’s creatures. Why do men not kill each 
 other for her ? What can I do to be worthy 
 of her ? That is blasphemy. Though I were 
 to gather and wear all the bays and laurels 
 that grow in the garden of fame, I would not 
 be worthy to touch the hem of her garment w r ith 
 my lips. Who dare aspire to have this woman 
 for his very own ? What labour, what sweat of 
 blood, could give a man the right to steep his 
 sight in her answering eyes ? Could any anguish, 
 any torture purify one’s lips for hers ? To put 
 one’s hand under her hair and clasp her neck ! 
 Some angel almost as pure as herself might dare 
 to do it ! To look at her — to think of her- — 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 127 
 
 needs a hardihood, that only the most worshipful 
 love could excuse. And I ! I may see her to- 
 morrow ; I may perhaps touch her hand ; I may 
 walk with her in the sight of men and angels.” 
 Another pause; then — still thinking, doubtless — 
 “ I have loved this woman all my life. I, who 
 thought I knew not love, have always been in 
 love — with her. My heart has not been empty, 
 but it has been shut till now. So well I knew 
 her, and so well I loved her, that when she was 
 driven against me by fate, it was as if my heart 
 had opened and she had sprung out — I seemed 
 to give her birth. And now I must have her 
 back again ; she must be mine, worthy or un- 
 worthy. No man on earth has loved her so long, 
 so deeply, so purely as I, and no man could 
 cherish her as I would — as I will. They might 
 drain my blood drop by drop, and fill up my 
 heart and veins with boiling lead, if that would 
 save her a moment’s pang. There is no man less 
 worthy of her than I, but there is no man who 
 
128 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 could do more than I to make her happy — give 
 her his whole life — my whole life. My God ! and 
 half of it is done. But yet I am ail hers from 
 the beginning — from the beginning. Not one 
 drop of blood in this body of mine has ever 
 throbbed for another woman. I am hers — all 
 hers. It is little; but I could not come to her 
 otherwise. I could not ask her white soul to 
 take mine, if I did not bring it to her in one 
 thing as pure as God sent it into the world — 
 almost as pure as hers. Robert L’Estrange, 
 you’re a braggart, a fool, and a prig,” he muttered. 
 
 He sprang from his hammock, tore the pages 
 he had just written from his book, burnt them, 
 and went out. In half an hour he returned. 
 He wanted someone to talk to ; but nothing 
 London-bred would suit' him ; it was a natural 
 man he needed ; so he went up to Angus Frazer’s 
 attic. 
 
 Angus had intermitted his study of the map of 
 London, and knelt at the open window smoking, 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 129 
 
 when L’Estrange entered. Until midnight he sat 
 on the floor, filling pipe after pipe while his 
 master talked to him. Occasionally the old Scotch- 
 man interjected a remark, or put a question. 
 With these exceptions, L’Estrange ’s speech flowed 
 on in an unbroken stream. He talked of his 
 travels, of men and books, and amazed Angus 
 by the extent of his knowledge, the pithiness of 
 his criticisms, and the originality of his ideas. It 
 was a great relief to L’Estrange ; his mind was 
 intensely excited, and, by giving himself an 
 auditor, and by talking of subjects that were part 
 and parcel of his life, he kept his hands full, so 
 to speak. The vision of golden hair and blue 
 eyes was always there in the background, ready, 
 if he ceased talking for a moment, to step forward 
 and be the whole and only picture ; and he re- 
 belled against its usurpation. He was afraid of 
 it. At thirty-eight years of age a man begins to 
 imagine that his mind is made up on most sub- 
 jects; his habits are all formed, and if he is un- 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 130 
 
 married their power over and in him is much 
 greater than in the case of a Benedict, who has 
 presumably, if he’s been lucky, shared the most 
 intimate thoughts and feelings of another for 
 years, and whose habits, especially his external 
 habits, have been kept in all likelihood in a fluc- 
 tuating condition by the gradual increase of his 
 family. L’Estrange felt the change beginning. 
 He knew perfectly that, in this long discourse to 
 Angus, he was the L’Estrange of the past, for 
 the last time ; and he drove the figure to the 
 background, and held his newborn love at bay 
 within him. In order to be the L’Estrange of 
 the forenoon, the L’Estrange he had been for 
 eight-and-thirty years, he was acting a part. And 
 at the bottom of it all, there was the fierce re- 
 pulsion that is the immediate reaction after love 
 has taken possession of a virginal nature ; his 
 soul felt as if it had been outraged and rose in 
 arms — in vain ; for, when, tired of talking, he 
 returned to his own room, the shining figure 
 
A HASTY ENG A GEMENT. 1 3 1 
 
 stepped forward, and with small, soft fingers took 
 away the spear and the shield and the steel gaunt- 
 lets, undid the clasps of the helmet and of the 
 breast-plate, and made the willing soul captive, 
 with a single thread of her golden hair. 
 
 He slept most of the night, and dreamt a suc- 
 cession of wild dreams. All the day-dreams that 
 he ought to have dreamt in his youth seemed to 
 be crowded into that one restless night. v Now he 
 held her wrapped in his cloak in his left arm, while 
 he fought against odds — one to three — with his 
 back against a wall. Then he carried her through 
 snowstorms; he half-naked, having wrapped his 
 garments about her. Sometimes he saved her 
 from drowning, sometimes from falling over preci- 
 pices ; or he found her tied to a tree, while bandits 
 cast dice for her, and, after a terrible struggle, he 
 freed her. Every instance of heroism in a lover 
 that he had read of he enacted in his dreams. He 
 lived a hundred lives ; performed a thousand feats 
 of valour. Wonderful dark or auburn beauties 
 
132 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 came and tempted him with riches and power, if 
 he would forsake her for them ; but he was obdu- 
 rate: and always she had seen and heard, and 
 gazed on him with loving, trustful eyes. So wild 
 and so ultra-romantic were his dreams that when 
 he was folly awake he blushed at the thought of 
 them — the deep crimson blush that had struck 
 Sybil Romaine’s ardent fancy. 
 
 The morning passed — how, he couldn’t have told; 
 and he drove to the park. He was far too soon ; 
 still she might be there ; so he did not go into it. 
 He hadn’t the courage; he was trembling like a 
 girl. At last, white, but resolute, after walking 
 along the edge of the Green Park for a while, he 
 joined the well and ill-dressed crowd at the edge 
 of Rotten Row. 
 
 As he entered the park a weary, but lovely, face 
 brightened into a hopeful smile: a pair of large 
 steel-blue eyes grew critical, and watched expectant. 
 When the eyes saw that L’Estrange looked about 
 with eager, searching glance, they became less 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 *33 
 
 anxious ; and when L’Estrange, noticing the eyes, 
 went straight towards them, they softened and 
 deepened into the fathomless, bewitching wells of 
 light in which his “ delighted spirit ” had bathed 
 the day before. 
 
 The little hand he seized so excitedly seemed to 
 nestle in his when he loosened his grasp, and the 
 lithe, supple figure bent towards him like a flower 
 to the sun. 
 
 She was more beautiful than ever, he thought. 
 She was again dressed in white, quietly this time, 
 but her bodice fitted like a glove, and the bits of 
 blue ribbon were put to shame 1 y her eyes ; the 
 gold on her wrists couldn’t vi; with her coiled 
 hair ; and the white pearls she wore were dim be- 
 side her whiter neck. 
 
 He said nothing — not a word ; f he opened his 
 lips he felt that the one sentence would burst out. 
 She wondered, and wondered ; and walked by his 
 side demurely. 
 
 Tregarven passed and stared, but didn’t bow ; 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 134 
 
 Tintock nodded with a sardonic grin ; Lyonesse 
 turned away his head. L’Estrange thought it 
 curious, but found a reason. 
 
 “ My friends,” he said, breaking silence at last, 
 “ are so astonished to find me in any woman’s com- 
 pany that they forget the ordinary rules of good 
 breeding.” 
 
 “ It is long since I walked on any one’s arm in 
 the park,” said the lady with great deliberation. 
 
 “ Indeed!” said L’Estrange; and there was joy 
 in his foolish heart. “ Perhaps you have not cared 
 for a cavalier. That would be remarkable, for I 
 have the reputation, and with some cause, of being 
 a woman-hater.” 
 
 “ And is that the reason,” said the lady, unable 
 to conceal her surprise, “ that you think your 
 friends fail to bow to you ? ” 
 
 “ There can be no other that I know of,” he re- 
 plied carelessly. 
 
 A half-scornful, half-pitiful, look shot across the 
 lady’s face. 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT 
 
 135 
 
 Let us get away from this mob/’ he said. 
 
 He led her through the ranks of seats, across 
 the Row, through the crowd of riders, and struck 
 out for the centre of the park ; and there he 
 told her of his love. It was sudden, brutal if 
 you will, but that is what happened. And this 
 is a true history. He told her all his life, his 
 ambition, his failures, he did what all men love 
 to do in speaking to the woman they love, he 
 talked about himself — his thoughts of suicide, 
 and his loveless years : he pleaded passionately 
 for some return of affection and grasped her 
 sleeve with both hands, just as a drowning 
 mariner might clutch a floating spar. 
 
 “ Do not cast me away/’ he cried with a 
 desperate cry, that came not from his voice 
 alone but from the depths of his being : it was 
 as if his body had been shivered asunder to emit 
 that cry. His own utter unworthiness of the 
 great happiness he saw almost within his grasp 
 overpowered him with shame and distress. 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 
 The woman who at first had looked about 
 afraid of witnesses forgot the convenances in 
 presence of the anguish, the convulsion of 
 passion, that wrung the man at her side. She 
 grew pale, trembled, and for the first time since 
 she had ceased to be an inexperienced girl she 
 hesitated — yes, hesitated, and with such a life- 
 prize in the net. For this man loved her, loved 
 her from the very bottom of his soul — and this 
 woman knew it. 
 
 L’Estrange still clutched at her dress — he was 
 very much in earnest you see. He trembled for 
 a moment or two, and then he grew still. She 
 would either take him or reject him : the next 
 sun would see him either dead or happy. 
 Strange mad thoughts passed through his head 
 in that moment of waiting : he would use Angus 
 Frazers pistol, and there would be no fear of 
 its not killing him . First of all he would make 
 a will, leaving all his money to this woman — 
 no, there should be something for Angus. Then 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 137 
 
 he would come and shoot himself here. Then 
 — Something thrilled through him. He looked 
 up ; she had kissed him on the cheek. He 
 took both her hands, and looked into her eyes. 
 The veined lids flickered and fell, but the blue 
 heavens shone through them. A tear-drop would 
 have fallen from the long silken lashes had he 
 not kissed it away. 
 
 “ You have made me the happiest man in 
 all the world,” he said, as they turned their 
 steps back towards Hyde Park Corner. He 
 
 could find nothing else to say but that ; or 
 rather the words burst from his heart without 
 searching, the common hackneyed words that 
 everybody uses — almost everybody — some time 
 or other, and which seem so fresh, so brand- 
 new, when they are used, that the speaker 
 feels as if he were the first that had employed 
 them from the beginning of time. 
 
 u Will you take me home ? ” asked the lady 
 shyly. 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 138 
 
 Would he take her home ? Would he lay 
 down his life for her ? Why did she not ask 
 him to do something difficult, something that 
 would task all his powers. 
 
 “ Who is there at home ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Oh, I live with a distant relation.” 
 
 “ Have you none nearer ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but I — don’t like them — and they don’t 
 like me. We don’t get on, in fact,” she added 
 shortly. 
 
 “ What miserable creatures they must be,” he 
 thought. 
 
 “But your name, your name ? ” he said suddenly, 
 stopping and la3ung his hand on her shoulder. 
 He laughed at the thought that he had wrnoed 
 and won a woman, and had never even asked 
 her name. 
 
 Any one not in love with the lady would have 
 said that she turned pale, and that a look of fear 
 crossed her face at the question. As she an- 
 swered, an observant person would have said 
 
A HASTY ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 139 
 
 that the muscles of her face tightened, and 
 that defiance flashed from her eyes. 
 
 “ Sophie Dale is my name,” she murmured 
 in that soft, purring voice of hers. 
 
 “ Sophie Dale,” repeated I/Estrange enraptured. 
 Evidently he had never heard the name before. 
 The impartial observer already referred to would 
 have said that a great surge of hope passed 
 through Miss Dale’s heart, and brain at her com- 
 panion’s reception of her name. He had never 
 heard it — thank God for that. 
 
 “ But I know your name,” she said, “ it is 
 Robert L’Estrange ; you told me so. Robert 
 L’Estrange,” she whispered again, caressing the 
 words. Then she pressed close to his side, and 
 lifting his hand, kissed it. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 If 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 The distant relation with whom Miss Sophie Dale 
 resided was called Mrs. Marlate. That a relationship 
 did exist between the two ladies it would be idle to 
 dispute, and it would be equally idle to deny that 
 the consanguinity was very remote. To give some 
 idea of the nearness as of the distance of this 
 relationship, it is sufficient to say that they both 
 belonged to the Aryan race ; but not even Sophie 
 knew of what nationality Mrs. Marlate was. It was 
 a question if Mrs. Marlate herself knew. 
 
 Sophie, as we know, had not always lived with 
 Mrs. Marlate. When she was left an orphan at the 
 age of twenty-one, her uncle, the Dean of Belcaster, 
 
 received her with open arms, that were expanded 
 
 141 
 
142 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 all the more widely because of a certain two- 
 hundred-and-fifty pounds of income that accom- 
 panied Miss Dale wherever she went. Whether it 
 was that the Dean found his fair niece required the 
 whole two-hundred-and-fifty, and more, for pin- 
 money, or because of her scandalous flirtations with 
 every wealthy unmarried man she met who was at 
 all eligible — that is to say, in anyway a catch — the 
 good Dean thought it convenient after a month or 
 two to allow her to have her own way and go to 
 London. And surely Miss Dale was right. Is there 
 a better marriage-market anywhere than in the 
 modern Babylon ? Customers were slow, however, 
 to come her way — the customers she wanted. A 
 pair of wonderful blue eyes, a head of golden hair, 
 a well-shaped body, sound and vigorous, with two- 
 hundred-and-fifty a year in addition : these she 
 wished to exchange for a title if possible, at all 
 events for a sounding name, a town residence, and 
 a country residence, and anything from five thousand 
 a year upwards, with a husband thrown in. Several 
 
BRJDE AND BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 T 43 
 
 times she had almost effected a capture to her mind : 
 but an over-readiness on her part had broken off 
 the match. 
 
 Her first year in London had been spent with 
 various friends and relations of the family, but at the 
 end of that time they were all tired of her, and she 
 had to find out a perch of her own. It was then 
 that she replied to the following advertisement : 
 “’Widow lady, thirty, wishes a companion to share 
 her house. Must be young, well-connected, and 
 have small income,” and discovered her very distant 
 relative, Mrs. Marlate. 
 
 Mrs. Marlate, proving to be the very instructress 
 Sophie was sadly in need of, taught her how to play 
 her cards, for Mrs. Marlate was a very skilful player 
 indeed. The craving for a husband and a position 
 continued, but Miss Dale found the market more 
 against her than ever. When things are dull 
 beauty is at a considerable discount. Miss Dale had 
 plenty of offers, but not from the right sort of men. 
 All the houses that she had visited on her arrival in 
 
144 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 London were still open to her, but people talked — 
 people will talk. 
 
 That in brief is her history to the age of twenty- 
 five, and the commencement of onr story. 
 
 Six hundred a year, even with a husband like 
 L’Estrange thrown in, was a downcome from five 
 thousand, and two houses: but she had begun to 
 perceive that the shadows were lengthening, and 
 she was of opinion that it is better to sell than not 
 to sell, however small the price. Indeed she had 
 begun to think when she found herself isolated at 
 the garden-party that there was no husband in the 
 lucky-bag for her at all. It was on that account, 
 as well as from the fact that L’Estrange was not a 
 boy, although he did not look anything like his age, 
 that she jumped at him, and led a heart at once — 
 hearts being trumps. 
 
 The preliminaries to marriage you may r be sure 
 were not delayed by Miss Sophie Dale. 
 
 It was a fashionable marriage in one sense of the 
 word : there were lots of well-dressed people, you 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 145 
 
 know, and as for the presents, they were numerous 
 and valuable ; but it was a “ shy ” wedding all the 
 same. A ridiculously large number of invitations 
 had been issued ; that was Mrs. Marlate’s doing, and 
 it was quite contrary to Sophie Dale’s wish. 
 
 “My dear,” said the elder and more experienced 
 lady, “you’d better leave it to me. I mean to issue 
 the invitations broadcast : people won’t come, you 
 know, but the wise bird, Sophie dear, feathers its 
 nest. You never know what’s going to turn up ; 
 you’ll never have such a chance of feathering your 
 nest again. Mr. Squaretoes may decline the invita- 
 tion, an invitation which includes Mrs. Squaretoes, 
 though he’d be glad enough to dine here with a 
 party of men in the ordinary way: and Mrs. 
 Squaretoes doesn’t even know of my existence, poor 
 thing : but old Squaretoes will send you a present 
 all the same ; it may be a silver salad bowl, or it may 
 be merely a redundant set of salt-cellars; in either 
 case they’re silver, and ‘portable property/ as Mr. 
 Swiveller says. An invitation to a wedding, Sophie 
 
146 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 dear, necessitates a present on the part of the victim ; 
 it’s a kind of respectable blackmailing. Put your 
 feelings in your pocket, Sophie, we are women of 
 the world/' 
 
 “ Hardly/’ said Sophie Dale, with a cruel meaning, 
 which her mentor fully understood, “I wish we 
 were.” 
 
 “ You will be at all events, Sophie — being one 
 of the lucky ones — as soon as you are married 
 to Robert L’Estrange,” said Mrs. Marlate, who 
 always returned a blow, and, as a rule, hit 
 straight from the shoulder. “ I am only a poor 
 little widow.” 
 
 “ Of Ephesus,” said Miss Dale, spitefully. 
 
 “ Don’t tease, Sophie,” replied the matter-of- 
 fact Mrs. Marlate ; “ let me go on with my list 
 of contributors.” 
 
 The result of Mrs. Marlate’s machinations was 
 thoroughly successful; the presents rained in. 
 Mrs. Maidate’s back drawing-room on the wedding 
 day much resembled the show-room of a silver- 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 M7 
 
 smith and jeweller’s. She had been perfectly 
 correct in her speculations. Mr. Squaretoes did 
 send a silver salad-bowl ; there was a card on 
 it with Mr. and Mrs. Squaretoes’ best wishes for 
 Miss Dale’s happiness; but I am bound to add 
 that Mrs. Squaretoes was never aware of her 
 husband’s extraordinary liberality in the matter 
 of their united and appropriate, but highly extra- 
 vagant wedding-gift. The articles of valuable 
 personal adornment were innumerable, for Sophie 
 Dale had many admirers, and the epergne sent 
 by the Dean of Belcaster, the uncle of the bride, 
 made a brave show ; and nobody, save that 
 artful Mrs. Marlate, Sophie’s friend, knew that 
 it was B quality, plated on copper. To each of 
 the guests Mrs. Marlate remarked, “ This is a 
 present from her uncle, the Dean ; she is his 
 favourite niece, you know.” The real fact is 
 that the epergne was hired for the occasion from 
 Spick and Span of Bond Street, and carefully 
 returned to those gentlemen on the following day. 
 
148 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 A brave show, a valuable exhibition of the arts 
 and crafts of the silversmith and jeweller, and a 
 wonderful tribute to the beauty and fascinations 
 of Miss Sophie Dale. They -were all exhibited, 
 every one of them, for the delectation of the 
 wedding guests; all but Jack Burlington’s wed- 
 ding-gift, which went into the dust-bin : that 
 fat-beaded youth had sent what he called a floral 
 tribute in the shape of an artfully constructed 
 banjo, formed entirely of forget-me-nots. 
 
 “A joke’s a joke, my dear,” said Mrs. Marlate, 
 in her just indignation. “ Burlington is a beast,” 
 she added, in an angry tone, “ and I shall erase 
 his name from my visiting-list.” 
 
 Poor Burlington ! 
 
 The wedding was exactly like other fashionable 
 weddings. Mr. Saltfish of The Tarradiddle was 
 there, and Mr. Slyboots, who does the high life 
 intelligence in The Sphere. I think it will save 
 a lot of trouble if I give Saltfish s description. 
 Here it is verbatim . 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 149 
 
 “ Among the really nice girls who have been 
 prominent amid the fairest lights of London 
 society for the last few seasons, Miss Dale, the 
 Dean of Belcaster’s niece, was facile princeps 
 (facile princeps are two of the five stock Latin 
 words that Saltfish habitually uses). The numer- 
 ous and valuable wedding presents were a real 
 sight for sore eyes. The bride’s costume was a 
 triumph of Madame Hortense’s well-known atelier 
 — it was an exquisite gown of crepe de Japon over 
 ivory satin with a short train. The common 
 nuisance of bridesmaids was departed from at 
 this ultra-fashionable wedding which took place 
 from Mrs. Marlate’s charming bijou residence in 
 Kensington. 
 
 “ Three dear little boys in slashed doublets and 
 trunk hose of rich gros de Naples of Chinese 
 white relieved by steel ornaments, replaced the 
 inevitable girl of the period. Dressed in copper- 
 coloured silk, Mrs. Marlate received the company, 
 while the Honourable Mrs. Slangdon Topper wore 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 150 
 
 electric blue ornamented with rainbow passemen- 
 terie. The wedding was celebrated at St. Cune- 
 gonde’s, with full choral service ; and the clear 
 bell-like voice of the Dean of Belcaster, the uncle 
 of the bride, rendered every word of the impres- 
 sive ceremony distinctly audible to the large and 
 fashionable congregation that crowded the sacred 
 edifice. Mendelssohn Pugwash, Mus. Doc., offici- 
 ated at the organ. The bridegroom, Mr. Robert 
 L’Estrange, a gentleman better known at the 
 Bar and in literary circles than in society, was 
 the fortunate bridegroom. The happy pair left 
 for Folkestone where they propose spending their 
 honeymoon. On leaving, the bride wore a cos- 
 tume of,” etc., etc. 
 
 If we date from the moment they left the church 
 Mr. and Mrs. L’Estrange’s honeymoon lasted about 
 twenty-seven hours. 
 
 They arrived in Folkestone in the afternoon and 
 went at once to the rooms that had been secured 
 for them at the Pavilion Hotel. 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 151 
 
 In the evening they sat on the balcony of 
 their sitting-room, shaded from prying looks, but 
 with a magnificent view of shore and sea. Mrs. 
 L’Estrange watched the water, and Kobert watched 
 her eyes. 
 
 “ A sovereign for your thoughts, Sophie,” he cried. 
 
 Was it not the honeymoon ? He held out the 
 gold coin on the palm of his left hand. 
 
 “ I was thinking/’ she said, putting her hand 
 in his, though she did not take the sovereign, 
 “ how cruel the sea is. It is beautiful : there- 
 fore it must be cruel.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said L’Estrange: “ beauty is often cruel.” 
 
 “ Zola says that it is always cruel — that it 
 must be cruel in spite of itself.” 
 
 “ Zola ? You read Zola ? ” 
 
 Mrs. L’Estrange would have preferred not to 
 let her husband know that she read Zola — not 
 until after the honeymoon at any rate. It had 
 slipped from her now, however, so she had to 
 make the best of it. 
 
152 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “Some of him/’ she said. “His were almost 
 the only books Mrs. Marlate had.” 
 
 Another slip, as Mrs. L'Estrange saw at once 
 from her husband's expression. 
 
 “Do you know French well?” he asked. 
 
 “ Not very.” 
 
 He bent towards her and looked into her eyes, 
 a deep searching look. Dark blue in the shadow 
 like midnight skies, they seemed to pulse with 
 nothing but innocence and trust in him. 
 
 “My darling,” he said, kissing the hand that 
 still lay in his. “ The stars look down on every 
 sinful night, and who shall say that they are 
 less pure than they were when time began ? ” 
 She did not quite grasp the application to her- 
 self, but she knew that one was intended, in 
 which she was praised ; so she took his face in 
 her little soft hands — the sovereign fell, rolled 
 away, and dropped on the pavement beneath. In 
 another woman it might have been an over- 
 confident caress on her marriage day: but it was 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 153 
 
 done so simply, so innocently, and there was such 
 modesty, such deference in the soft kiss she laid 
 on his forehead that it seemed the sweetest ex- 
 pression of the chastest love. 
 
 “ I am not worthy of you,” he said. “ I am 
 not worthy of you.” 
 
 “ Sophie,” he began, after a pause, “ do you 
 know that you have not yet said those words 
 that I want very much to hear ? ” 
 
 “ What are they, Robert ? ” 
 
 “ You have never said ‘I love you.’ ” 
 
 “ Have I not ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Why should I say them? Have I not done them ?” 
 “ Yes, but I want to hear them.” 
 
 Well, you will hear them.” 
 
 " When?” 
 
 “ Soon. And do you know, Robert, that you 
 have never told me how old you are ? ” 
 
 “ You never asked me. But did you not know 
 my age when you signed the register ? ” 
 
154 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ No. How old are you, Robert ? ” 
 
 “I was thirty- eight a week or two ago.” 
 
 “ Thirty-eight. I can hardly believe it. You 
 do not look any older than me.” 
 
 “ Not any older than you in years, perhaps, 
 but much, much older than you are. You are in 
 your teens still, Sophie, in beauty, and in in- 
 nocence.” 
 
 “ l)o people become very sinful by the time 
 they are thirty-eight ? ” she asked lightly. But 
 she saw he didn’t like it, so she amended it. 
 “ I mean, can one not retain one’s innocence 
 always, although beauty may go ? Are you not 
 as innocent as — as I am ? ” 
 
 “No ; I know things that I feel in your presence 
 are stains on my memory.” 
 
 “Did you ever do anything wicked — I mean 
 very wicked? Did you — ” Again she saw her 
 
 question was disliked, and again she amended it. 
 “ Did you ever love any woman before me ? Dear,” 
 she added, “ shall we confess each other ? ” 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 155 
 
 What had she said ? Was she mad ? “ Confess 
 each other ! ” There is a fearful joy for some 
 natures in walking on the very brink of a 
 precipice. 
 
 “ Confess each other ? ’’ he echoed. “ Have you 
 anything to confess ? ” 
 
 Warily, warily, Sophie L’Estrange. 
 
 She raised her eyes, her deep, innocent eyes, 
 that the black pupils filled up almost entirely in 
 the waning light, and looked him full in the 
 face. 
 
 “ Yes, yes, my husband, 5 ’ she said. “ I have much 
 to confess. I cannot be at rest until I tell you, 
 because you make me ashamed when you think 
 me so ignorant of wrong — I have been very 
 wicked : I have been selfish all my life. I have 
 told lies. I have hated friends who wanted to 
 be kind to me. I have allowed men, whom I 
 couldn’t care for, to fall in love with me. I have 
 thought bad things, and made many people miser- 
 able. And I cannot be your wife until you have 
 
156 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 forgiven me for all the wrong I have ever done — 
 all the wrong I have ever done.” 
 
 Her husband gathered her up in his arms, 
 and hid her in his breast. Her poor, little, 
 school-girl confession ! He covered her face, 
 and hands, and neck with kisses, and held her 
 long and close. 
 
 “ Say it,” she whispered. “ Say I forgive you 
 all the wrong you have ever done.” 
 
 “ Forgive you, my darling,” he said. “ I 
 thank God that you are human.” 
 
 “ Say it,” she said, breathlessly. “ Say it. 
 I shall be miserable until you say it.” 
 
 He said it: her heart ceased its violent throb- 
 bing, and she lay at peace. 
 
 “ Sophie,” — his mouth was close to her ear, 
 and he whispered so softly that she rather divined 
 than heard what he said — “ I never loved any 
 woman at all before I met you. I used to kiss 
 my cousins when I was a boy, or rather they 
 used to kiss me. You are the only woman I 
 
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 157 
 
 have ever kissed voluntarily. That was wrong 
 of me. I should have loved with all my heart 
 long ago : but I was proud and ambitious, and 
 wished to be unlike other men. It was wrong, 
 I verily believe ; but how happy it makes me 
 now. All the treasures of my love in these long 
 years are gathered up for you.” 
 
 It was night now. The summer moon floated 
 up out of the sea, casting its broad bright shadow 
 over the dark waves and so up, and up, and up, 
 until it shone into the balcony. The bride and 
 bridegroom rose, and looked out on the world of 
 waters. 
 
 “ Is the sea still cruel ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ I do not know why,” she said, clinging to 
 him, “but it seems to menace me. Those cur- 
 ling waves, soft and silvery as they look, could 
 strangle.” 
 
 She turned her back on the sea and looked up 
 in his face, surely the most lovely, most tremulous 
 bride in all the world that night. 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 158 
 
 “ Now, now,” he said. “ Say it now. Say I 
 love you.” 
 
 She laid her head on his shoulder as if about 
 to comply with bis demand ; but something seemed 
 to strike her, and she said, “ Not yet, Robert/’ 
 
 She withdrew herself from his embrace, and 
 went to the window. Turning there, she blew 
 one kiss to the moon, and two to him, and 
 vanished into the dark room. He remained for 
 a little longer watching the sea and the sky. Then 
 he also went in, and the bride said to the bride- 
 groom the three words he burned to hear. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE BLUE ENVELOPE. 
 
 By eleven o’clock on the morning after the 
 wedding, breakfast was over, and Robert 
 L’Estrange stood once more on the balcony wait- 
 ing till Sophie should put on her hat. 
 
 “ Good morning, Mr. L’Estrange,” said a 
 pleasant voice with a Scotch accent behind him. 
 
 “ Hulloa ! ” said L’Estrange, turning round, 
 “ what has brought you down here, Angus 
 Frazer ? ” 
 
 Angus surveyed L’Estrange admiringly be- 
 fore he answered. His j^oung friend and patron 
 was certainly worth looking at. You would have 
 said he wasn’t any more than twenty-one had 
 
 you seen him that morning with his uplifted, 
 T S9 
 
i6o 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 radiant face, and masterful air. Angus saw he 
 was happy, and rejoiced in his rugged soul, in 
 spite of his left-handed luck ; for L’Estrange had 
 let him know that they would have to part 
 company after his marriage. Meantime he took 
 charge of L’Estrange’s rooms till the honeymoon 
 should be over. 
 
 “ This is what brought me down,” he said at 
 length, handing a blue envelope to L’Estrange. 
 “ It came early this morning ; it’s marked 
 ‘ immediate,’ so I took an express train.” 
 
 “ How good of you ! ” said L’Estrange. “ I 
 can’t imagine what it is.” 
 
 He opened the envelope, and took out what 
 seemed to be a long letter, of four sheets. 
 
 “ My dear L’Estrange, ” was on the first sheet. 
 “ My dearest ” — What ? — And whose writing is 
 this ? Whose writing in the name of God ? 
 
 L’Estrange crumpled the papers in one hand, 
 and held on to the railing with the other. He 
 gazed at the sea, he gazed at the sky, he gazed 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 161 
 
 at Angus. The misery in his look and the 
 pallor of his face brought tears to the old Scotch- 
 man’s eyes. There must have been something 
 very alarming in the letter that had taken in a 
 moment the splendour and strength out of the 
 bridegroom as if he had been struck with a 
 palsy. 
 
 “ What is it ? May I know what is the 
 matter?” said Angus. 
 
 “ I don’t know myself yet, Angus ; and I’m 
 afraid to know. Angus Frazer, I would cut off 
 my right hand — I would hack it off with that 
 blunt bread-knife in there — that she laughed so 
 merrily at a few minutes ago — ” He paused for 
 several seconds, crushing the letters, and beating 
 the railing of the balcony with his disengaged 
 hand till the blood came. Then he finished his 
 sentence — “ if I hadn’t to read these letters — if 
 I hadn’t to read them. There may be nothing 
 wrong ; but I would sacrifice a hand not to have 
 to read them” 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ A man must dree his weird,” said Angus. 
 “ But must you read them ? ” 
 
 “ I must read them. Mrs. L’ Estrange will be 
 here immediately. Tell her I have gone to the 
 writing-room on urgent business, and shall be 
 some time.” 
 
 The writing-room was empty, and L’Estrange 
 chose a well-lighted seat, but he hadn’t read two 
 lines when he rose and went into the darkest 
 corner. He would have gone into the bowels of 
 the earth if he could. After reading the letters 
 twice over he looked like a dead man; his lips 
 were white, his face pinched, and his eyes sunk 
 in his head. The bridegroom, who has to read 
 what follows on the morning after his marriage, 
 needs to have a strong brain if he is not to go 
 mad. 
 
 “ My dear L’Estrange, — I have just heard that 
 you are about to marry Sophie Dale either to-day 
 or to-morrow, my informant could not tell me 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 163 
 
 which. I trust my communication will be in time 
 to prevent your making such an irreparable 
 blunder. This letter and the enclosures are 
 strictly confidential. I hope I need not add that 
 I am actuated by the sincerest friendship. To 
 kiss and tell has never been my practice. I regard 
 it with the rest of the world as dishonourable. 
 In this case it is to save you, and that, I think, 
 exonerates me. 
 
 “ Miss Sophie Dale was my mistress for two 
 months. It was she who, in the Cafe Cosmopolite, 
 obtained from me an invitation to the Sixteenth 
 Century garden-party. In proof of my assertion, 
 I select from about a dozen letters of hers these 
 three, numbered 1, 2, 3, as they are not dated, in 
 the order in which I received them. 
 
 “ With the deepest regret for the pain this 
 will cause you, 
 
 “I am, 
 
 “ Sincerely yours. 
 
 “ Tintock. ’ 
 
164 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 I. 
 
 “You stupid dear, — Do I love you? Is there 
 anything left for me to do to prove it ? Come, 
 come, come to me ! I swear to you I never really 
 loved anybody before. I think about you all 
 day, and dream about you all night. 
 
 “ When I think of it, this is a very strange 
 letter of yours, and though I am writing one I 
 have not yet made up my mind to send you a 
 reply. You cannot see me for three days, and 
 you want me to write you a letter — a love-letter, 
 you say. Can I trust you with a letter? Now, 
 don’t become righteously indignant. You know 
 very well what young men do with letters from 
 ladies. Who was it that showed me one from 
 Lady Dolly, eh, Charlie ? You see, if I sign this 
 I am putting my good name in your hands. Well, 
 I will sign it; but here is my condition. You 
 must either return it to me when you come, or 
 bring with you that love of a pearl necklace that 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE. 
 
 165 
 
 we saw just beneath the case of men’s rings in 
 the left-hand corner of the window in Harryman’s 
 in Bond Street. If you love me, as I love you, 
 you will bring both. You will hand the maid 
 the one or the other when you call, or don’t see 
 me. Understand I love you with all my heart ; 
 I adore you. There never was such a darling 
 as you are — but you know that, you vain fellow ! 
 Still you want a love-letter, you want my signa- 
 ture, and what’s the cost of a pearl necklace to 
 you, compared with the risk I run in signing 
 this? 
 
 “ This is not much of a love-letter, but I am 
 not good at that sort of thing. Come to me, my 
 Apollo, my Sun-god. 
 
 “ Sophie Dale.” 
 
 II. 
 
 “My dearest Charlie, — You mustn’t come to- 
 morrow, and I will tell you why. You and I 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 1 66 
 
 understand each other now, so that there is no 
 need for any pretence. At the end of the week 
 I am to meet Lord Amboyna, fresh from Ulster, 
 and his mother’s apron-strings. I am getting an 
 old woman now, you know, and I haven’t much 
 more time to amuse mj^self. I wish I had married 
 you ; but six weeks ago your father was good for 
 twenty years yet. Eeally it is most tantalising 
 that he should fall ill now. I hope he won’t 
 die yet in spite of the doctors. You are bad 
 enough at present ; what will you be when j t ou 
 are my lord ? But I’m forgetting what I meant 
 to say. Understand, you are not to see me till 
 after Saturday. I want to be in the very best 
 of form ; so I am going to spend the whole time 
 in eating milk-puddings and reading Sir Walter 
 Scott — there’s not much difference. I have made 
 ‘ the Marlate ’ lock up Ouicla and Zola, and she 
 has of her own accord disposed of the wine 
 you sent in some inaccessible corner. But that 
 doesn’t matter to me, as you know; I would 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 167 
 
 sooner drink lemonade than champagne any day. 
 If I get half-an-hour of this young lord, and 
 he’s not positively repulsive, I shall be Lady 
 Amboyna in a fortnight. Now, you’re not to 
 come, remember, till after Saturday. 
 
 “I love you, Charlie, I love you truly. No; 
 I don’t want any more money just now, and 
 you’re not to send me that ring. I shall never 
 ask anything from you again except what I need. 
 Good-bye, my dearest. 
 
 “Your own Sophie.” 
 
 III. 
 
 “ My own darling, — Why ? why ? why ? What 
 have I done ? I thought you loved me — I did, 
 indeed. And you swore to love me — till I 
 married. But I have loved you too well, and 
 you are tired of me. That’s it. You needn’t tell 
 me that you are going to change your life now 
 that you have become a peer. You have found 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 1 68 
 
 somebody younger, fresher, fairer and harder to 
 be won. In love there are no Alexanders. See, 
 my despair makes me witty. There are always 
 new worlds to conquer, and the old one is as if 
 it had never been. It is hard to bear, Charlie. 
 I love you as a wife loves her husband. I love 
 you now. I shall always love you. You are 
 proud, and I don’t think there is a soft corner in 
 your heart anywhere; but hard hearts can love 
 in their own hard way, and I thought you loved 
 me, I did indeed. I don’t know what I shall do. 
 I was never so miserable all my life. When a 
 woman thinks that a man loves her, it doesn’t 
 matter how' — but for herself, for something about 
 her, and because she loves him, to find that she 
 is mistaken maddens her. I think I could kill 
 you, Charlie. I understand how women throw 
 vitriol now. Wouldn’t it spoil your fair face ! 
 
 “ Oh ! Charlie Mountstuart, shall I never see 
 you again ? I do love you ! I do love you ! 
 When I whisper your name to myself I feel as if 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 169 
 
 little flames were shooting along my veins : it 
 thrills me like a great deed at a play. I have the 
 flowers you gave me ; they are ruined now, for I 
 have killed them with despairing kisses ! I love 
 you ! Come to me ; come to me once more. Only 
 let me see you once more — I have a little favour to 
 ask — not money. You will see me for that at 
 least, will you not ? 
 
 “ Yours till death, 
 
 “Sophie Dale. 
 
 “ P.S. — When you are tired of her will you come 
 back to me ? Yes, I’ve lost all my pride. I love 
 you. My darling, come back to me.” 
 
 For half-an-hour after the perusal and re- 
 perusal of these letters L’Estrange sat motionless. 
 He might have sat there till his wife came to 
 find him had not a waiter entered the room. 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 170 
 
 The noise of the door opening startled him out 
 of his semi-conscious state, and he rose from his 
 chair with a suddenness that made the waiter, 
 who had not observed him on entering, fall back 
 two steps on his road to place an illustrated paper 
 on one of the tables. 
 
 “ Waiter/' said L’Estrange, and he wondered if 
 that dry, husky voice was his own. 
 
 “Yes, sir." 
 
 As L’Estrange did not follow his summons with 
 an immediate order, the waiter suggested, " Some- 
 thing to drink, sir ? " 
 
 “Wo." 
 
 “ Beg pardon, sir.” 
 
 “ I want a room to myself for an hour." 
 
 “ A room to yourself, sir ? Yes, sir. What 
 kind of a room ? ” 
 
 “Any room. This one." 
 
 “This one, sir? A public room, sir. I’m afraid 
 it couldn’t be done, sir." 
 
 “ Any room then." 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 171 
 
 “ Yes, sir. This way, sir.” 
 
 Slowly L’Estrange followed the waiter along 
 several corridors, and when the man stopped at 
 a door, he halted two yards from it. He was 
 loth to enter. He looked at the waiter wistfully 
 and gave him a sovereign. 
 
 “ Much obliged, my lord,” said the waiter. 
 
 “ Don’t my lord me, you fool,’’ said L’Estrange 
 savagely. 
 
 “Beg pardon, sir. I’m very sorry, sir,” said the 
 waiter, who began to be frightened. 
 
 He stepped into the room, held the door back, 
 and made a profound obeisance. L’Estrange 
 advanced and looked in curiously. He was loth 
 to enter. It was a little room, about four yards 
 square, with two windows, one table, one chair; 
 the floor was covered with striped matting, and 
 the walls with a very light paper and a very 
 dark dado. The Venetian blinds were drawn 
 down, and he noticed that they were half a foot 
 too short for the windows, and wondered at it. 
 
iyi 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 He shuddered and drew back. The waiter, 
 having decided that he was quite mad, was on 
 the point of departing, when L’Estrange said it 
 was a fine morning in so kind a tone that the 
 waiter took heart, and replied cheerfully that it 
 was “ a very fine morning indeed, sir.” 
 
 L’Estrange leant against the wall with his 
 hands in his pockets and looked at the waiter. 
 He was loth to enter that room ; for there he 
 had to think out the most terrible problem that 
 could fall to the lot of a bridegroom to consider 
 on the morning after his marriage. 
 
 “ Are you married ? ” asked L’Estrange. 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” said the waiter. 
 
 The waiter was more certain than ever that 
 L’Estrange was mad ; and a strange kind of 
 madness he thought it too, going about hotels 
 tipping waiters sovereigns to talk about their 
 family matters. As L’Estrange put no further 
 question, the waiter concluded that he had not 
 said enough in answer to the first one; so he 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE, 
 
 1 73 
 
 pulled down his cuffs, and curled in the tail of 
 his coat which had a tendency to protrude and 
 vibrate like the long feathers of a wagtail, and 
 took up his parable with a jerky volubility that 
 would have amused L’Estrange at any other 
 time. 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” he said. “ Been married three 
 times. Widows, sir — three widows, sir. ‘Take 
 my advice/ I said to boots only yesterday, ‘and 
 leave the third chambermaid alone. Marry a 
 widow ; there’s no safety except in a widow. 7 
 You see, sir, you’ve nothing to do with her 
 character before she was married. You get a 
 hold of her while her eyes are wet for the late 
 departed, and marry her before her character as a 
 widow needs any keeping. I make it a rule to 
 marry them after two months. My first wife, 
 now, sir. It was two months and three weeks 
 after the death of the late departed before I 
 married her, and a barber’s assistant transpired 
 afterwards as having been attentive before I 
 
174 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 came on the scene. Two months is my limit. 
 You see, sir — ” 
 
 “ Put the key in the inside of the door/' said 
 L’Estrange. 
 
 “ The — Yes, sir.” 
 
 “No one is to come here. Answer no questions 
 about me.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; no, sir.” 
 
 “Go away.” 
 
 The man turned from the door leaving it open, 
 bit the sovereign, and spat on it for luck. “ I 
 hope he ain’t a-going to do anything desp’rit,” he 
 muttered under his breath. “ Pore chap, he seems 
 tottery, and tangled-like. It ain’t my business; 
 and it’s a good sovereign.” 
 
 L’Estrange watched him along the corridor and 
 out of sight, and then he entered the room, 
 slowly. Had the room been a life-prison and his 
 feet fettered, he could not have been more un- 
 willing to cross the threshold. He shut and 
 locked the door and leant against it for some time 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 175 
 
 fumbling with his watch-guard. Then, slowly, 
 heavily, with a face like the face of a corpse, 
 and his arms hanging as if they had been broken, 
 he walked to the table, and sitting down at it took 
 out the letters. He clutched them tightly, and 
 held them up to his eyes, but they fell from his 
 hands, and he rose with a long, low wail. 
 
 “ This — is — Hell/’ he said ; and his face for a 
 moment was illuminated by the realisation of 
 that fact. A hideous illumination: he, Robert 
 L’Estrange, was now actually, as it were, in Hell. 
 This fearful perturbation, this brain of boiling lead 
 — it was worse than Hell. And for what sin of 
 his ? Why should he suffer this torture ? Had 
 he been a libertine, had he even led the ordinary 
 life of a man of pleasure, there would have been 
 some justice in it. Oh, it was bitter! He had 
 never prided himself on his purity! He had 
 regarded it more as an accident than as a virtue ; 
 but the habit of it had made vice poison to him — 
 and he despised it. And now the hateful, foul 
 
176 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 thing — he had taken it to his bosom. The deep, 
 blue eyes, to look into which had been more than 
 compensation for his lost ambition ; the thick 
 long locks of golden hair that had shone round 
 her head last night in the darkness like an 
 aureole ; the sweet, earnest, child-like mouth whose 
 kisses were like dew-drops ; the little soft hands, 
 soft and sweet — Ah, God! the foul little bands 
 that wrote these letters, that had caressed Tintock 
 — her favoured lover ; the sorceress’s eyes that 
 would delude an angel ; the child-like mouth that 
 had been pressed by his rival ; the golden hair 
 which another had toyed and dallied with. 
 
 Up and down the room; up and down, with 
 his hands thrust to the bottom of his pockets, 
 and his teeth gnawing his under-lip, like a wild 
 beast caged. 
 
 Up and down, up and down at feverish speed. 
 It keeps him from thinking. Could he not walk 
 so driving away thought till he dies ? Wildly he 
 dreams of that for a moment ; but his brain gets 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE . 
 
 1 77 
 
 accustomed to the motion ; and, excited by it, 
 becomes prodigiously active. A verbal memory is 
 not one of I/Estrange’s gifts ; but what is this ? 
 “You stupid dear, do I love you? Is there 
 anything left for me to do to prove it ? Come, 
 come, come to me ! etc.” And on he goes 
 through the whole three letters, not a word for- 
 gotten; they are seared on his brain and heart. 
 Again he repeats the letters ; quicker yet he 
 marches. Dry, awful sobs burst from him at every 
 sentence, as the utter, shameless wantonness of 
 this — this brazen harlot, whom he has married, 
 burns into his soul. She, so fair, so sweet, so 
 innocent-looking ! What does it mean ? Can 
 she know what she has done ? Can she know 
 what she is ? No ; it is impossible. She is not so 
 bad as that. No ; she has no conscience to sin 
 against ; she does not know what she has done ; 
 in a sense, she is innocent ; as innocent as a tiger 
 that preys on human life ; it is instinct, an 
 irrational, unprincipled hunger for wealth, ease, 
 
WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 178 
 
 luxury. The wretch finds consolation in that for 
 a little. “ Innocent/' he whispers ; “ not in the 
 sight of man ; but in the sight of God who made 
 her thus, who allows her to live still. What 
 business is it of mine, or of anybody’s, since He 
 tolerates her ? Innocent ! Innocent in the sight of 
 God!” 
 
 Up and down, up and down. Now he forgets 
 himself, and lurches against the wall or stumbles 
 against the table. He takes the room diagonally. 
 Up and down, up and down. He drives the 
 table into the centre, and walks round it, narrow- 
 ing the circle. Suddenly he stops. What wild 
 light of hope flashes on his face ? Why are his 
 hands held up in appeal — an appeal that looks 
 potent enough to make the sun stand still ? He 
 flings himself on the letters ; draws up the blind 
 with a sudden crash; and reads, reads yet once 
 more. The wild light fades away like the glow 
 on a dying brand, and his face is as gray as ashes. 
 The letters are not forged. 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE. 
 
 179 
 
 He sits down at the table and takes out his 
 pencil. He has been accustomed to gam command 
 of his thoughts by writing them down. He will 
 control himself, and write on the back of the 
 envelope. He begins, “ My dearest Charlie, you 
 must not come to-morrow.” No ; there is no hope 
 in writing — “ Sophie Dale — Sophie L’Estrange — 
 yes, she’s Sophie I/Estrange.” Why should he have 
 to suffer this torture ? His heart will burst ; his 
 head will open. His ewe-lamb — that was never 
 his ; that had been taken from him before he 
 knew her at all. Again the dreadful weary walk 
 — round and round, panting, with blood-shot eyes, 
 like a horse in a mill. And he was married 
 yesterday. 
 
 Married to what ? There could be but one 
 answer to that question. Oh God ! since she is 
 false, what of other women ?. She, the loveliest 
 vision of innocent beauty. He beat his head on 
 the wall, he tore his hair, and shrunk into a corner, 
 this honest man. Only to rush from it, and let 
 
i8o 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 down the blind, and whisper, shudderingly, “ Curse 
 her ! ” He repeated the words over and over ; he 
 couldn’t cease saying it ; louder and louder like a 
 maniac these two words until he fell on the floor, 
 struggling, foaming, biting the matting to still that 
 hysterical cry, for, for the moment, the man was 
 mad. Slowly the paroxysm passed, and he lay 
 moaning, like a creature that had been wounded to 
 death. 
 
 At last he got up, and seated himself once more 
 at the table. He must resolve on something. 
 
 Divorce ? No ! 
 
 He rose, and sat down again. Divorce ? What 
 his fierce walking, his maniacal frenzy, had failed 
 to do, that word did. The sweat broke out on his 
 face. His mind grew clearer — to himself it grew 
 quite clear. The heat in his brain seemed to 
 resolve itself into lightning. Flash by flash he 
 made up his mind. It came to him like a revela- 
 tion. He knew now what he meant to do — what 
 he would do. He took a slow turn across the 
 
THE BLUE ENVELOPE , 
 
 181 
 
 room. The law couldn’t help him, no, even if it 
 could, would lie have sought its help ? She was in 
 his hands; he was judge, and advoeate, for and 
 against ; and this was his sentence, all of it that he 
 spoke aloud, that is to say : — 
 
 “ I can never forgive her ; but if she will confess , 
 I will leave her punishment to God.” 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 “ Angus Frazer ! ” said Mrs. L’Estrange, when she 
 entered the sitting-room. “ What good fortune has 
 brought you here ? ” 
 
 She knew nothing of him except that he had 
 attempted suicide, and that her husband liked him. 
 
 “ Good fortune, I hope,” said Angus ; and he told 
 her his errand, and gave her L’Estrange’s message. 
 
 “ We will sit in the balcony till he comes then,” 
 said Mrs. L’Estrange. 
 
 Angus placed a chair for Mrs. L’Estrange, and 
 stood up in a comer himself. No entreaty or 
 command was of any avail ; he would not bring a 
 chair for himself. It would have been a kind of 
 disloyalty to L’Estrange, in his estimation, to sit 
 down in the presence of his wife. 
 
 183 
 
184 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “Very well, Angus Frazer, you’re a cantankerous 
 old man,” said Sophie, pouting prettily. 
 
 “ I can’t help it, ma’am,” said Angus. “ I’m left- 
 handed ; and it may be a left-handed compliment 
 to stand before you, but as it would be stupid to 
 kneel, I must do it.” 
 
 “Do you know I was left-handed until I was 
 eight,” said Sophie pleasantly. “Many a bitter, 
 bitter cry v I had before I was cured of it.” 
 
 “ And has it never come back ? ” inquired Angus 
 with great interest. 
 
 “ Never,” said Mrs. L’Estrange. 
 
 “You ought to be very thankful, ma’am, if you 
 will only let me say so. See what magnificent 
 luck you have, marrying Mr. L’Estrange. If they 
 had only driven it out of me ! Why, they should 
 have cut off my left hand ! I wonder I never 
 thought of that before. I should think that would 
 cure the most inveterate, long-descended kittiness.” 
 “Kittiness?” queried Sophie; and Frazer had 
 to explain. 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 185 
 
 She laughed a sunny little laugh, and asked 
 Angus about Scotland. Nothing loth, he told 
 her about his own dear country, its scenery, the 
 peculiarities of its people, and had twisted the 
 matter round to his favourite theory of left- 
 handedness, pointing out that it plainly affected 
 countries as well as people; for if you regarded 
 London as the head of England, “ then Scotland 
 largely, and Ireland entirely, lying to the left,” 
 when his mouth closed with a snap, and he 
 stepped from his corner and leant half over the 
 balcony. Involuntarily Mrs. L’Estrange’s gaze 
 followed his, and lit on Lord Tintock. 
 
 “Do you know that gentleman?” asked Mrs. 
 L’Estrange, agitated and perplexed. 
 
 Angus did not reply until Lord Tintock, who 
 walked very leisurely, cigar in mouth, was out 
 of sight. 
 
 “ I know him,” said Angus. 
 
 “ Why do you look in that way ? ” asked Mrs. 
 L’Estrange. 
 
1 86 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ Do you know Lord Tintock, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “ I have met him.” 
 
 “ I had a daughter once, and — I had a daughter 
 once.” Angus saw from the expression of Mrs. 
 L’Estrange’s face that that brief sentence was 
 significant enough. “ I think Mr. L’Estrange 
 
 will soon be here. Will you allow me to go 
 
 now f 
 
 “ What are you going to do ? Where are you 
 going ? ” Sophie knew by instinct what was in 
 Angus’s mind. “ You are not going to harm 
 Lord Tintock ? For your own sake, I mean. 
 You’re not going to make a ‘ fuss ? 9 ” 
 
 u No, ma’am ; I will not harm him. He has 
 harmed himself too much already for anything 
 to hurt him, except the fires of hell.” 
 
 “ W^hat do you mean ? He is very strong and 
 healthy.” 
 
 I meant something else. ,? 
 
 I don’t understand you ? ” 
 
 “ Disease, death, torture ; these would do Lord 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 i §7 
 
 Tintock no harm ; they might do him good, and 
 certainly his death would be a benefit to the 
 world.” 
 
 “ Angus Frazer, do you mean to harm Lord 
 Tintock ? ” 
 
 “ I did once.” 
 
 “ Do you mean it now ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know.” 
 
 “ I understand you are very much attached 
 to my husband. I think he and Tintock are 
 friends; you would not do anything to hurt my 
 husband ? ” 
 
 “ I would sacrifice everything,” said Angus fer- 
 vently, “ to save your husband’s body or mind 
 from a moment’s pain. I must go now. May I 
 go?” 
 
 “ What shall I say to Mr. L’Estrange ? ” 
 
 “ Say, please, that I will be back in an 
 hour.” 
 
 Mrs. L’Estrange nodded. 
 
 When Angus Frazer had gone Mrs. L’Estrange 
 
i88 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 had food enough for reflection to prevent her 
 from noticing for half an hour her husband’s 
 unbridegroom-like absence from her side. She 
 was uneasy at Lord Tintock’s arrival in Folke- 
 stone. The worst that she dreaded, however, was 
 the unpleasantness of a meeting with her old 
 lover, and she revolved various speeches and 
 remarks that she might make in the event of 
 such a contretemps. Having made up her mind 
 that all would yet be well — trusting in her 
 luck — she went in search of her husband. He 
 was not in the writing-room ; nor could anybody 
 tell her anything of him. She fretted for a 
 little ; but, as nothing better could be made of 
 it, she returned to the balcony with a paper, 
 and was soon lost in the glories of a “ drawing- 
 room.” Facing interested her a little; a Paris 
 letter, and the Divorce Court considerably ; then 
 she became impatient. What did her husband 
 mean ? Was he trying her ? Was this some 
 kind of lesson for her ? She banished that idea 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 89 
 
 at once. During their short acquaintance, she 
 had been puzzling out her husband, and though 
 often at fault, and still at fault in some things, 
 she knew that he was as far above any trick of 
 that kind, as he was above stealing spoons. There 
 was, therefore, something seriously wrong, and she 
 shrewdly guessed that it must affect them both, or 
 else he would have interrupted whatever he was 
 doing to set her mind at rest. But no, how could 
 she be directly implicated ? Something about his 
 money, perhaps ; or some friend had got into a 
 scrape, or he had met somebody, and gone out 
 for a minute, and the time had passed ; a 
 hundred things might detain him : and he would 
 be the less pressed to return, as he imagined 
 her with Angus Frazer. Anything like the real 
 reason never crossed her mind. 
 
 The sun got very hot, and she left the balcony 
 for the cooler room. She sat on all the chairs, 
 and reclined on the couch. Then she paced the 
 floor with little angry steps. The clock struck 
 
190 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 one. That was more than two hours she had 
 waited. It was too had — too bad, indeed. Was 
 ever a bride so treated on the morning after 
 her marriage ? If this were the way of it now, 
 what would it be in a year ? But she reined 
 up that train of thought; she knew there was 
 some cause, some sufficient cause for his absence : 
 there was nothing of the male coquette about 
 her husband. 
 
 A step in the passage. 
 
 Yes, it is he. 
 
 She hurried into the balcony, sat down with 
 her back to the entrance, put up her sunshade, 
 and tapped her little brown shoe with a mixture 
 of actual and stimulated anger. 
 
 L’Estrange had tried to brush away all traces 
 of his mental conflict ; but a broad blue and 
 yellow bruise on his left temple could not be 
 hidden. He took a chair out to the balcony 
 and sat down in silence. His wife looked at the 
 sea, and so did he. The little brown shoe kept 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 191 
 
 tapping — there were tears in the gentle eyes — 
 but he was motionless. 
 
 “Well?” said Sophie, sharply, breaking the 
 silence at last. 
 
 “I have received some very remarkable news, 
 and could not return a moment sooner ” said 
 L’Estrange in a deep voice, that made his wife 
 start and turn towards him : she had never 
 heard it before; nor had she ever seen this man 
 in this strange mood. 
 
 “ What has happened ? ” she cried, laying her 
 hand on his shoulder. “ Something has happened.” 
 Then, noticing the bruise, “ Have you had a fall ? 
 Oh, Robert ! ” 
 
 “Yes, I have had a fall ,” said L’Estrange 
 simply, removing her hand from his shoulder. 
 “Don’t ask me any more questions just now. 
 I’ll tell you all about it — later on.” 
 
 “Are you angry with me, Robert ? Surely not. 
 Surely, surely my darling will be good to me 
 to-day— to-day of all days in the year ? ” 
 
192 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 He shivered and said nothing. 
 
 “ Are you ill ? What is it ? what is it ? ” 
 
 “ I have a headache/’ he said. 
 
 “ Oh, let me bathe it with my handkerchief.” 
 "No!” 
 
 “ Oh, Robert, you are almost rude ! ” 
 
 “ No, Sophie ; I’m not rude.” He pulled him- 
 self together and spoke gently. “ I am not rude.” 
 Then, as if he had been a madman indeed, he 
 sprang from his chair and rushed into the room, 
 banging the French window behind him. For the 
 first time since Tintock’s packet had come he re- 
 membered the conversation in the balcony the 
 night before, with her seemingly guileless confes- 
 sion. He must have struck her had he stayed, or 
 flung her over. He must have cast her from the 
 window, that Jezebel. Hardly had he entered 
 the room when a couple of waiters came to lay 
 the luncheon. He directed them to postpone it 
 for a while, and ha vino; drunk a tumbler of water 
 paced the room silently for a minute or two. 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 193 
 
 “Get her to confess — help her to confess, and 
 then leave her for ever.” Yes, he must master 
 himself, and do that. 
 
 He returned to the balcony, and found his wife 
 — his wife — in tears. He patted her on the 
 shoulder, stroked her cheek, and whispered in her 
 ear some gentle words. Like a child who gets a 
 new toy, in the midst of its grief for a broken one, 
 she looked up, smiled, and her tears w r ere gone, like 
 a summer shower. 
 
 “ Let us talk about ourselves. Let us talk about 
 you, Sophie,” he said. “ Forget all about the world 
 and its troubles. We cant go out now till after 
 lunch.” 
 
 “ Its lunch-time now, isn’t it ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but — are you hungry ? ” 
 
 “ No, dear.” 
 
 “ I thought not; so I put it off. Tell me, Sophie, 
 what books have you read — besides Zola ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I’ve read Scott, and Dickens, and some of 
 Shakespeare, and — ” 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 “ Do you like Shakespeare ? Which of his 
 women do you like best ? ’ 
 
 “ I’m sure I don’t know. But since were talk- 
 ing about Shakespeare, I want to ask you a ques- 
 tion. What do you think of Desdemona ? ” 
 
 “ Of Desdemona ? ” 
 
 " Yes. Do you think she was unfaithful to 
 Othello ? ” 
 
 L’ Estrange sat up, and stared at his wife. 
 
 “ Not even an American has suggested that yet,” 
 he said. 
 
 “ What do you think ? ” 
 
 “ I think that she was faithful. Shakespeare 
 thought so, too.” 
 
 “ But he might have been mistaken. She would 
 never have confessed it ; and Cassio would never 
 have confessed it.’’ 
 
 “ Perhaps she wouldn’t, but I’m not so sure of 
 Cassio.” 
 
 He was thinking of Lord Tintock. 
 
 “ I’ve often wondered,” she said, naively. 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 195 
 
 “ If you were to be unfaithful, Sophie/’ and he 
 laughed a little, bitter laugh, “ would you confess 
 it?” 
 
 “ Oh, Robert ! How can you say it ? How can 
 you even think it, dear ? ” 
 
 “ Let me say it for a moment. Would you ? ” 
 
 She looked at him searchingly, and her sweet, 
 blue eyes filled with tears. She said nothing. 
 
 “ Suppose, then,” he said, “ I lied to you last 
 night.” 
 
 “ Lied to me ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Suppose I bad loved another, and confess 
 to it now. Could you forgive me ? ” 
 
 “ But you didn’t. Even supposing you were to 
 say it now, I shouldn’t believe you ; just as you 
 wouldn’t believe me if I were to say I had been 
 another’s.” 
 
 “ Just as I wouldn’t believe you if you were to 
 say you had been another’s.” He repeated her 
 words mechanically. 
 
 “ Oh, this is dreadful talk ; but I began it with 
 
196 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 Desdemona. Let us talk of something else, dear. 
 What shall we do after lunch ? ” 
 
 “ We’ll take a walk on The Lees, I think. By- 
 the-bye, what’s come over Angus ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I’m glad you remembered ! When he and 
 I were sitting here, you’ll never guess who passed. 
 Lord Tintock.” 
 
 He sat mute. 
 
 “ And Angus told me about his daughter, that is, 
 he hinted it. And I made him promise to do Lord 
 Tintock no harm ; but I’m certain he went out to 
 follow him. He said he would be back in an 
 hour, and that’s more than two hours ago 
 now.” 
 
 “ Poor Angus Frazer ! Don’t you pity Angus 
 Frazer, Sophie ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I do pity him, poor old man,” she said, 
 and then she sighed. 
 
 “ What a miserable hound Tintock must be.” 
 
 “ Oh, Robert ! He is no worse than many other 
 
 men. 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 197 
 
 “ That’s true.” 
 
 “ Then he’s so handsome. It was perhaps the 
 girl’s fault as much as his. Do you know, I think 
 that men are not pitied half enough.” 
 
 “ No ! ” 
 
 “ What’s wrong with you, dear ? ” she pleaded in 
 a half-frightened tone. 
 
 “ Nothing. I’m wondering where you got all 
 this worldly wisdom.” 
 
 “ Is that worldly wisdom ? ” 
 
 “ Of a kind. You seem to know Lord Tintock 
 pretty well. Perhaps you got it from him.” 
 
 And then she laughed. A silvery little laugh. 
 “ I declare that my old husband’s getting jealous 
 already,” she said. 
 
 “ Do you think I shall ever be jealous, really ? ” 
 he asked. 
 
 “ I don’t know, but I know that I shall never 
 give you cause,” said the bride of a few short 
 hours. 
 
 “ But suppose I were to be jealous of somebody 
 
19 8 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 you bad known before I met you; of Lord Tintock, 
 for example/’ he insisted. 
 
 “ Ob, you silly goose. A man I have only met 
 once or twice in crowded drawing-rooms.” 
 
 “ But just suppose now that I were to take it 
 into my head to believe that you had met him in 
 other places.” 
 
 “ I shall soon get quite angry with you, Robert. 
 But 111 suppose it ; and now let us get this nasty 
 talk done.” 
 
 “ And suppose that you were to confess to me 
 that I had cause for jealousy.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll suppose that too. Now, what would 
 you do ? ” 
 
 “ I would settle half of my income on you, and 
 leave you.” But he didn’t say that. It was in his 
 mind to say it, and had there been the least 
 hesitation, the least sign of wavering in his wife’s 
 cool, adorable effrontery, he would have said it to 
 try to bribe a confession from her. What he did 
 say was, “ I think you’re right. I think it’s pos- 
 
WAS DESDEMONA UNFAITHFUL ? 
 
 159 
 
 sible that even Desdemona may have been un- 
 faithful.” 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly. “ Every 
 womans past is her own, Robert,” she remarked 
 sententiously. 
 
 And then the waiter brought in the lunch. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 If her husband’s questionings had roused suspicion 
 in Mrs. L’Estrange’s mind that something con- 
 cerning her past life had come to his knowledge, 
 his extraordinary kindness and solicitude now 
 obliterated it. 
 
 When the waiter was gone she said : “ One 
 would think, dear, that I was going on a long 
 journey, you’ve been so anxious about me. Do 
 you know r , sir, that you have made me take too 
 much wine ? One little wee sip is quite enough 
 for me ; and to tell you the truth I would as 
 soon have lemonade as champagne. Are you ill, 
 Robert ? You’re quite white again.” 
 
 The words had stung him. 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ That horrid letter this morning ! When are 
 you going to tell me all about that letter ? Do 
 let me share this trouble of yours/’ 
 
 “ Come out in the air,” he said, “ come out in 
 the air. After we’ve had some fresh air, you 
 shall share it — what you can share of it.” 
 
 It was a glorious day, warm, soft — wanting 
 just the edge of a breeze to give it brilliancy. 
 Out at sea there was a breath moving with a 
 hint of coolness, that made one long either to 
 be upon the water, or in it. But at Folkestone 
 nobody bathes in the afternoon ; contact with 
 the interior of a bathing-machine wouldn’t add 
 to the fresh crispness of a muslin dress, and, as 
 a rule, according to that irrefutable authority, 
 the lady’s-maid, “ the hair won’t take a curl 
 immediately after a sea-bath.” That wouldn’t 
 have mattered one jot to Mrs. L’Estrange, for 
 her lovely golden tresses had a dear little 
 natural wave in them, which could never have 
 been produced by the most dexterous use of 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 20 3 
 
 the curling-tongs, or even by that artful ap- 
 pliance, Jones’ Patent Hair-undulator. 
 
 The bride was wonderfully lovely that after- 
 noon. A pretty woman, like an expensive dinner, 
 is nothing unless well-dressed — that is to say, 
 since Eve’s unlucky dessert. And Mrs. L’Estrange 
 was well dressed. You would have looked some 
 time at her, before you could have begun to con- 
 sider what her dress was, it fitted her so well, 
 and was so harmonious. If it had a fault it was 
 this, that it was more suitable to the unmarried 
 girl than to the young married woman; a fault 
 against convention, but not against her appearance. 
 Her cream coloured frock was of a soft, filmy 
 material, a little pink bow or two, a big straw hat, 
 which set off the charming face and gave it a 
 sort of eighteenth century stamp ; that was all. 
 And the tiny brown shoes and gloves — had been 
 bought at the right places. 
 
 Certainly she was the loveliest of all the lovely 
 women to be seen that afternoon at Folkestone 
 
204 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 walking on the Lees. As her husband looked at 
 her, with eyes like burning glasses, whose glances 
 might have pierced to her very soul and seared it, 
 he thought of Lalage : — 
 
 ‘ 4 Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, 
 
 Dulce loquentem.” 
 
 Truly that was his wife. The furniture of her 
 brain might be ricketty and foul ; her heart 
 might be clothed in a jacket of shoddy, and 
 her soul in rags, but she was Lalage, laughing 
 sweetly, talking sweetly; and he had sworn but 
 yesterday to love and cherish her till death did 
 them part. His dulled imagination began to 
 play devils tricks with this idea, and conjured 
 up hideous visions that made him groan aloud. 
 
 “ I am not surprised at your sighing, Robert,” 
 said Sophie. “ The heat is intolerable. If it’s 
 cool anywhere on such a day as this, it’ll be cool 
 upon the water. I rage, I burn, the cruel god has 
 struck me to the heart,” and she playfully shook 
 her tiny fist at Phoebus Apollo. “ In another hour, 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 205 
 
 Robert, I shall become ruddier than the cherry, 
 and you — all your paleness is gone, you dear, 
 delightful, bronzed old darling, and you're getting 
 more and more like a Red Indian every minute." 
 
 “ It is confoundedly hot," he said. “ Why 
 shouldn't we try the water?" 
 
 The young bride clapped her hands. 
 
 “Yes," she said with dainty little motions of 
 her head and poutings of her lips. “ Let us get 
 a great roomy boat and a sort of Mr. Peggotty 
 to row us, and you shall be Ham, Robert, and 
 I'll be your little Em’ly.” 
 
 Then she pressed close to him and began to 
 sing softly: — 
 
 “ 4 1 have sinned, and I have suffered, 
 
 More than words of mine can tell. 
 
 And —' 1 
 
 Bah, I've forgotten the rest. Can you help me, 
 Robert ? " But she didn’t wait for his answer. 
 “ What a fool that great, big, strong, stupid 
 fellow Ham was ! Wasn't he, Rob ? " 
 
206 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 He didn’t answer at first. This was a mood 
 totally new to him. Sophie had never attempted 
 to exercise her cdlinerie upon him before ; she 
 had alwaj 7 s kept to his ideal of her ; the frank, 
 innocent, sunny-hearted girl who reverenced her 
 husband as much as she loved him ; but she 
 wanted a little more freedom, she wanted to be 
 familiar with her husband, and so she ejaculated 
 that particularly frivolous “ Bah/’ and called him 
 “ Rob.” She was tiring of this dreadful, earnest, 
 old-world love of his. 
 
 “I suppose he was a fool, Sophie,” he replied 
 at length. “ I suppose he was a stupid, trusting 
 fool. I suppose he was. He grinned and bore 
 his misfortune ; those sort of fellows can — so 
 much the better for them ” 
 
 By this time they had reached the beach. 
 
 “ There's not one of them,” said Mrs. L’Estrange, 
 throwing her eyes along the meditative row 
 of fine- weather sailors, “ who's a bit like Mr. 
 Peggotty.” 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 207 
 
 “ I’ll row you myself, Sophie,” said her 
 husband. 
 
 “ Will you really ? Oh, you dear, good-natured 
 old darling, that’ll be too delightful. Two’s com- 
 pany, you know. If you really don’t mind it, 
 Robert, it’ll be quite an idyll. I shall be so 
 glad to do without Mr. Peggotty, after all.” 
 
 L’Estrange’s eye ran along the numerous row- 
 boats, which lay ready for hire upon the beach ; 
 then he singled out one of particularly light 
 draught, painted black, with brass rowlocks ; 
 a smart boat enough, and evidently new. 
 
 “ I should think this would suit us,” said 
 L’Estrange, as he indicated the handsome little craft. 
 
 “ Nice day for a row, sir,” observed the pro- 
 prietor as he advanced. “ I must ask you two- 
 and-six for this little clipper, sir, and it’s a 
 couple of shillings for the man, for I suppose 
 you’ll want some one to pull you, a day like 
 this,” and then he touched his hat, as in the 
 manner of the men of sea. 
 
208 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED? 
 
 “ I’cl rather take the sculls myself, I think,” 
 said L’Estrange. 
 
 “ Well, then, I couldn’t recommend her’’ said 
 the man, “unless you’re an old hand, sir; for, 
 the fact is, she’s a bit crank. Now, the Polly 
 Anne, sir” — indicating a solid little dingey about 
 the size and build of a railway carriage — “ is 
 the sort of boat I should recommend for any 
 gent as isn’t, so to speak, exactly a waterman.” 
 
 “ Don’t listen to him, Robert,” said his wife, 
 as she held out her hand to be helped into the 
 lighter craft. “ I’ll take my seat as pleasure at 
 the helm, while you shall feather the oars with 
 skill and dexterity at the prow.” 
 
 L’Estrange nodded, and got into the boat 
 without further parley, and, turning to the 
 proprietor, said, “ Shove us off, my man ; it’ll 
 be all right.” 
 
 “ It ain’t any business of mine,” said the 
 man surlily. 
 
 The stern of the boat was already in the water, 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 209 
 
 her owner gave one good, honest shove, there 
 was a grating of the shingle, and she slid into the 
 sea like a duck, a glossy black duck. L’Estrange 
 seized the sculls, and began to row with long 
 powerful strokes steadily out to sea. His wife 
 took off one glove, and allowed her little aristo- 
 cratic hand, that glittered with costly gems, to 
 trail in the water ; she sang little fragments of 
 songs, lost to everything save the mere sense of 
 pure physical enjoyment. 
 
 Who was it that followed them from the hotel 
 to the beach, and went up the Lees by the 
 hydraulic lift as the boat pushed off? A hand- 
 some man very much interested in them evidently, 
 for he carried a field-glass and watched them 
 through it. When he saw that they went straight 
 out to sea he walked rapidly along, taking an 
 occasional glance through his glass, till he came 
 to the higher cliffs near Sandgate. And who 
 was it — an old man, uncouthly dressed, who 
 followed him ? We shall see. 
 
 o 
 
213 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 The young man lay down on the edge of the 
 cliff, and watched the boat. A languid, satisfied 
 look was on his handsome face. He chuckled as 
 he gazed out on the little boat and its occupants. 
 His face reminded one of Caligula’s, without its 
 frantic idiocy. As he lolled there, you might 
 have imagined him watching listlessly for the 
 lions to pounce on the helpless Christians. But 
 it was reversed, a lion pounced on him. Ere 
 he could cry out, he was on his back, his head 
 hanging over the cliff, a knee on his chest and 
 a hand — a clutching hand — upon his throat. 
 
 “ One word above your breath, an’ 111 fling 
 ye owre.” 
 
 The young man’s face was fast becoming purple ; 
 he signed with his head that he would be quiet, 
 and his throat was released. He looked intently 
 at the old man, and recognising him said, “ Oh, 
 you’re Frazer.” 
 
 “ I am, Lord Tintock, and Providence has 
 delivered you into my hand.” 
 
ON THE CLIFF . 
 
 21 1 
 
 “ Be quick about it then/’ said Tintock, closing 
 his eyes. 
 
 “ No, I'm going to give you a chance," answered 
 Angus. 
 
 “ Be quick then either way, for this is uncom- 
 fortable." 
 
 “ I’ve watched you spying on Mr. and Mrs. 
 L’Estrange." 
 
 “ That is, you've spied on me." 
 
 “ Quite so. There's something wrong there, 
 some calamity, you ken o', likely to happen, an’ 
 maybe have a hand in. If you’ll tell me the 
 whole story I’ll let you off. It's your only chance, 
 man." 
 
 “ With the greatest pleasure in life." 
 
 “ Tell me then." 
 
 “ Pledge me your word that the moment I 
 have told you all — and you’ll know perfectly 
 when I’ve said the whole — you’ll let me get up." 
 
 “ I swear it." 
 
 Tintock was a gentleman, according to his 
 
212 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 lights. He confessed, and implicated a woman — 
 but — it was to save his life — and he dearly loved 
 life. Life was everything to Tintoek. 
 
 * “ Well, then, Mrs. L’Estrange was my mistress 
 for two months. Her husband received a letter 
 proving that this morning. I want to see how 
 he takes it. Well, why don’t you let me go ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the old man, very quietly ; “ that’s 
 all. Get up. Ye’re but a white-livered deil, if 
 ye are a lord. Get up ! ” 
 
 Lord Tintoek rose. He was very white, but 
 he was also very cool. He dusted his clothes with 
 his handkerchief, and then picked up his field- 
 glass. Angus watched him with set face, and 
 clenched hands. There were about two yards 
 between the men, and each stood two yards from 
 the brow of the cliff. 
 
 “ Wretch ! ” cried Angus, springing on his enemy 
 again and clutching at his throat. 
 
 “Off, off!” said Tintoek. “You swore to let 
 
ON THE CLIFF, 
 
 213 
 
 “I swore to let you up” said Angus, throttling 
 the struggling lord, who, though a strong man, 
 was powerless against the mad rage of the old 
 Scotchman. “ You understand it to mean that 
 you were to go scot free, and I meant it so at 
 the [time. But I’ll make myself a liar. I’ve 
 changed my mind, man ! ” 
 
 He spoke with fierce deliberation ; his very 
 Doric accent was almost gone. 
 
 For a minute there was a violent struggle. 
 Neither of them knew anything about wrestling ; 
 they grasped each other anyhow, kicking and 
 striking, and rolled over and over to within a foot 
 of the edge. There Angus got on Tintock’s back, 
 and beat his face mercilessly on the rock, hissing 
 between his set teeth, “ You shall ruin no more 
 women with your fashion-plate face, and break 
 no more fathers hearts.” 
 
 Then when his enemy was stunned, he rose and 
 lifted him in his arms above his head. 
 
 “ You ruined my daughter, you’ve ruined my 
 
214 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 friend. Go down to hell,” he shrieked, as he flung 
 him over. 
 
 He watched the body fall ; then he seized the 
 glass, and looked out to sea. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD. 
 
 “ Robert ! ” said Sophie. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 “ Robert ! ” and then there was an impatient 
 stamp of the little, brown, high-heeled, Louis 
 Quinze shoe. 
 
 “ Robert, are you going to take me to Bou- 
 logne ? ” 
 
 L’Estrange shipped the sculls. 
 
 “ You’re ill again, Robert. Oh, what is it? 
 Why are you so pale ? Why do you look at me 
 like that ? Speak to me. Robert. Robert, you 
 frighten me.” 
 
 L’Estrange opened his mouth, but no sound 
 came. His lips trembled, and he shivered as if 
 with cold. 
 
 2I 5 
 
2 16 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 “ Shall I try the sculls, Robert ? You’ve—” 
 
 He held out his left hand rigidly pointing at 
 her. Thoroughly frightened she half rose. But 
 where could she go ? The boat was a mere 
 cockle shell, and the shore was two miles distant 
 at least. 
 
 “ Sophie/’ he began, but he got no further. 
 His arm fell, and the dry sobs that had racked 
 him in the hotel seemed to tear a passage through 
 his breast. Blanched and fascinated with horror, 
 Mrs. L’Estrange leant forward and watched him. 
 It was soon her turn to sob. 
 
 When the paroxysm was past, with a calm face 
 and clear enunciation he repeated, from beginning 
 to end, the matter of Sophies three letters. A fear- 
 ful cry burst from the terrified woman when she 
 recognised the damning proof of her infamy, then 
 she sunk in a heap and thrust her fingers in her 
 ears, but that was useless ; his voice would have 
 found her in the depths of the earth. When he 
 had done speaking she attempted to rise. 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD . 
 
 217 
 
 “ Sit still,” be said, in the same clear, firm 
 voice, “ or I will brain you with this scull. I 
 loved you, by God ! I love you now ! I think 
 that you are better than those letters, that you 
 are better than your past life. I think that 
 though the world cannot forgive you God 
 can ; and I think — I think — that now I too can 
 forgive you.” 
 
 She looked up through her tears and held out her 
 arms towards him. He shivered, and the sobs 
 seemed about to return — she was so lovely — so 
 like a stained angel weeping for the sins of another. 
 But he mastered himself, and went on. 
 
 “ In God’s sight, you may be innocent. His 
 mercy is boundless, and you may have been tempted 
 past your power to resist. I hope so — I believe 
 so. Sophie, Sophie.” 
 
 His voice was breaking, and again she held out 
 her arms; but he waved her back, raising the scull 
 menacingly. 
 
 “ I am not going to blame you, Sophie, keep 
 
2l8 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 back ! keep back ! I’m not going to blame you. I 
 did : but not now. I have a clearer apprehension. 
 I seem to know what God wants me to do. There 
 was no punishment for the woman taken in adul- 
 tery : to errors of passion Heaven is very merciful. 
 Mary Magadalene was a harlot too, Sophie, and she 
 repented, and was forgiven. But you are a harlot 
 with no excuse of passion, unless, perchance, you 
 did love him ; and you have not repented. Your 
 case is different from these two. But I think I 
 know what God would have me do. I believe that 
 you have a soul, but that it has hardly even budded 
 yet. Try to understand me, Sophie ; I am saying 
 it as simply as I can. I believe that you are better 
 than you have been, innocent in the sight of 
 Heaven because you had no chance, poor girl. Now, 
 we must test that. We are man and wife, Sophie, 
 but we cannot live together. Your body is leprous 
 with sin, but — so help me God, I think your soul 
 has never sinned, for it has slept. No circumstance 
 in your life was ever of a kind to waken it, no one 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD . 
 
 219 
 
 ever helped you, poor child, to be better. I tried 
 this morning, Sophie ; but your soul has been 
 so long asleep that I couldn’t waken it. We may 
 not live together, but we can die together. 
 Come, Sophie, let us plunge into the sea. I will 
 answer to God for it, if it be a sin ; you will not 
 be held responsible for that. I will forgive all 
 Sophie, if you will do this thing, and it is no sin. 
 I feel that God wills it. He exists for us to fly 
 to in our despair. Come, Sophie, I know" that 
 God will say you are innocent, and our souls 
 will yet be one — in another world.” 
 
 He rose, and laid his hand gently on her 
 shoulder; but she shrank away. 
 
 “ Mercy, mercy !” she screamed, looking up wflth. 
 a ghastly face expressive of nothing but terror. 
 “ Mercy, mercy ! I cannot die. I will go away 
 from you. I will leave England. I will change 
 my name. I will never see you again. Mercy, 
 mercy ! ” 
 
 “ You are my wife, Sophie. I love you, and 
 
220 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 I shall not give you the dreadful doom you 
 desire. To let you live would be the only true 
 death, for you would damn yourself past re- 
 demption. I love you and I forgive you, and 
 we shall go to the Judgment Seat together.” 
 
 He placed his foot on the thwart, and leant his 
 whole weight upon it ; the water rippled into 
 the boat, and as it gradually filled, it tilted 
 more and more. Sophie I/Estrange clasped and 
 unclasped her hands ; leant to the opposite side 
 and screamed aloud in her agony of fear. Oh, 
 she was loth to die ! It took but a little while 
 to capsize the boat. As the water poured in she 
 spoke wildly and with extraordinary rapidity. 
 
 “ It’s wrong! It’s wrong! ” she shrieked. “ I 
 can’t die yet. I am so young. It’s base and 
 cruel to kill me. I’ve never had any pleasure ; 
 I’ve never been at peace, all my life. I’ve never 
 known happiness; yesterday I was happy for 
 the first time. Married, a wife, a happy, happy 
 wife at last, and I saw my life stretching out 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD . 
 
 221 
 
 before me calm and sinless. I’m young, too 
 young to die. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it's cruel ! 
 I’ve been miserable all my life, all my life; 
 and I’ve a right to be happy before I die. 
 
 Monster, madman ! will you kill me ? Oh, if I’d 
 known the kind of man you are ! Why did you 
 marry me ? What right had you to marry me ? 
 You should have taken a nun from a cloister ; 
 
 you should have made a woman for yourself. 
 
 Oh ! the water, oh ! oh ! oh ! It’s a lie ; I didn’t 
 do it. I never loved Tintock, I didn’t write 
 those letters. As God’s in heaven, I’m innocent. 
 Save me ! Save me ! Robert ! my husband ! 
 
 save me!” 
 
 For a moment or two the buoyancy of her 
 garments sustained her, and then, still screaming 
 wildly, she sank. L’Estrange kept himself afloat 
 with hardly an effort, for he was a practised 
 swimmer. He turned a forlorn look to the sky. 
 The glad sun shone in the cloudless heaven, 
 busy with its own great affairs. It didn’t see 
 
222 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 him, he felt. But the blue heavens seemed to 
 shudder and shrink higher up. He gazed at the 
 sea around with the same weary, homeless look 
 in his eyes. It moved, and whispered, and the 
 glib wavelets seemed to mock him, laughing and 
 telling each other what had been done. He 
 looked to the shore : and the pale affrighted cliff 
 warned him off from the green land above. 
 His mouth fell ; for a moment the poor wretch 
 whimpered. What is that a few yards away 
 rising through the water ? It is his wife, his 
 wife ! He gave a great shout, and swam to- 
 wards the place where she seemed about to 
 appear. 
 
 “ Sophie/' he said ; “ Sophie/' and the tears 
 rained from his eyes. 
 
 They’ll be happy yet. She has this to for- 
 give. They’ll cry quits, and be happy yet. 
 But the refraction of the water deceived him ; 
 she was out of his reach when she rose. 
 Her hands struggled in the air ; a faint cry 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD . 
 
 223 
 
 of “ Robert ” reached his ears, and she sank 
 again. He dived after her ; but that was useless. 
 There was a current, and the boat had floated 
 close behind him. He seized the upturned keel : 
 he held it in his left hand, and the boat drifted. 
 Three times bodies rise. He will save her yet. 
 
 What a blaspheming villain he is ! He sees 
 it all now : the fearful mistake he has made. 
 He has put himself in the place of God ; he has 
 taken the power of life and death into his own 
 hands. Her guilt is nothing to his : but it is 
 well. Oh, it is very well ! He is worse than she 
 now. He will save her, he will crave her forgive- 
 ness. He will get a whip of wire and make 
 her lash him with it till he faints ; and every 
 year she will do that on the anniversary of this 
 day ; and restore him with kisses and tears. He 
 will cut himself, and burn himself, he will mar- 
 tyrise himself. And he will love her, as never 
 woman was loved; and they will forgive each 
 other. And she shall bear him children and 
 
224 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 give life instead of losing it — poor child- 
 wife. 
 
 Why is she so long in rising again ? What 
 if she should never rise again ! Oh ! but God 
 will be merciful. 
 
 He wheeled the boat about, and looked all 
 round. Some other current may have caught 
 her, he thought, in an abyss of despair deeper 
 than any he had yet sounded. She may rise far 
 out of his reach. He raised his eyes to heaven ; 
 and cried in a loud voice broken with sobs : 
 “ Oh God, give me back this woman I would 
 have sent to you before her time. Hear me ! 
 Do you hear me, oh, God ? I believe in You, 
 I believe in You, the answerer of prayer. Pardon 
 my sin, if it be not unpardonable, and give 
 her back to me. I repent, I bitterly repent, 
 and my whole life shall be one repentance. 
 Hear me, hear me. I shall pray till You send 
 her back. Oh, God, it was not Your will that 
 she should die. She was young and fair, and 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD. 
 
 225 
 
 her life was sweet and strong; You meant her 
 to live for many a year yet. Send her back, 
 send her back — for her sake, not for mine. Do 
 not let my will, the devil’s will, triumph. Let 
 Thy will be done.” 
 
 That prayer was answered. She rose at his 
 side. 
 
 The wearing agony of his terrible passion had 
 left him hardly any strength, and his eyes were 
 blind with tears. “ God help me ! Help me, 0I1, 
 my God ! ” he said in anguish. He managed to 
 get his arm round her neck, and turned her face 
 to him. It was childlike in its still beauty ; the 
 eyes were closed, a smile, a saint-like martyr’s 
 smile played about the mouth. He had stayed 
 his tears, but they burst from him afresh at the 
 sight of that sweet face, smiling, reproachless. 
 He bent to kiss her mouth ; and as he did so 
 the lips opened, and in the faintest whisper came 
 the words “ Charlie ! oh, Charlie ! ” 
 
 Uttering a fearful curse he rose up out of 
 
 p 
 
226 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 the water, and raised his arm as though he 
 would bring his clenched fist down on her face 
 but he relented. Once more he cursed her, and 
 then she sank never to rise again. 
 
 For a while he held on to the boat, exhausted, 
 unable to move or think. His eyes were open, 
 but they saw nothing; his lips moved, but they 
 spoke no word. At last his senses began to 
 return. He looked about him, and saw a sea- 
 gull hovering near. It was watching some object 
 that floated on the water. What ? 
 
 Only a little, eight-button, brown kid glove that 
 lay like a dead leaf on the blue sparkling waves. 
 Gathering together all his remaining strength, he 
 swam to it, and then returned to his place of 
 safety. Still clinging to the boat, he gazed at 
 the little glove. Last night he held her in his 
 arms, and she had spoken the three words he 
 burned to hear. Of all her beauty, and sweet 
 warm life, her love and her sin, nothing remained 
 to him now, but that little glove. He kissed it 
 
THE MERCY OF SIR GALAHAD . 
 
 227 
 
 over and over again ; he held it to his brow, to 
 his cheeks ; he pressed it on his burning eyes. 
 Then, grasping it tightly, he set his teeth, raised 
 his clenched hands high above his head, and sank 
 like a stone. 
 
 The sea-gull flew to England, and the boat 
 drifted towards France. The glad sun shone in 
 the cloudless sky. The blue heavens hung 
 lovingly over the waters, and the bright white 
 cliffs smiled at them. The sea moved and 
 whispered, and the glib wavelets told each other 
 how the homeless eyes that had seen the 
 heavens shrink and the earth frown were closed 
 in death. 
 
 At the very moment L’Estrange sank, Angus 
 Frazer, who had been watching the tragedy 
 through his victim’s field-glass, turned staggering 
 away. 
 
 The latest additions of the evening papers 
 announced, “a third mystery to-day, as startling 
 as the other two, and apparently connected with 
 
228 
 
 WAS HE JUSTIFIED ? 
 
 them : for it was in the rooms of Mr. L’Estrange 
 in Kings Bench Walk, that an old man was 
 found shot through the head, with an antique 
 horse pistol in his hand.” 
 
 So Robert L’Estrange died, having fulfilled the 
 traditions of his race. 
 
 Was he justified ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Cowan & Co., Limited , Printers , Perth. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 THE PIT TOWN CORONET: 
 
 A FAMILY MYSTERY. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES WILLS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 “ IN THE LAND OF THE LION AND SUN,” u PERSIA AS IT IS,” ETC. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 “ There is a great deal of real cleverness in the book. The char- 
 acters are all alive, the conversations* are exceedingly bright and 
 natural ; there is in the novel a genuine vein of somewhat pungent 
 humour, and the style has for the most part both vigour and accuracy. 
 
 . . . The characters are very fresh and amusing, notably Justice 
 
 Haggard, whose livelong ambition is to breed the ideal pig ; the mildly 
 amorous and vigorously henpecked clergyman, Mr. Dodd, and his 
 energetic, vinegary spouse, who may almost be said to run a good 
 second to the immortal Mrs. Proudie.” — Spectator. 
 
 “ ‘ The Pit Town Coronet ’ is certain’y not a novel of dismal com- 
 monplace. . . . There are amusing enough sketches of the shady 
 
 side of society and of clerical life and manners. Mr. Wills’ plot is 
 good.” — Saturday Review. 
 
 “ ‘7 he Pit Town Coronet’ is the best of a batch of novels now 
 lying before us. Its author has won distinction in another field of 
 literature by his admirable sketches of Persian life in the ‘ Land of 
 the Lion and Sun.’ The keen observation and subtle sense of humour 
 there exhibited reappear in his novel, which possesses, moreover, a 
 clever plot and several interesting characters.” — World. 
 
 “An exciting novel. . . . There is no denying the author’s 
 
 power any more than his gift of humour. The village scenes are in- 
 imitable, and so is Mrs. Dodd, the masterful parson’s wife — her 
 Dorcas Meeting is exquisitely droll. . . . It is an exciting story.” 
 
 — Academy. 
 
 “ Smart is the epithet most appropriate to this novel. . . . The 
 
 author writes with ease and spirit ; he is amusing as well as caustic 
 and trenchant ; and he shows a considerable amount of dramatic 
 power in the scenes which call for it.” — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 “ It has not always happened that the man who is able to write a 
 bright and lively narrative of foreign experiences has proved himself 
 capable of producing a readable work of fiction. Dr. Wills, who 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PPESS (continued)— 
 
 scored a success with a book describing his residence and journeys in 
 Persia, has proved in ‘ The Pit Town Coronet ’ that he can also use 
 the running quill, pointed with gall, of the writers of novels of fash- 
 ionable life. The story is a clear and brilliant one. His strength is 
 rather in the crisp writing, and the keen, humorous, and somewhat 
 cynical sketches of society and country life, and of foreign and English 
 types of character. The Rev. John Dodd and his wife, his curate, 
 and his dissenting rivals, the Old Squire, and the ambitious Steek 
 are excellent.” — Scotsman. 
 
 “ ‘ The Pit Town Coronet ’ is both interesting and well written.” — 
 A tkenceum. 
 
 “ An air of painful veracity, . . . clever and very readable.” — 
 
 Vanity Fair. 
 
 “ Many of the sketches of clerical life are decidedly amusing.” — 
 Graphic. 
 
 B Y THE SAME A TJTHOR. 
 
 IN THE LAND OF THE LION AND SUN. 
 
 Being an account of fifteen years’ residence in Persia, 18G6 — 1881, by 
 C. J. Wills, M.D., late one of the medical officers of H. M.’s 
 Telegraph Department in Persia. Demy 8vo. 14s. 
 
 “ Probably the most amusing book of travel that has been published 
 in recent years. . . . From beginning to end the book is anecdotal ; 
 there is scarcely a page without its story or incident, some of them 
 rather extraordinary, but all entertaining in the highest degree.” — 
 The Times. 
 
 “The volume is full of characteristic sketches and anecdotes.” — 
 Athencvum. 
 
 “His narrative of his travels is graphic and easy, and some of his 
 stories capital. Dr. Wills tells us exactly what he saw and endured, 
 and actuality is the characteristic of everv chapter of his book.” — The 
 World. 
 
 “ This book will become a standard one.” — Spectator. 
 
 “ One of the most graphic and entertaining books ever published.” 
 — Na'ure. 
 
 “ Instructive and never dull.” — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 PERSIA AS IT IS. 
 
 BEING SKETCHES OF MODERN PERSIAN LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 “ Qualified by residence, knowledge, and popularity, Dr. Wills 
 draws for us a most interesting picture of the Persians, their outer 
 and inner life. This book is utterly unaffected and full of keen 
 observation.” — The Spectator . 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS (continued)— 
 
 “ Dr. Wills has (lone most acceptable work in giving us a second 
 volume of life and manners in Persia .” — The Academy. 
 
 “ These bright sketches of Persian life form a worthy continuation 
 of the preceding volume, and augur a successful career in the paths 
 already trodden .” — The Athenaeum. 
 
 THE GREAT DORlllMI. 
 
 “A very admirable specimen of the short shilling story, ingenious, 
 fanciful, and even fascinating .”— Sunday Times. 
 
 “ A captivating romance .” — Evening News. 
 
 .“ The incidents are humorously described, and the music is tem- 
 pered with melodrama — love, jealousy, and suicide.” — St. James's 
 Gazette. 
 
 “ The interest is sustained from cover to cover .” — Vanity Fair. 
 
 “ A more reliable shilling’s-worth than many .” — Saturday Review. 
 
 JOHN SQUIRE’S SECRET. 
 
 “ The narrative is always bright. Whether the author is describing 
 a dinner-party in Shiraz, or a Fourth of June at Eton, he is always 
 readable. . . , there is no doubt that he has written an amusing 
 
 and ingenious story.” — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 “ There is delightful easy-going reading in Mr. C. J. Wills’ new 
 novel. . . . Interesting sketches drawn from sporting and fashion- 
 able life, ... a pretty love story such as one finds in a comedy 
 of manners, and all these elements are blended with a skill that is 
 none the less praiseworthy because it nowhere shows traces of effort. 
 . . . Sure to be widely read.” — Scotsman. 
 
 “ A readable narrative, and not a few humorous episodes.” — Athen- 
 aeum. 
 
 “ A rollicking story Mr. Wills’ undeniable vivacity.” — The Times. 
 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH F. C. PHILIPS. 
 
 THE SCUDAMORES. 
 
 “ The most symmetrical novel of the year. ... A lively novel which 
 introduces us to one very fresh and pleasant figure, that of Aurea 
 Price, the bright Anglo-American heiress, whose cool head, warm 
 heart, and vivacious tongue make a very piquant and enjoyable com- 
 bination.” — Spectator. 
 
 “ A clever novel . . . the work is light and unstudied, but read- 
 able from beginning to end .” — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 “ There is movement enough in ‘ The Scudamores ’ for two or three 
 novels. ” — Athenaeum. 
 
 “Contains many sparkling passages.” — Academy , 
 
IN COLLABORATION WITH F. C. PHILIPS. 
 
 THE FATAL PHBYNE ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 LOVE’S ORDEAL. 
 
 “ Every page of the book is well written. . . . The characters 
 
 are fresh, seemingly natural.” — Scotsman. 
 
 “ To the combined cleverness of Mr. F. C. Philips and Dr. Wills we 
 owe ‘ The Fatal Phryne,’ an amusing book, with plenty of good char- 
 acter sketches.” — World. 
 
 “An amusing novel, full of cleverness, with plenty of humour, 
 brightness and wit, and withal readable from beginning to end.” — 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 “Unquestionably a clever book, with a very clever plot, and a great 
 many scenes well worked up.” — London Figaro. 
 
 “ The singular adventures of an English artist in Paris are described 
 with that originality and cleverness which have already earned for the 
 works of Mr. Philips and Mr. Wills a conspicuous place in modern 
 fiction. . . . From beginning to end the story runs with unbroken 
 
 smoothness and brightness.” — Pub. Circular. 
 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH F. C. PHILIPS. 
 
 SIBYL BOSS’S MAEEIAGE. 
 
 “Wrought out with real skill. ... A thoroughly readable 
 novel of the Charles Eeade school of fiction.” — Public Opinion. 
 
 “There is nothing unhealthy. . . . The story is cleverly put 
 
 together. ” — Scotsman. 
 
 “ One of the most striking and powerful pieces of fiction of recent 
 years. ” — Piccadilly. 
 
 “ Interesting, vividly written.” — Daily News. 
 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH F. C. PHILIPS. 
 
 A MAIDEN EAIE TO SEE. 
 
 Illustrated by G. A. STOREY , A.R.A. 
 
 “The bright, clever writing which is so popular in these days. . . . 
 Very pleasant reading. . . . The illustrations add additional 
 
 charms to a very bright book.” — Atalanta. 
 
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