"Ethel," he said gently; "I am old compared with yourself, and grave and sad even beyond my years; are you sure I can make your future happy?"

She looked at him with a good deal of surprise, and a frown puckered her smooth brow.

"Why not? Why should we wish for rhapsodies and commonplace love-making? We can leave all that to the Chloes and Daphnes of a by-gone age. It would be boring to the last degree. One must take pleasure just as much as sorrow, with a certain amount of equanimity. If there is one thing more than another that I hate, it is to be ruffled. Emotion of any sort ages a girl so terribly."

The sword would never wear out the scabbard so far as Lady Ethel was concerned! He doubted if she were capable of any great depth of feeling. But he did not say now as he would have done a week ago—"So much the better;" he no longer felt that it was altogether desirable.

He looked at her more scrutinisingly than he had ever done before, and for the first time he told himself that the beautifully moulded mouth was hard and unloving, and that the chin spoke of self-will and an amount of resolution unusual in such a young girl.

He hastened to change the subject.

"You would like to visit Switzerland or Italy?" he asked.

"No; I don't care for scenery much, or nature! I like human nature best; it is much more interesting, I consider. I should prefer Paris or Vienna."

"Then Paris or Vienna let it be, by all means," he hastened to reply, and Lady Ethel smiled, well pleased.

"Mamma," said Sir John's fiancee an hour or two later, when mother and daughter were alone. "Do you know who Mrs. Chetwynd was?"

"My dear Ethel, it is much better that subject should not be discussed."

"I don't agree with you. Since I am going to marry John it can only be right and proper that I should be made aware of every detail connected with his former marriage."

When Lady Ethel adopted that tone, her mother knew by past experience that it was a saving of time and temper to yield.

"I only know that she was beneath him in position—a dancer, I believe, and she ran away with someone else. Really providential, I consider; it must have been a happy release for poor Sir John."

"He was plain Mr. Chetwynd."

"Yes; but already very popular. It was exceedingly fortunate that he did not get his baronetcy earlier, for had he done so, she would probably have refused to be faithless."

"I wonder if he felt her desertion much?"

"The world says not; they had lived unhappily for some time before, and the general impression was that he did not care in the least."

"But you spoke of her to him when he asked your consent to our marriage?"

"Yes, Ethel, I did; I referred to it as delicately as possible, of course. I believe I said, 'your early misfortune,' or something to that effect."

"And what did he say?"

"Well, he spoke very nicely; he said he was aware that it added to the disparity between a man in his position and my daughter."

"And you?"

"I believe I replied that because a bad woman had caused him misery and suffering in the past, it was no reason why he should not win and hold the love of a good girl, and that because of the sorrow he had endured, I felt the more assured in trusting my child's happiness into his keeping."

"That was sweet of you, mother; but did it not occur to you that there was just—a little risk?"

"How?"

"I don't think that John is a man who would forget easily."

"Good Heavens, child! what do you mean? you cannot doubt the sincerity of his protestations of affection for you, surely?"

Her daughter laughed.

"I certainly do not wish him to be more demonstrative, mother dear; love-making is the most boring process imaginable; but still, I should prefer, I must confess, that there was no under-current of feeling for wife number one."

"You amaze me, Ethel, by suggesting such a horrible idea. The woman may be dead for anything I know; at all events, she left England before he obtained his divorce, and no one has heard anything of her since. It is extremely improbable that she will ever return to this country."

But in this, as we know, the Duchess was in grave error.

At that very moment Bella was sitting by the open piano in her cosy apartments in a street off the Strand, idly striking a note here and there and humming the air of a new song; but her cough, which was incessant, made singing almost out of the question.

"I believe I'm getting worse," she cried, rising and flinging herself on the sofa, "I'm sure I was not so bad as this three months ago—not so bad when—he never came. Ah! why should he? How could I expect it? Perhaps to-day may have been his wedding day! Come in."

The door opened noisily, and Saidie Blackall, very much over-dressed and distinctly rouged and made up, entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Doss, looking precisely the same as on that memorable night when they had been the innocent cause of so much trouble to Bella's husband. The old music-hall singer and his wife had lost no time in looking her up when she returned from the States, and were really well-meaning, kindly folk.

"Hallo, Bella, you look done up!"

"I am," admitted the girl wearily. "It was as much as I could do to pull through to-night, and I have got a beastly new song to tackle."

"I don't like your cough, my dear," said Mrs. Doss, looking distressed; "it shakes you to bits."

"I've got a little more cold, I fancy; but I'll be all right in a day or two."

"You're not looking the thing—I saw you from the front to-night—and—well, I guess it was a bit of a heffort to sing at all, eh?"

Bella turned quickly and looked sharply into Mr. Doss's face.

"If you have got anything disagreeable to say, don't be afraid, out with it. I suppose you have jumped to the notion that I'm dying?"

She tried to laugh, but it was a piteous attempt, and ended in a fit of coughing which left her white and trembling in every limb.

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Doss, compassionately; "you must not excite yourself; we will do the talking, and you keep quiet."

Bella lay back on her cushions, weak and exhausted, and when the Dosses at length went away she gave a sigh of relief.

"What did they come for to-night?" she said thoughtfully.

"Well, Bella, Doss had heard a bit of bad news and thought it as well to put you on your guard; but finding you like this put it out of his head, I suppose."

"Bad news? What do you mean? He's not married, is he?"

Saidie stared at her.

"Not that I know of—why, he would have you to-morrow; you know that as well as I do! you are treating him in a rough way; there's no mistake about it."

Bella fell back again relievedly.

"Oh, you're talking about Charlie, are you?" she said.

"Who should I be talking about? There isn't no one else as wants to make an honest woman of you, is there?"

The shaft fell short of its mark. Bella did not even wince.

"Well, it strikes me, my girl, you'll have to fall in with his views," Saidie continued presently; "for if what has come to Doss's ears is true, you'll be out of a berth before you can say Christopher Columbus."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"The management are getting dissatisfied, and we know what that means."

The pale face flushed poppy red.

"They can't help themselves," she said eagerly. "I have a contract for six months. They cannot cancel it, you must know they can't, and it's not very likely I shall allow myself to be played fast and loose with as the fancy takes them."

"But if you're not able to fulfil your share of the contract—"

"Who says I am not?" cried Bella fiercely. "Old Robertson is a fool, and if he thinks I'm going to put up with any hanky-panky, he's jolly well mistaken. Let him try it on, that's all! I should immediately take steps to enforce my rights, the law is on my side, that's clear enough."

"I don't know! You heard what Doss said—about how you looked from the front; and others have got their eyesight as well as him, and can see you are not well and not—"

"Not fit to sing—that's what you are driving at?"

Saidie was silent.

"I tell you I will sing. Nothing and no one shall stop me. I shall just defy them all, and go on, and there's no law in England to stop me."

"If you are not a goose, Bella, I never saw one! What in all the world keeps you on the boards, I cannot see. Here's a man come over from N'York with the intention of marrying you; a man who is earning his hundred dollars a week, and you turn up your nose at him. I can't understand you. You seemed proud enough of him a week or two back; but now all on a sudden, for no earthly reason, you show him the cold shoulder."

"I suppose I can please myself," answered Bella, and her lip quivered, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"I wish to God I had never left—Jack," she said weakly.

Whereupon Saidie gave her what she was pleased to call a "piece of her mind" as to the insane folly of any such speech, the result of which was that Bella wept and coughed herself into a state of collapse, and had to be carried off to bed.

Things did not mend. Bella persisted, ill though she was, in appearing night after night in public until at length what Saidie had predicted came to pass, and she received a formal notice cancelling her engagement at the Empire on the ground of the extreme delicacy of her health.

Mr. and Mrs. Doss happened to be with her at the time she received the notice, and Bella partially appealed to them.

"You will help me, won't you? You won't allow them to impose upon me so shamefully. They have no right to do it. It's infamous—'annul my engagement' indeed! They shall find out who they are dealing with. It would be ruin for me, it would simply spoil my career. I shall go down at once and see Robertson. It's a likely thing that I'm going to sit down calmly and quietly and accept my dismissal. Not if I know it. I'll give Robertson beans."

"I wouldn't do it if I were you," said Mrs. Doss quietly.

"Not do it; what do you mean? You must be dreaming. It is the only thing to be done."

And now Mr. Doss, obeying a pathetic glance of his better half, put in his oar.

"Be a bit patient; wait and see how things turn out; don't do anything in a 'urry—that's our advice—the old gal's and mine."

"Yes, take things heasy, I say," chimed in the "Rabbit Queen."

"I don't see what there is to wait for. Show me what is to be gained by waiting, and I will consider it."

"Well, Bella; Doss here will tell you what we was thinking of; he puts things clear like."

"What was in our mind was to talk the thing over first. Allus talk the matter well over, was my motto as a boy. It saves a peck o' bother and a deal o' doing. Don't flare out about it, but take it gently and conversational."

"Fussing over things won't make you no better," echoed Mrs. Doss. "Lor', bless me, didn't I have a sister what killed herself fussing! Fussed herself into the grave, she did! And might have been here, leastways in Camberwell—alive and hearty at this minute."

"The question is—am I too ill to fulfil my engagement? and I say 'no,'" cried Bella, angrily.

"And me, the missis and me—we says, certainly you are, and so heverybody says. You want a thorough rest, and then you will pick up again."

"That may be your opinion; it is not mine! you may talk till doomsday; you won't convince me. I may surely be allowed to be the best judge of my own state of health. I shall not wait a day—not an hour. I'm going at once down to Robertson to have the matter out with him."

The distressed pair exchanged glances, and then Mrs. Doss said in a coaxing way, "If you must go, you will let me come with you, my dear."

Bella hesitated.

"If you're on my side and mean to stick up for me, all right; but if you're going to hum and haw and look grave, and take the part of the management, you had best stay away."

Mrs. Doss tucked Bella's arm within her own and trotted upstairs to the bedroom, where Bella arrayed herself in total silence, and her friend, beyond a vigorous sigh or two, was mute also.

Mr. Robertson was disengaged, and the ladies were at once ushered into his presence.

"Now then," began Bella, dashing into her subject, "I have come to know what all this means. You cannot dismiss me at a moment's notice, and you know it just as well as I do. Ain't you satisfied with me?"

"Perfectly. It is no question of that sort—but in your present state of health you are not up to your work, and there was no other alternative."

"Oh!" said Bella disagreeably, "does anybody else say I am not up to work except you?"

"My dear Miss Blackall, I regret that this has been necessary. I am exceedingly sorry that we brought you over from America and then are compelled to terminate your engagement so soon, but in your present condition—"

Mr. Robertson flung out his hands with an eloquent gesture.

"Well, look here; I'll give up my dance—that does shake me a bit, I'll grant; but you must let me sing the new song—you really must; I'm a nailer at it and I'll wrap up! My cough will soon go: give me another chance!"

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her eyes were sparkling—she really did not look so very ill this morning; perhaps after all, things had been exaggerated. Mr. Robertson wavered. Bella was quick to see her advantage and to press it.

"Withdraw your notice," she said, "and let me come on for one song only for a week or two."

"It would really be better, I think, if you were to have an entire rest for a month or so."

"Yes, for someone else to step into my shoes! Thank you for nothing."

"I will pay you a fortnight's salary in lieu of longer notice; and if you are desirous of returning to your friends in the States, perhaps something might be arranged."

"I have no friends here or there," said Bella simply; "my profession is all I have."

"Well, well, we'll give it a week's trial. If at the end of that time you are sufficiently recovered to do your work properly, well and good; but if not, you must really consider your engagement at an end."

All this time Mrs. Doss had said nothing. Bella had talked so volubly and so fast, there had really been no chance of getting in a word; and when the manager rose to his feet to intimate that the interview was at an end, there was nothing to be done but to follow Bella out into the street.

"There!" she cried triumphantly, "I told you I would bring him to his senses. You saw how soon he caved in. It is not a question of my health at all; you may bet your bottom dollar I have an enemy, but I flatter myself I've routed him."

Her breath was coming in gasps and she spoke with difficulty. Now that the excitement was over and the necessity for bearing up at an end, there came the reaction.

"I think I had better go home and lie down," she said, "or I shall not be at my post to-night, and I must, you know, I must."

"Poor child, I could fairly have cried," said kindly Mrs. Doss to her spouse after Bella had been safely escorted home.

"I'm not satisfied with you, old girl," said Mr. Doss, shaking his head mournfully. "I can't 'elp thinking you might ha' managed things better. If Bella Blackall goes on a singing at the Hempire, you mark my words, she'll sing herself into 'eaven."



CHAPTER VII.

A week went by slowly: the hours crept like snails, and yet the days were surely slipping away, bringing nearer and nearer the one which was to give Sir John Chetwynd his second wife.

He had hardly seen Lady Ethel since the evening when she had yielded a coy assent to his not (it must be confessed) very amorous request that she would fix an early day for their nuptials, and his state of mind was anything but an enviable one. If ever a man was torn two ways, halting between prudence and worldly consideration on one side and the force and power of a love which he had honestly believed was laid for ever in its grave, that man was Sir John. The idea of seeing Bella again did not occur to him for some days, but when it fastened on him he could not shake it off. It was stronger than himself. He excused his temptation by the condition of her health, though in his heart of hearts he knew well enough that this was not sufficiently critical to serve for a reason.

Twice he seized his hat with the intention of going to her, then laid it aside, angry and disgusted with his own weakness.

His profession no longer occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of every other topic. He sat for hours buried in the newly awakened memories that that one brief glimpse of her had conjured up, unable, unwilling to rouse himself.

And then he made a compromise with his own weakness and irresolution. He would not go to Cecil Street, since by so doing he would be offering a tacit insult to the woman he had pledged himself to marry, but he would, he must see Bella, himself unseen and his presence unsuspected, and this he could effect easily by going to the Empire.

The notion pleased him, and that self-same evening he carried it out.

Bella was worse. She could no longer deceive herself. It was only by a superhuman effort that she could pull herself together sufficiently to sing the one song which was all her part consisted of now.

After she had got into her pretty sea-green skirts of lace and tulle and shimmering silk, like so much sea foam, she had to lie still and, let the poor over-strained lungs and heart recover themselves, and then, when the summons came she called up a smile to her wan face and pluckily did her best.

But that night she looked up at Saidie after the last ribbon was in its place.

"I'll have to throw up the sponge, after all," she said wearily; "it is beyond me. They are right and I was wrong,—I must have a rest."

Saidie muttered something in reply, but when the door closed upon her sister, she sighed.

"She is bad; there is no denying it," remarked the dresser, who was busily stroking out the roses which were to garland Saidie's dress. "It gives me a turn every time I see her go on the stage."

"She looks worse than she really is," returned Saidie; "sometimes she is as brisk and lively as you like—she so soon gets tired."

"She is a tidy sight worse than 'tired,' and it strikes me her voice was weak like to-night. Did you notice it, Miss?"

"Oh, she varies so. I guess she would be as right as any of us the moment she was on the boards."

Nevertheless, although she was not going to confess it, Saidie was troubled and uneasy. There was something in Bella's face she had not seen before, and it frightened her—a little. She stood at the wings with a quick-beating heart, but the next moment laughed at her own fears.

Bella was singing her very best. Not a falter in the clear, bell-like tones, and her face was smiling and radiant.

And then—her eyes fastened themselves on a box in the grand tier; with a scared expression she shrank back a little, and her lip quivered, but with a mighty effort she controlled herself and caught up the refrain again—carolled a word or two, faltered, swayed helplessly, uncertainly forward, and fell headlong on the stage.

They were round her in a second, lifting her gently and tenderly. Her head had fallen back and a thin stream of blood was welling over the laces at her bosom.

"She is dead!" cried Saidie. "Oh, will someone fetch a doctor, quick!"

But almost before the words were spoken he was there, and when Bella opened her eyes they fell on the grave, anxious, kindly face of the man whose wife she had been.

"Jack! Jack! is this—the end?"

"Hush—no—no! Keep still—perfectly still—you must not move."

"I am not—in pain—a little dizzy—nothing more, and my head feels light."

"Drink this and don't talk. As soon as you are a little recovered we will go home."

"Home! Jack!"

Oh, the wistful look in the deep blue eyes—the prophetic droop about the perfect mouth! It was almost more than he could bear.

"I will go with you myself if you will do what I tell you, keep absolutely quiet—your life depends upon it."

She looked up tremulously.

"I don't care—a—cent now," she whispered.

She bore the journey to Cecil Street better than they could hope, and the bleeding from the lungs had ceased.

Downstairs Saidie expressed a wish to remain all night with her sister.

"She ought not to be left," she said.

"Most decidedly she must not be left," replied Sir John—"I intend remaining with your sister."

"You! Well, this beats all, upon my word!"

So great was Miss Blackall's surprise that when she found herself ousted from the position of head nurse and the door metaphorically closed upon her, she had not a word to say, but called a hansom and had herself driven to Bayswater, where she had been living since her mother's death, now nearly a year ago.

"And I used to think he didn't amount to a row of pins," she murmured with an odd sort of penitence. "Well, I guess I was wrong, that's all."

Through the long hours of that never-ending night John Chetwynd watched by Bella's bedside. For the most part, she lay mute and inert, but towards morning she grew restless.

"I must talk," she cried excitedly—"to see you sit there and to think—to remember—oh! if only I had run straight, Jack—I don't think I was meant for this, do you?"

He had no words with which to answer her. He folded his arms across his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table. On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of chalk.

She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he held them tightly in his own—rings and all.

She was never meant for the life she had chosen!

His heart felt breaking.

The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos in her regretful cry—the past with its load of gall and shame and misery—which could never be obliterated. Never!

"Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I thought—I feared—I was going to die; if I had there was no one to care but—Saidie."

"Do you not think what it would mean to—me?"

The words broke from him against his will.

"To—you, Jack! then you care—still!"

"Care!"

He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum without.

Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in them—and then the lids fell over them.

"I feel strangely weak—but—so—happy, Jack," she said. Her breath came more easily and she slept.

Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour, grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for another night's vigil.

"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her. "She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"

"I am afraid to say—it depends so much on what recuperative power she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."

"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again, I suppose?"

"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.

At that moment came a smart tap at the door.

"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.

"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too late. The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man walked in.

"Miss Blackhall—how unkind to deny me admittance. You must know how fearfully anxious I am. How is she?"

"There's the doctor—ask him."

The stranger turned eagerly.

"This is not serious, I trust. She was always delicate, but—it is wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over."

For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.

Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella? He forced himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew what he was saying.

"If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more, poor darling," he said brokenly. "I suppose I can go in, eh?"

His hand was on the door—John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.

"No one must see her," he cried excitedly. "I absolutely forbid it. It would be most dangerous—most improper."

The two men looked into each other's faces for the space of several seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an impatient word. "Absurd! As if I could do her any harm," he said. "Well, I will be round again later in the day," he added with a nod to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.

"Who is that man?" asked Sir John sternly.

Saidie shrugged her shoulders.

"You shall tell me—what is he to Bella?"

"He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his wife."

And there was silence—a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts—facts stripped of false adornments—naked, convincing.

Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.

She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.

She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and she smiled happily, contentedly.

Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.

"No—no," cried Bella vehemently; "send him away. I don't want to see him."

"But he is so anxious, dear."

"Is he?—poor Charlie! Tell him I am in no pain, and I should like to think he will never quite forget me."

"He will never do that," said Saidie, going away with her message but half satisfied, and Bella turned a flushed cheek to her pillow.

And then, for the second time, John Chetwynd asked, "Who is that man?"

And Bella tried feebly to tell him. He had been attached to her for a long time, and had come over with her from the States.

"And you—did you mean to marry him, Bella?"

"I had thought of it—it seemed suicidal to say no to such an offer, and then I—oh, Jack, when I saw you I knew I could never love any other man!"

He poured out a draught and held it to her trembling lips.

"I feel so strangely weak," she said; "you are going to marry Ethel, and I am nothing to you now?"

John Chetwynd drew her close to him, so that the tired head rested on his shoulder with the sweet familiarity of long ago.

"Listen," he said. "I have been a coward, frightened of the truth. The world was dearer to me than happiness, or I thought so, and I hesitated, afraid of its contempt. But amid my weakness was one thought, one impulse, which no amount of worldly prudence or consideration could stifle, and Bella—my wife—that was my love for you."

"Jack, Jack, is it true?"

"I have loved you always, through all my life, you and no other. I see now how hard I must have seemed to you and how wild and unreasonable I was in my expectation from you and how at last it drove you from my side. The shame of it is not more yours than mine. We both erred, we both sinned; but I was older and should have been wiser; the burden of it should fall on me. The world is nothing to me now—less than nothing. Let us take up life where we broke it off. Give me back the past, which held for me all of happiness I have ever known."

She lay with a smile of peace upon her face, both hands clinging to his.

"I have communed with myself and thought it well out, and I believe that to bind my life, with its memories of you, to the girl to whom I am engaged, would be a cruel wrong and an injustice to her. She deserves a better fate, and I honestly feel that the rupture will not grieve her much. We will remarry, you and I. I will take you away from England, I will guard and cherish you, and in my love for you, you will grow stronger. Oh! my darling, my darling, if you knew what life has been to me since you went; how I have blamed myself,—I who ought to have shielded you against yourself, and have been a moral backbone to your weakness. Then as time went on I persuaded myself that I had succeeded in putting you out of my heart,—that I had forgotten you,—and then—you came back to me, and the past leapt living from the years that had no power to bury it, and I knew that you were more to me than honour or fame or anything the world held. Hence-forth I will be so gentle with you, so tender—so loving."

"Will you—kiss me—Jack?"

She had gradually pulled herself upright on the pillows.

"Will you kiss me—and say—once more, as you used to—'God bless you—wifie'?"

Their lips met and clung together.

"God bless you—wifie."

And there was silence, a long silence, broken by a gasp, a sigh, and a gentle unloosening of the clasping arms.

"Bella—Bella—speak to me, my beloved."

But the passionate cry fell on ears that heard not.

The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels' wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death.

* * * * *



ONE CAN'T ALWAYS TELL.

From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford Street, Park Lane.

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. July 15th, 1901.

Dearest Amy,

Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather is perfect, and I am having a very good time. Jack's mother is on board, and is really devoted to me. I am a lucky girl to have such a sweet mother-in-law in prospective. She is the dearest old lady in the world. The wedding has been decided upon for the last week in September, so I suppose that I shall have to come back to town before very long to see about my trousseau.

There is really nothing so bewildering to anyone who sees it for the first time as the exquisite order and dainty perfection of a yacht in which its owner takes a pride, and can afford to gratify his whim. And this is the case with Jack. The deck shines like polished parquet. The sails and ropes are faultlessly clean, and Jack says that the masts have just been scraped and the funnel repainted. The brass nails and the binnacle are as perfectly in order as if they were costly instruments in an optician's window. There is a small deck cargo of coal in white canvas sacks, with leather straps and handles. And there is the deck-house with its plate-glass windows and velvet fittings and spring-blinds.

Soon after I arrived I went down into the engine-room, where I saw machinery as scrupulously clean as if it were part of some gigantic watch which a grain of dust might throw out of gear. On the deck are delightful P. and O. lounges with their arms doing duty for small tables. All around the wheel and upon the roof of the deck-house, and here and there on stands against the bulwarks, there are ranged in pots, bright red geraniums contrasted with the yellow calceolaria, and the deliriously scented heliotrope. Altogether, everything is charming.

We go delightful trips every day, and it doesn't matter whether there is a favourable wind or not, as Jack's is a steam yacht. We have slept on board except one night when it was rather rough, and then Mrs. Vivian and I stayed at the South Western Hotel.

Altogether I am enjoying myself more than I have ever done in my life. Jack is an angel and adores me, the darling.

Fond love, From your affectionate ROSE.

P.S.—There is a Mrs. Tenterden, a widow, coming down to the yacht on Thursday to stay for a few days. Mrs. Vivian tells me that she is very good-looking.

From the Same to the Same.

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. July 22nd, 1901.

Dearest Amy,

We are still here. Mrs. Tenterden, the lady I spoke about in my last letter, arrived here on Thursday.

I hate her! I hate her!! I hate her!!!

You will doubtless wonder why I, who am, as a rule, a quiet, harmless little dove, should indulge in such sinful feelings, but you will cease doing so when I tell you the truth.

Mrs. Tenterden has set her cap at Jack! He has—I know it—fallen under the spell of the enchantress. And she is an enchantress. She is a woman of about thirty, tall, fair, with striking features, lovely eyes, and the most superb complexion I have ever seen. The best complexion I ever recollect was that of a peasant girl's at Ivy Bridge in Devonshire, but hers was nothing to compare with Mrs. Tenterden's. It is perfect. I can say no more.

Then she is extremely amusing, being a brilliant talker (for I heard Jack say so) and very witty (for he is constantly laughing at the things she says, and which for the most part I don't understand).

But this I know, that since her advent I have changed from the happiest girl in the world into one of the most miserable.

Mrs. Tenterden is the widow of Colonel Tenterden, who was a brother officer of Jack's father, Colonel Vivian. Her husband died in India about six months ago, and she has lately returned to England. Jack had never seen her before, but Mrs. Vivian, who knew her as a young girl, asked her down here.

She has made a dead set at Jack, and I feel (I can't help it) that he has fallen a captive to her bow and spear, for his manner towards me has entirely changed. He is not my darling, loving Jack, at all, but merely a polite friend.

Mrs. Vivian must be blind not to see what is going on. But I cannot enlighten her, and what am I to do? Do give me your advice, dear Amy?

Ever your affectionate ROSE.

From Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre.

ALFORD STREET. TUESDAY.

My dearest Child,

Just got yours. You ask my advice, and to use a phrase of my brother Tom's, "I give it you in once." Don't be a little goose and bother your pretty little head. I am older than you, and I understand women of the Mrs. Tenterden type. They amuse men for a time, and very often take them captive, but in nineteen cases out of twenty the prisoner escapes. In other words, they are not the women who men care to marry. Fancy your Jack, for instance, preferring a rusee garrison hack, like Mrs. Tenterden, to your own sweet self. It is absolutely ridiculous.

Do nothing and say nothing. Don't worry yourself and all will come right. The temporary infatuation will pass away, and Mr. Vivian will love you all the better afterwards. You will see if I am not right.

So be comforted, darling Rose. Ever your loving AMY.

From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount, 170A, Ebury Street, S.W.

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. July 23rd, 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

I promised to let you know how I got on, and to write as soon as there was anything to write about. So here goes. I am on board Jack Vivian's yacht, and a ripper it is. That is to say, I am on the yacht in the day, but sleep at the South Western Hotel. I hate sleeping on board a yacht, and never do so if I can help it. It may benefit one's health—daresay that it does—but I do like to take my rest on shore. Well, now, as to my news. I have made a great impression on Mr. Vivian. He is the easiest man to deal with I ever met in my life, and he is as putty in my hands. That stupid girl, Miss Dacre, to whom he is supposed to be engaged—I say supposed because he does not seem to be quite clear about it himself—hasn't got a chance with me. What Jack Vivian could have ever seen in her I can't guess. She is the usual type of English Miss who can say "Papa and Mamma," and that is about all. I can see that she loathes me, and I don't wonder at it. But I am perfectly charming to her, and affect not to notice her palpable dislike.

Mrs. Vivian—Jack's mother—seems not to have the remotest idea how matters are shaping, and fondly imagines that her beloved son is going to marry Miss Dacre. My dear Lily, as the Americans say, "it will be a cold day in August before that event comes off." The fact is that Jack pays her only the slightest attention and is absolutely engrossed with me. If I, therefore, don't pull off this coup I deserve to be hanged. When I have actually landed my fish I shall take my departure for a day while he breaks matters off with mademoiselle. You may not perhaps approve of this, but I know what I am about.

More in a day or two.

Ever yours, ALICE.

From Mrs. Montague Mount to Mrs. Tenterden.

170A, EBURY STREET, 24th July 1901.

DEAREST ALICE,

I was much interested in your letter. Needless to say that I wish you the success that you are sure to attain. One word of advice. If I were you, while you are at Southampton, I should manage to be a good deal more at the hotel than you appear to be. You cannot have much opportunity for conversation on board the yacht, but at the hotel you can have Mr. Vivian all to yourself. And you can easily make excuses to get off the yacht, and as he is evidently so epris, he will follow you to the hotel, when you will have him more or less at your mercy. I shall be longing to hear how the plot thickens.

With fond love, Believe me, Your devoted friend, LILY.

From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount.

July 29th, 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

Thanks for yours. My dear child, I have taken your excellent advice and am very glad that I did so. Your plan of campaign has proved most successful. I have had Jack with me for hours in the smoking room at the hotel, where the ladies staying in the hotel as well as the men always resort. It is a large room and affords ample opportunity for a tete-a-tete. Of these opportunities I have availed myself to the fullest possible extent. And with what result, you will naturally ask? With the result, my dear, of making this man absolutely mad about me. He has become an utter imbecile. C'est tout dit. His incoherent raving would only bore you, so, like the kindhearted little person I am, I spare you this infliction. Suffice it to say that he is mine body and soul. I say nothing about his fortune, because that naturally goes with the other two.

Let me thank you sincerely for your wise counsels,

And, believe me, Ever affectionately yours, ALICE.

Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre.

ALFORD STREET. THURSDAY.

DEAREST ROSE,

I have been anxiously expecting to hear from you, but you have not sent me a single line. I say "anxiously," not that I really feel the least anxiety about you, being perfectly positive, as I am, that all will be right. But, my dearest girl, I am so deeply interested in this affair that, of course, I am anxious to hear how matters are going on. And you are a very naughty child not to have written to me before. Repair your sin of omission as soon as possible, and let me have a full account of all your proceedings.

With much love, Yours ever, AMY.

From Miss Rose Dacre to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford Street, Park Lane.

YACHT "MARIE," COWES. August 2nd, 1901.

DEAREST AMY,

Pray forgive me for not having written sooner. But as the French say, tout savoir est tout pardonner. And having been for many days in the depth of despair, worried out of my life, and half dead with anxiety, I have not really been able to put pen to paper. But now all is changed, and I am able to address you with a light heart.

I am sure, Amy, that you will be longing to know why, and for this reason I will not for a moment leave you a victim to the most terrible ailment that can attack our sex—unsatisfied feminine curiosity.

Two days ago we were still at Southampton, and it was proposed that after lunch we should take a little trip down the river Hamble—a river which runs into Southampton Water. Well, we started—Jack, and a friend of his, Captain Cleland, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Tenterden, and myself. All went well for about an hour, when a breeze sprang up which soon developed into half a gale. At least I understood the captain of the yacht to say so. I didn't mind it in the least, but Mrs. Vivian, poor old lady, was dreadfully ill and nervous, and though I did all I could to comfort and reassure her, it was not of much use. As for Mrs. Tenterden, she absolutely collapsed. In abject terror she uttered incoherent cries, and no one could make out what she wished to be done. Jack seemed very upset and tried to soothe her as well as he could, but it was all to no effect, and indeed she once turned on him just like a virago, saying,

"I never wanted to come on your horrid yacht, but you would make me, and see what has happened to me now."

Poor Jack—I call him "Poor Jack" although he has behaved like a very naughty boy—seemed to wince, but made no reply.

Eventually we arrived opposite the village of Hamble, and there the anchor was weighed—if that is the right expression. Jack suggested that the three ladies, including myself, should go ashore in the dingey and stay at the hotel. Mrs. Vivian said that she did not want to do this, and Mrs. Tenterden positively refused.

"Do you think that I am going to risk my life that jim-crack boat?" she asked. "I am not quite an imbecile. Though I think I must be after all, otherwise I should not have come on this idiotic cruise."

Jack again made no reply, but there was something in his face that told me that he was becoming disillusioned.

Shortly after that he sent the skipper and a boy ashore, who returned with some marvellous looking lobsters and a huge crab. It seems that this place is famous for its shell-fish, and I can only say that I never tasted anything more delicious than the crab in question.

Mrs. Vivian managed to eat a little dinner, but Mrs. Tenterden retired to her cabin and contented herself with some soup.

I for my part, ate a most capital dinner, and I fancied that Jack seemed sorry for the way he has been treating me lately; treatment which I should never have put up with, except from a man whom I love so devotedly—a man whom I meant to rescue (selfishly, I admit) from that siren's clutches. In all I have done I have been guided by your advice, and therefore to you remains all the credit, coupled with the life-long devotion of your little friend.

Well, we slept on board the yacht, and the morning brought its revelations.

Mrs. Tenterden was not present at breakfast, and came on deck very late. And only imagine, my dear, how she had changed. That beautiful pink complexion that I had admired so much, and even envied, had disappeared altogether. Her face was of a greyish hue, and possessed no shade of pink. Those beautiful pencilled eyebrows seemed to have strangely altered, and to have unaccountably thinned down. The charming woman-of-the-world manner had entirely disappeared, and, later on, when we descended to the cabin, at luncheon time, Mrs. Tenterden cast furtive and certainly not reassuring glances at the little mirror hanging there.

I confess that at first I was a wee bit sorry for her, but after all, this Nemesis was thoroughly deserved, and when I saw the impression that the metamorphosis had made on Jack—the darling goose can't conceal his feelings—I must own to having been overjoyed.

"The Enchantress" left for London the same evening, looking in her war paint quite a different being. But this made no difference, for Jack, I need scarcely say, had evidently altered his mind.

Since her departure, everything has gone back to its old state. Jack, poor fickle boy, is devotion itself, and I have not thought proper to resist his entreaties to consent to an immediate marriage. You will not blame me, darling, will you?

Ever your affectionate and Happy friend, ROSE.



SONGS.

AFTER VICTOR HUGO, ARMAND SILVESTRE, CHARLES ROUSSEAU AND THE VICOMTE DE BORELLI.

DARLING ARISE.

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

Pretty one, tho' the morning is breaking Thy lattice is fasten'd close How is it that thou art not waking When awake is the rose?

Darling, arise! for I am he Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee, Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

Nature loud at thy lattice is beating: I am Day says the morning above I am music the bird sings repeating, And my heart cries "I am Love."

Darling, arise! for I am he, Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee, Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

ROSE.

(VIELLE CHANSON DU JEUNE TEMPS.)

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

I never thought at all of Rose, As Rose and I went through the dell, We fell a talking I suppose, But yet of what I cannot tell.

Pebbles below and mosses over, Rippled a cool and limpid rill; Nature lay sleeping like a lover In the embrace of the woods so still.

Shoes and stockings off she slipped, And with her sweetly innocent air Into the stream her feet she dipped, Yet I never saw her feet were bare.

I only talked, the time beguiling As we wandered, she and I; And sometimes I saw her smiling, But now and then I heard her sigh.

Only her beauty dawned on me When silent woods were left behind, "Never mind that now!" said she And now I shall always mind.

REGRETS.

(AFTER CHARLES ROUSSEAU.)

Let me cherish in my sadness Those fair days of youth and gladness! Moments of delightful madness Gone, alas, for evermore! Vain regrets for misspent powers, Wasted chances, faded flowers, Vex my lonely spirit sore. Had I only known before! Let me cherish in my sadness Those fair days of youth and gladness! Moments of delightful madness Gone, alas, for evermore!

TOO LATE.

(PEINE D'AMOUR.)

(AFTER ARMAND SILVESTRE.)

When your hand was laid upon mine 'Twas in painful dread that I grasped it, For some hesitation malign, Made tremble the fingers that clasped it.

When you turned your forehead so near, 'Twas in painful dread that I kissed it, For some cruel prompting of fear Made me timidly seek to resist it.

Ah!—and my life thenceforward approved Sorrow's bitterness had o'ercome me, I only knew how I loved The day that had taken you from me.

IF THERE BE A GARDEN GAY.

(S'IL EST UN CHARMANT GAZON.)

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

If there be a garden gay Man has not molested, Where blaze through the summer day Flowers golden crested, Where tallest lilies grow, And honeysuckles blow There, oh there I fain would go Where thy foot, thy foot has rested!

If there be a rosy dream By true love invested, Where all things delightful seem Close together nested Where soul to soul may tell The joy they know so well 'Tis there, oh there I fain would dwell Where thy heart, thy heart has rested.

THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSES.

(ENVOI DE ROSES.)

(AFTER VICOMTE DE BORELLI.)

Oh, if the fairest of these roses With its red lips to thee shall tell Such things as language knows not of, As in thy bosom it reposes, Then keep it well It is my love!

But if the sweetest of the roses With its red lips shall silent be, And only seek instead the bliss Which thy delightful mouth discloses, Return it me It is my kiss!



LOVE WENT OUT WHEN MONEY WAS INVENTED.

"You're a very foolish man, John," said my sister Ruth. "You're worse than foolish. A man never gets any happiness by marrying out of his station."

"You may be right," I answered, "but after all I have something to offer. I am rich, and Marie is poor. I admit that she is a patrician and that I am a plebeian. But money, after all, counts for something, especially in these days. I don't see how Marie can spend a very happy existence now, but I am determined to make her life a dream of happiness. You will see, my dear Ruth, that my marriage will be a success."

"I think not," replied my sister, "and I therefore give you my warning before it is too late. If you don't heed it and decide on marrying Miss Dalmayne, I shall naturally do any little thing in my power to endeavour to prove that I have been a false prophetess; but, mark my words, John, I shan't succeed. And, to tell you the truth, my dear brother, I tremble for the future."

"You're a sweet little silly goose," I answered. "You let your affection for me run away with your better judgment. Why in heaven's name should I not be happy with Marie? She is beautiful, and I admit that it was her rare beauty that first commended her to me, and she has a sweet nature and character; and after all, goodness of character outweighs even good looks. Then, too, she is very clever and bright, and altogether she is exactly the sort of girl calculated to make a man happy."

"I hope that I may be wrong, and that you may be right, John," said Ruth; "but I don't think that I am wrong, and, of course, time will only show. At present we need say no more. Your mind is evidently made up, and I shall urge nothing further to prevent you from following your own inclinations. But in the time to come, don't forget that your sister warned you." And with that last shaft Ruth left the room.

My name is John Gardner, my age is thirty-six, and I am what is generally known as "a self-made man." But had I really had the making of myself I should have endeavoured to produce a different being. I recollect at the grammar school in Cambridgeshire, where I received a plain education, hearing one of the masters, Mr. Ruddock, mention a Greek proverb, "Know thyself," and advise the boys in his form to act upon the advice given by the Greek sage who pronounced these words. I was not, as a rule, struck with much that fell from Mr. Ruddock's lips, for he was a dull, stupid, and pompous man, possessing much more force of manner than of character. But I did take this advice to heart and endeavoured to act up to it, with the result that I know as much about my own uninteresting self as most other human beings know about themselves.

Well, this is how I appear in my own eyes. A strong, healthy man with an active disposition, and capable of, and a lover of hard work. A blunt manner, and with an entire absence of tact in anything in which strict business is not concerned. I know that I am truthful, for, in addition to a natural hatred of lying which I must have inherited from my dear parents, I have always recognised the fact that in business and in everything else the truth always pays the best. During the sixteen years that I have devoted to business I have endeavoured to act squarely and fairly with everyone with whom I have been brought in contact, and I may say without conceit that I have earned a good name in addition to the three hundred thousand pounds that I have been able to save.

I have never got on particularly well with the other sex, partly, I suppose, from my manners, which, to say the least, are not attractive, and partly to the fact that up to the time I met Marie Dalmayne I have never cared for a woman. I came across the girl that I have grown to love so well in this fashion. I am interested in a West Australian mine to the extent of about a hundred thousand pounds, and am one of the three partners who control the concern. One of them is a member of the great City house of Bleichopsheim, and the other is Mr. Ross, a wealthy iron-master. It was at the latter's house in St. James's Square that I met my fate.

I took Miss Dalmayne down to dinner, and I think that my heart went out to her from the first. I found her clever and sensible, and with apparently little of the frivolity which characterises most of the young women with whom I have been brought in contact. Her conversation, if not absolutely brilliant, was at any rate bright and amusing, and possessed a considerable amount of shrewdness.

Miss Dalmayne was about twenty-three, tall and fair,' possessing a perfect figure and the most beautiful and expressive hazel eyes. Her hair was nut brown with a warm reddish sun-kissed glint, and her features were regular and aristocratic. Her smile was delightful. In short, I fell in love.

Next morning I ascertained from Adam Ross full particulars in reference to Miss Dalmayne. She is the only daughter of the Honourable George Dalmayne, and is related to many of the highest English families. Mr. Dalmayne and his wife are not well off, and the former is very much in debt and has taxed the generosity of my friend Ross to a very considerable extent. The Dalmaynes live in a small house in Eaton Terrace. They have only one other child, and that is a son who is in the Army and is at present with his regiment in India.

There are some people that one feels one can confide in in matters of a delicate nature, and there are others to whom one could never open one's mouth. Now, Ross and I have been friends for ten years, during which time we have never had the least difference. He is a man absolutely to be trusted. I told him during this interview what a deep impression Miss Dalmayne had made upon me. He said that he did not in the least wonder at it, for she was greatly admired, and added that if it were not for her father she would no doubt have made a brilliant marriage already. I told my friend that I cared nothing about her father, that I was not marrying him but his daughter—that is to say, if I were fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife.

"I don't think that there is much fear of a failure," answered Ross, "old Dalmayne is looking out for a rich husband for Marie. Indeed, in a confidential mood one day recently he told me almost as much himself. And he is not likely in a hurry to find one so rich as yourself."

"Well, I shall call upon him to-morrow," said I, "and ask his permission to speak to his daughter."

"I wish you every success, my dear friend," said Ross, "and I have no doubt as to the result of your interview. And I don't see why you should not be very happy. After all, as you say, you are not marrying the father. You are marrying Marie, who is a very high-principled girl, who is beautiful, who is accomplished, and who would, I am certain, do everything to make her husband happy."

And so it was settled, and next morning I called on Mr. Dalmayne.

Mr. Dalmayne, a tall, aristocratic man of about sixty, received me with great cordiality. Whether Ross, who had dined with him on the previous night, had mentioned anything of my matter to him I don't know, but the old gentleman did not seem to be the least surprised when I told him what the object of my visit was.

"Mr. Dalmayne," said I, "you will doubtless be wondering why I have called to see you"—Mr. Dalmayne's face assumed a sphinx-like expression—I will not keep you waiting for an explanation. The truth is that I have fallen in love with your daughter. Our mutual friend Adam Ross can tell you all about me, and I don't think that his report would be an unfavourable one. My position is this. I have saved three hundred thousand pounds, which produces an income of about twelve thousand a year. And I am making at least another twenty thousand a year from my share of our mine and other sound enterprises. Should you permit me to address Miss Dalmayne, and should I be happy and fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife, I should propose to settle two hundred thousand pounds upon her for her exclusive use."

"Your proposals are most generous," said Mr. Dalmayne, "and do you credit. But in matters of this kind I should never dream of attempting to control my daughter. You have, however, my full permission to speak to her, and if she is willing to marry you, you both have my full consent. My wife shares my views entirely. Marie is out with her mother at the present moment, but she will be in all the afternoon, and if you will call about four I will see that you have the opportunity for which you are seeking."

I thanked Mr. Dalmayne most cordially and promised to return in the afternoon. When I again arrived at Eaton Terrace I was shown into the drawing-room, where I found Mrs. and Miss Dalmayne and a sister of Mrs. Dalmayne's. Tea was brought in, and shortly afterwards the visitor took her departure. A few minutes later Mrs. Dalmayne made some excuse for leaving the room, and I was left alone with Marie. My heart had beaten hard from excitement as I had knocked at the door, but strange to say I felt no nervousness now. I plunged into the matter that brought me without delay. I told Miss Dalmayne of the wonderful effect produced upon me by her beauty and charm, and in the fewest words possible I asked her to be my wife, promising that she would never repent it.

"You have done me a great honour," said Miss Dalmayne, "but I must have a little time to think over what you have said and to consult my parents. You shall hear from me at latest the day after tomorrow."

I shortly afterwards took my leave, and departed buoyed up by the strong hope that the desire of my heart would be obtained.

Nor was I disappointed. On the day she had promised I received a letter from Miss Dalmayne saying that she was willing to accept me, but frankly confessing that she had no love for me as yet, though admitting that she liked me. "If," she continued, "you are willing to take me on this understanding, I am ready to be your wife."

Needless to say I was willing to accept these terms, and three months afterwards we were man and wife.

It was in the month of July that we were married, and we went to Aix-les-Bains for the honeymoon. A few days previously Mr. Dalmayne asked me to lend him a thousand pounds, which I did cheerfully, for after what my friend Ross had told me I was fully prepared for such a request.

My wife had never been to Aix before, and seemed to amuse herself very much. She played a little at the tables, and with a considerable amount of success. I must admit that she was very kind to me, and though of course I easily saw that I did not at present possess her real affection, I was not discontented, and hoped for the time to come when we should be all in all to each other. We had met very few acquaintances at Aix, for it was not a good season as far as English visitors were concerned, owing to attacks on our country and Government by the French papers. But when we had been there about three weeks a Captain Morland came upon the scene. Captain Morland, who was an officer in the Grenadier Guards, had known my wife since she was a child. They seemed very pleased to see each other again, but there was a certain sadness that I noticed in the young officer's manner. He had just been invalided home from South Africa, where he had been on active service during the time with which my narrative deals. He was a handsome young man, tall and well built, and with kind and expressive blue eyes. He was singularly reticent as to his exploits during the war, though I heard from a friend of his who was with him at Aix that he had been mentioned in despatches and had been recommended for the D.S.O. He was a man to whom the merest chance acquaintance was certain to take a fancy. I am bound to say that I did so myself, and I hope that in what I am calmly relating I shall not be considered to have intentionally failed to do him justice.

It was the second week in August, and as the weather was very hot, my wife and I had determined to leave Aix and go to Trouville for a little sea air and bathing. Three days before our departure I returned to the hotel to dress for dinner. I was just going through the corridor when I heard voices in our sitting-room. They were the voices of my wife and Captain Morland.

I don't think that I am naturally a mean man, but I was mean enough to listen on this occasion.

"You mustn't blame me, Hubert," said my wife, "we were all on the verge of ruin, and I was bound to marry him."

"How could you consent to do such a thing? You don't care for him in the least."

"No," said my wife; "nor shall I ever do so if I live for fifty years. I care for no one but you. But I shall always do my duty to my husband, who is a kind and good man and lives entirely for me."

"If he died, you would marry me?" asked Captain Morland.

"Of course I would, and, as the children's storybooks say, 'live happily ever afterwards.' But don't let us discuss deplorable futurities."

This was enough for me. I saw, now that it was too late, how wise my sister Ruth had been, and how foolishly I had acted. There was nothing to be done, however, to remedy matters, in view of the words spoken by my wife, and words which breathed of truth. I went out quietly into the garden of the hotel and came back a few minutes later. I asked Captain Morland to dine with us, and he accepted my invitation. I carefully watched him and my wife during the evening, and clearly saw that the case was hopeless from my point of view.

On the morrow I made my will, and left everything to my wife with the exception of fifty thousand pounds for my sister Ruth. I then wrote the little history of my mistake, and am posting it from the top of Mont Revard to my friend Ross, and have asked him to act as he thinks best. It is hard to die, but, in my position, it is still harder to live.

Having set my entire affections in one direction, and having been hopelessly unsuccessful, there is only one thing to be done, and that is to end matters. And I shall end them to-night.

* * * * *

Extract from an Aix-les-Bains newspaper:—

"The body of a rich Englishman, named Gardner, who was staying at the Hotel de l'Europe, was found lying at the bottom of the precipice between Aix and Mont Revard. It is, of course, pure conjecture how the unfortunate gentleman met his fate, but no foul play is suspected, as his money and valuables were found upon his body. We anxiously await developments. The police are maintaining a strict reserve."

* * * * *



A PUZZLED PAINTER.

WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH THE LATE SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS.

CAST.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY, an Artist.

MRS. TEMPENNY, his Wife.

CHARLES SYLVESTER, an Artist.

MRS. SYLVESTER, his Wife.

ROSALINE, a Model.

HENRICH SCHERCL, an Art Dealer.

ROBERT ADDISON, a Sporting Man.

SARAH ANN, a Maid-of-all-Work.

SUSAN, Parlourmaid at the Tempenny's.

GROGGINS, a Sheriff's Officer.



A PUZZLED PAINTER.



ACT I.

(SCENE I. TEMPENNY'S Studio Doors R.L. and in Flat. As Curtain rises a knocking is heard at D.R.)

MRS. TEMPENNY (off).

Rembrandt—Rembrandt!

(Door opens, enter MRS. TEMPENNY; followed by MRS. SYLVESTER.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see you—we will wait.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

My husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never work again all day.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his studio. I wonder where he has gone.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Gone to have a drink, I daresay.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Adelaide!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

He does drink, doesn't he—when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Why that sigh?

MRS. SYLVESTER (sighing again).

Heigh ho!

MRS. TEMPENNY (affectionately).

Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Eugenia!

(They touch each other's hands sympathetically.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Aren't you happy, Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody else, but we were girls at school together.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.

MRS. TEMPENNY (enthusiastically).

Do tell me all about it.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I am jealous.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Of whom?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Oh no one—of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know—of his life to-day, which is too circumspect to be sincere.

MRS. TEMPENNY (with misgiving).

But—but Rembrandt's life is also circumspect.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Poor child.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

You pity me?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Horribly. To be married to a painter—what a fate! To have a husband who is shut up alone all day with a creature who—who wears—

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Rembrandt's models do—.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Wear—?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Plenty!

MRS. SYLVESTER (gloomily).

Clothes sometimes cover a multitude of sins. They are no guarantee. Rosaline wore them!

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Rosaline?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

You have not heard of Rosaline?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

No. A model?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

A serpent!

MRS. TEMPENNY.

The wretch. Pretty of course?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Serpents are always pretty. One day, not long after we were married, I came across her photograph—I was tidying up an old desk of Charles', a photo, my dear, with an inscription that left no doubt what their relations had been. I tore it up before his face; and for a time, excepting for the girlish illusions he had shattered, that was an end of the matter.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

But only for a time?

MRS. SYLVESTER (impressively).

Two years ago I went into his studio, and found her there.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Horrible.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

You may well say so. She was sitting on a table drinking brandy and soda as bold as brass. Of course he swore that he needed her for a picture he was going to work on—and, I don't know, perhaps it was true. Still considering what had been, her presence there was an outrage, and I shall never forget the quarrel there was between Charles and me. That was the last I have seen of Rosaline—she went flying.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

And was it the last that Mr. Sylvester has seen of her?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

So far as I know. But there is always the lurking, horrid doubt. You know now why I am not the light-hearted girl you remember, and why I distrust artists as a class.

Pause.

MRS. TEMPENNY (meditatively).

I don't see why you should distrust Mr. Tempenny because Mr. Sylvester is not steady.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Are you quite contented?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

No—we are too hard up, but I believe Rembrandt loves me, and I love him.

MRS. SYLVESTER (heavily).

Poor child.

(Enter REMBRANDT TEMPENNY door in flat. He wears long hair, and a brown velveteen jacket, and is smoking a short pipe.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Eugenia? And Mrs. Sylvester? Why, bless my soul, how nice, what a surprise! Don't move—don't. (Stands peering at them with his hands over his eyes.) What a charming effect of light on your profile, Mrs. Sylvester—how rich—how transcendental! Glorious! (Comes down.) Well, well, well, and so you ladies have come to pay me a visit. Can I offer you anything?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

I called on Mrs. Tempenny to inquire whether you would dine with us to-night, and she said she could not answer without consulting you.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

You have no engagement, Rembrandt?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I am quite at liberty, Eugenia, quite. I shall be most pleased and delighted. (Aside.) Another confoundedly dull evening, I know! (Aloud.) Sylvester is well?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Sylvester is always well.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Happy Sylvester! Myself, I am a wreck.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

I want some money, Rembrandt.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (disconcerted.)

Eh? Oh! (To MRS. SYLVESTER.) And working hard I have no doubt.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I believe so—he is out all day.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Admirable—what industry!

MRS. TEMPENNY.

(Aside to REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.) Rembrandt, I want some money—have you got a couple of pounds you can let me have?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (affecting not to hear).

The hardest working people under the sun are artists, I always say so. Hard worked—hard worked! (Fills his pipe).

MRS. SYLVESTER.

May I look round your studio, Mr. Tempenny?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (waving his hand).

Charmed, positively!

(MRS. SYLVESTER moves up.)

MRS. TEMPENNY (insistently).

Rembrandt, all the neighbourhood knows the butcher summoned us, and none of the tradespeople will serve us with anything unless we pay cash.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, we're going out to dinner.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Oh, you drive me wild with your improvident, Bohemian ways. There's to-morrow.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Sufficient for the day is the dinner thereof. Don't be greedy.

MRS. SYLVESTER (looking round).

You have sold most of your canvasses, I see, Mr. Tempenny.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside).

I thought she wouldn't find the gallery extensive, I must really do something to-day, I must indeed! (Aloud.) Sold? Yes, yes. I am starting on a fresh commission now. There's a little sketch up there you may fancy;—a mere impression, but full of tenderness, I think, and rapture.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Rapture?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It is the newest word by which we explain the inexplicable. "Rapture!" It says everything, does it not?

MRS. SYLVESTER (vaguely).

Yes—yes, indeed.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside).

I made it up myself on the spot.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

(Laying her hand on his arm earnestly). Rembrandt—

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Yes, dear, I know what you're going to say. The other tradespeople know we haven't paid the butcher and you want two pounds. I'll give it you this evening—(Aside.) If I can borrow it.

MRS. SYLVESTER (coming down).

Then we shall see you this evening at seven sharp, Mr. Tempenny? I am going to take Eugenia round to the house with me now, to spend the afternoon. You'll find her there when you come.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Good. (Aside.) I wish they'd go! (Aloud.) You don't mean to run away yet?

MRS. SYLVESTER (doubtfully).

I think so.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (with alacrity).

Well, if you really must—

(Opens door D.F.)

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Till seven o'clock.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Till seven.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Au revoir, dear. (Aside to him.) You won't forget the—?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Aside to MRS. TEMPENNY.) The two pounds, and the butcher; I won't forget 'em. I only hope the butcher may forget me.

(Exit MRS. SYLVESTER.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

By-bye, sweetheart.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Ta, ta, Duckie.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Don't do too much—remember your precious health.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

All right, my love.

MRS. TEMPENNY (blowing a kiss).

There.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (blowing a kiss).

There.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

My own darling husband!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

My angel.

(Exit MRS. TEMPENNY.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (with a deep sigh of relief).

Thank heaven! (Sinks into armchair, and puts his feet on the mantelpiece) The corner is getting tight, Rembrandt. This sort of thing won't boil the pot. It won't, sonny, I assure you! Where's the sketch of my magnum opus. 'Pon my word, I haven't seen the thing for a month or more. (Gets up and rummages in a portfolio.) Ah, here we have it! (Holds up and contemplates a small charcoal sketch.) "Susannah before the Elders" beautiful! composition charming! Rembrandt, old pal,—I congratulate you! But where's the picture of it? "Oh where, and oh where!" Rembrandt, you're developing into a thorough-paced loafer. You always had a talent that way, but of late you've broken your own record. I'll turn over a new leaf; I will, I'll be a new man. Why not? We've the new woman; why not the new man? Excellent idea. Rembrandt Tempenny, the new man—the coming man—by George the GREAT man! I'm in earnest, I'm in a fever. I bubble over with noble resolutions. I wish the tradespeople didn't want cash—tradespeople who want cash are so damping to noble resolutions!

(Gets out Easel and canvas, and takes off coat.)

(Door in Flat is kicked open. Enter ROBERT ADDISON.)

ROBERT ADDISON.

Hullo!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Hullo!

ROBERT ADDISON.

How are you, old chap?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I'm the new man.

ROBERT ADDISON.

The devil you are! What does it feel like?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Unfamiliar—like somebody's else's boots. I say, dear boy, can you lend me a couple of thick 'uns.

ROBERT ADDISON.

Eh?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It's for the tradespeople.

ROBERT ADDISON.

Oh really—on principle you know—I never pay tradespeople.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, it's for my wife.

ROBERT ADDISON.

I warned you not to marry. Now you see how right I was—she wants two thick 'uns.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I know it's rough on you.

ROBERT ADDISON.

It is. I'm a sociable chap by nature, and I'm rapidly being left without a friend to bless myself with.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I don't grasp!

ROBERT ADDISON.

They all borrow my money, and then they say they're out the next time I call.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I have got a big thing on, only temporarily I'm in a hole.

ROBERT ADDISON.

I never knew a fellow in a hole who hadn't a big thing on. What is it?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

The hole?

ROBERT ADDISON.

No, the big thing—the stable tip?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It's nothing to do with the turf. Look here, Schercl—you know Schercl?

ROBERT ADDISON.

I know him.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

He gave me a commission for a picture six weeks ago; he's going to pay three hundred for it. He advanced a century when I accepted the offer.

ROBERT ADDISON.

They are wonderful terms, Tempenny, for you.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Seems rather funny, doesn't it,—but it's a fact. "Nobody more astonished than the striker," I confess.

ROBERT ADDIS ON.

Well, where's the picture?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Turning round the big blank canvas). There!

ROBERT ADDISON (with a whistle).

Oh my sainted mother! How does Schercl like it?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It's good work, isn't it? Fine colour and tone! How do the harmonies strike you—correct?

ROBERT ADDISON.

Unbosom, what does it mean?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Dear boy, it means it was a royal order, and that I've been on the royal loaf on the strength of it; and, now that I repent me, I haven't got a model.

ROBERT ADDISON.

No model?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

The subject is to be Susannah—Susannah before the Elders. You know the kind of thing—(whispers).

ROBERT ADDISON.

Yes, of course, and I suppose—? (whispers).

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Yes, and—(touches his arms and chest, signifying a fine woman—whispers).

ROBERT ADDISON.

Exactly. I think I can recommend the very model you want.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

You? Where did you meet her—on a racecourse?

ROBERT ADDISON.

I know her—and she's worth backing.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

My dear friend, you have saved me! Where is she?

ROBERT ADDISON.

I'll look her up.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

To-day?

ROBERT ADDISON.

Now if you like. Her name is Rosaline, and she's a ripper.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

"Rosaline the Ripper," Robert, fetch her. No wait a moment, I can't do the picture here; I daren't.

ROBERT ADDISON.

Why not?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, you see, my wife wouldn't approve, and I blush to say that in the exuberance of early matrimony I encouraged her in an inconvenient habit of running into my studio at all hours. I'll have to work in a pal's.

ROBERT ADDISON.

All right, I'll send her there.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, you might bring her now, if you can, and I'll arrange the sittings with her. Does she hang out in the neighbourhood?

ROBERT ADDISON.

Over a coffee-shop in Golden Street.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Go! And I'll stand you a swagger supper when the picture's done, and Schercl parts. By the way—

ROBERT ADDISON.

Yes?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Touching the two quid?

ROBERT ADDISON (giving the money).

Here you are.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I do touch 'em. Ecstasy! Bob, you're a brick; now cut along and get back with the damsel sharp. (Knock heard at D.F.) Hullo, whom have we here? Come in. (Knock repeated.) Come in. (Knock again.) Come in, you fat-headed, lop-sided, splay-footed, bandy-legged jay; come in!

(Enter SCHERCL).

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside).

Schercl! Good Lord! He's come to see the work.

ROBERT ADDISON.

(Aside to REMBRANDT TEMPENNY). I'm off.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Aside to ROBERT ADDISON). No, I say, Bob, wait and see me through it.

ROBERT ADDISON.

Rosaline may go out—I must hurry. See you again in half an hour.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Aside to ROBERT ADDISON). What shall I do?

ROBERT ADDISON.

(Aside to REMBRANDT TEMPENNY). Lie! Ta-ta. I say—! You don't think it possible old Schercl has made a mistake and taken you for Tempenny the R.A.?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (staggered).

What!!

ROBERT ADDISON.

It would explain the terms, that's all, dear boy. Au revoir. (Exit ROBERT ADDISON D.F.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside).

Good Lord! (Aloud, blandly). My dear Mr. Schercl, this is a pleasure indeed.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

I do not know dat it is a great bleasure, but pusiness must be attended to, hein? Vell, my friendt, and how is the bicture, eh! Let us see how it has brogressed.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

The picture is going well—well, very well,—excellently. I am a modest man—

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Humph! (Aside.) This is a very boor blace for zo famous a bainter. I do not understand it! But I have certainly done goot business mid him!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (disconcerted).

I say I am a modest man, Mr. Schercl, but I feel safe in declaring that you will be satisfied with your bargain.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

"Bargain?" I do not tink dat ven I pay tree hundred bounds for a bicture it should be called a "pargain." Tree hundred bounds is very large brice; I shall have not made a pargain.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Er—quite so. You misunderstand me. I should have said your "contract"—you will be satisfied with your contract.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

If you should have said "gontract," vy did you say "Pargain." Vell, vell, let us see the bicture.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(With a desperate attempt to throw enthusiasm in his voice.) It is the best work I have done. I look to "Susannah" to advance my position enormously. People will talk about "Susannah." It is—er—full of rapture.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

"Rapture?" Vat is "Rapture?"

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

You know what "rapture" is. It is the term best understood by the movement of to-day. It is our watchword, our ideal. "Rapture!"

HENRICH SCHERCL.

(Puzzled, but not wishing to appear ignorant.) Oh "Rapture," I did not understand you. Of course I know what rapture is.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Of course you do. Well, "Susannah" brims over with it.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Goot, goot.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It is the very apotheosis of rapture.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

I gongratulate you.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It exudes with rapture.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Is dat so?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It is bathed in rapture. (Aside.) I can't go on much longer.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Now show it to me.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (with feigned surprise).

Show it to you? I can't show it to you—it isn't here.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Vat is dat you say? Not here?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Certainly not. I am working on it in a friend's studio, not my own. The light here is not nearly good enough for a work like that.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

You have always found it goot enough, I pelieve?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (with enthusiasm).

But not for "Susannah"—not nearly good enough for "Susannah," "Susannah" demands so much; she is exacting—she must be humoured.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Vell, I am very disappointed; I came expressly to see how you had brogressed. Will you make me an abbointment?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Certainly I will. I will write you to-morrow. I am anxious to have your opinion.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Who is the friend in whose studio you vork?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Eh? In Mr. Sylvester's—Charles Sylvester. You should hear him talk about it. By Jove, he does think a lot of it. I blush to repeat what he says. He considers it magnificent.

(Enter SYLVESTER.)

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Afternoon, Rembrandt. Ah, Mr. Schercl, how-d'ye do.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Sylvester himself—the devil. (Aloud.) Dear old man, we were talking of you! I was just telling Mr. Schercl what you are kind enough to say of "Susannah."

(Kicks him aside.)

HENRICH SCHERCL.

You think it goot, Mr. Sylvester, yes?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

He thinks it superb, so far as it has gone.

(Kicks him again.)

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

What's that? Who is "Susannah?"

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

"Who is Susannah!" (With a sickly laugh.) What a chap to chaff you are. "Who is Susannah?" Ha, ha, ha.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

But in pusiness I do not like the chokes. Let us be serious if you please. What is your opinion, Mr. Sylvester, of the vork?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (desperately).

Yes, I quite agree with you, Mr. Schercl, I quite agree—there is a time for all things. Tell Mr. Schercl what you think of it, Charlie, do.

(Kicks him savagely.)

CHARLES SYLVESTER (aside to TEMPENNY).

You'll break my ankle directly, hang you. What do you want?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside to SYLVESTER).

Intelligence. I'll break your neck in another minute, you born fool! (Aloud suavely.) Mr. Schercl is naturally anxious to hear how the picture he had given me a commission for is getting along. I was telling him how much you think of it but he would like to hear your views from your own mouth.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Oh—oh!—now I know what you're talking about! Well, I have a very high opinion of the work indeed, Mr. Schercl—a very high opinion. (Aside to TEMPENNY.) What's the subject?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (aside to SYLVESTER).

"Susannah before the Elders"—pitch it strong.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

The conception of Susannah, and in fact the entire treatment if I may say so, is bold in the extreme. He makes a school, our friend here. You will be surprised when you see the work, and impressed.

HENRICH SCHERCL.

Vell, we will make the abbointment soon, Mr. Tempenny. I am sorry I could not see it to-day. So I shall be imbressed? That is goot. Gootday, gentlemen. We will make the abbointment very soon.

(Exit SCHERCL.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Calling after him from open door.) Mind the bottom step, it's awkward. Got it?

HENRICH SCHERCL (off).

It is so dark your staircase.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Yes, it is dark, isn't it? Good afternoon. (Closes door.)(To SYLVESTER.) Phew! You couldn't have arrived at a worse time.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Thanks.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I don't mean to be inhospitable, but the ice was thin.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Have you done anything to "Susannah?"

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Not a stroke, but I commence to-morrow in earnest. I've a model coming this afternoon, and if you'll let me use your studio, I shall knock in enough in a week for old Schercl to see when he calls again.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Why do you want my studio—what's the matter with this?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, the fact is my wife is always popping in here, and if she found me with a model posed as Susannah she'd go into hysterics. You understand me?

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Understand you. I'm a married man.

(TEMPENNY looks at him silently, and then puts out his hand. SYLVESTER grasps it.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I don't want to gush, but—I feel for you, old chap.

CHARLES SYLVESTER (gratefully).

I know—I know.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (offering pouch).

Smoke?

CHARLES SYLVESTER (producing pipe).

Thanks.

(They fill their pipes without speaking and puff sympathetically.)

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Not but what she is a good sort—I don't want to say anything against her.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Of course not.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

But—I suppose she's too fond of me.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It's a way wives have—they repay the superabundance of your devotion during the courtship.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Exactly. She's jealous.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Of whom?

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

Of nobody—of everyone. Of my past, which was rather more decent than most fellows—of my life to-day, which is a pattern for a County Councillor.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Poor beggar.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

You're sorry for me?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Devilishly. To be married to a jealous woman!—what a fate.

CHARLES SYLVESTER (with a groan).

Ah! Tempenny, there was a girl I used to know when I was a bachelor—she was a model. My wife found her likeness one day after we were married. A likeness, nothing more—I thought I had destroyed it. Well, if you'd have heard the ructions she made; you'd have thought she'd found a harem.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Ah!

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

A year or two ago the girl turned up again—walked into my studio, and wanted to sit to me. As it happened I could have used her very well. Just as I had given her a drink who should march in too, but my wife.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

The devil.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

I said my wife—but—

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Yes, go on.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

She recognised my visitor in a moment from the photograph—abused her, insulted me, and raised a royal row. The girl cleared out like a shot, and I pledge you my word I have never seen her since, but from that hour to this not a day passes without Mrs. Sylvester making some allusion to the incident. I am the most moral man alive, and I'm watched and suspected as if I were a criminal.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

We must see more of each other than we have of late. When I work in your studio we shall be company for each other.

CHARLES SYLVESTER.

I shall be very glad. Well, I'll be off, now. See you to-morrow then?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

To-morrow! Au revoir, dear boy.

(Exit SYLVESTER.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Poor old Sylvester! Had no idea Mrs. Sylvester was such a termagant. I must cheer him up a bit. So there was a girl, was there, and Mrs. Sylvester is jealous of her? Wonder who she was! Nice girl I daresay—Sylvester's taste was always good excepting when he married. Where is Bob with my model?—time he was back! (Goes to window.) There goes Sylvester—funny thing you can always tell a married man by his walk. There is a solidity about it—a sort of resignation. (Turns looking off the other way.) And here comes a pretty girl.—What a pretty girl—Funny thing you can always tell a pretty girl by her walk. There is a consciousness about it—a thanksgiving. She is stopping here. Lovely woman stopping here!

(Throws up window, and leans out more and more till gradually only a small section of his legs remain on the stage)

ROSALINE (off).

Is this Mr. Tempenny's studio?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

It is. I am Mr. Tempenny. Come up do.

ROSALINE.

No kid?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Not yet—I am recently married.

ROSALINE.

I mean you are really Mr. Tempenny.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Really and truly. (Withdraws from window, wreathed in smiles.) How do I look? (Smoothes his hair before mirror.) Perhaps she is a buyer—I had better appear busy—or inspired. (Seats himself and adopts a far-away engrossed expression.) "Rembrandt Tempenny at Home."

Knock at door. Enter ROSALINE.

ROSALINE.

May I come in?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Enter pray. An idea has struck me. May I beg you to sit down a moment,—In a moment I shall be at your service.

ROSALINE sits. REMBRANDT TEMPENNY stares raptly before him as if lost in composition. (Business.) He starts up and rushes to small canvas, making violent sketch upon it. Then brushes his hand across his brow, and turns to her.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I dared not lose it—my idea! Forgive me—I have it down now, it is saved. What can I do for you?

ROSALINE.

Mr. Addison sent me. He said you wanted a model.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Oh—you are Rosaline?

ROSALINE.

You have guessed it in once. He could not come back with me, so he sent me here alone.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Oh!

ROSALINE.

What do you think of me?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I think you a charming young lady.

ROSALINE.

Then what is the matter?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, I thought you were somebody else, that is all. So you are Rosaline.

ROSALINE.

You keep telling me I am Rosaline—I know I am. The question is how do I do?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

How do you do?

ROSALINE.

You misunderstand me. The question is how do I suit you?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Quite so—you bring me to the point. You suit me entirely. Mr. Addison perhaps explained to you the subject of my picture?

ROSALINE.

"Susannah." Susannah is a very ugly name—.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

But she will be a very pretty girl, won't she?

ROSALINE.

Oh, go away with you.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Humour, only my humour! You musn't think any familiarity was intended. I am not that sort of man at all.

ROSALINE.

No?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Not a bit. As I told you out of the window, I'm married.

ROSALINE.

Well, I am sorry to hear it.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Now you are flattering me—now I must say, "go away with you."

ROSALINE.

I am sorry to hear it because I prefer sitting to single artists. Wives sometimes make rumpuses.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Oh, you have found that?

ROSALINE.

I have indeed. I shall never forget one of my experiences as long as I live.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Really? You interest me.

ROSALINE (sentimentally).

I loved a man with all my soul, and he loved me. He married! No, you must not blame him for it—he was weak, and the temptation came. "To err is human,"—he married. Oh, my heart! (She presses her hand to her side.) Forgive me while I shed a tear.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Shed two.

ROSALINE.

I forgave him; I struggled to subdue the rage within me. I forgave him, and went to see him again. I had conquered my scorn—my better nature had triumphed—I went to him with all the old tenderness that I had lavished on him in the days gone by. He was startled, even cold, but still I feel I should have won him back to me had not something happened.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Something so often happens. It is an aggravating way of something.

ROSALINE.

His wife came between us. All was over.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Designing wretch!

ROSALINE.

I have never seen him since; I have banished his image from my mind. But that time has left its mark on me for ever. It transformed a simple credulous girl into a hardened worldly woman. I shall never feel a liking for wives again.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

One cannot blame you.

ROSALINE.

I felt you would say that. (Presses her handkerchief to her eyes.) It was cruel.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

But in my case you will not be troubled by my wife. The sittings won't take place here, and so she will not see you.

ROSALINE.

How is that?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Well, it is very odd, but Mrs. Tempenny has the same objection to models that you have to wives. It is ridiculous, in fact it is wicked of her, but I find it best to humour her prejudices. Will you go to-morrow to Sycamore Place, Number five?

ROSALINE.

I'll be there—on one condition. No wives, or I throw up the job.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (alarmed).

For Heaven's sake don't talk of doing that—my whole life hangs on the picture. If you don't sit to me I'm a ruined man. Rosaline, I swear to you no wives shall cross your path.

MRS. TEMPENNY (off).

Rembrandt, Rembrandt.

ROSALINE.

Who's that?

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Mrs. Tempenny, but I won't let her in.

ROSALINE (angrily).

Wives already!—Everywhere—wives.

MRS. TEMPENNY (off).

Rembrandt, I must see you. Where are you—quick!

ROSALINE.

Here, I know the pattern of this! Let me go!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (alarmed).

No. No. I'll get rid of her. (Runs to window, and leans out—calling.) Don't wait, my dear. I'm busy. I'll be with you soon.

ROSALINE (contemptuously).

Why, you're scared out of your life of her I can see! I have had enough of this,—I don't want the job. (As if to go.)

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

(Leaving window and running back to her). I tell you if you don't sit to me I'm a ruined man. Rosaline, I implore you!

MRS. TEMPENNY (off).

I am coming up at once.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (rushing to window again).

On no account, my darling, I can't be disturbed.

ROSALINE.

I'm off. Ta-ta.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (back to her again).

You shan't go—I'll lock you in first. There! (Locks door, and takes out key.)

MRS. TEMPENNY (off).

Rembrandt, I must come up. Something is the matter.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

No, no, no. Go home, and see the tradespeople, catch! (Takes out the two sovereigns, and runs to window again: in his excitement he throws with the wrong hand—throwing out key.) Good Lord! I've thrown her the key. (Leans out of the window.) She is coming upstairs. Skip inside there till she goes. Hurry! (Motions ROSALINE off R.)

ROSALINE (scornfully).

Wives, wives, wives!

(Exit Rosaline.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Rembrandt! Why did you keep me waiting—there's a sheriff's officer on his way here with a warrant. He has been at the house, and the servant ran round to Sylvester's to tell me. You must escape.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Escape?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Fly!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

I can't fly—I am not built for flying.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Then you must hide.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

Where?

MRS. TEMPENNY.

(Pointing to room where Rosaline is concealed.) There!

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.

No, no, Hark!

(Very heavy steps are heard ascending stairs.)