He tore himself away as if he were loth to leave the woman who sat

there sewing. He went to the price list which the Academicians keep in

the lobby. He turned the leaves. The picture was unsold. The artist had

appraised it at a modest figure. Mr. Gibbs bought it there and then.

Then he turned to his catalogue to discover the artist's address. Mr.

Bodenham lived in Manresa Road, Chelsea.

Not many minutes after a cab drove up to the Manresa Studios. Mr. Gibbs

knocked at a door on the panels of which was inscribed Mr. Bodenham's

name.

"Come in!" cried a voice.

Mr. Gibbs entered. An artist stood at his easel.

"Mr. Bodenham?"

"I am Mr. Bodenham."

"I am Mr. Gibbs. I have just purchased your picture at the Academy,

'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'" Mr. Bodenham bowed. "I--I wish to make a--a

few inquiries about--about the picture."

Mr. Gibbs was as nervous as a schoolboy. He stammered and he blushed.

The artist seemed to be amused. He smiled.

"You wish to make a few inquiries about the picture--yes?"

"About the--about the subject of the picture. That is, about--about the

model."

Mr. Gibbs became a peony red. The artist's smile grew more pronounced.

"About the model?"

"Yes, about the model. Where does she live?"

Although the day was comparatively cool, Mr. Gibbs was so hot that it

became necessary for him to take out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

Mr. Bodenham was a sunny-faced young man. He looked at his visitor with

laughter in his eyes.

"You are aware, Mr. Gibbs, that yours is rather an unusual question. I

have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, and we artists are not in

the habit of giving information about our models to perfect strangers.

It would not do. Moreover, how do you know that I painted from a model?

The faces in pictures are sometimes creations of the artist's

imagination. Perhaps oftener than the public think."

"I know the model in 'Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!'"

"You know her? Then why do you come to me for information?"

"I should have said that I knew her years ago."

Mr. Gibbs looked round the room a little doubtfully. Then he laid his

hand on the back of a chair, as if for the support, moral and physical,

which it afforded him. He looked at the artist with his big, grave

eyes.

"As I say, Mr. Bodenham, I knew her years ago--and I loved her."

There was a catch in his voice. The artist seemed to be growing more

and more amused. Mr. Gibbs went on:

"I was a younger man then. She was but a girl. We both of us were poor.

We loved each other dearly. We agreed that I should go abroad and make

my fortune. When I had made it, I was to come back to her."

The big man paused. His listener was surprised to find how much his

visitor's curious earnestness impressed him. "I had hard times of it at

first. Now and then I heard from her. At last her letters ceased. About

the time her letters ceased, my prospects bettered. Now I'm doing

pretty well. So I've come to take her back with me to the other side.

Mr. Bodenham, I've looked for her everywhere. As they say, high and

low. I've been to her old home, and to mine--I've been just everywhere.

But no one seems to know anything about her. She has just clean gone,

vanished out of sight. I was thinking that I should have to go back,

after all, without her, when I saw your picture in the Academy, and I

knew the girl you had painted was Nelly. So I bought your picture--her

picture. And now I want you to tell me where she lives."

There was a momentary silence when the big man finished.

"Yours is a very romantic story, Mr. Gibbs. Since you have done me the

honour to make of me your confidant, I shall have pleasure in giving

you the address of the original of my little picture--the address, that

is, at which I last heard of her. I have reason to believe that her

address is not infrequently changed. When I last heard of her, she

was--what shall I say?--hard up."

"Hard up, was she? Was she very hard up, Mr. Bodenham?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Gibbs, that she was as hard up as she could be--and

live."

Mr. Gibbs cleared his throat:

"Thank you. Will you give me her address, Mr. Bodenham?"

Mr. Bodenham wrote something on a slip of paper.

"There it is. It is a street behind Chelsea Hospital--about as

unsavoury a neighbourhood as you will easily find."

Mr. Gibbs found that the artist's words were justified by facts--it was

an unsavoury neighbourhood into which the cabman found his way. No. 20

was the number which Mr. Bodenham had given him. The door of No. 20

stood wide open. Mr. Gibbs knocked with his stick. A dirty woman

appeared from a room on the left.

"Does Miss Brock live here?"

"Never heard tell of no such name. Unless it's the young woman what

lives at the top of the 'ouse--third floor back. Perhaps it's her

you want. Is it a model that you're after? Because, that's what she

is--leastways I've heard 'em saying so. Top o' the stairs, first door

to your left."

Mr. Gibbs started to ascend.

"Take care of them stairs," cried the woman after him. "They wants

knowing."

Mr. Gibbs found that what the woman said was true--they did want

knowing. Better light, too would have been an assistant to a better

knowledge. He had to strike a match to enable him to ascertain if he

had reached the top. A squalid top it was--it smelt! By the light of

the flickering match he perceived that there was a door upon his left.

He knocked. A voice cried to him, for the second time that day:

"Come in!"

But this voice was a woman's. At the sound of it, the heart in the

man's great chest beat, in a sledge-hammer fashion, against his ribs.

His hand trembled as he turned the handle, and when he had opened the

door, and stood within the room, his heart, which had been beating so

tumultuously a moment before, stood still.

The room, which was nothing but a bare attic with raftered ceiling, was

imperfectly lighted by a small skylight--a skylight which seemed as

though it had not been cleaned for ages, so obscured was the glass by

the accumulations of the years. By the light of this skylight Mr. Gibbs

could see that a woman was standing in the centre of the room.

"Nelly!" he cried.

The woman shrank back with, as it were, a gesture of repulsion. Mr.

Gibbs moved forward. "Nelly! Don't you know me? I am Tom."

"Tom?"

The woman's voice was but an echo.

"Tom! Yes, my own, own darling, I am Tom."

Mr. Gibbs advanced. He held out his arms. He was just in time to catch

the woman, or she would have fallen to the floor.

CHAPTER II

"Nelly, don't you know me?" The woman was coming to.

"Haven't you a light?" The woman faintly shook her head.

"See, I have your portrait where you placed it; it has never left me

all the time. But when I saw your picture I did not need your portrait

to tell me it was you."

"When you saw my picture?"

"Your portrait in Mr. Bodenham's picture at Academy 'Stitch! Stitch!

Stitch!'"

"Mr. Bodenham's--I see."

The woman's tone was curiously cold.

"Nelly, you don't seem to be very glad to see me."

"Have you got any money?"

"Any money, Nelly?"

"I am hungry."

"Hungry!"

The woman's words seemed to come to him with the force of revelation.

"Hungry!" She turned her head away. "Oh, my God, Nelly." His voice

trembled. "Wa-wait here, I--I sha'n't be a moment. I've a cab at the

door."

He was back almost as soon as he went. He brought with him half the

contents of a shop--among other things, a packet of candles. These he

lighted, standing them, on their own ends, here and there about the

room. The woman ate shyly, as if, in spite of her confession of hunger,

she had little taste for food. She was fingering the faded photograph

of a girl which Mr. Gibbs had taken from his pocket-book.

"Is this my portrait?"

"Nelly! Don't you remember it?"

"How long is it since it was taken?"

"Why, it's more than seven years, isn't it?"

"Do you think I've altered much?"

Mr. Gibbs went to her. He studied her by the light of the candles.

"Well, you might be plumper, and you might look happier, perhaps, but

all that we'll quickly alter. For the rest, thank God, you're my old

Nelly." He took her in his arms. As he did so she drew a long, deep

breath. Holding her at arms-length, he studied her again. "Nelly, I'm

afraid you haven't been having the best of times."

She broke from him with sudden passion.

"Don't speak of it! Don't speak of it! The life I've lived----" She

paused. All at once her voice became curiously hard. "But through it

all I've been good. I swear it. No one knows what the temptation is, to

a woman who has lived the life I have, to go wrong. But I never went.

Tom"--she laid her hand upon Mr. Gibb's arm as, with marked

awkwardness, his name issued from her lips--"say that you believe that

I've been good."

His only answer was to take her in his arms again, and to kiss her.

Mr. Gibbs provided his new-found lost love with money. With that money

she renewed her wardrobe. He found her other lodgings in a more savoury

neighbourhood at Putney. In those lodgings he once more courted her.

He told himself during those courtship days, that, after all, the years

had changed her. She was a little hard. He did not remember the Nelly

of the old time as being hard. But, then, what had happened during the

years which had come between! Father and mother both had died. She had

been thrown out into the world without a friend, without a penny! His

letters had gone astray. In those early days he had been continually

wandering hither and thither. Her letters had strayed as well as his.

Struggling for existence, when she saw that no letters reached her, she

told herself either that he too had died, or that he had forgotten her.

Her heart hardened. It was with her a bitter striving for daily bread.

She had tried everything. Teaching, domestic service, chorus singing,

needlework, acting as an artist's model--she had failed in everything

alike. At the best she had only been able to keep body and soul

together. It had come to the worst at last. On the morning on which he

found her, she had been two days without food. She had decided that,

that night, if things did not mend during the intervening hours--of

which she had no hope--that she would seek for better fortune--in the

Thames.

She told her story, not all at once, but at different times, and in

answer to her lover's urgent solicitations. She herself at first

evinced a desire for reticence. The theme seemed too painful a theme

for her to dwell upon. But the man's hungry heart poured forth such

copious stores of uncritical sympathy that, after a while, it seemed to

do her good to pour into his listening ears a particular record of her

woes. She certainly had suffered. But now that the days of suffering

were ended, it began almost to be a pleasure to recall the sorrows

which were past.

In the sunshine of prosperity the woman's heart became young again, and

softer. It was not only that she became plumper--which she certainly

did--but she became, inwardly and outwardly, more beautiful. Her lover

told himself, and her, that she was more beautiful even than she had

been as a girl. He declared that she was far prettier than she appeared

in the old-time photograph. She smiled, and she charmed him with an

infinite charm.

The days drew near to the wedding. Had he had his way he would have

married her, off-hand, when he found her in the top attic in that

Chelsea slum. But she said no. Then she would not even talk of

marriage. To hear her, one would have thought that the trials she had

undergone had unfitted her for wedded life. He laughed her out of

that--a day was fixed. She postponed it once, and then again. She had it

that she needed time to recuperate--that she would not marry with the

shadow of that grisly past still haunting her at night. He argued that

the royal road to recuperation was in his arms. He declared that she

would be troubled by no haunting shadows as his dear wife. And, at

last, she yielded. A final date was fixed. That day drew near.

As the day drew near, she grew more tender. On the night before the

wedding-day her tenderness reached, as it were, its culminating point.

Never before had she been so sweet--so softly caressing. They were but

to part for a few short hours. In the morning they were to meet, never,

perhaps, to part again. But it seemed as if he could not tear himself

away, and as if she could not let him go.

Just before he left her a little dialogue took place between them,

which if lover-like, none the less was curious.

"Tom" she said, "suppose, after we are married, you should find out

that I have not been so good as you thought, what would you say?"

"Say?--nothing."

"Oh yes, you would, else you would be less than man. Suppose, for

instance, that you found out I had deceived you."

"I decline to suppose impossibilities."

She had been circled by his arms. Now she drew herself away from him.

She stood where the gaslight fell right on her.

"Tom, look at me carefully! Are you sure you know me?"

"Nelly!"

"Are you quite sure you are not mistaking me for some one else? Are you

quite sure, Tom?"

"My own!"

He took her in his arms again. As he did so, she looked him steadfastly

in the face.

"Tom, I think it possible that, some day, you may think less of me

than you do now. But"--she put her hand over his mouth to stop his

speaking--"whatever you may think of me, I shall always love you"--there

was an appreciable pause, and an appreciable catching of her

breath--"better than my life."

She kissed him, with unusual abandonment, long and fervently, upon the

lips.

The morning of the following day came with the promise of fine weather.

Theirs had been an unfashionable courtship--it was to be an

unfashionable wedding. Mr. Gibbs was to call for his bride, at her

lodgings. They were to drive together, in a single hired brougham, to

the church.

Even before the appointed hour, the expectant bridegroom drew up to the

door of the house in which his lady-love resided. His knock was

answered with an instant readiness which showed that his arrival had

been watched and waited for. The landlady herself opened the door, her

countenance big with tidings.

"Miss Brock has gone, sir."

"Gone!" Mr. Gibbs was puzzled by the woman's tone. "Gone where? For a

walk?"

"No, sir, she's gone away. She's left this letter, sir, for you."

The landlady thrust an envelope into his hand. It was addressed simply,

"Thomas Gibbs, Esq." With the envelope in his hand, and an odd

something clutching at his heart, he went into the empty sitting-room.

He took the letter out of its enclosure, and this is what he read:

"My own, own Tom,--You never were mine, and it is the last time I shall

ever call you so. I am going back, I have only too good reason to fear,

to the life from which you took me, because--_I am not your Nelly_."

The words were doubly underlined, they were unmistakable, yet he had to

read them over and over again before he was able to grasp their

meaning. What did they mean? Had his darling suddenly gone mad? The

written sheet swam before his eyes. It was with an effort he read on.

"How you ever came to mistake me for her I cannot understand. The more

I have thought of it, the stranger it has seemed. I suppose there must

be a resemblance between us--between your Nelly and me. Though I expect

the resemblance is more to the face in Mr. Bodenham's picture than it

is to mine. I never did think the woman in Mr. Bodenham's picture was

like me--though I was his model. I never could have been the original

of your photograph of Nelly--it is not in the least like me. I think

that you came to England with your heart and mind and eyes so full of

Nelly, and so eager for a sight of her, that, in your great hunger of

love, you grasped at the first chance resemblance you encountered. That

is the only explanation I can think of, Tom, of how you can have

mistaken me for her.

"My part is easier to explain. It is quite true, as I told you, that I

was starving when you came to me. I was so weak and faint, and sick at

heart, that your sudden appearance and strange behaviour--in a perfect

stranger, for you were a perfect stranger, Tom--drove from me the few

senses I had left. When I recovered I found myself in the arms of a man

who seemed to know me, and who spoke to me words of love--words which I

had never heard from the lips of a man before. I sent you to buy me

food. While you were gone I told myself--wickedly! I know, Tom it was

wickedly!--what a chance had come at last, which would save me from the

river, at least for a time, and I should be a fool to let it slip. I

perceived that you were mistaking me for some one else. I resolved to

allow you to continue under your misapprehension. I did not doubt that

you would soon discover your mistake. What would happen then I did not

pause to think. But events marched quicker than I, in that first moment

of mad impulse, had bargained for. You never did discover your mistake.

How that was, even now I do not understand. But you began to talk of

marriage. That was a prospect I dared not face.

"For one thing--forgive me for writing it, but I must write it, now

that I am writing to you for the first and for the last time--I began

to love you. Not for the man I supposed you to be, but for the man I

knew you were. I loved you--and I love you! I shall never cease to love

you, with a love of which I did not think I was capable. As I told you,

Tom, last night--when I kissed you!--I love you better than my own

life. Better, far better, for my life is worthless, and you--you are

not worthless, Tom! And I would not--even had I dared!--allow you to

marry me; not for myself, but for another; not for the present, but for

the past; not for the thing I was, but for the thing which you supposed

I had been, once. I would have married you for your own sake; you would

not have married me for mine. And so, since I dared not undeceive

you--I feared to see the look which would come in your face and your

eyes--I am going to steal back, like a thief, to the life from which you

took me. I have had a greater happiness than ever I expected. I have

enjoyed those stolen kisses which they say are sweetest. Your happiness

is still to come. You will find Nelly. Such love as yours will not go

unrewarded. I have been but an incident, a chapter in your life, which

now is closed. God bless you, Tom! I am yours, although you are not

mine--not yours, Nelly Brock--but yours, Helen Reeves."

Mr. Gibbs read this letter once, then twice, and then again. Then he

rang the bell. The landlady appeared with a suspicious promptitude

which suggested the possibility of her having been a spectator of his

proceedings through the keyhole.

"When did Miss Brock go out?"

"Quite early, sir. I'm sure, sir, I was quite taken aback when she said

that she was going--on her wedding-day and all."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"Not a word, sir. She said: 'Mrs. Horner, I am going away. Give this

letter to Mr. Gibbs when he comes.' That was every word she says, sir;

then she goes right out of the front door."

"Did she take any luggage?"

"Just the merest mite of a bag, sir--not another thing."

Mr. Gibbs asked no other questions. He left the room and went out into

the street. The driver of the brougham was instructed to drive, not to

church, but--to his evident and unconcealed surprise--to that slum in

Chelsea. She had written that she was returning to the old life. The

old life was connected with that top attic. He thought it might be

worth his while to inquire if anything had been seen or heard of her.

Nothing had. He left his card, with instructions to write him should

any tidings come that way. Then, since it was unadvisable to drive

about all day under the aegis of a Jehu, whose button-hole was adorned

with a monstrous wedding favour, he dismissed the carriage and sent it

home.

He turned into the King's Road. He was walking in the direction of

Sloane Square, when a voice addressed him from behind.

"Tom!"

It was a woman's voice. He turned. A woman was standing close behind

him, looking and smiling at him--a stout and a dowdy woman. Cheaply and

flashily dressed in faded finery--not the sort of woman whose

recognition one would be over-anxious to compel. Mr. Gibbs looked at

her. There was something in her face and in her voice which struck

faintly some forgotten chord in his memory.

"Tom! don't you know me? I am Nelly."

He looked at her intently for some instants. Then it all flashed over

him. This was Nelly, the real Nelly, the Nelly of his younger days, the

Nelly he had come to find. This dandy sloven, whose shrill voice

proclaimed her little vulgar soul--so different from that other Nelly,

whose soft, musical tones had not been among the least of her charms.

The recognition came on him with the force of a sudden shock. He

reeled, so that he had to clutch at a railing to help him stand.

"Tom! what's the matter? Aren't you well? Or is it the joy of seeing me

has sent you silly?"

She laughed, the dissonant laughter of the female Cockney of a certain

class. Mr. Gibbs recovered his balance and his civility.

"Thank you, I am very well. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right. There's never much the matter with me. I can't

afford the time to be ill." She laughed again. "Well, this is a start

my meeting you. Come and have a bit o' dinner along with us."

"Who is us? Your father and your mother?"

"Why, father, he's been dead these five years, and mother, she's been

dead these three. I don't want you to have a bit of dinner along with

them--not hardly." Again she laughed. "It's my old man I mean. Why, you

don't mean to say you don't know I'm married! Why, I'm the mother of

five."

He had fallen in at her side. They were walking on together--he like a

man in a dream.

"We're doing pretty well considering, we manage to live, you know." She

laughed again. She seemed filled with laughter, which was more than Mr.

Gibbs was then. "We're fishmongers, that's what we are. William he's

got a very tidy trade, as good as any in the road. There, here's our

shop!" She paused in front of a fishmonger's shop. "And there's our

name"--she pointed up at it. "Nelly Brock I used to be, and now I'm

Mrs. William Morgan."

She laughed again. She led the way through the shop to a little room

beyond. A man was seated on the table, reading a newspaper, a man

without a coat on, and with a blue apron tied about his waist.

"William, who do you think I've brought to see you? You'll never guess

in a month of Sundays. This is Tom Gibbs, of whom you've heard me speak

dozens of times."

Mr. Morgan wiped his hand upon his apron.

Then he held it out to Mr. Gibbs. Mr. Gibbs was conscious, as he

grasped it, that it reeked of fish.

"How are you, Gibbs? Glad to see you!" Mr. Morgan turned to his wife.

"Where's that George? There's a pair of soles got to be sent up to

Sydney Street, and there's not a soul about the place to take 'em."

"That George is a dratted nuisance, that's what he is. He never is

anywhere to be found when you want him. You remember, William, me

telling you about Tom Gibbs? My old sweetheart, you know, he was. He

went away to make his fortune, and I was to wait for him till he came

back, and I daresay I should have waited if you hadn't just happened to

come along."

"I wish I hadn't just happened, then. I wish she'd waited for you,

Gibbs. It'd have been better for me, and worse for you, old man."

"That's what they all say, you know, after a time."

Mrs. Morgan laughed. But Mr. Morgan did not seem to be in a

particularly jovial frame of mind.

"It's all very well for you to talk, you know, but I don't like the way

things are managed in this house, and so I tell you. There's your new

lodger come while you've been out, and her room's like a regular

pig-sty, and I had to show her upstairs myself, with the shop chock-full

of customers." Mr. Morgan drew his hand across his nose. "See you

directly, Gibbs; some one must attend to business."

Mr. Morgan withdrew to the shop. Mr. Gibbs and his old love were left

alone.

"Never you mind, William. He's all right; but he's a bit huffy--men

will get huffy when things don't go just as they want 'em. I'll just

run upstairs and send the lodger down here, while I tidy up her room.

The children slept in it last night. I never expected her till this

afternoon; she's took me unawares. You wait here; I shan't be half a

minute. Then we'll have a bit of dinner."

Mr. Gibbs, left alone, sat in a sort of waking dream. Could this be

Nelly--the Nelly of whom he had dreamed, for whom he had striven, whom

he had come to find--this mother of five? Why, she must have begun to

play him false almost as soon as his back was turned. She must have

already been almost standing at the altar steps with William Morgan

while writing the last of her letters to him. And had his imagination,

or his memory, tricked him? Had youth, or distance, lent enchantment to

the view? Had she gone back, or had he advanced? Could she have been

the vulgar drab which she now appeared to be, in the days of long ago?

As he sat there, endeavouring to resolve these riddles which had been

so suddenly presented for solution, the door opened and some one

entered.

"I beg your pardon," said the voice of the intruder, on perceiving that

the room was already provided with an occupant.

Mr. Gibbs glanced up. The voice fell like the voice of a magician on

his ear. He rose to his feet, all trembling. In the doorway was

standing the other Nelly--the false, and yet the true one. The Nelly of

his imagination. The Nelly to whom he was to have been married that

day. He went to her with a sudden cry.

"Nelly!"

"Tom!" She shrank away. But in spite of her shrinking, he took her in

his arms.

"My own, own darling."

"Tom," she moaned, "don't you understand--I'm not Nelly!"

"I know it, and I thank God, my darling, you are not."

"Tom! What do you mean?"

"I mean that I have found Nelly, and I mean that, thank Heaven! I have

found you too--never, my darling, please Heaven! to lose sight of you

again."

They had only just time to withdraw from a too suspicious

neighbourhood, before the door opened again to admit Mrs. Morgan.

"Tom, this is our new lodger. I just asked her if she'd mind stepping

downstairs while I tidied up her room a bit. Miss Reeves, this is an

old sweetheart of mine--Mr. Gibbs."

Mr. Gibbs turned to the "new lodger."

"Miss Reeves and I are already acquainted. Miss Reeves, you have heard

me speak of Mrs. Morgan, though not by that name. This is Nelly."

Miss Reeves turned and looked at Mrs. Morgan, and as she looked--she

gasped.

La Haute Finance

A TALE OF THE BIGGEST COUP ON RECORD

CHAPTER I

"By Jove! I believe it could be done!"

Mr. Rodney Railton took the cigarette out of his mouth and sent a puff

of smoke into the air.

"I believe it could, by Jove!"

Another puff of smoke.

"I'll write to Mac."

He drew a sheet of paper towards him and penned the following:--

"DEAR ALEC,--Can you give me some dinner to-night? Wire me if you have

a crowd. I shall be in the House till four. Have something to propose

which will make your hair stand up.

"Yours, R. R."

This he addressed "Alexander Macmathers, Esq., 27, Campden Hill

Mansions." As he went downstairs he gave the note to the

commissionaire, with instructions that it should be delivered at once

by hand.

That night Mr. Railton dined with Mr. Macmathers. The party consisted

of three, the two gentlemen and a lady--Mrs. Macmathers, in fact. Mr.

Macmathers was an American--a Southerner--rather tall and weedy, with a

heavy, drooping moustache, like his hair, raven black. He was not

talkative. His demeanour gave a wrong impression of the man--the

impression that he was not a man of action. As a matter of fact, he was

a man of action before all things else. He was not rich, as riches go,

but certainly he was not poor. His temperament was cosmopolitan, and

his profession Jack-of-all-trades. Wherever there was money to be made,

he was there. Sometimes, it must be confessed, he was there, too, when

there was money to be lost. His wife was English--keen and clever. Her

chief weakness was that she would persist in looking on existence as a

gigantic lark. When she was most serious she regarded life least _au

serieux_.

Mr. Railton, who had invited himself to dinner, was a hybrid--German

mother, English father. He was quite a young man--say thirty. His host

was perhaps ten, his hostess five years older than himself. He was a

stockjobber--ostensibly in the Erie market. All that he had he had

made, for he had, as a boy, found himself the situation of a clerk. But

his clerkly days were long since gone. No one anything like his age had

a better reputation in the House; it was stated by those who had best

reason to know that he had never once been left, and few had a larger

credit. Lately he had wandered outside his markets to indulge in little

operations in what he called _La Haute Finance_. In these Mr.

Macmathers had been his partner more than once, and in him he had found

just the man he wished to find.

When they had finished dinner, the lady withdrew, and the gentlemen

were left alone.

"Well," observed Mr. Macmathers, "what's going to make my hair stand

up?"

Mr. Railton stroked his chin as he leaned both his elbows on the board.

"Of course, Mac, I can depend on you. I'm just giving myself away. It's

no good my asking you to observe strict confidence, for, if you won't

come in, from the mere fact of your knowing it the thing's just busted

up, that's all."

"Sounds like a mystery-of-blood-to-thee-I'll-now-unfold sort of thing."

"I don't know about mystery, but there'll be plenty of blood."

Mr. Railton stopped short and looked at his friend.

"Blood, eh? I say, Rodney, think before you speak."

"I have thought. I thought I'd play the game alone. But it's too big a

game for one."

"Well, if you have thought, out with it, or be silent evermore."

"You know Plumline, the dramatist?"

"I know he's an ass."

"Ass or no ass, it's from him I got the idea."

"Good Heavens! No wonder it smells of blood."

"He's got an idea for a new play, and he came to me to get some local

colouring. I'll just tell you the plot--he was obliged to tell it me,

or I couldn't have given him the help he wanted."

"Is it essential? I have enough of Plumline's plots when I see them on

the stage."

"It is essential. You will see."

Mr. Railton got up, lighted a cigar, and stood before the fireplace.

When he had brought the cigar into good going order he unfolded Mr.

Plumline's plot.

"I'm not going to bore you. I'm just going to touch upon that part

which gave me my idea. There's a girl who dreams of boundless wealth--a

clever girl, you understand."

"Girls who dream of boundless wealth sometimes are clever," murmured

his friend. Perhaps he had his wife in his mind's eye.

"She is wooed and won by a financier. Not wooed and won by a tale of

love, but by the exposition of an idea."

"That's rather new--for Plumline."

"The financier has an idea for obtaining the boundless wealth of which

she only dreams."

"And the idea?"

"Is the bringing about of a war between France and Germany."

"Great snakes!" The cigarette dropped from between Mr. Macmather's

lips. He carefully picked it up again. "That's not a bad idea--for

Plumline."

"It's my idea as well. In the play it fails. The financier comes to

grief. I shouldn't fail. There's just that difference."

Mr. Macmathers regarded his friend in silence before he spoke again.

"Railton, might I ask you to enlarge upon your meaning? I want to see

which of us two is drunk."

"In the play the man has a big bear account--the biggest upon record. I

need hardly tell you that a war between France and Germany would mean

falling markets. Supposing we were able to calculate with certainty the

exact moment of the outbreak--arrange it, in fact--we might realise

wealth beyond the dreams of avarice--hundreds of thousands of millions,

if we chose."

"I suppose you're joking?"

"How?"

"That's what I want to know--how."

"It does sound, at first hearing, like a joke, to suppose that a couple

of mere outsiders can, at their own sweet will and pleasure, stir up a

war between two Great Powers."

"A joke is a mild way of describing it, my friend."

"Alec, would you mind asking Mrs. Macmathers to form a third on this

occasion?"

Mr. Macmathers eyed his friend for a moment, then got up and left the

room. When he returned his wife was with him. It was to the lady Mr.

Railton addressed himself.

"Mrs. Macmathers, would you like to be possessed of wealth compared to

which the wealth of the Vanderbilts, the Rothschilds, the Mackays, the

Goulds, would shrink into insignificance?"

"Why, certainly."

It was a peculiarity of the lady's that, while she was English, she

affected what she supposed to be American idioms.

"Would you stick at a little to obtain it?"

"Certainly not."

"It would be worth one's while to run a considerable risk."

"I guess."

"Mrs. Macmathers, I want to go a bear, a large bear, to win, say--I

want to put it modestly--a hundred millions."

"Pounds?"

"Pounds."

It is to be feared that Mrs. Macmathers whistled.

"Figures large," she said.

"All the world knows that war is inevitable between France and

Germany."

"Proceed."

"I want to arrange that it shall break out at the moment when it best

suits me."

"I guess you're a modest man," she said.

Her husband smiled.

"If you consider for a moment, it would not be so difficult as it first

appears. It requires but a spark to set the fire burning. There is at

least one party in France to whom war would mean the achievement of all

their most cherished dreams. It is long odds that a war would bring

some M. Quelquechose to the front with a rush. He will be at least

untried. And, of late years, it is the untried men who have the

people's confidence in France. A few resolute men, my dear Mrs.

Macmathers, have only to kick up a shindy on the Alsatian

borders--Europe will be roused, in the middle of the night, by the

roaring of the flames of war."

There was a pause. Mrs. Macmathers got up and began to pace the room.

"It's a big order," she said.

"Allowing the feasibility of your proposition, I conclude that you have

some observations to make upon it from a moral point of view. It

requires them, my friend."

Mr. Macmathers said this with a certain dryness.

"Moral point of view be hanged! It could be argued, mind, and defended;

but I prefer to say candidly, the moral point of view be hanged!"

"Has it not occurred to you to think that the next Franco-German war

may mean the annihilation of one of the parties concerned?"

"You mistake the position. I should have nothing to do with the war. I

should merely arrange the date for its commencement. With or without me

they would fight."

"You would merely consign two or three hundred thousand men to die at

the moment which would best suit your pocket."

"There is that way of looking at it, no doubt. But you will allow me to

remind you that you considered the possibility of creating a corner in

corn without making unpleasant allusions to the fact that it might have

meant starvation to thousands."

The lady interposed.

"Mr. Railton, leaving all that sort of thing alone, what is it that you

propose?"

"The details have still to be filled in. Broadly I propose to arrange a

series of collisions with the German frontier authorities. I propose to

get them boomed by the Parisian Press. I propose to give some M.

Quelquechose his chance."

"It's the biggest order ever I heard."

"Not so big as it sounds. Start to-morrow, and I believe that we should

be within measureable distance of war next week. Properly managed, I

will at least guarantee that all the Stock Exchanges of Europe go down

with a run."

"If the thing hangs fire, how about carrying over?"

"Settle. No carrying over for me. I will undertake that there is a

sufficient margin of profit. Every account we will do a fresh bear

until the trick is made. Unless I am mistaken, the trick will be made

with a rapidity of which you appear to have no conception."

"It is like a dream of the Arabian nights," the lady said.

"Before the actual reality the Arabian nights pale their ineffectual

fires. It is a chance which no man ever had before, which no man may

ever have again. I don't think, Macmathers, we ought to let it slip."

They did not let it slip.

CHAPTER II

Mr. Railton was acquainted with a certain French gentleman who rejoiced

in the name--according to his own account--of M. Hippolyte de

Vrai-Castille. The name did not sound exactly French--M. de Vrai-Castille

threw light on this by explaining that his family came originally from

Spain. But, on the other hand, it must be allowed that the name did not

sound exactly Spanish, either. London appeared to be this gentleman's

permanent place of residence. Political reasons--so he stated--rendered

it advisable that he should not appear too prominently upon

his--theoretically--beloved _boulevards_. Journalism--always following

this gentleman's account of himself--was the profession to which he devoted

the flood-tide of his powers. The particular journal or journals which

were rendered famous by the productions of his pen were rather

difficult to discover--there appeared to be political reasons, too, for

that.

"The man is an all-round bad lot." This was what Mr. Railton said when

speaking of this gentleman to Mr. and Mrs. Macmathers. "A type of

scoundrel only produced by France. Just the man we want."

"Flattering," observed his friend. "You are going to introduce us to

high company."

Mr. Railton entertained this gentleman to dinner in a private room at

the Hotel Continental. M. de Vrai-Castille did not seem to know exactly

what to make of it. Nothing in his chance acquaintance with Mr. Railton

had given him cause to suppose that the Englishman regarded him as a

respectable man, and this sudden invitation to fraternise took him a

little aback. Possibly he was taken still more aback before the evening

closed. Conversation languished during the meal; but when it was

over--and the waiters gone--Mr. Railton became very conversational indeed.

"Look here, What's-your-name"--this was how Mr. Railton addressed M. de

Vrai-Castille--"I know very little about you, but I know enough to

suspect that you have nothing in the world excepting what you steal."

"M. Railton is pleased to have his little jest."

If it was a jest, it was not one, judging from the expression of M. de

Vrai-Castille's countenance which he entirely relished.

"What would you say if I presented you with ten thousand pounds?"

"I should say----"

What he said need not be recorded, but M. de Vrai-Castille used some

very bad language indeed, expressive of the satisfaction with which the

gift would be received.

"And suppose I should hint at your becoming possessed of another

hundred thousand pounds to back it?"

"Pardon me, M. Railton, but is it murder? If so, I would say frankly at

once that I have always resolved that in those sort of transactions I

would take no hand."

"Stuff and nonsense! It is nothing of the kind! You say you are a

politician. Well, I want you to pose as a patriot--a French patriot,

you understand."

Mr. Railton's eyes twinkled. M. de Vrai-Castille grinned in reply.

"The profession is overcrowded," he murmured, with a deprecatory

movement of his hands.

"Not on the lines I mean to work it. Did you lose any relatives in the

war?"

"It depends."

"I feel sure you did. And at this moment the bodies of those patriots

are sepultured in Alsatian soil. I want you to dig them up again."

"_Mon Dieu! Ce charmant homme!_"

"I want you to form a league for the recovery of the remains of those

noble spirits who died for their native land, and whose bones now lie

interred in what was France, but which now, alas! is France no more. I

want you to go in for this bone recovery business as far as possible on

a wholesale scale."

"_Ciel! Maintenant j'ai trouve un homme extraordinaire!_"

"You will find no difficulty in obtaining the permission of the

necessary authorities sanctioning your schemes; but at the very last

moment, owing to some stated informality, the German brigands will

interfere even at the edge of the already open grave; patriot bones

will be dishonoured, France will be shamed in the face of all the

world."

"And then?"

"The great heart of France is a patient heart, my friend, but even

France will not stand that. There will be war."

"And then?"

"On the day on which war is declared, one hundred thousand pounds will

be paid to you in cash."

"And supposing there is no war?"

"Should France prefer to cower beneath her shame, you shall still

receive ten thousand pounds."

CHAPTER III

The following extract is from the _Times'_ Parisian correspondence--

"The party of La Revanche is taking a new departure. I am in a position

to state that certain gentlemen are putting their heads together. A

league is being formed for the recovery of the bodies of various

patriots who are at present asleep in Alsace. I have my own reasons for

asserting that some remarkable proceedings may be expected soon. No man

knows better than myself that there is nothing some Frenchmen will not

do."

On the same day there appeared in _La Patrie_ a really touching

article. It was the story of two brothers--one was, the other was not;

in life they had been together, but in death they were divided. Both

alike had fought for their native land. One returned--_desole!_--to

Paris. The other stayed behind. He still stayed behind. It appeared

that he was buried in Alsace, in a nameless grave! But they had vowed,

these two, that they would share all things--among the rest, that sleep

which even patriots must know, the unending sleep of death. "It is

said," said the article in conclusion, "that that nameless grave, in

what was France, will soon know none--or two!" It appeared that the

surviving brother was going for that "nameless grave" on the principle

of double or quits.

The story appeared, with variations, in a considerable number of

journals. The _Daily Telegraph_ had an amusing allusion to the fondness

displayed by certain Frenchmen for their relatives--dead, for the

"bones" of their fathers. But no one was at all prepared for the events

which followed.

One morning the various money articles alluded to heavy sales which had

been effected the day before, "apparently by a party of outside

speculators." In particular heavy bear operations were reported from

Berlin. Later in the day the evening papers came out with telegrams

referring to "disturbances" at a place called Pont-sur-Leaune.

Pont-sur-Leaune is a little Alsatian hamlet. The next day the tale was

in everybody's mouth. Certain misguided but well-meaning Frenchmen had

been "shot down" by the German authorities. Particulars had not yet

come to hand, but it appeared, according to the information from Paris,

that a party of Frenchmen had journeyed to Alsace with the intention of

recovering the bodies of relatives who had been killed in the war; on

the very edge of the open graves German soldiers had shot them down.

Telegrams from Berlin stated that a party of body-snatchers had been

caught in the very act of plying their nefarious trade; no mention of

shooting came from there. Although the story was doubted in the City,

it had its effect on the markets--prices fell. It was soon seen, too,

that the bears were at it again. Foreign telegrams showed that their

influence was being felt all round; very heavy bear raids were again

reported from Berlin. Markets became unsettled, with a downward

tendency, and closing prices were the worst of the day.

Matters were not improved by the news of the morrow. A Frenchman had

been shot--his name was Hippolyte de Vrai-Castille, and a manifesto

from his friends had already appeared in Paris. According to this, they

had been betrayed by the German authorities. They had received

permission from those authorities to take the bodies of certain of

their relatives and lay them in French soil. While they were acting on

this permission they were suddenly attacked by German soldiers, and he,

their leader, that patriot soul, Hippolyte de Vrai-Castille, was dead.

But there was worse than that. They had prepared flags in which to wrap

the bodies of the dead. Those flags--emblems of France--had been seized

by the rude German soldiers, torn into fragments, trampled in the dust.

The excitement in Paris appeared to be intense. All that day there was

a falling market.

The next day's papers were full of contradictory telegrams. From Berlin

the affair was pooh-poohed. The story of permission having been

accorded by the authorities was pure fiction--there had been a scuffle

in which a man had been killed, probably by his own friends--the tale

of the dishonoured flags was the invention of an imaginative brain. But

these contradictions were for the most part frantically contradicted by

the Parisian Press. There was a man in Paris who had actually figured

on the scene. He had caught M. de Vrai-Castille in his arms as he fell,

he had been stained by his heart's blood, his cheek had been torn open

by the bullet which killed his friend. Next his heart he at that moment

carried portions of the flags--emblems of France!--which had been

subjected to such shame.

But it was on the following day that the situation first took a

definitely serious shape. Placards appeared on every dead wall in

Paris, small bills were thrust under every citizen's door--on the bills

and placards were printed the same words. They were signed

"Quelquechose." They pointed out that France owed her present

degradation--like all her other degradations--to her Government. The

nation was once more insulted; the Army was once more betrayed; the

national flag had been trampled on again, as it had been trampled on

before. Under a strong Government these things could not be, but under

a Government of cowards----! Let France but breathe the word, "La

Grande Nation" would exist once more. Let the Army but make a sign,

there would be "La Grande Armee" as of yore.

That night there was a scene in the Chamber. M. de Caragnac--_a propos

des botte_--made a truly remarkable speech. He declared that permission

had been given to these men. He produced documentary evidence to that

effect. He protested that these men--true citizens of France!--had been

the victims of a "Prussian" plot. As to the outrage to the national

flag, had it been perpetrated, say, in Tonkin, "cannons would be

belching forth their thunders now." But in Alsace--"this brave

Government dare only turn to the smiters the other cheek." In the

galleries they cheered him to the echo. On the tribune there was

something like a free fight. When the last telegrams were despatched to

London, Paris appeared to be approaching a state of riot.

The next day there burst a thunderbolt. Five men had been detained by

the German authorities. They had escaped--had been detected in the act

of flight--had been shot at while running. Two of them had been killed.

A third had been fatally wounded. The news--flavoured to taste--was

shouted from the roofs of the houses. Paris indulged in one of its

periodical fits of madness. The condition of the troops bore a strong

family likeness to mutiny. And in the morning Europe was electrified by

the news that a revolution had been effected in the small hours of the

morning, that the Chambers had been dissolved, and that with the Army

were the issues of peace and war.

* * * * *

On the day of the declaration of the war between France and

Germany--that heavy-laden day--an individual called on Mr. Rodney Railton

whose appearance caused that gentleman to experience a slight sensation

of surprise.

"De Vrai-Castille! I was wondering if you had left any instructions as

to whom I was to pay that hundred thousand pounds. I thought that you

were dead."

"Monsieur mistakes. My name is Henri Kerchrist, a name not unknown in

my native Finistere. M. Hippolyte de Vrai-Castille is dead. I saw him

die. It was to me he directed that you should pay that hundred thousand

pounds."

As he made these observations, possibly owing to some local weakness,

"Henri Kerchrist" winked the other eye.

Mrs. Riddle's Daughter

When they asked me to spend the Long with them, or as much of it as I

could manage, I felt more than half disposed to write and say that I

could not manage any of it at all. Of course a man's uncle and aunt are

his uncle and aunt, and as such I do not mean to say that I ever

thought of suggesting anything against Mr. and Mrs. Plaskett. But then

Plaskett is fifty-five if he's a day, and not agile, and Mrs. Plaskett

always struck me as being about ten years older. They have no children,

and the idea was that, as Mrs. Plaskett's niece--Plaskett is my

mother's brother, so that Mrs. Plaskett is only my aunt by marriage--as

I was saying, the idea was that, as Mrs. Plaskett's niece was going to

spend her Long with them, I, as it were, might take pity on the girl,

and see her through it.

I am not saying that there are not worse things than seeing a girl,

single-handed, through a thing like that, but then it depends upon the

girl. In this case, the mischief was her mother. The girl was Mrs.

Plaskett's brother's child; his name was Riddle. Riddle was dead. The

misfortune was, his wife was still alive. I had never seen her, but I

had heard of her ever since I was breeched. She is one of those awful

Anti-Everythingites. She won't allow you to smoke, or drink, or breathe

comfortably, so far as I understand. I dare say you've heard of her.

Whenever there is any new craze about, her name always figures in the

bills.

So far as I know, I am not possessed of all the vices. At the same

time, I did not look forward to being shut up all alone in a country

house with the daughter of a "woman Crusader." On the other hand, Uncle

Plaskett has behaved, more than once, like a trump to me, and as I felt

that this might be an occasion on which he expected me to behave like a

trump to him, I made up my mind that, at any rate, I would sample the

girl and see what she was like.

I had not been in the house half an hour before I began to wish I

hadn't come. Miss Riddle had not arrived, and if she was anything like

the picture which my aunt painted of her, I hoped that she never would

arrive--at least, while I was there. Neither of the Plasketts had seen

her since she was the merest child. Mrs. Riddle never had approved of

them. They were not Anti-Everythingite enough for her. Ever since the

death of her husband she had practically ignored them. It was only

when, after all these years, she found herself in a bit of a hole, that

she seemed to have remembered their existence. It appeared that Miss

Riddle was at some Anti-Everythingite college or other. The term was at

an end. Her mother was in America, "Crusading" against one of her

aversions. Some hitch had unexpectedly occurred as to where Miss Riddle

was to spend her holidays. Mrs. Riddle had amazed the Plasketts by

telegraphing to them from the States to ask if they could give her

house-room. And that forgiving, tender-hearted uncle and aunt of mine

had said they would.

I assure you, Dave, that when first I saw her you might have knocked me

over with a feather. I had spent the night seeing her in nightmares--a

lively time I had had of it. In the morning I went out for a stroll, so

that the fresh air might have a chance of clearing my head at least of

some of them. And when I came back there was a little thing sitting in

the morning-room talking to aunt--I give you my word that she did not

come within two inches of my shoulder. I do not want to go into

raptures. I flatter myself I am beyond the age for that. But a

sweeter-looking little thing I never saw! I was wondering who she might

be, she seemed to be perfectly at home, when my aunt introduced us.

"Charlie, this is your cousin, May Riddle. May, this is your cousin,

Charles Kempster."

She stood up--such a dot of a thing! She held out her hand--she found

fours in gloves a trifle loose. She looked at me with her eyes all

laughter--you never saw such eyes, never! Her smile, when she spoke,

was so contagious, that I would have defied the surliest man alive to

have maintained his surliness when he found himself in front of it.

"I am very glad to see you--cousin."

Her voice! And the way in which she said it! As I have written, you

might have knocked me down with a feather.

I found myself in clover. And no man ever deserved good fortune better.

It was a case of virtue rewarded. I had come to do my duty, expecting

to find it bitter, and, lo, it was very sweet. How such a mother came

to have such a child was a mystery to all of us. There was not a trace

of humbug about her. So far from being an Anti-Everythingite, she went

in for everything, strong. That hypocrite of an uncle of mine had

arranged to revolutionise the habits of his house for her. There

were to be family prayers morning and evening, and a sermon, and

three-quarters of an hour's grace before meat, and all that kind of thing.

I even suspected him of an intention of locking up the billiard-room, and

the smoke-room, and all the books worth reading, and all the music that

wasn't "sacred," and, in fact, of turning the place into a regular

mausoleum. But he had not been in her company five minutes when bang

went all ideas of that sort. Talk about locking the billiard-room

against her! You should have seen the game she played. Though she was

such a dot, you should have seen her use the jigger. And sing! She sang

everything. When she had made our hearts go pit-a-pat, and brought the

tears into our eyes, she would give us comic songs--the very latest.

Where she got them from was more than we could understand; but she

made us laugh till we cried--aunt and all. She was an Admirable

Crichton--honestly. I never saw a girl play a better game of tennis.

She could ride like an Amazon. And walk--when I think of the walks we

had together through the woods, I doing my duty towards her to the best

of my ability, it all seems to have been too good a time to have happened

in anything but a dream.

Do not think she was a rowdy girl, one of these "up-to-daters," or

fast. Quite the other way. She had read more books than I had--I am not

hinting that that is saying much, but still she had. She loved books,

too; and, you know, speaking quite frankly, I never was a bookish man.

Talking about books, one day when we were out in the woods alone

together--we nearly always were alone together!--I took it into my head

to read to her. She listened for a page or two; then she interrupted

me.

"Do you call that reading?" I looked at her surprised. She held out her

hand. "Now, let me read to you. Give me the book."

I gave it to her. Dave, you never heard such reading. It was not only a

question of elocution; it was not only a question of the music that was

in her voice. She made the dry bones live. The words, as they proceeded

from between her lips, became living things. I never read to her again.

After that, she always read to me. Many an hour have I spent, lying at

her side, with my head pillowed in the mosses, while she materialised

for me "the very Jew, which Shakespeare drew." She read to me all sorts

of things. I believe she could even have vivified a leading article.

One day she had been reading to me a pen picture of a famous dancer.

The writer had seen the woman in some Spanish theatre. He gave an

impassioned description--at least, it sounded impassioned as she read

it--of how the people had followed the performer's movements, with

enraptured eyes and throbbing pulses, unwilling to lose the slightest

gesture. When she had done reading, putting down the book, she stood up

in front of me. I sat up to ask what she was going to do.

"I wonder," she said, "if it was anything like this--the dance which

that Spanish woman danced."

She danced to me. Dave, you are my "fidus Achates," my other self, my

chum, or I would not say a word to you of this. I never shall forget

that day. She set my veins on fire. The witch! Without music, under the

greenwood tree, all in a moment, for my particular edification, she

danced a dance which would have set a crowded theatre in a frenzy.

While she danced, I watched her as if mesmerised; I give you my word I

did not lose a gesture. When she ceased--with such a curtsy!--I sprang

up and ran to her. I would have caught her in my arms; but she sprang

back. She held me from her with her outstretched hand.

"Mr. Kempster!" she exclaimed. She looked up at me as demurely as you

please.

"I was only going to take a kiss," I cried. "Surely a cousin may take a

kiss."

"Not every cousin--if you please."

With that she walking right off, there and then, leaving me standing

speechless, and as stupid as an owl.

The next morning as I was in the hall, lighting up for an after

breakfast smoke, Aunt Plaskett came up to me. The good soul had trouble

written all over her face. She had an open letter in her hand. She

looked up at me in a way which reminded me oddly of my mother.

"Charlie," she said, "I'm so sorry."

"Aunt, if you're sorry, so am I. But what's the sorrow?"

"Mrs. Riddle's coming."

"Coming? When?"

"To-day--this morning. I am expecting her every minute."

"But I thought she was a fixture in America for the next three months."

"So I thought. But it seems that something has happened which has

induced her to change her mind. She arrived in England yesterday. She

writes to me to say that she will come on to us as early as possible

to-day. Here is the letter. Charlie, will you tell May?"

She put the question a trifle timidly, as though she were asking me to

do something from which she herself would rather be excused. The fact

is, we had found that Miss Riddle would talk of everything and

anything, with the one exception of her mother. Speak of Mrs. Riddle,

and the young lady either immediately changed the conversation, or she

held her peace. Within my hearing, her mother's name had never escaped

her lips. Whether consciously or unconsciously, she had conveyed to our

minds a very clear impression that, to put it mildly, between her and

her mother there was no love lost. I, myself, was persuaded that, to

her, the news of her mother's imminent presence would not be pleasant

news. It seemed that my aunt was of the same opinion.

"Dear May ought to be told, she ought not to be taken unawares. You

will find her in the morning-room, I think."

I rather fancy that Aunt and Uncle Plaskett have a tendency to shift

the little disagreeables of life off their own shoulders on to other

people's. Anyhow, before I could point out to her that the part which

she suggested I should play was one which belonged more properly to

her, Aunt Plaskett had taken advantage of my momentary hesitation to

effect a strategic movement which removed her out of my sight.

I found Miss Riddle in the morning-room. She was lying on a couch,

reading. Directly I entered she saw that I had something on my mind.

"What's the matter? You don't look happy."

"It may seem selfishness on my part, but I'm not quite happy. I have

just heard news which, if you will excuse my saying so, has rather

given me a facer."

"If I will excuse you saying so! Dear me, how ceremonious we are! Is

the news public, or private property?"

"Who do you think is coming?"

"Coming? Where? Here?" I nodded. "I have not the most remote idea. How

should I have?"

"It is some one who has something to do with you."

Until then she had taken it uncommonly easily on the couch. When I said

that, she sat up with quite a start.

"Something to do with me? Mr. Kempster! What do you mean? Who can

possibly be coming here who has anything to do with me?"

"May, can't you guess?"

"Guess! How can I guess? What do you mean?"

"It's your mother."

"My--mother!"

I had expected that the thing would be rather a blow to her, but I had

never expected that it would be anything like the blow it seemed. She

sprang to her feet. The book fell from her hands, unnoticed, on to the

floor. She stood facing me, with clenched fists and staring eyes.

"My--mother!" she repeated, "Mr. Kempster, tell me what you mean."

I told myself that Mrs. Riddle must be more, or less, of a mother even

than my fancy painted her, if the mere suggestion of her coming could

send her daughter into such a state of mind as this. Miss Riddle had

always struck me as being about as cool a hand as you would be likely

to meet. Now all at once, she seemed to be half beside herself with

agitation. As she glared at me, she made me almost feel as if I had

been behaving to her like a brute.

"My aunt has only just now told me."

"Told you what?"

"That Mrs. Riddle arrived----"

She interrupted me.

"Mrs. Riddle? My mother? Well, go on?"

She stamped on the floor. I almost felt as if she had stamped on me. I

went on, disposed to feel that my back was beginning to rise.

"My aunt has just told me that Mrs. Riddle arrived in England

yesterday. She has written this morning to say that she is coming on at

once."

"But I don't understand!" She really looked as if she did not

understand. "I thought--I was told that--she was going to remain abroad

for months."

"It seems that she has changed her mind."

"Changed her mind!" Miss Riddle stared at me as if she thought that

such a thing was inconceivable. "When did you say that she was coming?"

"Aunt tells me that she is expecting her every moment."

"Mr. Kempster, what am I to do?"

She appealed to me, with outstretched hands, actually trembling, as it

seemed to me with passion, as if I knew--or understood her either.

"I am afraid, May, that Mrs. Riddle has not been to you all that a

mother ought to be. I have heard something of this before. But I did

not think that it was so bad as it seems."

"You have heard? You have heard! My good sir, you don't know what

you're talking about in the very least. There is one thing very

certain, that I must go at once."

"Go? May!"

She moved forward. I believe she would have gone if I had not stepped

between her and the door. I was beginning to feel slightly bewildered.

It struck me that, perhaps, I had not broken the news so delicately as

I might have done. I had blundered somehow, somewhere. Something must

be wrong, if, after having been parted from her, for all I knew, for

years, immediately on hearing of her mother's return, her first impulse

was towards flight.

"Well?" she cried, looking up at me like a small, wild thing.

"My dear May, what do you mean? Where are you going? To your room?"

"To my room? No! I am going away! away! Right out of this, as quickly

as I can!"

"But, after all, your mother is your mother. Surely she cannot have

made herself so objectionable that, at the mere thought of her arrival,

you should wish to run away from her, goodness alone knows where. So

far as I understand she has disarranged her plans, and hurried across

the Atlantic, for the sole purpose of seeing you."

She looked at me in silence for a moment. As she looked, outwardly, she

froze.

"Mr. Kempster, I am at a loss to understand your connection with my

affairs. Still less do I understand the grounds on which you would

endeavour to regulate my movements. It is true that you are a man, and

I am a woman; that you are big and I am little; but--are those the only

grounds?"

"Of course, if you look at it like that----"

Shrugging my shoulders, I moved aside. As I did so, some one entered

the room. Turning, I saw it was my aunt. She was closely followed by

another woman.

"My dear May," said my aunt, and unless I am mistaken, her voice was

trembling, "here is your mother."

The woman who was with my aunt was a tall, loosely-built person, with

iron-grey hair, a square determined jaw, and eyes which looked as if

they could have stared the Sphinx right out of countenance. She was

holding a pair of pince-nez in position on the bridge of her nose.

Through them she was fixedly regarding May. But she made no forward

movement. The rigidity of her countenance, of the cold sternness which

was in her eyes, of the hard lines which were about her mouth, did not

relax in the least degree. Nor did she accord her any sign of greeting.

I thought that this was a comfortable way in which to meet one's

daughter, and such a daughter, after a lengthened separation. With a

feeling of the pity of it, I turned again to May. As I did so, a sort

of creepy-crawly sensation went all up my back. The little girl really

struck me as being frightened half out of her life. Her face was white

and drawn; her lips were quivering; her big eyes were dilated in a

manner which uncomfortably recalled a wild creature which has suddenly

gone stark mad with fear.

It was a painful silence. I have no doubt that my aunt was as conscious

of it as any one. I expect that she felt May's position as keenly as if

it had been her own. She probably could not understand the woman's

cold-bloodedness, the girl's too obvious shrinking from her mother. In

what, I am afraid, was awkward, blundering fashion, she tried to smooth

things over.

"May, dear, don't you see it is your mother?"

Then Mrs. Riddle spoke. She turned to my aunt.

"I don't understand you. Who is this person?"

I distinctly saw my aunt give a gasp. I knew she was trembling.

"Don't you see that it is May?"

"May? Who? This girl?"

Again Mrs. Riddle looked at the girl who was standing close beside me.

Such a look! And again there was silence. I do not know what my aunt

felt. But from what I felt, I can guess. I felt as if a stroke of

lightning, as it were, had suddenly laid bare an act of mine, the

discovery of which would cover me with undying shame. The discovery had

come with such blinding suddenness, "a bolt out of the blue," that, as

yet, I was unable to realise all that it meant. As I looked at the

girl, who seemed all at once to have become smaller even that she

usually was, I was conscious that, if I did not keep myself well in

hand, I was in danger of collapsing at the knees. Rather than have

suffered what I suffered then, I would sooner have had a good sound

thrashing any day, and half my bones well broken.

I saw the little girl's body swaying in the air. For a moment I thought

that she was going to faint. But she caught herself at it just in time.

As she pulled herself together, a shudder went all over her face. With

her fists clenched at her side, she stood quite still. Then she turned

to my aunt.

"I am not May Riddle," she said, in a voice which was at one and the

same time strained, eager, and defiant, and as unlike her ordinary

voice as chalk is different from cheese. Raising her hands, she covered

her face. "Oh, I wish I had never said I was!"

She burst out crying; into such wild grief that one might have been

excused for fearing that she would hurt herself by the violence of her

own emotion. Aunt and I were dumb. As for Mrs. Riddle--and, if you come

to think of it, it was only natural--she did not seem to understand the

situation in the least. Turning to my aunt, she caught her by the arm.

"Will you be so good as to tell me what is the meaning of these

extraordinary proceedings?"

"My dear!" seemed to be all that my aunt could stammer in reply.

"Answer me!" I really believe that Mrs. Riddle shook my aunt. "Where is

my daughter--May?"

"We thought--we were told that this was May." My aunt addressed herself

to the girl, who was still sobbing as if her heart would break. "My

dear, I am very sorry, but you know you gave us to understand that you

were--May."

Then some glimmering of the meaning of the situation did seem to dawn

on Mrs. Riddle's mind. She turned to the crying girl; and a look came

on her face which conveyed the impression that one had suddenly lighted

on the key-note of her character. It was a look of uncompromising

resolution. A woman who could summon up such an expression at will

ought to be a leader. She never could be led. I sincerely trust that my

wife--if I ever have one--when we differ, will never look like that. If

she does, I am afraid it will have to be a case of her way, not mine.

As I watched Mrs. Riddle, I was uncommonly glad she was not my mother.

She went and planted herself right in front of the crying girl. And she

said, quietly, but in a tone of voice the hard frigidity of which

suggested the nether millstone:

"Cease that noise. Take your hands from before your face. Are you one

of that class of persons who, with the will to do evil, lack the

courage to face the consequences of their own misdeeds? I can assure

you that, so far as I am concerned, noise is thrown away. Candour is

your only hope with me. Do you hear what I say? Take your hands from

before your face."

I should fancy that Mrs. Riddle's words, and still more her manner,

must have cut the girl like a whip. Anyhow, she did as she was told.

She took her hands from before her face. Her eyes were blurred with

weeping. She still was sobbing. Big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

I am bound to admit that her crying had by no means improved her

personal appearance. You could see she was doing her utmost to regain

her self-control. And she faced Mrs. Riddle with a degree of assurance,

which, whether she was in the right or in the wrong, I was glad to see.

That stalwart representative of the modern Women Crusaders continued to

address her in the same unflattering way.

"Who are you? How comes it that I find you passing yourself off as my

daughter in Mrs. Plaskett's house?"

The girl's answer took me by surprise.

"I owe you no explanation, and I shall give you none."

"You are mistaken. You owe me a very frank explanation. I promise you

you shall give me one before I've done with you."

"I wish and intend to have nothing whatever to say to you. Be so good

as to let me pass."

The girl's defiant attitude took Mrs. Riddle slightly aback. I was

delighted. Whatever she had been crying for, it had evidently not been

for want of pluck. It was plain that she had pluck enough for fifty. It

did me good to see her.

"Take my advice, young woman, and do not attempt that sort of thing

with me--unless, that is, you wish me to give you a short shrift, and

send at once for the police."

"The police? For me? You are mad!"

For a moment Mrs. Riddle looked a trifle mad. She went quite green. She

took the girl by the shoulder roughly. I saw that the little thing was

wincing beneath the pressure of her hand. That was more than I could

stand.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Riddle, but--if you would not mind!"

Whether she did or did not mind, I did not wait for her to tell me. I

removed her hand, with as much politeness as was possible, from where

she had placed it. She looked at me, not nicely.

"Pray, sir, who are you?"

"I am Mrs. Plaskett's nephew, Charles Kempster, and very much at your

service, Mrs. Riddle."

"So you are Charles Kempster? I have heard of you." I was on the point

of remarking that I also had heard of her. But I refrained. "Be so

good, young man, as not to interfere."

I bowed. The girl spoke to me.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Kempster." She turned to my aunt.

One could see that every moment she was becoming more her cool

collected self again. "Mrs. Plaskett, it is to you I owe an

explanation. I am ready to give you one when and where you please. Now,

if it is your pleasure."

My aunt was rubbing her hands together in a feeble, purposeless,

undecided sort of way. Unless I err, she was crying, for a change. With

the exception of my uncle, I should say that my aunt was the most

peace-loving soul on earth. I believe that the pair of them would flee

from anything in the shape of dissension as from the wrath to come.

"Well, my dear, I don't wish to say anything to pain you--as you must

know!--but if you can explain, I wish you would. We have grown very

fond of you, your uncle and I."

It was not a very bright speech of my aunt's, but it seemed to please

the person for whom it was intended immensely. She ran to her, she took

hold of both her hands, she kissed her on either cheek.

"You dear darling! I've been a perfect wretch to you, but not such a

villain as your fancy paints me. I'll tell you all about it--now."

Clasping her hands behind her back, she looked my aunt demurely in the

face. But in spite of her demureness, I could see that she was full of

mischief to the finger tips. "You must know that I am Daisy Hardy. I am

the daughter of Francis Hardy, of the Corinthian Theatre."

Directly the words had passed her lips, I knew her. You remember how

often we saw her in "The Penniless Pilgrim?" And how good she was? And

how we fell in love with her, the pair of us? All along, something

about her, now and then, had filled me with a sort of overwhelming

conviction that I must have seen her somewhere before. What an ass I

had been! But then to think of her--well, modesty--in passing herself

off as Mrs. Riddle's daughter. As for Mrs. Riddle, she received the

young lady's confession with what she possibly intended for an air of

crushing disdain.

"An actress!" she exclaimed.

She switched her skirts on one side, with the apparent intention of

preventing their coming into contact with iniquity. Miss Hardy paid no

heed.

"May Riddle is a very dear friend of mine."

"I don't believe it," cried Mrs. Riddle, with what, to say the least of

it, was perfect frankness. Still Miss Hardy paid no heed.

"It is the dearest wish of her life to become an actress."

"It's a lie!"

This time Miss Hardy did pay heed. She faced the frankly speaking lady.

"It is no lie, as you are quite aware. You know very well that, ever

since she was a teeny weeny child, it has been her continual dream."

"It was nothing but a childish craze."

Miss Hardy shrugged her shoulders.

"Mrs. Riddle uses her own phraseology; I use mine. I can only say that

May has often told me that, when she was but a tiny thing, her mother

used to whip her for playing at being an actress. She used to try and

make her promise that she would never go inside a theatre, and when she

refused, she used to beat her cruelly. As she grew older, her mother

used to lock her in her bedroom, and keep her without food for days and

days----"

"Hold your tongue, girl! Who are you that you should comment on my

dealings with my child? A young girl, who, by her own confession, has

already become a painted thing, and who seems to glory in her shame, is

a creature with whom I can own no common womanhood. Again I insist upon

your telling me, without any attempt at rhodomontade, how it is that I

find a creature such as you posing as my child."

The girl vouchsafed her no direct reply. She looked at her with a

curious scorn, which I fancy Mrs. Riddle did not altogether relish.

Then she turned again to my aunt.

"Mrs. Plaskett, it is as I tell you. All her life May has wished to be

an actress. As she has grown older her wish has strengthened. You see

all my people have been actors and actresses. I, myself, love acting.

You could hardly expect me, in such a matter, to be against my friend.

And then--there was my brother."

She paused. Her face became more mischievous; and, unless I am

mistaken, Mrs. Riddle's face grew blacker. But she let the girl go on.

"Claud believed in her. He was even more upon her side than I was. He

saw her act in some private theatricals----"

Then Mrs. Riddle did strike in.

"My daughter never acted, either in public or in private, in her life.

Girl, how dare you pile lie upon lie?"

Miss Hardy gave her look for look. One felt that the woman knew that

the girl was speaking the truth, although she might not choose to own

it.

"May did many things of which her mother had no knowledge. How could it

be otherwise? When a mother makes it her business to repress at any

cost the reasonable desires which are bound up in her daughter's very

being, she must expect to be deceived. As I say, my brother Claud saw

her act in some private theatricals. And he was persuaded that, for

once in a way, hers was not a case of a person mistaking the desire to

be, for the power to be, because she was an actress born. Then things

came to a climax. May wrote to me to say that she was leaving college,

that her mother was in America, and that so far as her ever becoming an

actress was concerned, so far as she could judge, it was a case of now

or never. I showed her letter to Claud. He at once declared that it

should be a case of now. A new play was coming out, in which he was to

act, and in which, he said, there was a part which would fit May like a

glove. It was not a large part; still, there it was. If she chose, he

would see she had it. I wrote and told her what Claud said. She jumped

for joy--through the post, you understand. Then they began to draw me

in. Until her mother's return, May was to have gone, for safe keeping,

to one of her mother's particular friends. If she had gone, the thing

would have been hopeless. But, at the last moment, the plan fell

through. It was arranged, instead, that she should go to her aunt--to

you, Mrs. Plaskett. You had not seen her since her childhood; you had

no notion of what she looked like. I really do not know from whom the

suggestion came, but it was suggested that I should come to you,

pretending to be her. And I was to keep on pretending till the rubicon

was passed and the play produced. If she once succeeded in gaining a

footing on the stage, though it might be never so slight a one, May

declared that wild horses should not drag her back again. And I knew

her well enough to be aware that, when she said a thing, she meant

exactly what she said. Mrs. Plaskett, I should have made you this

confession of my own initiative next week. Indeed, May would have come

and told you the tale herself, if Mrs. Riddle had not returned all

these months before any one expected her. Because, as it happens, the

play was produced last night----"

Mrs. Riddle had been listening, with a face as black as a

thunder-cloud. Here she again laid her hand upon Miss Hardy's shoulder.

"Where? Tell me! I will still save her, though, to do so, I have to

drag her through the streets."

Miss Hardy turned to her with a smile.

"May does not need saving, she already has attained salvation. I hear,

not only that the play was a great success, but that May's part, as she

acted it, was the success of the play. As for dragging her through the

streets, you know that you are talking nonsense. She is of an age to do

as she pleases. You have no more power to put constraint upon her, than

you have to put constraint upon me."

All at once Miss Hardy let herself go, as it were.

"Mrs. Riddle, you have spent a large part of your life in libelling all

that I hold dearest; you will now be taught of how great a libel you

have been guilty. You will learn from the example of your daughter's

own life, that women can, and do, live as pure and as decent lives upon

one sort of stage, as are lived, upon another sort of stage, by 'Women

Crusaders.'"

She swept the infuriated Mrs. Riddle such a curtsy.... Well, there's

the story for you, Dave. There was, I believe, a lot more talking. And

some of it, I dare say, approached to high faluting. But I had had

enough of it, and went outside. Miss Hardy insisted on leaving the

house that very day. As I felt that I might not be wanted, I also left.

We went up to town together in the same carriage. We had it to

ourselves. And that night I saw May Riddle, the real May Riddle. I

don't mind telling you in private, that she is acting in that new thing

of Pettigrewe's, "The Flying Folly," under the name of Miss Lyndhurst.

She only has a small part; but, as Miss Hardy declares her brother said

of her, she plays it like an actress born. I should not be surprised if

she becomes all the rage before long.

One could not help feeling sorry for Mrs. Riddle, in a kind of a way. I

dare say she feels pretty bad about it all. But then she only has

herself to blame. When a mother and her daughter pull different ways,

it is apt to become a question of pull butcher, pull baker. The odds

are that, in the end, you will prevail. Especially when the daughter

has as much resolution as the mother.

As for Daisy Hardy, whatever else one may say of her proceedings, one

cannot help thinking of her--at least, I can't--as, as they had it in

the coster ballad, "such a pal." I believe she is going to the

Plasketts again next week. If she does I have half a mind----though I

know she will only laugh at me, if I do go. I don't care. Between you

and me, I don't believe she's half so wedded to the stage as she

pretends she is.

Miss Donne's Great Gamble

You cannot keep on meeting the same man by accident--not in that way.

To suggest such a possibility would be to carry the doctrine of

probabilities too far. Miss Donne began herself to think that such

might be the case. She had first encountered him at Geneva--at the

Pension Dupont. There his bearing had not only been extremely

deferential, but absolutely distant. Possibly this was in some measure

owing to Miss Donne herself, who, at that stage of her travels, was the

most unapproachable of human beings. During the last few days of her

stay he had sat next to her at table, in which position it had seemed

to her that a certain amount of conversation was not to be avoided. He

had informed her, in the course of the remarks which the situation

necessitated, that he was an American and a bachelor, and also that his

name was Huhn.

So far as Miss Donne was concerned the encounter would merely have been

pigeon-holed among the other noticeable incidents of that memorable

journey had it not been that two days after her arrival at Lausanne she

met him in the open street--to be exact, in the Place de la Gare. Not

only did he bow, but he stopped to talk with the air of quite an old

acquaintance.

But it was at Lucerne that the situation began to assume a really

curious phase. Miss Donne left Lausanne on a Thursday. On the day

before she told Mr. Huhn she was going, and where she intended to stop.

Mr. Huhn made no comment on the information, which was given casually

while they waited among a crowd of other persons for the steamer. No

one could have inferred from his manner that it was not his intention

to end his days at Lausanne. When therefore, on the morning after her

arrival, she found him seated by her side at lunch she was thrown into

a flurry of surprise. As he seemed, however, to conclude that she would

take his appearance for granted--not attempting to offer the slightest

explanation of how it was that he was where he was--she presently found

herself talking to him as if his presence there was quite in accordance

with the order of Nature. But when, afterwards, she went upstairs to

put her hat on, she--well, she found herself disposed to try her best

not to ask herself a question.

Those four weeks at Lucerne were the happiest she had known. A sociable

set was staying in the house just then. Everyone behaved to her with

surprising kindness. Scarcely an excursion was got up without her being

attached to it. Another invariable pendant was Mr. Huhn. It was

impossible to conceal from herself the fact that when the parties were

once started it was Mr. Huhn who personally conducted her. A better

conductor she could not have wished. Without being obtrusive, when he

was wanted he was always there. Unostentatiously he studied her little

idiosyncrasies, making it his especial business to see that nothing was

lacking which made for her own particular enjoyment. As a

conversationalist she had never met his equal. But then, as she

admitted with that honesty which was her ruling passion, she never had

had experience of masculine discourse. Nor, perhaps, was the position

rendered less enjoyable by the fact that she was haunted by misgivings

as to whether her relations with Mr. Huhn were altogether in accordance

with strict propriety. She was a lady travelling alone. He was a

stranger; self-introduced. Whether, under any circumstances, a lady in

her position ought to allow herself to be on terms of vague familiarity

with a gentleman in his, was a point on which she could hardly be said

to have doubts. She was convinced that she ought not. Theoretically,

that was a principle for which she would have been almost willing to

have died. When she reflected on what she had preached to others,

metaphorically she shivered in her shoes. She was half alarmed by the

necessity she was under to acknowledge that it was a kind of shivering

which could not be correctly described as disagreeable.

The domain of the extraordinary was entered on after her departure from

Lucerne. At the Pension Emeritus her plans were public property. It was

generally known that she proposed to return to England by way of Paris

and Dieppe. In Paris she was to spend a few days, and in Dieppe a week

or two. Practically the whole pension was at the station to see her

off. She was overwhelmed with confectionery and flowers. Mr. Huhn, in

particular, gave her a gorgeous bouquet, and a box of what purported to

be chocolates. It was only after she had started that she discovered

the chocolates were a sham; and that, hidden in the very midst of them,

was another package. The very sight of it filled her with singular

qualms. Other people were in the carriage. She deemed it prudent to

ignore its existence in the presence of what quite possibly were

observant eyes. But directly she had a moment of comparative privacy

she removed it from its hiding-place with what--positively!--were

trembling fingers. It was secured by pink baby-ribbon tied in a

true-lover's knot. Within was a leather case. In the case was a flexible

gold bracelet, with on one side a circular ornament which was incrusted

with diamonds. As she was fingering this she must have touched a hidden

spring, because all at once the glittering toy sprang open, revealing

inside--of all things in the world--a portrait of Mr. Huhn!

She gazed at it in bewildered amazement. All the way to Paris she was

rent by conflicting emotions. That a perfect stranger should have dared

to take such a liberty! Because, after all, she knew nothing of

him--absolutely nothing, except that he was an American; which one piece

of knowledge was, perhaps, a sufficient explanation. For all she knew,

the Americans might have ideas of their own upon such subjects. This sort

of behaviour might be in complete accord with their standard of

propriety. The contemplation of such a possibility made her sigh. She

actually nearly regretted that her standard was the English one, so

strongly did she feel that there was something to be said for the

American point of view, if, that is, it truly was the American point of

view; which, of course, had still to be determined.

Had the bracelet been trumpery trash, costing say, fifteen or twenty

francs, the case would have been altered. Of that there could be no

doubt. But this triumph of the jeweller's art, with its costly diamond

ornaments! She herself had never owned a decent trinket. Her personal

knowledge of values was nil. Yet her instincts told her that this cost

money. Then there was the name of "Tiffany" on the case. She had a dim

consciousness of having heard of Tiffany. It might have cost one

hundred--even two hundred--pounds! At the thought she burned. Who was

she, and what had she done, that wandering males--the merest casual

acquaintances--should feel themselves at liberty to throw bank notes

into her lap? As if she were a beggar--or worse. There was a moment in

which she was inclined to throw the bracelet out of the carriage

window.

The mischief was that she did not know where to return it. She had Mr.

Huhn's own assurance that he also was leaving Lucerne on that same day.

Where he was going she had not the faintest notion. At least, she

assured herself that she had not the faintest notion. To return it, by

post, to Ezra G. Huhn, America, would be absurd. She might send it back

to the person whose name was on the case--to Tiffany. She would.

Then there was the portrait--hidden in the bracelet--which he had had

the capital audacity to palm off on to her under cover of a box of

chocolates. It was excellent--that was certain.

The shrewd face, with the kindly eyes in which there always seemed to

be a twinkle, looked up at her out of the little gold frame like an old

familiar friend. How pleasant he had been to her; how good. How she

always felt at ease with him; never once afraid. Although he had never

by so much as a single question sought to gain her confidence, what a

curious feeling she had had that he knew all about her, that he

understood her. How she had been impressed by his way of doing things;

his quick resource; his capacity of getting--without any fuss--the best

that was obtainable. How she had come to rely upon him--in an

altogether indescribable sort of way--when he was at hand; she saw it

now. How, in spite of herself, she had grown to feel at peace with all

the world when he was near. How curious it seemed. As she thought of

its exceeding curiousness, fancying that she perceived in the portrayed

glance the twinkle which she had begun to know so well, her eyes filled

with tears, so that she had to use her handkerchief to prevent them

trickling down her cheeks. During the remainder of her journey to Paris

that bracelet was about her wrist, covered by her jacket-sleeve. More

than once she caught herself in the act of crying.

She found it impossible to remain in Paris. The weather was hot. In the

brilliant sunshine the streets were one continuous glare. They seemed

difficult to breathe in. They made her head ache. She longed for the

sea. Within three days of her arrival she was hurrying towards Dieppe.

In Dieppe she alighted at the Hotel de Paris. The first person she saw

as she crossed the threshold was Annie Moriarty--at least, she used to

be Annie Moriarty until she became Mrs. Palmer. The two rushed into

each other's arms--Mrs. Palmer going upstairs with Miss Donne to assist

in the unpacking. When they descended Miss Donne was introduced to Mr.

Palmer, who had been Annie's one topic in the epistolary communications

with which Miss Donne was regularly favoured. Mr. Palmer, who was a

husband of twelve months' standing, proved to be a sort of under-study

for a giant, towering above Miss Donne's head in a manner which

inspired her with awe. While she was wonderful whether, when he desired

to kiss his wife and retain his perpendicular position, he always

lifted her upon a chair--for Annie was a mere pigmy in petticoats--who

should come down the staircase into the hall but Mr. Huhn!

At that sight not only did Miss Donne's cheeks flame, but she was

overwhelmed with confusion to such an extent that it was impossible to

conceal the fact from the sharp-eyed person who was in front of her.

Although Mr. Huhn merely raised his hat as he passed into the street,

her distress continued after he was gone. She accompanied the

Palmers--in an only partial state of consciousness--into the Etablissement

grounds. While her husband continued with them Annie was discretion

itself; but when Mr. Palmer, going into the building--it is within the

range of possibility on a hint from her--left the two women seated on

the terrace, she assailed Miss Donne in a fashion which in a moment

laid all her defences low.

The whole story was told before its narrator was conscious of an

intention to do anything of the kind. It plunged the hearer into

raptures. Although, with a delicacy which well became her, she

concealed the larger half of them, she revealed enough to throw Miss

Donne into a state of agitation which was half pathetic and altogether

delightful. As she sat there, listening to Annie's innuendoes,

conscious of her delighted scrutiny, the heroine of all these strange

adventures discovered herself hazily wondering whether this was the

same world in which she had been living all these years, and whether

she was awake in it or dreaming. After all the miracles which had

lately changed the whole fashion of her life, was the greatest still

upon the way?

Eva Donne was thirty-eight and three-quarters, as the children say. For

over twenty years she had been a governess--without kith or kin. All

the time she was haunted by a fear that the fat season was with her

now, and that the lean one was coming soon. She was not a scholar; she

was just the sweetest woman in the world. But while of the second fact

she had no notion, of the first she was hideously sure. She had

strained every nerve to improve her mental equipment; to keep herself

abreast of the educational requirements of the day; to pass

examinations; to win those certificates which teachers ought to have.

Always and ever in vain. The dullest of her scholars was not more dull

than she. How, under these circumstances, she found employment was

beyond her comprehension. Why, for instance, Miss Law should have kept

her upon her teaching staff for nearly thirteen consecutive years was

to her, indeed a mystery. That Miss Law should consider it well worth

her while to retain in her establishment a well-mannered, dainty lady;

possessed of infinite patience, kindliness, and tact; the soul of

honour; considering her employer's interests before her own; willing to

work late and early: who was liked by every pupil with whom she came

into contact, and so was able to smooth the head mistress's path in a

hundred different ways; that the shrewd proprietress of St. Cecilia's

College should esteem these qualifications as a sufficient set-off for

certain scholastic deficiencies never entered into Miss Donne's

philosophy. Therefore, though she said not a word of it to anyone, she

was tortured by a continual fear that each term would be her last.

Dismissed for inefficiency at her age, what should she do? For she was

growing old; she knew she was. She was grey--almost!--behind the ears;

her hair was thinner than it used to be; there were tell-tale wrinkles

about her eyes; she was conscious of a certain stiffness in her joints.

A governess so soon grows old, especially if she is not clever. Many a

time she lay awake all through the night thinking, with horror, of the

future which was in store for her. What should she do? She had saved so

little. Out of such a salary how could she save?--with her soft,

generous heart which could not resist a temptation to give. She

sometimes wondered, when the morning dawned, how it was that she had

not turned quite grey, after the racking anxieties of the sleepless

night.

And then the miracle came--the god out of the machine. A cousin of her

mother, of whom she had only heard, died in America, in Pittsburg--a

bachelor, as alone in the world as she was--and left everything he had

to his far-off kinswoman. Eight hundred sterling pounds a year it came

to, actually, when everything was realized, and everything had been

left in an easy realizable form. What a difference it made when she

understood that the incredible had come to pass, and what it meant. She

was rich, independent, secure from want and from the fear of it, thank

God. And she thanked Him--how she thanked Him!--pouring out her heart

before Him like some simple child. And she ceased to grow old; nay, she

all at once grew young again. She was nearly persuaded that the

greyness had vanished from behind her ears; her hair certainly did seem

thicker. The wrinkles were so faint as to be not worth mentioning,

while, as for the stiffness of her joints, she was suddenly conscious

of an absurd and even improper inclination to run up the stairs and

down them.

Then there came the wonderful journey. She, a solitary spinster, who

had never been out of England in her life, made up her mind, after not

more than six month's consideration, to go all by herself to

Switzerland. And she went. After the strange happenings which, in such

a journey, were naturally to be expected, to crown everything, here, on

the terrace at Dieppe, sat Annie Moriarty that was--and a troublesome

child she used to be--telling her--her!--the young woman's former and

ought-to-be-revered preceptress--that a certain person--to wit, an

American gentleman--was in love with her--with her! Miss Eva Donne. Not

the least extraordinary part of it was that, instead of correcting the

presumptuous Annie, Miss Donne beamed and blushed, and blushed and

beamed, and was conscious of the most singular sensations.

A remark, however, which Mrs. Palmer apparently inadvertently made,

brought her back to earth with a sudden jolt.

"I suppose that whoever does become Mrs. Huhn will become an American."

It was just a second or so before she comprehended. When she did it was

with a quick sinking of the heart. Something, all at once, seemed to

have gone out of the world. Perhaps because a cloud had crept over the

sun.

Was it possible? A thing not to be avoided? An inevitable consequence?

Of course, Mr. Huhn was an American; she did know so much. And

although--as she had gathered--this was by no means his first visit to

Europe, it might reasonably be imagined that he spent most of his time

in his native country. It was equally fair to assume that his wife

would be expected to stop there with him. Would she, therefore,

perforce lose her nationality, her birthright, her title to call

herself an Englishwoman? To say the least of it, that would be an

extraordinary position for--for an Englishwoman to find herself in.

Mischievous Annie could not have succeeded better had it been her

deliberate intention to make Miss Donne's confusion worse confounded.

She dined with the Palmers at a little table by themselves. Mr. Huhn

was at the long table round the corner, hidden from her sight by the

peculiar construction of the room. Mrs. Palmer announced that he had

gone there before she entered. Miss Donne took care that she went

before he reappeared. She spent the evening in her bedroom, in spite of

Mrs. Palmer's vigorous protestations, writing letters, so she said. It

is true that she did write some letters. She began half-a-dozen to Mr.

Huhn. Among a thousand and one other things, that bracelet was on her

mind. Her wish was to return it, accompanied by a note which would

exactly meet the occasion. But the construction of the note she wanted

proved to be beyond her powers. It was far from her desire to wound his

feelings; she was only too conscious how easy it is for the written

word to do that. At the same time it was necessary that she should make

her meaning plain, on which account it was a misfortune that she

herself was not altogether clear as to what she did precisely mean. She

did not want the bracelet; certainly not. Yet, while she did not wish

to throw it at him, or lead him to suppose that she despised his gift,

or was unconscious of his kindness in having made it, or liked him less

because of his kindness, it was not her intention to allow him to

suspect that she liked him at all, or appreciated his kindness to

anything like the extent she actually did do, or indeed, leave him an

excuse of any sort or kind on to which he might fasten to ask her to

reconsider her refusal. How to combine these opposite desires and

intentions within the four corners of one short note was a puzzle.

It was a nice bracelet--a beauty. No one could call it unbecoming on

her wrist. She had had no idea that a single ornament could have made

such a difference. She was convinced that it made her hand seem much

smaller than it really was. She wondered if he had sent for it

specially to New York, or if he had been carrying it about with him in

his pocket. But that was not the point. The point was that, since she

could not frame a note which, in all respects, met her views, she would

herself see Mr. Huhn to-morrow and return him his gift with her own

hands. Then the incident would be closed. Having arrived at which

decision she slept like a top all night, with the bracelet under her

pillow.

In the morning she dressed herself with unusual care--with so much

care, indeed, that Mrs. Palmer greeted her with a torrent of

ejaculations.

"You look lovelier than ever, my dear. Just like What's-his-name's

picture, only ever so much sweeter. Dosen't she look a darling, Dick?"

"Dick" was Mr. Palmer. As this was said not only in the presence of

that gentleman, but in the hearing of several others, Miss Donne was so

distressed that she found herself physically incapable of telling the

speaker that, as she was perfectly aware, she intensely disliked

personal remarks, which were always in the very worst possible taste.

Nothing was seen of Mr. Huhn. She went with the Palmers to the market;

to the man who carved grotesque heads out of what he called vegetable

ivory; to watch the people bathe, while listening to the band upon the

terrace; then to lunch. All the time she had that bracelet on her

person. After lunch she accompanied her friends on a queer sort of

vehicle, which was not exactly a brake or quite anything else, on what

its proud proprietor called a "fashionable excursion" to the forest of

Arques. It was nearly five when they returned. The Palmers went

upstairs. She sat down on one of the chairs which were on the pavement

in front of the hotel. She had been there for some minutes in a sort of

waking dream when someone occupied the chair beside her.

It was Mr. Huhn. His appearance was so unexpected that it found her

speechless. The foolish tremors to which she seemed to have been so

liable of late seemed to paralyze her. She gazed at the shabby theatre

on the other side of the square, trying to think of what she ought to

say--but failed. No greetings were exchanged.

Presently he said, in his ordinary tone of voice:--

"Come with me into the Casino."

That was his way; a fair example of his habit of taking things for

granted. She felt that if, after a prolonged absence, she met him on

the other side of the world, he would just ask if she liked sugar in

her tea, and discuss the sugar question generally, and take it for

granted that that was all the situation demanded. That was not her

standpoint. She considered that when explanations were required they

ought to be given, and was distinctly of opinion that an explanation

was required here. She intended that the remark she made should be

regarded as a suggestion to that effect.

"I didn't expect to see you at Dieppe."

He looked at her--just looked--and she was a conscience-stricken

wretch. Had he accused her, at the top of his voice, of deliberate

falsehood, he could not have shamed her more.

"I meant to come to Dieppe. I thought you knew it."

She had known it; all pretence to the contrary was brushed away like so

much cobweb. And she knew that he knew she knew it. It was dreadful.

What could she say to this extraordinary man? She blundered from bad to

worse. Fumbling with the buttons of her little jacket she took out from

some inner receptacle a small flat leather case.

"I think this got into that box of chocolates by mistake."

He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, then continued to draw

figures on the pavement with the ferrule of his stick.

"No mistake. I put it there. I thought you'd understand."

Thought she would understand! What did he think she would understand?

Did the man suppose that everyone took things for granted?

"I think it was a mistake."

"How? When I sent to New York for it specially for you?" So that

question was solved. She was conscious of a small flutter of

satisfaction. "Don't you think it's pretty?"

"It's beautiful." She gathered her courage.

"But you must take it back."

"Take it back! Take it back! I didn't think you were the kind of woman

that would want to make a man unhappy."

Nothing was further from her desire.

"I am not in the habit of accepting presents from strangers."

"That's just it. It's because I knew you weren't that I gave it to

you."

"But you're a stranger to me."

"I didn't look at it in just that way."

"I know nothing of you."

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew what kind of man I am, as I know what

kind of woman you are--and am glad to know it. If it's my record you'd

like to be acquainted with, I'm ready to set forth the life and

adventures of Ezra G. Huhn at full length whenever you've an hour or

two or a day or two to spare. Or I can refer you for them to my lawyer,

or to my banker, or to my doctor, according to what part of me it is on

which you'd like to have accurate information."

She could not hint that she would like to listen to a chapter or two of

his adventures there and then, though some such idea was at the back of

her mind. While she was groping for words he stood up, repeating his

original suggestion.

"Come with me into the Casino."

She rose also. Not because she wished to; but because--such was the

confusion of her mental processes--she found it easier to agree than to

differ. They moved across the square. The flat leather case was in her

hand.

"Have you found the locket?"

"Yes."

She blushed; but she was a continual blush.

"Good portrait of me, isn't it?"

"Excellent."

"I had it done for my mother. When she was dying I wanted it to be

buried with her. But she wouldn't have it. She said I was to give it

to--someone else one day. Then I didn't think there ever would be a

someone else. But when I met you I sent it to New York and had it

mounted in that bracelet--for you."

It was absurd what a little self-control she had. Instead of retorting

with something smart, or pretty, or sentimental, she was tongue-tied.

Her eyes filled with tears. But he did not seem to notice it. He went

on.

"You'll have to give me one of yours."

"I--I haven't one."

"Then we'll have to set about getting one. I'll have to look round for

someone who'll be likely to do you justice, though it isn't to be

expected that we shall find anyone who'll be able to do quite that."

It was the nearest approach to a compliment he had paid her; probably

the first pretty thing which had been said to her by any man. It set

her trembling so that, for a moment, she swayed as if she would fall.

They were passing through the gate into the Casino grounds. He looked

at the case which she still had in her hand.

"Put that in your pocket."

"I haven't one."

She was the personification of all meekness.

"Then where did you have it?"

"Inside my jacket."

"Put it back there. I can't carry it. That's part of the burden you'll

have to carry, henceforward, all alone."

She did not stop to think what he meant. She simply obeyed. When the

jacket was buttoned the case showed through the cloth. Even in the

midst of her tremors she was aware that his eyes kept travelling

towards the tell-tale patch. For some odd reason she was glad they did.

They passed from the radiance of the autumn afternoon into the chamber

of the "little horses." The change was almost dramatic in its

completeness. From this place the sunshine had been for some time

excluded. The blinds were drawn. It was garishly lighted. Although the

room was large and lofty, owing to the absence of ventilation, the

abundance of gas, the crowd of people, the atmosphere was horrible.

There was a continual buzz; an unresting clatter. The noise of people

in motion; the hum of their voices; the strident tones of the

_tourneur_, as he made his various monotonous announcements; all these

assisted in the formation of what, to an unaccustomed ear, was a

strange cacophony. She shrank towards Mr. Huhn as if afraid.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

Instead of answering he led her forward to the dais on which the nine

little horses were the observed of all observers, where the _tourneur_

stood with his assistant with, in front and on either side of him, the

tables about which the players were grouped. At the moment the leaden

steeds were whirling round. She watched them, fascinated. People were

speaking on their right.

"_C'est le huit qui gagne_."

"_Non; le huit est mort. C'est le six_."

Someone said behind her, in English:--

"Jack's all right; one wins. Confound the brute, he's gone right on!"

The horses ceased to move.

"_Le numero cinq!_" shouted the _tourneur_, laying a strong nasal

stress upon the numeral.

There were murmurs of disgust from the bettors on the columns. Miss

Donne perceived that money was displayed upon baize-covered tables. The

croupiers thrust out wooden rakes to draw it towards them. At the

table on her right there seemed to be only a single winner. Several

five-franc pieces were passed to a woman who was twiddling a number of

them between her fingers.

"Are they gambling?" asked Miss Donne.

"Well, I shouldn't call it gambling. This is a little toy by means of

which the proprietor makes a good and regular income out of public

contributions. These are some of the contributors."

Miss Donne did not understand him--did not even try to. She was all

eyes for what was taking place about her. Money was being staked

afresh. The horses were whirling round again. This time No. 7 was the

winning horse. There were acclamations. Several persons had staked on

seven. It appeared that that particular number was "overdue." Someone

rose from a chair beside her.

Mr. Huhn made a sudden suggestion.

"Sit down." She sat down. "Let's contribute a franc or two to the

support of this deserving person's wife and family. Where's your

purse?" She showed that her purse--a silver chain affair--was attached

to her belt. "Find a franc." Whether or not she had a coin of that

denomination did not appear. She produced a five-franc piece. "That's a

large piece of money. What shall we put it on?"

Someone who was seated on the next chair said:--

"The run's on five."

"Then let's be on the run. That's it, in the centre there. That's the

particular number which enables the owner of this little toy to keep a

roof above his head."

As she held the coin in front of her with apparently uncertain fingers,

as if still doubtful what it was she had to do, her neighbour, taking

it from her with a smile, laid it upon five.

"_Le jeu est fait!_" cried the _tourneur_. "_Rien ne va plus!_"

He started the horses whirling round.

Then with a shock, she seemed to wake from a dream. She sprang from her

chair, staring at her five-franc piece with wide-open eyes. People

smiled. The croupiers gazed at her indulgently. There was that about

her which made it obvious that to such a scene she was a stranger. They

supposed that, like some eager child, she could not conceal her anxiety

for the safety of her stake. Although surprised at her display of a

degree of interest which was altogether beyond what the occasion seemed

to warrant, Mr. Huhn thought with them.

"Don't be alarmed," he murmured in her ear. "You may take it for

granted that it's gone, and may console yourself with the reflection

that it goes to minister to the wants of a mother and her children.

That's the philosophical point of view. And it may be the right one."

Her hand twitched, as if she found the temptation to snatch back her

stake before it was gone for ever almost more than she could bear. Mr.

Huhn caught her arm.

"Hush! That sort of thing is not allowed."

The horses stopped. The _tourneur_ proclaimed the winner.

"_Le numero cinq!_"

"Bravo!" exclaimed the neighbour who had placed the stake for her. "You

have won. I told you the run was on five."

"Shorn the shearers," commented Mr. Huhn. "You see, that's the way to

make a fortune, only I shouldn't advise you to go further than the

initiatory lesson."

The croupier pushed over her own coin and seven others. Her neighbour

held them up to her.

"Your winnings."

She drew back.