A week went by slowly: the hours crept like snails, and yet the days
were surely slipping away, bringing nearer and nearer the one which
was to give Sir John Chetwynd his second wife.
He had hardly seen Lady Ethel since the evening when she had yielded
a coy assent to his not (it must be confessed) very amorous request
that she would fix an early day for their nuptials, and his state of
mind was anything but an enviable one. If ever a man was torn two
ways, halting between prudence and worldly consideration on one side
and the force and power of a love which he had honestly believed was
laid for ever in its grave, that man was Sir John. The idea of seeing
Bella again did not occur to him for some days, but when it fastened
on him he could not shake it off. It was stronger than himself. He
excused his temptation by the condition of her health, though in his
heart of hearts he knew well enough that this was not sufficiently
critical to serve for a reason.
Twice he seized his hat with the intention of going to her, then laid
it aside, angry and disgusted with his own weakness.
His profession no longer occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of
every other topic. He sat for hours buried in the newly awakened
memories that that one brief glimpse of her had conjured up, unable,
unwilling to rouse himself.
And then he made a compromise with his own weakness and irresolution.
He would not go to Cecil Street, since by so doing he would be
offering a tacit insult to the woman he had pledged himself to marry,
but he would, he must see Bella, himself unseen and his presence
unsuspected, and this he could effect easily by going to the Empire.
The notion pleased him, and that self-same evening he carried it out.
Bella was worse. She could no longer deceive herself. It was only by
a superhuman effort that she could pull herself together sufficiently
to sing the one song which was all her part consisted of now.
After she had got into her pretty sea-green skirts of lace and tulle
and shimmering silk, like so much sea foam, she had to lie still and,
let the poor over-strained lungs and heart recover themselves, and
then, when the summons came she called up a smile to her wan face and
pluckily did her best.
But that night she looked up at Saidie after the last ribbon was in
its place.
"I'll have to throw up the sponge, after all," she said wearily; "it
is beyond me. They are right and I was wrong,--I must have a rest."
Saidie muttered something in reply, but when the door closed upon her
sister, she sighed.
"She _is_ bad; there is no denying it," remarked the dresser, who was
busily stroking out the roses which were to garland Saidie's dress.
"It gives me a turn every time I see her go on the stage."
"She looks worse than she really is," returned Saidie; "sometimes she
is as brisk and lively as you like--she so soon gets tired."
"She is a tidy sight worse than 'tired,' and it strikes me her voice
was weak like to-night. Did you notice it, Miss?"
"Oh, she varies so. I guess she would be as right as any of us the
moment she was on the boards."
Nevertheless, although she was not going to confess it, Saidie was
troubled and uneasy. There was something in Bella's face she had not
seen before, and it frightened her--a little. She stood at the wings
with a quick-beating heart, but the next moment laughed at her own
fears.
Bella was singing her very best. Not a falter in the clear, bell-like
tones, and her face was smiling and radiant.
And then--her eyes fastened themselves on a box in the grand tier;
with a scared expression she shrank back a little, and her lip
quivered, but with a mighty effort she controlled herself and caught
up the refrain again--carolled a word or two, faltered, swayed
helplessly, uncertainly forward, and fell headlong on the stage.
They were round her in a second, lifting her gently and tenderly. Her
head had fallen back and a thin stream of blood was welling over the
laces at her bosom.
"She is dead!" cried Saidie. "Oh, will someone fetch a doctor,
quick!"
But almost before the words were spoken he was there, and when Bella
opened her eyes they fell on the grave, anxious, kindly face of the
man whose wife she had been.
"Jack! Jack! is this--the end?"
"Hush--no--no! Keep still--perfectly still--you must not move."
"I am not--in pain--a little dizzy--nothing more, and my head feels
light."
"Drink this and don't talk. As soon as you are a little recovered we
will go home."
"Home! Jack!"
Oh, the wistful look in the deep blue eyes--the prophetic droop about
the perfect mouth! It was almost more than he could bear.
"I will go with you myself if you will do what I tell you, keep
absolutely quiet--your life depends upon it."
She looked up tremulously.
"I don't care--a--cent _now_," she whispered.
She bore the journey to Cecil Street better than they could hope, and
the bleeding from the lungs had ceased.
Downstairs Saidie expressed a wish to remain all night with her
sister.
"She ought not to be left," she said.
"Most decidedly she must not be left," replied Sir John--"I intend
remaining with your sister."
"You! Well, this beats all, upon my word!"
So great was Miss Blackall's surprise that when she found herself
ousted from the position of head nurse and the door metaphorically
closed upon her, she had not a word to say, but called a hansom and
had herself driven to Bayswater, where she had been living since her
mother's death, now nearly a year ago.
"And I used to think he didn't amount to a row of pins," she murmured
with an odd sort of penitence. "Well, I guess I was wrong, that's
all."
Through the long hours of that never-ending night John Chetwynd
watched by Bella's bedside. For the most part, she lay mute and
inert, but towards morning she grew restless.
"I must talk," she cried excitedly--"to see you sit there and to
think--to remember--oh! if only I had run straight, Jack--I don't
think I was meant for this, do you?"
He had no words with which to answer her. He folded his arms across
his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The
folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket
full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table.
On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house
flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a
penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of
chalk.
She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he
held them tightly in his own--rings and all.
She was never meant for the life she had chosen!
His heart felt breaking.
The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos
in her regretful cry--the past with its load of gall and shame and
misery--which could never be obliterated. Never!
"Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I
thought--I feared--I was going to die; if I had there was no one to
care but--Saidie."
"Do you not think what it would mean to--me?"
The words broke from him against his will.
"To--you, Jack! then you care--still!"
"Care!"
He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was
breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum
without.
Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in
them--and then the lids fell over them.
"I feel strangely weak--but--so--happy, Jack," she said. Her breath
came more easily and she slept.
Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour,
grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his
consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving
word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for
another night's vigil.
"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the
little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her.
"She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"
"I am afraid to say--it depends so much on what recuperative power
she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."
"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again,
I suppose?"
"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.
At that moment came a smart tap at the door.
"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.
"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too
late. The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man
walked in.
"Miss Blackhall--how unkind to deny me admittance. You must know how
fearfully anxious I am. How is she?"
"There's the doctor--ask him."
The stranger turned eagerly.
"This is not serious, I trust. She was always delicate, but--it is
wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over."
For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.
Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella? He forced
himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a
string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew
what he was saying.
"If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more,
poor darling," he said brokenly. "I suppose I can go in, eh?"
His hand was on the door--John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.
"No one must see her," he cried excitedly. "I absolutely forbid it.
It would be most dangerous--most improper."
The two men looked into each other's faces for the space of several
seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an
impatient word. "Absurd! As if I could do her any harm," he said.
"Well, I will be round again later in the day," he added with a nod
to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.
"Who is that man?" asked Sir John sternly.
Saidie shrugged her shoulders.
"You shall tell me--what is he to Bella?"
"He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many
knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his
wife."
And there was silence--a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly
his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts--facts
stripped of false adornments--naked, convincing.
Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.
She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed
his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the
fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the
struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.
She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in
the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and
she smiled happily, contentedly.
Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.
"No--no," cried Bella vehemently; "send him away. I don't want to see
him."
"But he is so anxious, dear."
"Is he?--poor Charlie! Tell him I am in no pain, and I should like to
think he will never quite forget me."
"He will never do that," said Saidie, going away with her message but
half satisfied, and Bella turned a flushed cheek to her pillow.
And then, for the second time, John Chetwynd asked, "Who is that
man?"
And Bella tried feebly to tell him. He had been attached to her for a
long time, and had come over with her from the States.
"And you--did you mean to marry him, Bella?"
"I had thought of it--it seemed suicidal to say no to such an offer,
and then I--oh, Jack, when I saw you I knew I could never love any
other man!"
He poured out a draught and held it to her trembling lips.
"I feel so strangely weak," she said; "you are going to marry Ethel,
and I am nothing to you now?"
John Chetwynd drew her close to him, so that the tired head rested on
his shoulder with the sweet familiarity of long ago.
"Listen," he said. "I have been a coward, frightened of the truth.
The world was dearer to me than happiness, or I thought so, and I
hesitated, afraid of its contempt. But amid my weakness was one
thought, one impulse, which no amount of worldly prudence or
consideration could stifle, and Bella--my wife--that was my love for
you."
"Jack, Jack, is it true?"
"I have loved you always, through all my life, you and no other. I
see now how hard I must have seemed to you and how wild and
unreasonable I was in my expectation from you and how at last it
drove you from my side. The shame of it is not more yours than mine.
We both erred, we both sinned; but I was older and should have been
wiser; the burden of it should fall on me. The world is nothing to me
now--less than nothing. Let us take up life where we broke it off.
Give me back the past, which held for me all of happiness I have ever
known."
She lay with a smile of peace upon her face, both hands clinging to
his.
"I have communed with myself and thought it well out, and I believe
that to bind my life, with its memories of you, to the girl to whom I
am engaged, would be a cruel wrong and an injustice to her. She
deserves a better fate, and I honestly feel that the rupture will not
grieve her much. We will remarry, you and I. I will take you away
from England, I will guard and cherish you, and in my love for you,
you will grow stronger. Oh! my darling, my darling, if you knew what
life has been to me since you went; how I have blamed myself,--I who
ought to have shielded you against yourself, and have been a moral
backbone to your weakness. Then as time went on I persuaded myself
that I had succeeded in putting you out of my heart,--that I had
forgotten you,--and then--you came back to me, and the past leapt
living from the years that had no power to bury it, and I knew that
you were more to me than honour or fame or anything the world held.
Hence-forth I will be so gentle with you, so tender--so loving."
"Will you--kiss me--Jack?"
She had gradually pulled herself upright on the pillows.
"Will you kiss me--and say--once more, as you used to--'God bless
you--wifie'?"
Their lips met and clung together.
"God bless you--wifie."
And there was silence, a long silence, broken by a gasp, a sigh, and
a gentle unloosening of the clasping arms.
"Bella--Bella--speak to me, my beloved."
But the passionate cry fell on ears that heard not.
The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels'
wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death.
* * * * *
ONE CAN'T ALWAYS TELL.
_From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford
Street, Park Lane_.
YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 15th, 1901._
Dearest Amy,
Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather
is perfect, and I am having a very good time. Jack's mother is on
board, and is really devoted to me. I am a lucky girl to have such a
sweet mother-in-law in prospective. She is the dearest old lady in the
world. The wedding has been decided upon for the last week in
September, so I suppose that I shall have to come back to town before
very long to see about my trousseau.
There is really nothing so bewildering to anyone who sees it for the
first time as the exquisite order and dainty perfection of a yacht in
which its owner takes a pride, and can afford to gratify his whim. And
this is the case with Jack. The deck shines like polished parquet. The
sails and ropes are faultlessly clean, and Jack says that the masts
have just been scraped and the funnel repainted. The brass nails and
the binnacle are as perfectly in order as if they were costly
instruments in an optician's window. There is a small deck cargo of
coal in white canvas sacks, with leather straps and handles. And there
is the deck-house with its plate-glass windows and velvet fittings and
spring-blinds.
Soon after I arrived I went down into the engine-room, where I saw
machinery as scrupulously clean as if it were part of some gigantic
watch which a grain of dust might throw out of gear. On the deck are
delightful P. and O. lounges with their arms doing duty for small
tables. All around the wheel and upon the roof of the deck-house, and
here and there on stands against the bulwarks, there are ranged in
pots, bright red geraniums contrasted with the yellow calceolaria, and
the deliriously scented heliotrope. Altogether, everything is charming.
We go delightful trips every day, and it doesn't matter whether there
is a favourable wind or not, as Jack's is a steam yacht. We have slept
on board except one night when it was rather rough, and then Mrs.
Vivian and I stayed at the South Western Hotel.
Altogether I am enjoying myself more than I have ever done in my life.
Jack is an angel and adores me, the darling.
Fond love,
From your affectionate
ROSE.
P.S.--There is a Mrs. Tenterden, a widow, coming down to the yacht on
Thursday to stay for a few days. Mrs. Vivian tells me that she is very
good-looking.
_From the Same to the Same._
YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 22nd, 1901._
Dearest Amy,
We are still here. Mrs. Tenterden, the lady I spoke about in my last
letter, arrived here on Thursday.
I hate her! I hate her!! I hate her!!!
You will doubtless wonder why I, who am, as a rule, a quiet, harmless
little dove, should indulge in such sinful feelings, but you will cease
doing so when I tell you the truth.
Mrs. Tenterden has set her cap at Jack! He has--I know it--fallen
under the spell of the enchantress. And she is an enchantress. She is a
woman of about thirty, tall, fair, with striking features, lovely eyes,
and the most superb complexion I have ever seen. The best complexion I
ever recollect was that of a peasant girl's at Ivy Bridge in
Devonshire, but hers was nothing to compare with Mrs. Tenterden's. It
is perfect. I can say no more.
Then she is extremely amusing, being a brilliant talker (for I heard
Jack say so) and very witty (for he is constantly laughing at the
things she says, and which for the most part I don't understand).
But this I know, that since her advent I have changed from the happiest
girl in the world into one of the most miserable.
Mrs. Tenterden is the widow of Colonel Tenterden, who was a brother
officer of Jack's father, Colonel Vivian. Her husband died in India
about six months ago, and she has lately returned to England. Jack had
never seen her before, but Mrs. Vivian, who knew her as a young girl,
asked her down here.
She has made a dead set at Jack, and I feel (I can't help it) that he
has fallen a captive to her bow and spear, for his manner towards me
has entirely changed. He is not my darling, loving Jack, at all, but
merely a polite friend.
Mrs. Vivian must be blind not to see what is going on. But I cannot
enlighten her, and what am I to do? Do give me your advice, dear Amy?
Ever your affectionate
ROSE.
_From Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.
ALFORD STREET.
TUESDAY.
My dearest Child,
Just got yours. You ask my advice, and to use a phrase of my brother
Tom's, "I give it you in once." Don't be a little goose and bother your
pretty little head. I am older than you, and I understand women of the
Mrs. Tenterden type. They amuse men for a time, and very often take
them captive, but in nineteen cases out of twenty the prisoner escapes.
In other words, they are not the women who men care to marry. Fancy
your Jack, for instance, preferring a _rusée_ garrison hack, like Mrs.
Tenterden, to your own sweet self. It is absolutely ridiculous.
Do nothing and say nothing. Don't worry yourself and all will come
right. The temporary infatuation will pass away, and Mr. Vivian will
love you all the better afterwards. You will see if I am not right.
So be comforted, darling Rose.
Ever your loving
AMY.
_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_, 170A, _Ebury Street,
S.W._
YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 23rd_, 1901.
DEAREST LILY,
I promised to let you know how I got on, and to write as soon as there
was anything to write about. So here goes. I am on board Jack Vivian's
yacht, and a ripper it is. That is to say, I am on the yacht in the
day, but sleep at the South Western Hotel. I hate sleeping on board a
yacht, and never do so if I can help it. It may benefit one's
health--daresay that it does--but I do like to take my rest on shore.
Well, now, as to my news. I have made a great impression on Mr. Vivian.
He is the easiest man to deal with I ever met in my life, and he is as
putty in my hands. That stupid girl, Miss Dacre, to whom he is supposed
to be engaged--I say supposed because he does not seem to be quite
clear about it himself--hasn't got a chance with me. What Jack Vivian
could have ever seen in her I can't guess. She is the usual type of
English Miss who can say "Papa and Mamma," and that is about all. I can
see that she loathes me, and I don't wonder at it. But I am perfectly
charming to her, and affect not to notice her palpable dislike.
Mrs. Vivian--Jack's mother--seems not to have the remotest idea how
matters are shaping, and fondly imagines that her beloved son is going
to marry Miss Dacre. My dear Lily, as the Americans say, "it will be a
cold day in August before that event comes off." The fact is that Jack
pays her only the slightest attention and is absolutely engrossed with
me. If I, therefore, don't pull off this _coup_ I deserve to be hanged.
When I have actually landed my fish I shall take my departure for a day
while he breaks matters off with mademoiselle. You may not perhaps
approve of this, but I know what I am about.
More in a day or two.
Ever yours,
ALICE.
_From Mrs. Montague Mount to Mrs. Tenterden_.
170A, EBURY STREET,
_24th July_ 1901.
DEAREST ALICE,
I was much interested in your letter. Needless to say that I wish you
the success that you are sure to attain. One word of advice. If I were
you, while you are at Southampton, I should manage to be a good deal
more at the hotel than you appear to be. You cannot have much
opportunity for conversation on board the yacht, but at the hotel you
can have Mr. Vivian all to yourself. And you can easily make excuses to
get off the yacht, and as he is evidently so _épris_, he will follow
you to the hotel, when you will have him more or less at your mercy. I
shall be longing to hear how the plot thickens.
With fond love,
Believe me,
Your devoted friend,
LILY.
_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_.
_July 29th,_ 1901.
DEAREST LILY,
Thanks for yours. My dear child, I have taken your excellent advice and
am very glad that I did so. Your plan of campaign has proved most
successful. I have had Jack with me for hours in the smoking room at
the hotel, where the ladies staying in the hotel as well as the men
always resort. It is a large room and affords ample opportunity for a
_tête-à-tête_. Of these opportunities I have availed myself to the
fullest possible extent. And with what result, you will naturally ask?
With the result, my dear, of making this man absolutely mad about me.
He has become an utter imbecile. _C'est tout dit_. His incoherent
raving would only bore you, so, like the kindhearted little person I
am, I spare you this infliction. Suffice it to say that he is mine body
and soul. I say nothing about his fortune, because that naturally goes
with the other two.
Let me thank you sincerely for your wise counsels,
And, believe me,
Ever affectionately yours,
ALICE.
_Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.
ALFORD STREET.
THURSDAY.
DEAREST ROSE,
I have been anxiously expecting to hear from you, but you have not sent
me a single line. I say "anxiously," not that I really feel the least
anxiety about you, being perfectly positive, as I am, that all will be
right. But, my dearest girl, I am so deeply interested in this affair
that, of course, I am anxious to hear how matters are going on. And you
are a very naughty child not to have written to me before. Repair your
sin of omission as soon as possible, and let me have a full account of
all your proceedings.
With much love,
Yours ever,
AMY.
_From Miss Rose Dacre to Miss Amy Conway,_ 30, _Alford Street, Park
Lane_.
YACHT "MARIE,"
COWES.
_August 2nd_, 1901.
DEAREST AMY,
Pray forgive me for not having written sooner. But as the French say,
_tout savoir est tout pardonner._ And having been for many days in the
depth of despair, worried out of my life, and half dead with anxiety, I
have not really been able to put pen to paper. But now all is changed,
and I am able to address you with a light heart.
I am sure, Amy, that you will be longing to know why, and for this
reason I will not for a moment leave you a victim to the most terrible
ailment that can attack our sex--unsatisfied feminine curiosity.
Two days ago we were still at Southampton, and it was proposed that
after lunch we should take a little trip down the river Hamble--a river
which runs into Southampton Water. Well, we started--Jack, and a friend
of his, Captain Cleland, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Tenterden, and myself. All
went well for about an hour, when a breeze sprang up which soon
developed into half a gale. At least I understood the captain of the
yacht to say so. I didn't mind it in the least, but Mrs. Vivian, poor
old lady, was dreadfully ill and nervous, and though I did all I could
to comfort and reassure her, it was not of much use. As for Mrs.
Tenterden, she absolutely collapsed. In abject terror she uttered
incoherent cries, and no one could make out what she wished to be done.
Jack seemed very upset and tried to soothe her as well as he could, but
it was all to no effect, and indeed she once turned on him just like a
virago, saying,
"I never wanted to come on your horrid yacht, but you would make me,
and see what has happened to me now."
Poor Jack--I call him "Poor Jack" although he has behaved like a very
naughty boy--seemed to wince, but made no reply.
Eventually we arrived opposite the village of Hamble, and there the
anchor was weighed--if that is the right expression. Jack suggested
that the three ladies, including myself, should go ashore in the dingey
and stay at the hotel. Mrs. Vivian said that she did not want to do
this, and Mrs. Tenterden positively refused.
"Do you think that I am going to risk my life that jim-crack boat?" she
asked. "I am not quite an imbecile. Though I think I must be after all,
otherwise I should not have come on this idiotic cruise."
Jack again made no reply, but there was something in his face that told
me that he was becoming disillusioned.
Shortly after that he sent the skipper and a boy ashore, who returned
with some marvellous looking lobsters and a huge crab. It seems that
this place is famous for its shell-fish, and I can only say that I
never tasted anything more delicious than the crab in question.
Mrs. Vivian managed to eat a little dinner, but Mrs. Tenterden retired
to her cabin and contented herself with some soup.
I for my part, ate a most capital dinner, and I fancied that Jack
seemed sorry for the way he has been treating me lately; treatment
which I should never have put up with, except from a man whom I love so
devotedly--a man whom I meant to rescue (selfishly, I admit) from that
siren's clutches. In all I have done I have been guided by your advice,
and therefore to you remains all the credit, coupled with the life-long
devotion of your little friend.
Well, we slept on board the yacht, and the morning brought its
revelations.
Mrs. Tenterden was not present at breakfast, and came on deck very
late. And only imagine, my dear, how she had changed. That beautiful
pink complexion that I had admired so much, and even envied, had
disappeared altogether. Her face was of a greyish hue, and possessed no
shade of pink. Those beautiful pencilled eyebrows seemed to have
strangely altered, and to have unaccountably thinned down. The charming
woman-of-the-world manner had entirely disappeared, and, later on, when
we descended to the cabin, at luncheon time, Mrs. Tenterden cast
furtive and certainly not reassuring glances at the little mirror
hanging there.
I confess that at first I was a wee bit sorry for her, but after all,
this Nemesis was thoroughly deserved, and when I saw the impression
that the metamorphosis had made on Jack--the darling goose can't
conceal his feelings--I must own to having been overjoyed.
"The Enchantress" left for London the same evening, looking in her war
paint quite a different being. But this made no difference, for Jack, I
need scarcely say, had evidently altered his mind.
Since her departure, everything has gone back to its old state. Jack,
poor fickle boy, is devotion itself, and I have not thought proper to
resist his entreaties to consent to an immediate marriage. You will not
blame me, darling, will you?
Ever your affectionate and
Happy friend,
ROSE.
SONGS.
AFTER VICTOR HUGO, ARMAND SILVESTRE, CHARLES ROUSSEAU AND THE VICOMTE
DE BORELLI.
DARLING ARISE.
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
Pretty one, tho' the morning is breaking
Thy lattice is fasten'd close
How is it that thou art not waking
When awake is the rose?
Darling, arise! for I am he
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.
Nature loud at thy lattice is beating:
I am Day says the morning above
I am music the bird sings repeating,
And my heart cries "I am Love."
Darling, arise! for I am he,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.
ROSE.
(VIELLE CHANSON DU JEUNE TEMPS.)
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
I never thought at all of Rose,
As Rose and I went through the dell,
We fell a talking I suppose,
But yet of what I cannot tell.
Pebbles below and mosses over,
Rippled a cool and limpid rill;
Nature lay sleeping like a lover
In the embrace of the woods so still.
Shoes and stockings off she slipped,
And with her sweetly innocent air
Into the stream her feet she dipped,
Yet I never saw her feet were bare.
I only talked, the time beguiling
As we wandered, she and I;
And sometimes I saw her smiling,
But now and then I heard her sigh.
Only her beauty dawned on me
When silent woods were left behind,
"Never mind that now!" said she
And now I shall always mind.
REGRETS.
(AFTER CHARLES ROUSSEAU.)
Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!
Vain regrets for misspent powers,
Wasted chances, faded flowers,
Vex my lonely spirit sore.
Had I only known before!
Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!
TOO LATE.
(PEINE D'AMOUR.)
(AFTER ARMAND SILVESTRE.)
When your hand was laid upon mine
'Twas in painful dread that I grasped it,
For some hesitation malign,
Made tremble the fingers that clasped it.
When you turned your forehead so near,
'Twas in painful dread that I kissed it,
For some cruel prompting of fear
Made me timidly seek to resist it.
Ah!--and my life thenceforward approved
Sorrow's bitterness had o'ercome me,
I only knew how I loved
The day that had taken you from me.
IF THERE BE A GARDEN GAY.
(S'IL EST UN CHARMANT GAZON.)
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
If there be a garden gay
Man has not molested,
Where blaze through the summer day
Flowers golden crested,
Where tallest lilies grow,
And honeysuckles blow
There, oh there I fain would go
Where thy foot, thy foot has rested!
If there be a rosy dream
By true love invested,
Where all things delightful seem
Close together nested
Where soul to soul may tell
The joy they know so well
'Tis there, oh there I fain would dwell
Where thy heart, thy heart has rested.
THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSES.
(ENVOI DE ROSES.)
(AFTER VICOMTE DE BORELLI.)
Oh, if the fairest of these roses
With its red lips to thee shall tell
Such things as language knows not of,
As in thy bosom it reposes,
Then keep it well
It is my love!
But if the sweetest of the roses
With its red lips shall silent be,
And only seek instead the bliss
Which thy delightful mouth discloses,
Return it me
It is my kiss!
LOVE WENT OUT WHEN MONEY WAS INVENTED.
"You're a very foolish man, John," said my sister Ruth. "You're worse
than foolish. A man never gets any happiness by marrying out of his
station."
"You may be right," I answered, "but after all I have something to
offer. I am rich, and Marie is poor. I admit that she is a patrician
and that I am a plebeian. But money, after all, counts for something,
especially in these days. I don't see how Marie can spend a very happy
existence now, but I am determined to make her life a dream of
happiness. You will see, my dear Ruth, that my marriage will be a
success."
"I think not," replied my sister, "and I therefore give you my warning
before it is too late. If you don't heed it and decide on marrying Miss
Dalmayne, I shall naturally do any little thing in my power to
endeavour to prove that I have been a false prophetess; but, mark my
words, John, I shan't succeed. And, to tell you the truth, my dear
brother, I tremble for the future."
"You're a sweet little silly goose," I answered. "You let your
affection for me run away with your better judgment. Why in heaven's
name should I not be happy with Marie? She is beautiful, and I admit
that it was her rare beauty that first commended her to me, and she has
a sweet nature and character; and after all, goodness of character
outweighs even good looks. Then, too, she is very clever and bright,
and altogether she is exactly the sort of girl calculated to make a man
happy."
"I hope that I may be wrong, and that you may be right, John," said
Ruth; "but I don't think that I am wrong, and, of course, time will
only show. At present we need say no more. Your mind is evidently made
up, and I shall urge nothing further to prevent you from following your
own inclinations. But in the time to come, don't forget that your
sister warned you." And with that last shaft Ruth left the room.
My name is John Gardner, my age is thirty-six, and I am what is
generally known as "a self-made man." But had I really had the making
of myself I should have endeavoured to produce a different being. I
recollect at the grammar school in Cambridgeshire, where I received a
plain education, hearing one of the masters, Mr. Ruddock, mention a
Greek proverb, "Know thyself," and advise the boys in his form to act
upon the advice given by the Greek sage who pronounced these words. I
was not, as a rule, struck with much that fell from Mr. Ruddock's lips,
for he was a dull, stupid, and pompous man, possessing much more force
of manner than of character. But I did take this advice to heart and
endeavoured to act up to it, with the result that I know as much about
my own uninteresting self as most other human beings know about
themselves.
Well, this is how I appear in my own eyes. A strong, healthy man with
an active disposition, and capable of, and a lover of hard work. A
blunt manner, and with an entire absence of tact in anything in which
strict business is not concerned. I know that I am truthful, for, in
addition to a natural hatred of lying which I must have inherited from
my dear parents, I have always recognised the fact that in business and
in everything else the truth always pays the best. During the sixteen
years that I have devoted to business I have endeavoured to act
squarely and fairly with everyone with whom I have been brought in
contact, and I may say without conceit that I have earned a good name
in addition to the three hundred thousand pounds that I have been able
to save.
I have never got on particularly well with the other sex, partly, I
suppose, from my manners, which, to say the least, are not attractive,
and partly to the fact that up to the time I met Marie Dalmayne I have
never cared for a woman. I came across the girl that I have grown to
love so well in this fashion. I am interested in a West Australian mine
to the extent of about a hundred thousand pounds, and am one of the
three partners who control the concern. One of them is a member of the
great City house of Bleichopsheim, and the other is Mr. Ross, a wealthy
iron-master. It was at the latter's house in St. James's Square that I
met my fate.
I took Miss Dalmayne down to dinner, and I think that my heart went out
to her from the first. I found her clever and sensible, and with
apparently little of the frivolity which characterises most of the
young women with whom I have been brought in contact. Her conversation,
if not absolutely brilliant, was at any rate bright and amusing, and
possessed a considerable amount of shrewdness.
Miss Dalmayne was about twenty-three, tall and fair,' possessing a
perfect figure and the most beautiful and expressive hazel eyes. Her
hair was nut brown with a warm reddish sun-kissed glint, and her
features were regular and aristocratic. Her smile was delightful. In
short, I fell in love.
Next morning I ascertained from Adam Ross full particulars in reference
to Miss Dalmayne. She is the only daughter of the Honourable George
Dalmayne, and is related to many of the highest English families. Mr.
Dalmayne and his wife are not well off, and the former is very much in
debt and has taxed the generosity of my friend Ross to a very
considerable extent. The Dalmaynes live in a small house in Eaton
Terrace. They have only one other child, and that is a son who is in
the Army and is at present with his regiment in India.
There are some people that one feels one can confide in in matters of a
delicate nature, and there are others to whom one could never open
one's mouth. Now, Ross and I have been friends for ten years, during
which time we have never had the least difference. He is a man
absolutely to be trusted. I told him during this interview what a deep
impression Miss Dalmayne had made upon me. He said that he did not in
the least wonder at it, for she was greatly admired, and added that if
it were not for her father she would no doubt have made a brilliant
marriage already. I told my friend that I cared nothing about her
father, that I was not marrying him but his daughter--that is to say,
if I were fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife.
"I don't think that there is much fear of a failure," answered Ross,
"old Dalmayne is looking out for a rich husband for Marie. Indeed, in a
confidential mood one day recently he told me almost as much himself.
And he is not likely in a hurry to find one so rich as yourself."
"Well, I shall call upon him to-morrow," said I, "and ask his
permission to speak to his daughter."
"I wish you every success, my dear friend," said Ross, "and I have no
doubt as to the result of your interview. And I don't see why you
should not be very happy. After all, as you say, you are not marrying
the father. You are marrying Marie, who is a very high-principled girl,
who is beautiful, who is accomplished, and who would, I am certain, do
everything to make her husband happy."
And so it was settled, and next morning I called on Mr. Dalmayne.
Mr. Dalmayne, a tall, aristocratic man of about sixty, received me with
great cordiality. Whether Ross, who had dined with him on the previous
night, had mentioned anything of my matter to him I don't know, but the
old gentleman did not seem to be the least surprised when I told him
what the object of my visit was.
"Mr. Dalmayne," said I, "you will doubtless be wondering why I have
called to see you"--Mr. Dalmayne's face assumed a sphinx-like
expression--I will not keep you waiting for an explanation. The truth
is that I have fallen in love with your daughter. Our mutual friend
Adam Ross can tell you all about me, and I don't think that his report
would be an unfavourable one. My position is this. I have saved three
hundred thousand pounds, which produces an income of about twelve
thousand a year. And I am making at least another twenty thousand a
year from my share of our mine and other sound enterprises. Should you
permit me to address Miss Dalmayne, and should I be happy and fortunate
enough to induce her to become my wife, I should propose to settle two
hundred thousand pounds upon her for her exclusive use."
"Your proposals are most generous," said Mr. Dalmayne, "and do you
credit. But in matters of this kind I should never dream of attempting
to control my daughter. You have, however, my full permission to speak
to her, and if she is willing to marry you, you both have my full
consent. My wife shares my views entirely. Marie is out with her mother
at the present moment, but she will be in all the afternoon, and if you
will call about four I will see that you have the opportunity for which
you are seeking."
I thanked Mr. Dalmayne most cordially and promised to return in the
afternoon. When I again arrived at Eaton Terrace I was shown into the
drawing-room, where I found Mrs. and Miss Dalmayne and a sister of Mrs.
Dalmayne's. Tea was brought in, and shortly afterwards the visitor took
her departure. A few minutes later Mrs. Dalmayne made some excuse for
leaving the room, and I was left alone with Marie. My heart had beaten
hard from excitement as I had knocked at the door, but strange to say I
felt no nervousness now. I plunged into the matter that brought me
without delay. I told Miss Dalmayne of the wonderful effect produced
upon me by her beauty and charm, and in the fewest words possible I
asked her to be my wife, promising that she would never repent it.
"You have done me a great honour," said Miss Dalmayne, "but I must have
a little time to think over what you have said and to consult my
parents. You shall hear from me at latest the day after tomorrow."
I shortly afterwards took my leave, and departed buoyed up by the
strong hope that the desire of my heart would be obtained.
Nor was I disappointed. On the day she had promised I received a letter
from Miss Dalmayne saying that she was willing to accept me, but
frankly confessing that she had no love for me as yet, though admitting
that she liked me. "If," she continued, "you are willing to take me on
this understanding, I am ready to be your wife."
Needless to say I was willing to accept these terms, and three months
afterwards we were man and wife.
It was in the month of July that we were married, and we went to
Aix-les-Bains for the honeymoon. A few days previously Mr. Dalmayne
asked me to lend him a thousand pounds, which I did cheerfully, for
after what my friend Ross had told me I was fully prepared for such a
request.
My wife had never been to Aix before, and seemed to amuse herself very
much. She played a little at the tables, and with a considerable amount
of success. I must admit that she was very kind to me, and though of
course I easily saw that I did not at present possess her real
affection, I was not discontented, and hoped for the time to come when
we should be all in all to each other. We had met very few
acquaintances at Aix, for it was not a good season as far as English
visitors were concerned, owing to attacks on our country and Government
by the French papers. But when we had been there about three weeks a
Captain Morland came upon the scene. Captain Morland, who was an
officer in the Grenadier Guards, had known my wife since she was a
child. They seemed very pleased to see each other again, but there was
a certain sadness that I noticed in the young officer's manner. He had
just been invalided home from South Africa, where he had been on active
service during the time with which my narrative deals. He was a
handsome young man, tall and well built, and with kind and expressive
blue eyes. He was singularly reticent as to his exploits during the
war, though I heard from a friend of his who was with him at Aix that
he had been mentioned in despatches and had been recommended for the
D.S.O. He was a man to whom the merest chance acquaintance was certain
to take a fancy. I am bound to say that I did so myself, and I hope
that in what I am calmly relating I shall not be considered to have
intentionally failed to do him justice.
It was the second week in August, and as the weather was very hot, my
wife and I had determined to leave Aix and go to Trouville for a little
sea air and bathing. Three days before our departure I returned to the
hotel to dress for dinner. I was just going through the corridor when I
heard voices in our sitting-room. They were the voices of my wife and
Captain Morland.
I don't think that I am naturally a mean man, but I was mean enough to
listen on this occasion.
"You mustn't blame me, Hubert," said my wife, "we were all on the verge
of ruin, and I was bound to marry him."
"How could you consent to do such a thing? You don't care for him in
the least."
"No," said my wife; "nor shall I ever do so if I live for fifty years.
I care for no one but you. But I shall always do my duty to my husband,
who is a kind and good man and lives entirely for me."
"If he died, you would marry me?" asked Captain Morland.
"Of course I would, and, as the children's storybooks say, 'live
happily ever afterwards.' But don't let us discuss deplorable
futurities."
This was enough for me. I saw, now that it was too late, how wise my
sister Ruth had been, and how foolishly I had acted. There was nothing
to be done, however, to remedy matters, in view of the words spoken by
my wife, and words which breathed of truth. I went out quietly into the
garden of the hotel and came back a few minutes later. I asked Captain
Morland to dine with us, and he accepted my invitation. I carefully
watched him and my wife during the evening, and clearly saw that the
case was hopeless from my point of view.
On the morrow I made my will, and left everything to my wife with the
exception of fifty thousand pounds for my sister Ruth. I then wrote the
little history of my mistake, and am posting it from the top of Mont
Revard to my friend Ross, and have asked him to act as he thinks best.
It is hard to die, but, in my position, it is still harder to live.
Having set my entire affections in one direction, and having been
hopelessly unsuccessful, there is only one thing to be done, and that
is to end matters. And I shall end them to-night.
* * * * *
Extract from an Aix-les-Bains newspaper:--
"The body of a rich Englishman, named Gardner, who was staying at the
Hotel de l'Europe, was found lying at the bottom of the precipice
between Aix and Mont Revard. It is, of course, pure conjecture how the
unfortunate gentleman met his fate, but no foul play is suspected, as
his money and valuables were found upon his body. We anxiously await
developments. The police are maintaining a strict reserve."
* * * * *
A PUZZLED PAINTER.
WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH THE LATE SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS.
CAST.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY, an Artist.
MRS. TEMPENNY, his Wife.
CHARLES SYLVESTER, an Artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER, his Wife.
ROSALINE, a Model.
HENRICH SCHERCL, an Art Dealer.
ROBERT ADDISON, a Sporting Man.
SARAH ANN, a Maid-of-all-Work.
SUSAN, Parlourmaid at the Tempenny's.
GROGGINS, a Sheriff's Officer.
A PUZZLED PAINTER.
ACT I.
(SCENE I. TEMPENNY'S _Studio Doors R.L. and in Flat. As Curtain rises a
knocking is heard at D.R_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY (_off_).
Rembrandt--Rembrandt!
(_Door opens, enter_ MRS. TEMPENNY; _followed by_ MRS. SYLVESTER.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see
you--we will wait.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
_My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never
work again all day.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than
Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his
studio. I wonder where he has gone.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Gone to have a drink, I daresay.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Adelaide!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so
often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic
feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Why that sigh?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).
Heigh ho!
MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).
Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Eugenia!
(_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Aren't you happy, Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody
else, but we were girls at school together.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_).
Do tell me all about it.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am jealous.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Of whom?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know--of his
life to-day, which is too circumspect to be sincere.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_).
But--but Rembrandt's life is also circumspect.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Poor child.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You pity me?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband
who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears--
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rembrandt's models _do_--.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Wear--?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Plenty!
MRS. SYLVESTER (_gloomily_).
Clothes sometimes cover a multitude of sins. They are no guarantee.
Rosaline wore them!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rosaline?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You have not heard of Rosaline?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
No. A model?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
A serpent!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
The wretch. Pretty of course?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Serpents are always pretty. One day, not long after we were married, I
came across her photograph--I was tidying up an old desk of Charles', a
photo, my dear, with an inscription that left no doubt what their
relations had been. I tore it up before his face; and for a time,
excepting for the girlish illusions he had shattered, that was an end
of the matter.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But only for a time?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_impressively_).
Two years ago I went into his studio, and found her there.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Horrible.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You may well say so. She was sitting on a table drinking brandy and
soda as bold as brass. Of course he swore that he needed her for a
picture he was going to work on--and, I don't know, perhaps it was
true. Still considering what had been, her presence there was an
outrage, and I shall never forget the quarrel there was between Charles
and me. That was the last I have seen of Rosaline--she went flying.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
And was it the last that Mr. Sylvester has seen of her?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
So far as I know. But there is always the lurking, horrid doubt. You
know now why I am not the light-hearted girl you remember, and why I
distrust artists as a class.
_Pause_.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_meditatively_).
I don't see why you should distrust Mr. Tempenny because Mr. Sylvester
is not steady.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Are you quite contented?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
No--we are too hard up, but I believe Rembrandt loves me, and I love
him.
MRS. SYLVESTER (_heavily_).
Poor child.
(_Enter_ REMBRANDT TEMPENNY _door in flat. He wears long
hair, and a brown velveteen jacket, and is smoking a short pipe_.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Eugenia? And Mrs. Sylvester? Why, bless my soul, how nice, what a
surprise! Don't move--don't. (_Stands peering at them with his hands
over his eyes._) What a charming effect of light on your profile, Mrs.
Sylvester--how rich--how transcendental! Glorious! (_Comes down._)
Well, well, well, and so you ladies have come to pay me a visit. Can I
offer you anything?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
I called on Mrs. Tempenny to inquire whether you would dine with us
to-night, and she said she could not answer without consulting you.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You have no engagement, Rembrandt?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I am quite at liberty, Eugenia, quite. I shall be most pleased and
delighted. (_Aside._) Another confoundedly dull evening, I know!
(_Aloud._) Sylvester is well?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Sylvester is always well.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Happy Sylvester! Myself, I am a wreck.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
I want some money, Rembrandt.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_disconcerted._)
Eh? Oh! (_To_ MRS. SYLVESTER.) And working hard I have no doubt.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I believe so--he is out all day.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Admirable--what industry!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
(_Aside to_ REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.) Rembrandt, I want some money--have you
got a couple of pounds you can let me have?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_affecting not to hear_).
The hardest working people under the sun are artists, I always say so.
Hard worked--hard worked! (_Fills his pipe_).
MRS. SYLVESTER.
May I look round your studio, Mr. Tempenny?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_waving his hand_).
Charmed, positively!
(MRS. SYLVESTER _moves up_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY (_insistently_).
Rembrandt, all the neighbourhood knows the butcher summoned us, and
none of the tradespeople will serve us with anything unless we pay
cash.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, we're going out to dinner.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Oh, you drive me wild with your improvident, Bohemian ways. There's
to-morrow.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Sufficient for the day is the dinner thereof. Don't be greedy.
MRS. SYLVESTER (_looking round_).
You have sold most of your canvasses, I see, Mr. Tempenny.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside_).
I thought she wouldn't find the gallery extensive, I must really do
something to-day, I must indeed! (_Aloud_.) Sold? Yes, yes. I am
starting on a fresh commission now. There's a little sketch up there
you may fancy;--a mere impression, but full of tenderness, I think, and
rapture.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Rapture?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It is the newest word by which we explain the inexplicable. "Rapture!"
It says everything, does it not?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_vaguely_).
Yes--yes, indeed.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside_).
I made it up myself on the spot.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
(_Laying her hand on his arm earnestly_). Rembrandt--
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Yes, dear, I know what you're going to say. The other tradespeople know
we haven't paid the butcher and you want two pounds. I'll give it you
this evening--(_Aside_.) If I can borrow it.
MRS. SYLVESTER (_coming down_).
Then we shall see you this evening at seven sharp, Mr. Tempenny? I am
going to take Eugenia round to the house with me now, to spend the
afternoon. You'll find her there when you come.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Good. (_Aside_.) I wish they'd go! (_Aloud_.) You don't mean to run
away yet?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_doubtfully_).
I think so.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_with alacrity_).
Well, if you really must--
(_Opens door_ D.F.)
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Till seven o'clock.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Till seven.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Au revoir, dear. (_Aside to him_.) You won't forget the--?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_Aside to_ MRS. TEMPENNY.) The two pounds, and the butcher; I won't
forget 'em. I only hope the _butcher_ may forget _me_.
(_Exit_ MRS. SYLVESTER.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
By-bye, sweetheart.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Ta, ta, Duckie.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Don't do too much--remember your precious health.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
All right, my love.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_blowing a kiss_).
There.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_blowing a kiss_).
There.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
My own darling husband!
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
My angel.
(_Exit_ MRS. TEMPENNY.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_with a deep sigh of relief_).
Thank heaven! (_Sinks into armchair, and puts his feet on the
mantelpiece_) The corner is getting tight, Rembrandt. This sort of
thing won't boil the pot. It won't, sonny, I assure you! Where's the
sketch of my _magnum opus_. 'Pon my word, I haven't seen the thing for
a month or more. (_Gets up and rummages in a portfolio_.) Ah, here we
have it! (_Holds up and contemplates a small charcoal sketch_.)
"Susannah before the Elders" beautiful! composition charming!
Rembrandt, old pal,--I congratulate you! But where's the picture of it?
"Oh where, and oh where!" Rembrandt, you're developing into a
thorough-paced loafer. You always had a talent that way, but of late
you've broken your own record. I'll turn over a new leaf; I will, I'll
be a new man. Why not? We've the new woman; why not the new man?
Excellent idea. Rembrandt Tempenny, the new man--the coming man--by
George the GREAT man! I'm in earnest, I'm in a fever. I bubble over
with noble resolutions. I wish the tradespeople didn't want
cash--tradespeople who want cash are so damping to noble resolutions!
(_Gets out Easel and canvas, and takes off coat_.)
(_Door in Flat is kicked open. Enter_ ROBERT ADDISON.)
ROBERT ADDISON.
Hullo!
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Hullo!
ROBERT ADDISON.
How are you, old chap?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I'm the new man.
ROBERT ADDISON.
The devil you are! What does it feel like?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Unfamiliar--like somebody's else's boots. I say, dear boy, can you lend
me a couple of thick 'uns.
ROBERT ADDISON.
Eh?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It's for the tradespeople.
ROBERT ADDISON.
Oh really--on principle you know--I never pay tradespeople.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, it's for my wife.
ROBERT ADDISON.
I warned you not to marry. Now you see how right I was--she wants two
thick 'uns.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I know it's rough on you.
ROBERT ADDISON.
It is. I'm a sociable chap by nature, and I'm rapidly being left
without a friend to bless myself with.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I don't grasp!
ROBERT ADDISON.
They all borrow my money, and then they say they're out the next time I
call.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I have got a big thing on, only temporarily I'm in a hole.
ROBERT ADDISON.
I never knew a fellow in a hole who hadn't a big thing on. What is it?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
The hole?
ROBERT ADDISON.
No, the big thing--the stable tip?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It's nothing to do with the turf. Look here, Schercl--you know Schercl?
ROBERT ADDISON.
I know him.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
He gave me a commission for a picture six weeks ago; he's going to pay
three hundred for it. He advanced a century when I accepted the offer.
ROBERT ADDISON.
They are wonderful terms, Tempenny, for _you_.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Seems rather funny, doesn't it,--but it's a fact. "Nobody more
astonished than the striker," I confess.
ROBERT ADDIS ON.
Well, where's the picture?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_Turning round the big blank canvas_). There!
ROBERT ADDISON (_with a whistle_).
Oh my sainted mother! How does Schercl like it?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It's good work, isn't it? Fine colour and tone! How do the harmonies
strike you--correct?
ROBERT ADDISON.
Unbosom, what does it mean?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Dear boy, it means it was a royal order, and that I've been on the
royal loaf on the strength of it; and, now that I repent me, I haven't
got a model.
ROBERT ADDISON.
No model?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
The subject is to be Susannah--Susannah before the Elders. You know the
kind of thing--(_whispers_).
ROBERT ADDISON.
Yes, of course, and I suppose--? (_whispers_).
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Yes, and--(_touches his arms and chest, signifying a fine
woman_--_whispers_).
ROBERT ADDISON.
Exactly. I think I can recommend the very model you want.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
You? Where did you meet her--on a racecourse?
ROBERT ADDISON.
I know her--and she's worth backing.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
My dear friend, you have saved me! Where is she?
ROBERT ADDISON.
I'll look her up.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
To-day?
ROBERT ADDISON.
Now if you like. Her name is Rosaline, and she's a ripper.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
"Rosaline the Ripper," Robert, fetch her. No wait a moment, I can't do
the picture here; I daren't.
ROBERT ADDISON.
Why not?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, you see, my wife wouldn't approve, and I blush to say that in the
exuberance of early matrimony I encouraged her in an inconvenient habit
of running into my studio at all hours. I'll have to work in a pal's.
ROBERT ADDISON.
All right, I'll send her there.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, you might bring her now, if you can, and I'll arrange the
sittings with her. Does she hang out in the neighbourhood?
ROBERT ADDISON.
Over a coffee-shop in Golden Street.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Go! And I'll stand you a swagger supper when the picture's done, and
Schercl parts. By the way--
ROBERT ADDISON.
Yes?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Touching the two quid?
ROBERT ADDISON (_giving the money_).
Here you are.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I do touch 'em. Ecstasy! Bob, you're a brick; now cut along and get
back with the damsel sharp. (_Knock heard at_ D.F.) Hullo, whom have we
here? Come in. (_Knock repeated_.) Come in. (_Knock again_.) Come in,
you fat-headed, lop-sided, splay-footed, bandy-legged jay; come in!
(_Enter_ SCHERCL).
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside_).
Schercl! Good Lord! He's come to see the work.
ROBERT ADDISON.
(_Aside to_ REMBRANDT TEMPENNY). I'm off.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_Aside to_ ROBERT ADDISON). No, I say, Bob, wait and see me through
it.
ROBERT ADDISON.
Rosaline may go out--I must hurry. See you again in half an hour.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_Aside to_ ROBERT ADDISON). What shall I do?
ROBERT ADDISON.
(_Aside to_ REMBRANDT TEMPENNY). Lie! Ta-ta. I say--! You don't think
it possible old Schercl has made a mistake and taken you for Tempenny
the R.A.?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_staggered_).
What!!
ROBERT ADDISON.
It would explain the terms, that's all, dear boy. Au revoir. (_Exit_
ROBERT ADDISON D.F.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside_).
Good Lord! (_Aloud, blandly_). My dear Mr. Schercl, this is a pleasure
indeed.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
I do not know dat it is a great bleasure, but pusiness must be attended
to, hein? Vell, my friendt, and how is the bicture, eh! Let us see how
it has brogressed.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
The picture is going well--well, very well,--excellently. I am a modest
man--
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Humph! (_Aside_.) This is a very boor blace for zo famous a bainter. I
do not understand it! But I have certainly done goot business mid him!
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_disconcerted_).
I say I am a modest man, Mr. Schercl, but I feel safe in declaring that
you will be satisfied with your bargain.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
"Bargain?" I do not tink dat ven I pay tree hundred bounds for a
bicture it should be called a "pargain." Tree hundred bounds is very
large brice; I shall have not made a pargain.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Er--quite so. You misunderstand me. I should have said your
"contract"--you will be satisfied with your contract.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
If you should have said "gontract," vy did you say "Pargain." Vell,
vell, let us see the bicture.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_With a desperate attempt to throw enthusiasm in his voice_.) It is
the best work I have done. I look to "Susannah" to advance my position
enormously. People will talk about "Susannah." It is--er--full of
rapture.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
"Rapture?" Vat is "Rapture?"
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
_You_ know what "rapture" is. It is the term best understood by the
movement of to-day. It is our watchword, our ideal. "Rapture!"
HENRICH SCHERCL.
(_Puzzled, but not wishing to appear ignorant_.) Oh "Rapture," I did
not understand you. Of course I know what rapture is.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Of course you do. Well, "Susannah" brims over with it.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Goot, goot.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It is the very apotheosis of rapture.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
I gongratulate you.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It exudes with rapture.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Is dat so?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It is bathed in rapture. (_Aside_.) I can't go on much longer.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Now show it to me.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_with feigned surprise_).
Show it to you? I can't show it to you--it isn't here.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Vat is dat you say? Not here?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Certainly not. I am working on it in a friend's studio, not my own. The
light here is not nearly good enough for a work like that.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
You have always found it goot enough, I pelieve?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_with enthusiasm_).
But not for "Susannah"--not nearly good enough for "Susannah,"
"Susannah" demands so much; she is exacting--she must be humoured.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Vell, I am very disappointed; I came expressly to see how you had
brogressed. Will you make me an abbointment?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Certainly I will. I will write you to-morrow. I am anxious to have your
opinion.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Who is the friend in whose studio you vork?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Eh? In Mr. Sylvester's--Charles Sylvester. You should hear him talk
about it. By Jove, he does think a lot of it. I blush to repeat what he
says. He considers it magnificent.
(_Enter_ SYLVESTER.)
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Afternoon, Rembrandt. Ah, Mr. Schercl, how-d'ye do.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Sylvester himself--the devil. (_Aloud_.) Dear old man, we were talking
of you! I was just telling Mr. Schercl what you are kind enough to say
of "Susannah."
(_Kicks him aside_.)
HENRICH SCHERCL.
You think it goot, Mr. Sylvester, yes?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
He thinks it superb, so far as it has gone.
(_Kicks him again_.)
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
What's that? Who is "Susannah?"
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
"Who is Susannah!" (_With a sickly laugh_.) What a chap to chaff you
are. "Who is Susannah?" Ha, ha, ha.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
But in pusiness I do not like the chokes. Let us be serious if you
please. What is your opinion, Mr. Sylvester, of the vork?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_desperately_).
Yes, I quite agree with you, Mr. Schercl, I quite agree--there is a
time for all things. Tell Mr. Schercl what you think of it, Charlie,
do.
(_Kicks him savagely_.)
CHARLES SYLVESTER (_aside to_ TEMPENNY).
You'll break my ankle directly, hang you. What do you want?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside to_ SYLVESTER).
Intelligence. I'll break your neck in another minute, you born fool!
(_Aloud suavely_.) Mr. Schercl is naturally anxious to hear how the
picture he had given me a commission for is getting along. I was
telling him how much you think of it but he would like to hear your
views from your own mouth.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Oh--oh!--now I know what you're talking about! Well, I have a very high
opinion of the work indeed, Mr. Schercl--a very high opinion. (_Aside
to_ TEMPENNY.) What's the subject?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_aside to_ SYLVESTER).
"Susannah before the Elders"--pitch it strong.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
The conception of Susannah, and in fact the entire treatment if I may
say so, is bold in the extreme. He makes a school, our friend here. You
will be surprised when you see the work, and impressed.
HENRICH SCHERCL.
Vell, we will make the abbointment soon, Mr. Tempenny. I am sorry I
could not see it to-day. So I shall be imbressed? That is goot.
Gootday, gentlemen. We will make the abbointment very soon.
(_Exit_ SCHERCL.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
(_Calling after him from open door_.) Mind the bottom step, it's
awkward. Got it?
HENRICH SCHERCL (_off_).
It is so dark your staircase.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Yes, it is dark, isn't it? Good afternoon. (_Closes door.)(To_
SYLVESTER.) Phew! You couldn't have arrived at a worse time.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Thanks.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I don't mean to be inhospitable, but the ice was thin.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Have you done anything to "Susannah?"
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Not a stroke, but I commence to-morrow in earnest. I've a model coming
this afternoon, and if you'll let me use your studio, I shall knock in
enough in a week for old Schercl to see when he calls again.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Why do you want my studio--what's the matter with this?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, the fact is my wife is always popping in here, and if she found
me with a model posed as Susannah she'd go into hysterics. You
understand me?
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Understand you. I'm a married man.
(TEMPENNY _looks at him silently, and then puts out his hand_.
SYLVESTER _grasps it_.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I don't want to gush, but--I feel for you, old chap.
CHARLES SYLVESTER (_gratefully_).
I know--I know.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_offering pouch_).
Smoke?
CHARLES SYLVESTER (_producing pipe_).
Thanks.
(_They fill their pipes without speaking and puff sympathetically_.)
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Not but what she is a good sort--I don't want to say anything against
her.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Of course not.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
But--I suppose she's too fond of me.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It's a way wives have--they repay the superabundance of your devotion
during the courtship.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Exactly. She's jealous.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Of whom?
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
Of nobody--of everyone. Of my past, which was rather more decent than
most fellows--of my life to-day, which is a pattern for a County
Councillor.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Poor beggar.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
You're sorry for me?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Devilishly. To be married to a jealous woman!--what a fate.
CHARLES SYLVESTER (_with a groan_).
Ah! Tempenny, there was a girl I used to know when I was a
bachelor--she was a model. My wife found her likeness one day after we
were married. A likeness, nothing more--I thought I had destroyed it.
Well, if you'd have heard the ructions she made; you'd have thought
she'd found a harem.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Ah!
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
A year or two ago the girl turned up again--walked into my studio, and
wanted to sit to me. As it happened I could have used her very well.
Just as I had given her a drink who should march in too, but my wife.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
The devil.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
I _said_ my wife--but--
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Yes, go on.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
She recognised my visitor in a moment from the photograph--abused her,
insulted me, and raised a royal row. The girl cleared out like a shot,
and I pledge you my word I have never seen her since, but from that
hour to this not a day passes without Mrs. Sylvester making some
allusion to the incident. I am the most moral man alive, and I'm
watched and suspected as if I were a criminal.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
We must see more of each other than we have of late. When I work in
your studio we shall be company for each other.
CHARLES SYLVESTER.
I shall be very glad. Well, I'll be off, now. See you to-morrow then?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
To-morrow! Au revoir, dear boy.
(_Exit_ SYLVESTER.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Poor old Sylvester! Had no idea Mrs. Sylvester was such a termagant. I
must cheer him up a bit. So there was a girl, was there, and Mrs.
Sylvester is jealous of her? Wonder who she was! Nice girl I
daresay--Sylvester's taste was always good excepting when he married.
Where is Bob with my model?--time he was back! (_Goes to window_.)
There goes Sylvester--funny thing you can always tell a married man by
his walk. There is a solidity about it--a sort of resignation. (_Turns
looking off the other way_.) And here comes a pretty girl.--What a
pretty girl--Funny thing you can always tell a pretty girl by her walk.
There is a consciousness about it--a thanksgiving. She is stopping
here. Lovely woman stopping here!
(_Throws up window, and leans out more and more till gradually only a
small section of his legs remain on the stage_)
ROSALINE (_off_).
Is this Mr. Tempenny's studio?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
It is. I am Mr. Tempenny. Come up do.
ROSALINE.
No kid?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Not yet--I am recently married.
ROSALINE.
I mean you are really Mr. Tempenny.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Really and truly. (_Withdraws from window, wreathed in smiles_.) How do
I look? (_Smoothes his hair before mirror_.) Perhaps she is a buyer--I
had better appear busy--or inspired. (_Seats himself and adopts a
far-away engrossed expression_.) "Rembrandt Tempenny at Home."
_Knock at door. Enter_ ROSALINE.
ROSALINE.
May I come in?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Enter pray. An idea has struck me. May I beg you to sit down a
moment,--In a moment I shall be at your service.
ROSALINE _sits_. REMBRANDT TEMPENNY _stares raptly before him as if
lost in composition. (Business.) He starts up and rushes to small
canvas, making violent sketch upon it. Then brushes his hand across his
brow, and turns to her_.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I dared not lose it--my idea! Forgive me--I have it down now, it is
saved. What can I do for you?
ROSALINE.
Mr. Addison sent me. He said you wanted a model.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Oh--you are Rosaline?
ROSALINE.
You have guessed it in once. He could not come back with me, so he sent
me here alone.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Oh!
ROSALINE.
What do you think of me?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I think you a charming young lady.
ROSALINE.
Then what is the matter?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Well, I thought you were somebody else, that is all. So you are
Rosaline.
ROSALINE.
You keep telling me I am Rosaline--I know I am. The question is how do
I do?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
How do you do?
ROSALINE.
You misunderstand me. The question is how do I suit you?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Quite so--you bring me to the point. You suit me entirely. Mr. Addison
perhaps explained to you the subject of my picture?
ROSALINE.
"Susannah." Susannah is a very ugly name--.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
But she will be a very pretty girl, won't she?
ROSALINE.
Oh, go away with you.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Humour, only my humour! You musn't think any familiarity was intended.
I am not that sort of man at all.
ROSALINE.
No?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Not a bit. As I told you out of the window, I'm married.
ROSALINE.
Well, I am sorry to hear it.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Now you are flattering me--now _I_ must say, "go away with you."
ROSALINE.
I am sorry to hear it because I prefer sitting to single artists. Wives
sometimes make rumpuses.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Oh, you have found that?
ROSALINE.
I have indeed. I shall never forget one of my experiences as long as I
live.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Really? You interest me.
ROSALINE _(sentimentally)_.
I loved a man with all my soul, and _he_ loved _me_. He married! No,
you must not blame him for it--he was weak, and the temptation came.
"To err is human,"--he married. Oh, my heart! (_She presses her hand to
her side_.) Forgive me while I shed a tear.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Shed two.
ROSALINE.
I forgave him; I struggled to subdue the rage within me. I forgave him,
and went to see him again. I had conquered my scorn--my better nature
had triumphed--I went to him with all the old tenderness that I had
lavished on him in the days gone by. He was startled, even cold, but
still I feel I should have won him back to me had not something
happened.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Something so often happens. It is an aggravating way of something.
ROSALINE.
His wife came between us. All was over.