CHAPTER V.

THE TWINS CONFRONT EACH OTHER.

When there came that rapping at the door, Hubert started back.

"Who's that?" he cried.

The big man still retained his grasp on Hubert's shoulder. He

tightened it.

"Never mind who it is. Sign that paper."

There was a voice without. "Open the door!"

Hubert slipped from the man's grasp. He sprang to his feet. He threw

the pen from him on to the floor. "It's Cecil!"

The two men looked at him. He looked at them. Again there was the

voice without. "Open the door!"

"It's Cecil! It's my brother! Now you will see if I lied."

In Hubert's manner there was positively something approaching an air

of triumph. The associates exchanged glances. The big man addressed

himself again to Hubert.

"Look here, my friend, you will sign that paper."

He moved a step forward. Hubert grasped the back of a chair.

"You touch me! By George! I'll smash you!"

The big man hesitated. Hubert seemed to have gained a sudden access of

energy. He continued to address his companions in a strain which was

distinctly not pacific. "You couple of cowardly curs! You get me into

a room, you lock the door, you come at me, the pair of you, with a

revolver and a knife, when you know that I haven't got so much as a

toothpick in my pocket! Why, you miserable brutes, I'll smash you

both!"

Hubert brandished the chair about his head. The big man still

hesitated. The shorter gentleman addressed this inquiry to his friend,

"Shall I shoot him? Shall I put six shots into his carcass--shall I?"

Hubert did not wait to hear the other's answer. He turned to the door.

"Cecil! Cecil! break down the door. The brutes will murder me! Break

down the door!"

These words, uttered with the full force of Hubert's lungs, seemed to

create, as was not unnatural, some sensation without. Several voices

were heard speaking together. There was a loud knocking at the door.

Someone said, evidently not Cecil, "Open the door immediately! I am

the manager of the hotel! Open at once!"

The associates looked at each other. The clamour without seemed to

mean business. Hubert had slipped from their control. If they were not

careful their friendly little interview might be disagreeably

interrupted. The shorter man shrugged his shoulders right up to his

ears.

"What is the use? You had better open the door. What is the use of

playing a losing game too far?" Then, to Hubert, "With you, my friend,

I will settle some other time."

"And I," chimed in the big man, playing the part of echo for once.

"I don't care that," Hubert snapped his fingers in the air, "for

either, or both of you, you curs!"

The comrades still hesitated--they probably resented the alteration in

the young gentleman's demeanour. But the clamour at the door

continued. The big man, doubtless perceiving that the position was

becoming desperate, took the key out of his pocket. He unlocked the

door. As he did so, his companion's weapons disappeared into the

hidden recess of his apparel. The moment the door was opened Hubert

advanced.

"Cecil! so it is you. Now, gentlemen, you will be able to see if I

lied. These gentlemen, Cecil, are friends of yours, not of mine. _I_

have never seen them before to-night. You appear to have offended

them. They have been endeavouring to visit your offence on me. I

cannot congratulate you on your acquaintance. That little scoundrel

there, who appears to be an Italian bravo, has a knife in one pocket,

and a revolver in the other. He would have murdered me if you had

delayed your appearance on the scene."

"Bah!" Again the little man's shoulders went up to his ears. "It was

but a little game."

"And was this a little game?"

Hubert snatched up the paper, the unsigned promise of marriage, from

the table on which it was lying; he held it out in front of him. The

big man, in his turn, snatched it from his grasp. He tore it into

minute shreds. While Hubert still was staring, a lady advanced. It was

Angel.

"So, all the time you were amusing yourself at my expense. You are a

charming person. Where are my thirty pounds?"

Hubert was not at all embarrassed. He twirled his moustache.

"Cecil, this lady appears to be a friend of yours. Where are her

thirty pounds?"

Cecil stepped up to him. "What confounded tricks have you been up to?"

Hubert's air of injured innocence was, in its way, superb.

"Cecil, this is too much; too much! In mistake for you I have been

insulted, all but murdered, and all"--he turned to the assembled

company--"and all, upon my word of honour, because I was so

unfortunate as to have been born a twin."

A VISION OF THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

ASLEEP.

"Charlie, do you believe in dreams?"

It was in the great hall of the Pouhon spring at Spa. The band was

playing. The motley crowd which gathers in the season at Spa to drink,

or not to drink, the waters, were talking, smoking, drinking coffee,

something stronger, looking at the papers, or listening to the music.

Among the crowd were Gerald Lovell and his friend Charles Warren. At

the particular moment in which Mr. Lovell put his question, Mr. Warren

was puffing rings of cigarette smoke into the air.

"Ask me," he said, with distinct irreverence, "another."

"A queer thing happened to me last night."

"If you have any malicious intention of inflicting on me a dream,

young man, there'll be a row. I have an aunt who dreams. She's a

dreaming sort. She's always dreaming. And she tells her dreams--such

dreams! Ye Goths! At the mere mention of the word 'dreams' the

nightmare figure of my aunt rises to my mind's eye. So beware."

"But I'm not sure that this was a dream. Anyhow, just listen."

"If I must!" said Mr. Warren. And he sighed.

"I dreamt that a woman kissed me!"

"If I could only dream such a thing. Some men have all the luck."

"The queer thing was, that it was so real. I dreamt that a woman came

into my room. She came to my bedside. She stood looking down upon me

as I slept. Suddenly she stooped and kissed me. That same instant I

awoke. I felt her kiss still tingling on my lips. I could have sworn

that someone had just kissed me. I sat up in bed and called out to

know if anyone was there. I got up and lit the gas and searched the

room. There was nothing and no one."

"It was a dream!"

"If it was, it was the most vivid dream I remember to have heard of;

certainly the most vivid dream I ever dreamt. I saw the woman so

distinctly, and her face, as she stooped over me, with laughter in her

eyes. To begin with, it was the most beautiful face I ever saw, and

hers were the most beautiful eyes. The whole thing had impressed me so

intensely that I took my sketch-book and made a drawing of her then

and there. I have my sketch-book in my pocket--here is the drawing."

Mr. Lovell handed his open sketch-book to his friend. It was open at a

page on which was a drawing of a woman's face. When Mr. Warren's eyes

fell on this drawing, he sat up in his chair with a show of sudden

interest.

"Gerald! I say! You'll excuse my saying so, but I didn't think you

were capable of anything so good as this. Do you know that this is the

best drawing of yours I have ever seen, young man?"

"I believe it is."

"It looks to me--I don't want to flatter you; goodness knows you've

conceit enough already!--but it looks to me as though it were a

genuine bit of inspiration."

"Joking apart, it seems to me almost as if it were an inspiration."

"I wish an inspiration of the same kind would come to me. I'd be

considerably grateful--even for a nightmare. Do you know what I should

do with this? I should use it for a picture."

"I thought of doing something of the kind myself."

"Just a study of a woman's face. And you might call it--the title

would be apposite--'A Vision of the Night!'"

"A good idea. I will."

And Mr. Lovell did. When he returned to his Chelsea studio, he chose

a moderate-sized canvas, and he began to paint on it a woman's

face--just a woman's face, and nothing more. She was looking a little

downwards, as a woman might look who was about to stoop to kiss

someone lying asleep in bed--say a sleeping child--and she glanced

from the canvas with laughing eyes. Mr. Warren came in to look at it

several times while it was progressing. When it was finished, he

regarded it for some moments in silent contemplation.

"I call that," he declared, sententiously, with what he supposed,

perhaps erroneously, to be a Yankee twang, "a gen-u-ine work of art. I

do. _The_ thing. Young man, if you forward that, with your

compliments, or without 'em, to the President, Fellows, and Associates

of the Royal Academy, I'll bet you five to one it's hung!"

His prediction was verified--it was hung. It was the first of Mr.

Lovell's pictures which ever had been hung--which made the fact none

the less gratifying to Mr. Lovell. It was hung very well, too,

considering. And it attracted quite a considerable amount of attention

in its way. It was _sold_ on the opening day. That fact was not

displeasing to Mr. Lovell.

One morning, about the middle of June, a card was brought in to Mr.

Lovell, while he was working in his studio. On it was inscribed a

name--Vicomte d'Humieres. The card was immediately followed by its

owner, a tall, slightly built gentleman; unmistakably a foreigner. He

saluted Mr. Lovell with a bow which was undoubtedly Parisian.

"Mr. Gerald Lovell?"

The accent was French, but, for a Frenchman, the English was fair.

"I am Gerald Lovell."

"Ah! That is good! You are a gentleman, Mr. Lovell, whom I

particularly wish to see." The stranger had been carrying his stick in

one hand and his hat in the other. These he now deposited upon one

chair; himself he placed upon a second--uninvited. He crossed his

legs. He folded his black gloved hands in front of him. "I believe,

Mr. Lovell, that we are not strangers--you and I."

Mr. Lovell glanced at the card which he still was holding.

"You are the Vicomte d'Humieres?"

"I am."

"I am afraid--it is unpardonable remissness on my part; but I am

afraid that, if I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, it

is a pleasure which has escaped my memory."

"It is not that we have ever met before--no, it is not that. It is my

name to which you are not a stranger."

Mr. Lovell glanced again at the card. "Your name? I am afraid,

Vicomte, that I do not remember having ever heard your name before."

"Ah! Is that so?" The stranger regarded his polished boots. He spoke

as if he were addressing himself to them. "Is it possible that she can

have given another name? No, it is not possible. She is capable of

many things. I do not believe she is capable of that." He looked up

again at Mr. Lovell. "My business with you, Mr. Lovell, is of rather a

peculiar kind. You will think, perhaps, that mine is rather a singular

errand. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my

wife."

"With the--did you say, with the--residence of your wife?"

"That is what I said. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the

residence of my wife." The artist stared.

"But, so far as I am aware, I do not know your wife."

"That is absurd. I do not say, Mr. Lovell, that you are conscious of

the absurdity. But still--it is absurd--_I_ was not aware that you

were acquainted with my wife until I learned the fact, this morning,

at your Academy."

"At our Academy?"

"Precisely. Upon the walls of your Academy of Painting, Mr. Lovell."

Mr. Lovell began to wonder if his visitor was not an amiable French

lunatic.

"Is that not rather a singular place in which to learn such a fact?"

"It is a singular place. It is a very singular place, indeed. But that

has nothing to do with the matter. It is as I say. You have a picture,

Mr. Lovell, at the Academy?"

"I have."

"It is a portrait."

"Pardon me, it is not a portrait."

"Pardon me, Mr. Lovell, in my turn; it is a portrait. As a portrait,

it is a perfect portrait. It is a portrait of my wife."

"Of your wife! You are dreaming!"

"You flatter me, Mr. Lovell. Is it that you suppose I am an imbecile?

Are not the features of a wife familiar to a husband? Very good. I am

the husband of my wife. Your picture, Mr. Lovell, is a portrait of my

wife."

"I cannot but think you have mistaken some other picture for mine.

Mine is a simple study of a woman's face. It is called 'A Vision of

the Night.'"

"Precisely. And 'A Vision of the Night'--is my wife."

"It is impossible!"

"Do I understand you to say, Mr. Lovell, of a thing which I say is

so--that it is impossible?"

The Vicomte rose. His voice had a very significant intonation. Mr.

Lovell resented it.

"I do not know, Vicomte, that I am _called_ upon to explain to you.

But, in face of your remarkable statement, I will _volunteer_ an

explanation. I saw the face, which I have painted, in a dream."

"Indeed; is that so? What sort of dream was it in which you saw my

wife's face, Mr. Lovell?"

The young man flushed. The stranger's tone was distinctly offensive.

"It was in a dream which I dreamt last August, at Spa."

"Ah! This is curious. At what hotel were you stopping last August at

Spa?"

"At the Hotel de Flandre--though I don't know why you ask."

"So! We approach a point at last. Last August, my wife and I, we were

at Spa. We stayed, my wife and I, at the Hotel de Flandre. It was at

the Hotel de Flandre my wife left me. I have never seen her since.

Perhaps, Mr. Gerald Lovell, you will be so good as to inform me what

sort of dream it was in which you saw my wife's face, at the Hotel de

Flandre, last August, at Spa?"

Mr. Lovell hesitated. He perceived that caution was advisable. He felt

that if he entered into minute particulars of his dream, there might

be a misunderstanding with the Vicomte. So he temporized--or he

endeavoured to.

"I have already told you that I saw the face in my picture in a dream.

It is the simple fact--that I have no other explanation to offer."

"Is that so?"

"That is so."

"Very good, so far, Mr. Gerald Lovell. I thought it possible that you

might have some explanation of this kind to offer. I was at the

Academy with a friend. When I perceived my wife's portrait on the

walls, and that it was painted by a Mr. Gerald Lovell, I said to my

friend: 'I will go to this Mr. Lovell, and I will ask him, among other

things, who authorized him to exhibit my wife's portrait in the

absence of her husband, in a place of public resort, as if it were an

advertisement.' My friend proposed to accompany me. But I said: 'No. I

will go, first of all, alone. I will see what sort of explanation Mr.

Gerald Lovell has to offer. If it is not a satisfactory explanation,

then we will go together, you and I.' I go to seek my friend, Mr.

Lovell. He is not very far away. Shortly we will return. Then I will

request, of your courtesy, an explanation of that very curious dream

in which you saw my wife's face at the Hotel de Flandre. Mr. Lovell, I

wish you, until then, good day."

The Vicomte withdrew, with the same extremely courteous salutation

with which he had entered. The artist, left alone, looked at his

visitor's card, which he still retained in his hand, with a very

puzzled expression of countenance.

"If the Vicomte d'Humieres returns, it strikes me there'll be a little

interesting conversation."

He laid down the card. He resumed the work which had been interrupted.

But the work hung fire. A painter paints, not only with his hand, but

with his brain. Mr. Lovell's brain was, just then, preoccupied.

"It was a dream. And yet, as I told Warren at the time, it certainly

was the most vivid dream I ever dreamt." Deserting his canvas he began

to move about the room. "Supposing it wasn't a dream, and the woman

was a creature of flesh and blood! Then she must have come into my

room, and kissed me while I slept. I'll swear that someone kissed me.

By Jove! the Vicomte won't like to be told a tale like that! As he

says, a man ought to know his own wife's face when he sees it, even in

a portrait. And if the picture is a portrait of his wife, then it was

his wife who came into my room--and kissed me. But whatever made her

do a thing like that? There's no knowing what things some women will

do. I rather fancy that I ought to have made a few inquiries before I

took it for granted that it was nothing but a dream. They would have

been able to tell me at the hotel if the original of my dream had been

staying there. As it is, unless I mind my P's and Q's, I rather fancy

there'll be a row."

"Pardon!--may I enter?"

Mr. Lovell was standing with his back to the door. The inquiry,

therefore, was addressed to him from behind. The voice in which it was

uttered was feminine, and the accent foreign. The artist turned--and

stared. For there, peeping through the partly open door, was the woman

of his dream! There could not be the slightest doubt about it.

Although the head was covered with the latest thing in Parisian hats,

there was no mistaking, when one once had seen it--as _he_ had seen

it--that lovely face, those laughing eyes. He stared--and gaped. The

lady seemed to take his silence to imply consent. She advanced into

the room.

"You are Mr. Gerald Lovell?"

As she came into the room, he perceived that she was not only most

divinely fair, but most divinely tall. Her figure, clad in the most

recent coquetries of Paris, was the most exquisite thing in figures he

had lately seen. So completely had she taken his faculties of

astonishment by storm, that he could only stammer a response.

"You are the painter of my portrait?" For the life of him, he knew not

what to say. "But, if you are Mr. Gerald Lovell, it is certain that

you are. Besides, I see it in your face. There is genius in your eyes.

Mr. Lovell, how am I to thank you for the honour you have done me?"

Moving to him, she held out to him her hand. He gave her his. She

retained it--or, rather, part of it--in her small palm. "If I am ever

destined to attain to immortality, it is to your brush it will be

owing. Monsieur, permit me to salute the master!"

Before he had an inkling of her intention, she raised his hand and

touched it with her lips. He withdrew it quickly.

"Madame!"

She exhibited no signs of discomposure.

"I was at your Academy, with a friend--not half an hour ago. I

beheld miles of mediocrity. Suddenly I saw--my face! my own face!

glancing at me from the walls! _Ah, quel plaisir!_ But my face--how

many times more lovely! How many times more beautiful! My

face--depicted by the hand of a great artist! by the brush of a poet,

and a genius!--Monsieur, you have placed on me ten thousand

obligations."

She gave him the most sweeping curtsey with which he ever had been

favoured--and in her eyes was laughter all the time. He was recovering

his presence of mind. He felt that it was time to put a stop to the

lady's flow of flowery language. He was about to do so--when a

question she put to him again sent half his senses flying.

"There is one thing which I wished to ask you, Monsieur. When and

where did I sit to you for my portrait? I do not remember to have had

the pleasure and the honour of meeting you before." The lady's

laughing eyes were fixed intently on his face. "And yet, as I

look at you, a sort of shadowy recollection comes to me of a

previous encounter; it is very strange! Monsieur, where was it we

encountered--you and I?"

"Madame!"

Seeing how evidently he was at a loss for words, she put out her hand

to him as if to give him courage.

"Do not be afraid. Tell me--where was it that you saw me?"

"I saw you in a dream."

"A dream? Monsieur! To hear you speak--it is like a poem. Monsieur,

where did you dream this dream in which you dreamt of me?"

"It was last year, at Spa."

"At Spa--that horrible place?"

"I did not find it a horrible place."

"No? Was it that dream which you dreamt of me which robbed it of its

horror?" He did not speak. He allowed her to infer a compliment, but

he did not proffer one. "But Monsieur, I was only at Spa one afternoon

and a single night."

"It was that night I dreamed of you."

"You dreamed? How? Tell me about this dream."

"I dreamed that you came into my room while I was asleep in bed, and

kissed me!"

She continued to look at him intently a moment longer, as if she did

not realize the full meaning of his words. Then--let us do her

justice!--the blood rushed to her face, her cheeks flamed fiery red.

With her hands she veiled her eyes. She gave a little cry.

"_Ah, mon Dieu!_ It was you--I remember. _Quelle horreur!_"

There was silence. Before she removed her hands from her eyes she

turned away. She stood with her back towards him, trifling with a

brush which he had placed upon the table. She spoke scarcely above a

whisper.

"Monsieur, I thought you were asleep."

"I was asleep. I saw you in a dream."

"Then did--did I wake you?"

"You must have done. I woke--you must forgive my saying so--with a

kiss tingling on my lips." The lady put her hands up to her eyes

again. "The dream had been so vivid I could not understand it. I got

up to see if anyone was in the room."

"If you had caught me!"

"There was no one. But so acutely had your face impressed itself on my

imagination that I took my sketch-book, and made a drawing of it then

and there. In the morning I showed this drawing to a friend. He

advised me to use it for a picture I did. That picture is 'A Vision of

the Night'!"

"It is the most extraordinary thing, Monsieur; you will suppose I am a

very peculiar person. It is but a lame explanation I have to offer. Of

that I am but too conscious. But such as it is, I entreat that you

will suffer me to give it you. Monsieur, I am married"--Mr. Lovell

bowed. He did not mention that he was aware of that already--"to the

most capricious husband in the world--to a husband whom I love, but

whom I cannot respect." Mr. Lovell thought that that was good--from

her. "He is a man who is extremely _difficile_, Monsieur. I do not

think you have a word which expresses what I would say in English. He

is extremely jealous; he is enraged that his wife should use the eyes

which are in her head! The very day on which we arrived at Spa we had

a dreadful quarrel. I will not speak of the treatment to which I was

subjected; it is enough to say that he locked the door so that I

should not leave the room--he wished to make of me a prisoner.

Monsieur, directly he was gone, I perceived that there were two doors

to the room--the one which he had locked, and another, which I tried I

found that it was open. Monsieur, when a prisoner desires to escape,

he escapes by any road which offers. I was a prisoner; I desired to

escape; I made use of the only road which I could find. I entered the

door; I found myself in a room in which there was--how shall I say

it?--in which there was a man asleep. Monsieur, it was you!"

It must be owned that at this point the lady certainly did look down.

"I was, that night, in a wicked mood. I glanced at you; I perceived

that you were but a boy"--Mr. Lovell flushed: he did not consider

himself a boy--"but a handsome boy." She peeped at him with malicious

laughter in her eyes. "I regarded myself as your mother, or your

sister, or your guardian angel. Monsieur will perceive how much I am

the elder." Again, a glance of laughing malice from those bewitching

eyes. "I am afraid it is too true that I approached the sleeping

lips." There was silence. Then, so softly that her listener was only

able to catch the words: "I pray that Monsieur will forgive me."

"There is nothing for which Madame needs forgiveness."

"Monsieur but says so to give me pleasure. But one thing Monsieur must

permit me to observe: If every woman were to be rewarded, as I have

been, for what I did, half the women in France would commit--a similar

little indiscretion." Mr. Lovell was silent; he did not know exactly

what to say. "Monsieur will permit me to regard him, from this day

forward, as my friend? Mr. Gerald Lovell, permit me to introduce to

you--the Vicomtesse d'Humieres!"

The lady favoured him with another sweeping curtsey.

"I have already the pleasure of being acquainted with Madame's name."

"From whom did you learn it? From the people at the hotel?"

"I but learned it a few minutes before Madame herself came here."

"So! From whom?"

"I learnt it from the Vicomte d'Humieres."

"The Vicomte d'Humieres! My husband! Are you acquainted with him,

then?"

"I can scarcely claim to be acquainted with the Vicomte. It seems,

Madame, that this has been a morning of coincidences. It would appear

that just before Madame perceived my little picture at the Academy,

the Vicomte d'Humieres perceived it too."

"Truly! But how magnificent!"

The lady clasped her hands in a little ecstacy.

"The Vicomte d'Humieres did not seem to consider it magnificent. He

took a distinctly contrary view."

"But that is certain!"

"He requested me to furnish him with your address. When I informed him

that I was not acquainted with Madame, he desired to know who had

authorized me to send your portrait to a public exhibition. I observed

that I was not aware that it was the portrait of Madame, since the

face in the picture was but the study of a face which I had seen in a

dream."

"In a dream! You did not tell him--the little history?"

"I entered into no particulars."

"I entreat you, Monsieur, not to tell him the little history. There

will be a scandal; he is so quick to misconceive."

"I will endeavour to observe Madame's wishes."

"It is like a little romance, is it not, Monsieur? Perhaps I should

explain myself a little further. _That_ night"--she emphasized the

_that_--"I left my husband. In effect, he had become unbearable. I

have seen and heard nothing of him since. But I am beginning to become

conscious of a desire to meet with him again. I know not why! I

suppose, when one loves one's husband truly, one wishes to meet

him--once a year. I do not wish our reconciliation to be inaugurated

by a quarrel--no, I entreat you, Monsieur, not recount to him that

little history."

"I should inform Madame that I expect the Vicomte d'Humieres to

return."

"Return? Where? Here? When?"

"Very shortly--with a friend. In fact, unless I am mistaken, he comes

already."

The lady listened.

"It is Philippe's voice! _Mon Dieu!_ He must not find me here."

"But, Madame----"

"Ah, the screen! It is like a farce at the Palais Royal--is it not a

fact? I will be your model, Monsieur, behind the screen!"

"Madame!"

Before he could interpose to prevent her, the lady vanished behind the

screen. The door of the studio opened, and the Vicomte d'Humieres

entered, accompanied by his friend.

CHAPTER II.

AND AWAKE.

The Vicomte's friend was a gentleman of a figure which is not uncommon

in France, even to-day. His attitude suggested a ramrod, he breathed

powder and shot; and he bristled--what shall we say?--with bayonets.

The last person in the world with whom a modern Briton should have a

serious difference of opinion. The ideas of that sort of person upon

matters which involve a difference of opinion are in such contrast to

ours. The Vicomte performed the ceremony of introduction.

"Mr. Gerald Lovell, permit me to introduce to your courteous

consideration my friend, M. Victor Berigny!"

M. Berigny bowed, ceremoniously. Mr. Lovell only nodded--his thoughts

were behind the screen. The Vicomte turned to his friend.

"Victor, I have explained to you that I have already had the pleasure

of an interview with Mr. Gerald Lovell." M. Berigny bowed. "I have

also explained to you that I have desired him to inform me by whose

authority he exhibits a portrait of my wife in a public exhibition. To

that he has replied that his picture, 'A Vision of the Night,' is not

a portrait of my wife. I request you, Victor, to state, in Mr. Gerald

Lovell's presence, whether that picture, in your opinion, is or is not

a portrait of my wife."

"Certainly, it is a portrait."

M. Berigny's accent was more marked than the Vicomte's, but still he

did speak English.

"I thank you, Victor. It remains for me to once more request, in your

presence, Mr. Gerald Lovell to explain how it was that he happened to

dream of the face of my wife last August, in the Hotel de Flandre, at

Spa. Mr. Gerald Lovell, I have the honour to await your explanation."

The Vicomte, his arms crossed upon his chest, his left foot a little

protruding, his head thrown back, awaited the explanation.

Mr. Lovell's thoughts ran screenwards.

"What the deuce shall I do if he discovers her behind the screen?"

"Monsieur, I am waiting."

"If he does discover her--there'll be a row."

"I still am waiting, Mr. Gerald Lovell."

With each repetition of the statement the Vicomte's tone became more

acidulated. The artist arrived at a sudden resolution.

"Then I am afraid, Vicomte, that you will have to wait."

The Vicomte looked at the artist with an evident inclination to add a

cubit to his own stature.

"Is it possible that I understand your meaning, Mr. Gerald Lovell?"

"My language is sufficiently simple."

"In France, Mr. Gerald Lovell, an artist is supposed to be a

gentleman."

"And so in England, Vicomte. And therefore, when an artist is

interrupted at his work by another gentleman, he feels himself at

liberty to beg that other gentleman--to excuse him."

Mr. Lovell waved his hand, affably, in the direction of the door. The

Vicomte's countenance assumed a peculiar pallor.

"You are a curious person, Mr. Gerald Lovell."

His friend interposed.

"Philippe, you had better leave the matter to me."

M. Berigny approached the painter--with a ramrod down his back.

"I have the honour, Monsieur, to request from you the name of a

friend."

"Of a friend? What for?"

"Ah, Monsieur--to arrange the preliminaries!"

"What preliminaries?"

"Is it that Monsieur amuses himself?"

"Is it possible that you suppose that I am going to fight a duel?"

"Monsieur intends, then, to offer an explanation to my friend?"

"M. Berigny, I do not wish to say to you anything uncourteous, or

anything unworthy an English gentleman; but I do beg you to believe

that, because you choose to be an idiot, and your friend chooses to be

an idiot, it does not follow that I choose to be an idiot, too."

"Monsieur!"

"One other observation. I have not seen much of you, M. Beringy, but

that little has not disposed me to see more. May I therefore ask

you--to leave my studio?"

"Monsieur!"

"Or--must I turn you out?"

"Turn me out!"

The Vicomte had been listening to this little dialogue. He now turned

towards his friend.

"Ah, my friend, it is as he says! He will turn you out, neck and crop,

as the English say. He will throw you down the stairs, he will heave

half a brick at your head, to help you on your way. Then, when you

require satisfaction, he will refer you to a magistrate. You will

summon him--it will be in the papers--he will be fined half-a-crown!

That is how they manage these affairs in England. It is true!"

"But--among gentlemen!"

"_Ah, mon ami, voila!_ In England, nowadays, there are no gentlemen!"

Mr. Lovell moved a step towards M. Berigny.

"I have asked you, as a gentleman, to leave my studio."

"Monsieur, you are a coward!"

The painter's eyes gleamed. But he kept his temper pretty well,

considering.

"You appear to have been taught singularly ill manners in your native

country, sir. I will endeavour to teach you better manners here. Are

you going? Or must I eject you?"

"_Polison!_"

That was M. Berigny's answer. There was just a momentary hesitation.

Then, grasping M. Berigny firmly by the shoulders, Mr. Lovell began to

move him, more rapidly than gently, in the direction of the door. The

Vicomte came forward, with the evident intention of interposing. There

would probably have been a slightly undignified scramble had not a

diversion been created by the opening of the door, and the entrance of

Mr. Warren. That gentleman glanced from one person to another.

"I beg your pardon," he observed. "I hope I don't intrude!"

Mr. Lovell laughed, a little forcedly. His complexion was distinctly

ruddy.

"Not at all! I wish you had come in sooner. The most ridiculous thing

has happened."

"Indeed! I have an eye for the ridiculous."

"You know that picture of mine, 'A Vision of the Night'?"

"I've heard of it."

"This gentleman says that it's a portrait of his wife."

Mr. Lovell pointed to the Vicomte d'Humieres.

"No? Then, in that case, this gentleman's wife came into your bedroom

in the middle of the night, and--kissed you, wasn't it?"

Mr. Warren spoke in the innocence of his heart, but, at that moment,

Mr. Lovell could have struck his boyhood's friend. There was a

listener behind the screen. The young gentleman's cheeks grew crimson,

as the lady's had done a few minutes before. He was conscious, too,

that the Vicomte's unfriendly eyes were fixed upon his face.

"So! That is it! You--you----" The Vicomte moved a step forward, then

checked himself. "Tell me, where is my wife at this instant?"

Mr. Lovell could have told him, but he refrained.

"I decline to give you any information of any kind whatever."

"You decline?" The Vicomte raised his hand. He would have struck the

artist. Mr. Warren interposed to avert the blow.

"He declines for the very simple reason that he has never seen your

wife; isn't that so, Gerald?"

Mr. Lovell hesitated. He scarcely saw his way to a denial while the

lady was behind the screen.

"You see! He does not even dare to lie!"

"Don't talk nonsense, sir! Gerald, why don't you tell the man that you

have never seen the woman in your life?"

"I repeat that I decline to give this person any information of any

kind whatever."

"You decline?"

The Vicomte uttered the words in a kind of strangled screech. His

patience was exhausted. He seemed to think that he was being subjected

to treatment which was more than flesh and blood could bear. He rushed

at Mr. Lovell. Mr. Lovell, probably forgetting himself on the impulse

of the moment--or he would have been more careful--swung the Vicomte

round against the screen. It tottered, reeled, and, raising a cloud of

dust, it fell with a bang to the floor!

It was a leaf out of Sheridan.

For an instant the several members of that little party did not

distinctly realize what it was that had happened. Then they saw. There

was a pause--a curious pause. Their attitudes betrayed a charming

diversity of emotions. The Vicomte, his coat a little disarranged,

owing to the somewhat rough handling which he had just received, stood

and glared. M. Berigny, more ramroddy than ever, stared. Mr. Warren

gasped. Mr. Lovell's quickened breathing, crimsoned cheeks, and

flashing eyes seemed to suggest that his breast was a tumult of

conflicting feelings. The lady, whose presence had been so

unexpectedly revealed, stood behind the fallen screen, with the most

charming air of innocence in the world, and she smiled.

It was she who broke the silence. She held out her hand to the

Vicomte.

"_Bon jour_, Philippe!"

"Ah-h-h!" The Vicomte drew himself away with a sort of shuddering

exclamation. "Antoinette! It is you! It cannot be!"

"My dear Philippe--why not?"

"Why not?"

"Why not? She asks why not!" The Vicomte held out his hands, as though

he appealed to the eternal verities. "_Traitresse!_ Once more is woman

false and man betrayed!"

The Vicomte's gesture was worthy of the tragic stage--in France. The

lady still held out her hand, and still she smiled.

"My dear Philippe--try comedy!"

"Comedy? Ah, yes, I will try comedy--the comedy of r-r-revenge!" The

Vicomte distinctly rolled his r's. He turned to Mr. Lovell. "I will

kill you, even though for killing you, by the law of England, I am

hanged. Victor, where is my hat?"

The Vicomte put this question to his friend with a peculiar coldness.

M. Berigny shrugged his shoulders.

"How should I know? It is not a question of a hat."

"As you say, it is not a question of a hat. It is a question"--the

Vicomte moved towards Mr. Lovell--"of that!"

He raised his hand with the intention of striking the artist on the

cheek. Mr. Lovell never flinched; but the lady, rushing forward,

caught her husband by the wrist. She looked at him, still with

laughter in her eyes.

"Try not to be insane."

The Vicomte glared at her with a glare which, at least, was

characteristic.

"Why do I not kill her--why?"

The lady only smiled.

"They say that a woman is devoid of humour. How is it then sometimes

with a man? You, Philippe, are always thinking of the Porte St.

Martin--I, of the Bouffes Parisiens."

The Vicomte turned to his friend.

"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"

M. Berigny only shrugged his shoulders. Possibly because he was not

ready with a more adequate reply. The lady turned to the artist.

"Monsieur, I offer you ten thousand apologies, which my husband will

one day offer you himself, as becomes a gentleman of France."

The Vicomte repeated his inquiry:

"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"

Only a shrug in reply. The lady went on:

"You have immortalized my poor face, Monsieur; my husband insults you

in return."

The Vicomte folded his arms across his chest.

"It is certain, Victor, that she still lives!"

"One night, Monsieur, my husband locked me in my room. He designed to

make of me a prisoner. Why? Ah, do not ask me why? When he had left

me, I escaped, not by the door which he had locked, but by a door he

had not noticed. This door led into an apartment in which there was a

stranger sleeping. I was but an instant in that apartment--but the

instant in which it was necessary to pass through. The sleeper never

spoke to me; he never saw me with his waking eyes. But, even in his

sleep, my poor, frightened face so flashed upon his brain that, even

in his waking hours, it haunted him so that he made of it a picture--a

picture of that Vision of the Night!"

The Vicomte approached closer to his friend. He addressed him in a

sort of confidential, but still distinctly audible, aside:

"Victor, is it possible that this is true?"

"I beg, my friend, that of me you will ask nothing."

"Monsieur, this morning I was at your Academy. I saw my own

countenance looking at me from the walls. For the first time I learned

that my poor, frightened woman's face had appeared to a sleeping

stranger in a Vision of the Night. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!"

The lady covered her face with her hands. It would, perhaps, be rash

to say that she cried; but, at least, she seemed to cry, and if it was

only seeming, she did it very well.

"Victor," again inquired the Vicomte of his friend, "is it possible

that this is true?"

M. Berigny wagged his finger in the Vicomte's face.

"D'Humieres, it now becomes a question of hats." The Vicomte laid his

hand on his companion's arm.

"One instant, Victor--still one instant more."

The lady, uncovering her eyes--which actually were sparkling with

tears--continued to address the artist.

"Monsieur, I will not speak to you of my love for my husband--my

Philippe! I will not speak to you of how we have been parted for a

year--a whole, long year--_mon Dieu_, Monsieur, _mon Dieu!_ I will not

speak to you of how, every instant of that long, long year I have

thought of him, of how I have yearned for him, of how I have longed

for one touch of his hand, one word from his lips, one glance from his

eyes. No, Monsieur, I will not speak to you of all these things. And

for this reason: That, with me all things are finished. I go, never to

return again. My face--you have made immortal; the rest of me--will

perish. For the woman whose heart is broken there remains but one

place--the grave. It is to that place I go!"

The lady had become as tragic as her husband--even more so, in

her way. She moved across the room with the air of a tragedy

queen--Parisian. The Vicomte was visibly affected. He fastened a

convulsive clutch upon M. Berigny's arm.

"Victor, tell me, what shall I do? Advise me, oh, my friend! This is a

critical moment in my life! It is impossible that I should let her go.

Antoinette!"

The Vicomte advanced, just in time, between the lady and the door.

"Monsieur, I entreat of you this last boon, to let me go. You have

insulted me in the presence of a stranger; for me, therefore, nothing

else remains. You have inquired if you should kill me. No, Philippe,

you need not kill me; it is myself I will kill!"

"Antoinette!"

"I am no longer Antoinette; I am the woman whose happiness you have

destroyed. It is only when I am dead that you will learn what is

written on my heart for you."

"Antoinette," the strong man's voice faltered, "Antoinette, am I

never, then, to be forgiven?"

There was a momentary pause. Then the lady held out both her hands.

"Philippe!"

"My heart! my soul! thou treasure of my life! thou star of my

existence! Is it possible that a cloud should have interposed itself

between thy path and mine?"

He took her in his arms. He pressed her to his breast. M. Berigny

turned away. From his attitude it almost seemed as if the soldier--the

man of ramrods and of bayonets!--wiped away a tear.

"Philippe! Take care, or you will derange my hat!"

"Antoinette! My beautiful, my own!"

"Philippe, do you not think you should apologize--take care, my

friend, or you certainly will derange my hat!--to the stranger who has

made immortal the face of the woman who loved you better than her

life--my friend, take care!--who has made her appear on canvas so much

more beautiful than she is in life?"

"No, Antoinette, that I will not have. It is impossible. Beauty such

as yours in not to be rendered by a painter's brush!"

"If that be so, all the more reason why we should be grateful to Mr.

Lovell for endeavouring the impossible."

The lady peeped at Mr. Lovell with the quaintest malice in her eyes.

"Certainly, Antoinette, there is something in what you say. And, after

all, it is a charming painting. I said, Victor, when I saw it, there

can be no doubt, as a painting, it is charming--did I not say so?" M.

Berigny inclined his head. With his handkerchief the Vicomte smoothed

his moustache. He advanced towards Mr. Lovell: "Monsieur, a

Frenchman--a true Frenchman--seldom errs. On those rare occasions on

which he errs he is always willing, under proper conditions, to

confess his error. Monsieur, I perceive that I have done you an

injustice. For the injustice which I have done you--I desire to

apologize."

Mr. Lovell smiled. He held out his hand.

"My dear fellow! There's nothing for which you need apologize."

The Vicomte grasped the artist's hand in both of his.

"My dear friend!" he cried.

"Philippe," whispered the lady into her husband's ear, "do you not

think that you would like Mr. Lovell and his friend to favour us with

their company at luncheon?"

The Vicomte seemed to think he would. They lunched together--all the

five! Why not?

THE WAY OF A MAID WITH A

MAN.

(Miss Whitby writes to her Mother.)

MY DEAREST MAMMA,--You will be surprised, and I hope you will be

pleased to hear that I am engaged to be married! You are not to

smile--it would be cruel--this, really, is serious. Charlie is all

that a husband should be--you are not to laugh at that--you know

exactly what I mean. I am nearly twenty, and, this time, I feel that

my happiness really is at stake. I may not be able to keep my looks

for long--some girls lose them when they are quite young--and

something seems to tell me that I ought to begin to look life

seriously in the face, and become responsible. I almost wish that I

had taken to district visiting, like Emma Mortimer--it might have

balanced me. Poor Emma! what a pity she is so plain.

Will you mind hinting to Tom Wilson that I think he might be happy

with Nora Cathcart? It is true that I made him promise that he would

never speak to her again, but all that is over. I hope you will not

think me fickle, dear mamma. I enclose the ring Tom gave me. Will you

please give it to him? And point out to him that I am now persuaded

that boy and girl attachments never come to anything serious.

By the way, do not forget to tell them to send two pairs of evening

shoes. Those which I have are quite worn out. Let both pairs be

perfectly plain bronze. Charlie thinks that they make my feet look

almost ethereal. Is he not absurd? But I hope that you will not think

so, when you come to know him, for he loves your child. You might

also ask them to send me a dozen pairs of stockings--nice ones. All

mine seem to be in holes. You know I like them as long as you can get

them.

I have been here nearly a month, and I have been almost engaged to

three different men. How time does seem to fly! Lily says I am a

heartless little flirt. I think that perhaps I was, until he came. He

has been here just a week, and I seem to have known him years.

Lily seems to be under the impression that I was engaged to Captain

Pentland. She is wrong. Captain Pentland has some very noble

qualities. He is destined to make some true woman profoundly happy. Of

that I have no doubt whatever. But I am not that woman. No, dear

mamma, I feel that now. Besides, he wears an eyeglass. As you are

aware, I have always had an insuperable objection to an eyeglass. It

seems to savour of affectation. And affectation I cannot stand. And

then he lisps. As I told you, when I wrote you last, when I sprained

my ankle on Highdown Hill, he carried me in his arms for over a mile.

Of course, I was grateful. And, between you and me, dear mamma, he

held me so very closely to him, that, afterwards I felt as if I ought

to marry him. I have explained everything to Charlie. He quite agrees

with me that it is absurd for Captain Pentland to think himself

ill-used.

While I think of it, when you are in town will you tell them to send

me a box of assorted chocolates? You know the kind I like. There is

nothing of that sort to be had here, and I do so long for some.

Charlie is Lily's cousin. Do you think that cousins ought to kiss each

other? I wish I could get the opinion of someone on whose judgment I

could implicitly rely. At any rate, even supposing that they ought I

am quite sure that there should be limits. Before long I am afraid

that I shall have to give Charlie a hint that I do not think, under

the circumstances, that he ought to kiss Lily quite as much as he does

me. She may be his cousin, but she is young, and she is pretty. And

cousins are not sisters. It is nonsense for people to pretend they

are.

The odd part of it is that if Charlie had not been so fond of kissing

Lily I might not be going to marry him now. I knew that he was coming.

And I was sitting alone in the drawing-room, in a half-light, with my

back to the door, when suddenly someone, putting his arm round my

waist, lifting me off my feet, twisted me right round, and began

kissing me on my eyes and lips and everywhere.

I thought it was Captain Pentland. Though I was astonished at such

behaviour even from him--because it was only that morning we

quarrelled. You may judge of my astonishment when I was again able to

look out of my own eyes, to find myself being held, as if I were a

baby, or a doll, in the arms of a perfect giant of a man, whom I had

never seen before. You may imagine how shocked I felt, because, as you

know well, my views on such subjects--which I owe to your dear

teaching--are, if anything, too severe. I will do him the justice to

admit that he seemed to be almost as much shocked as I was.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "ten thousand times. I thought that you

were Lily."

He put me down very much as you handle your Chelsea cups, mamma--softly

and delicately, as if he had been afraid of chipping pieces off me.

"I suppose you're Charlie?"

I spoke more lightly and more cheerfully than I felt. He seemed so

ashamed of himself, and so confused, that I pitied him. You know, dear

mamma, that when people know, and feel, that they have done wrong, I

always pity them. I cannot help it. It is my nature. All flesh is

weak. I myself am prone to err. When Lily did appear, we were talking

quite as if we knew each other. And that is how it began. It is odd

how these sort of things sometimes do begin. As you are aware, I speak

as one who has had experience. I shall always believe that it was only

the breaking of a shoelace which first brought Norman Eliot and me

together.

But those chapters in my life are closed. In the days which are past I

may have seemed to hesitate, to occasionally have changed my mind. But

now my life is linked to Charlie's by bonds which never shall be

broken. I feel as if I were already married. The gravity of existence

is commencing to weigh upon my mind. A woman when she is nearly twenty

is no longer young.

While I remember it, when you send the chocolates don't send any

walnuts. I am sick of them. Variously flavoured creams are what I

really like. And let two pairs of the stockings be light blue, with

bronze stripes high up the leg.

I cannot truly say that Lily is behaving to me quite nicely in my

relations with Charlie. I do not wish to wrong her, even in my

thoughts--she is the very dearest friend I have!--but, sometimes, I

cannot help thinking that she had an eye on Charlie for herself.

Because when the other morning I was telling her how strongly I

disapproved of cousins marrying, if she had not been Lily--whose

single-hearted affection I have every faith in--I should have said

that she was positively rude. Charlie only proposed to me last night,

yet, although she must have seen what was coming, in the afternoon she

was actually talking to me of Norman Eliot--as if I had been to blame!

Mr. Eliot and I never really were engaged--some people jump to

conclusions without proper justification. And am I compelled to answer

a person's letters if, for reasons of my own--quite private reasons--I

do not choose to?

She came to my bedroom last night, just as I was going to bed. I told

her what Charlie had said, and what I had said. Of course I expected

her to congratulate me--as, in circumstances such as mine, a girl's

best friend ought to do. She heard me to an end, and she looked at me,

and said:

"So you've done it again."

"I don't know about again, dear Lily," I replied. "But it would seem

as if I had done it at last. I am feeling so happy that it almost

makes me afraid."

"Some girls would feel afraid if they had reason to be conscious of

the fact that they had engaged themselves to marry three men at once."

I could not help but notice that a jarring something was in her tone.

But I paid no heed to it.

My thoughts were elsewhere.

"How wrong it is," I murmured, "for people to scoff at love. They

cannot know what love is--as I do."

"Perhaps not. I should think that what you don't know about love, May,

isn't worth knowing." I sighed.

"I fancy, Lily dear, that I have heard stories about you."

"I daresay; but I never snapped up your favourite cousin from under

your nose. Possibly you will not mind telling me if you do mean to

marry one of them, and, if so, which."

"Lily! How can you ask me such a question? Have I not just been

telling you that there is only one man in the world for me, henceforth

and for ever, and that his name is Charlie?"

"Exactly. Only last week you told me precisely the same story, and his

name was Jim, while about a fortnight ago, it was Norman."

My dearest mamma, you see I am making a clean breast of everything to

you. I own, quite candidly, that since I have been here I have not

behaved precisely as I might have done, and, indeed, ought to have

done. I do not know how it is, I meant to be good; I am sure that

nothing could have been better than my resolutions. I had no idea that

they could have been so easily broken. It only shows, after all, how

fragile we are. I felt that, strange and sad though it seems, Lily was

not wholly unjust. I got up from my chair, and I knelt at her feet,

and I pillowed my head in her lap and I cried:

"Oh, Lily, I've been so wicked! You can't think how sorry I am, now

that it's too late. I wish you'd help me, and tell me what I ought to

do."

"I'm a bit of a dab at a cry myself," she said. "So, if you take my

advice, to begin with, you'll literally dry up."

Was it not unkind? And was it not vulgar? But I sometimes think that

Lily's heart is like the nether millstone--so hard, you know. She went

on:

"If you do mean business with Charlie, and you do want my advice,

you'll just tell him everything you have been doing, and leave the

solution of the situation to him."

I made up my mind there and then that that was exactly what

I would do. I resolved that I would have no secrets from my

husband--particularly as he would be sure to be told them by

unfriendly lips if he did not learn them from mine. Besides, in such

matters, a man is so much more generous, and so much more sympathetic

than a woman--especially the man. Nor does he value you any the less

because he finds that someone else happens to value you a little too.

So, directly Lily had gone I let my hair down, and I put on my light

blue dressing-jacket and a touch of powder, and I waited. Presently I

heard steps coming along the passage. I opened the door. Sure enough

it was Charlie, just going to bed. At sight of me he started. I was

conscious that I was, perhaps, acting with some imprudence. But I

could not help it. My entire happiness was at stake. You know, dear

mamma, that I do look nice in that pretty dressing-jacket, with my

hair, not at all untidy, but simply let down. You yourself have told

me that, in every sense of the word, I look so young. He held out his

hands to me--under a misapprehension. I shrank back.

"Mr. Mason," I began very softly, with, in my voice, a sort of sob, "I

could not rest until I had told you all that has passed between us

to-night must be considered as unsaid."

He started as if I had struck him. I could see that his face went

white.

"Miss Whitby! May! What do you mean?" He seemed to gasp for breath.

"After all, it is only natural that you should not love a great

hulking idiot such as I am."

"You are mistaken. You are not a great hulking idiot. And I do love

you. I shall never love anyone but you. It is you who will not love me

when you have heard all I have to say."

"What nonsense are you talking?"

Again he held out his arms to me. And again I shrank away.

"It is not nonsense. I wish it were. So far is it from being nonsense

that I felt that I could not be at peace until my conscience was

unburdened." I paused. I felt the crucial moment was arriving. My

voice sank lower. "Someone else was staying here before you came."

"Yes, I know; Lily told me--a man named Pentland."

"Oh, Lily told you so much, did she? Did Lily also tell you that the

man named Pentland had bad taste enough to fancy that he had fallen in

love with me?"

"Bad taste, you call it. I know nothing about the man, but there,

evidently, can be no sort of doubt about his perfect taste."

"But, Charlie--I mean, Mr. Mason."

"You don't--you mean Charlie."

Dear mamma, once more I sighed. I perceived that it would have to be.

Some men are so dictatorial.

"The worst of it is that he worried and worried me so--I was staying

in the same house, and couldn't get away from him, you see--that he

made me almost think I cared for him. But now you have come, and made

me see what a mistake it was."

"My little love."

For the third time he held out his arms to me. And, this time, he took

me in them. I could not find it in my heart to resist him any longer;

it might be the last time he would ever hold me there. I continued my

remarks with my head not very far away from his waistcoat. He smoothed

my hair, very softly, with his great right hand.

"Unfortunately, I am not at all sure that Captain Pentland does not

think that, in a sort of way, I am engaged to him. Oh, Charlie,

whatever shall I do?"

"Tell him the truth. Say that you're sorry for him, poor chap, but

even the best regulated girls will make mistakes. I'm the mistake

you've made."

I was silent. Then I whispered:

"Will you forgive me?"

"It strikes me that it is I who ought to ask you to forgive me--for

not having been the first to come upon the scene."

This was throwing a new light upon the subject. It had not occurred to

me to look at it from that point of view before. But I had not come to

the end of my confessions. Dear mamma, how careful we women ought

to be! It is these crises in our lives which make us feel what

short-sighted mortals we actually are.

"Before Captain Pentland came"--I was pulling at one of the buttons on

his waistcoat as I spoke, and I realised what a big heart Charlie's

must be, if it was at all in proportion to his chest--"another friend

of Lily's was stopping in the house."

"Ye-es."

I could not help but be conscious of a certain hesitation in his

pronunciation of the word.

"His name was Eliot."

"Well?"

There had been a moment's silence before he spoke. And, when he had

spoken, there ensued a portentous pause. I hid my face still more from

his examining gaze. My voice seemed almost to die away.

"He, also, professed to bestow on me the gift of his affection."

"The devil he did!"

Yes, mamma, that was precisely what he said. It made me shiver. But he

was sorry as soon as the words had passed his lips.

"Forgive me! I didn't mean it! After all, it is only to be expected

that every man who sees you will fall in love with you at sight."

I wondered if he would talk to me like that in years to come. Do

husbands of ten years' standing say such things unto their wives? Oh,

how ashamed of myself I felt as I thought of what I still had to

admit! Dear mamma, I will try hard never again to do what my

conscience tells me is not right. If only we would always listen to

the still small voice which seeks to guide us!

"Charlie, you have no notion how foolish I have been! Until you came I

had no proper conception of the actualities of existence. Mr. Eliot

caused me to confuse the issues just as Captain Pentland did."

He held me out a little way in front of him, trying to look into my

face. I was careful not to let him see too much of it. I hung down my

head with what, I do hope, mamma, was proper penitence.

"Let me know, clearly, where we are, little girl. Am I to understand

you to say that both these men asked you to marry them?"

"I am afraid, Charlie, that you are to understand something of the

kind."

"And that you gave both of them encouragement?"

I looked up at him--such a look, mamma! My eyes were swimming in

tears. I knew he would not tell me to "dry up." My heart seemed to be

rising to my lips.

"Not real encouragement. I never gave anyone real encouragement,

Charlie, till I knew you. Even in your case I fear I ought to have

been more reticent. But you cannot have the least idea of what a wide

world of love you seem to have opened out to me. Won't you forgive me

for encouraging you?"

Dear mamma, he collapsed. Of what took place during the moments which

immediately followed. I can give you no definite description. I know I

began to think that the end of the world had come. When he had quite

finished, he said:

"Look here, young lady, what is past is past. We will make no further

allusions to what took place before the war. But, in the future,

perhaps you will kindly manage not, as you put it, to confuse the

issues, but will continue to confine yourself to encouraging me."

Was it not noble of him? And so sweet! I am persuaded that his

character is one of singular beauty.

Dear mamma, the passages which ensued were too sacred even for your

dear eyes. When he left me I felt certain it was to dream of him. I

know that, all night long, I dreamt of him. And, on my knees, beside

my bed, I registered a vow that, in the time to come, I will be as

good as I possibly can.

Do not forget the shoes, and the stockings, and the chocolates! And do

give Tom his ring! I am registering this letter, so you are sure to

get it safe.

I will bring, or send, Charlie to you, on approval, whenever you

please.

I am, my dearest mamma,

Your ever loving daughter,

MAY.

AUNT JANE'S JALAP.

CHAPTER I.

BEFORE TAKING.

"There's a fortune in it!"

"For the bottlemakers."

"If for them, then what for us? We shan't want more bottles than we

can sell. Besides, we can make our own bottles if it comes to that.

Cost of bottle, contents, cork, label, and all, one penny. Selling

price, eightpence. Sale, at a moderate estimate, one million bottles a

year. How does that figure for a profit?"

"It figures nicely. But give me facts. How long do you suppose it will

take us to reach that sale?"

"No time. The name will sell it! 'Aunt Jane's Jalap!' There isn't an

old woman in England who, seeing those words staring her in the face,

won't press a longing hand to her inside."

"Outside, I presume, you mean. But no matter."

Hughes placed the bottle on the table. He looked at it with loving

eyes. Then he shook his head.

"There's only one thing we want."

"Customers?"

"Testimonials! There's something in it. I know there is."

"Not much, perhaps, but still something."

"That bottle, sir, contains a remedy for all known diseases, and all

unknown ones, for all that I can tell. In fact, I have a suspicion

that it is to the unknown diseases that it will come as the greatest

blessing. Patent medicines generally do. Those mysterious maladies

which, up to the advent of 'Aunt Jane's Jalap,' have baffled all the

resources of medical science. Give me a day or two and I will prove

it. I will bring you testimonials which will make your hair stand up

on end, and--" He paused, looking me fixedly in the face--"all

genuine."

That evening I had a small dinner-party. It was rather an occasion.

The suggestion, I am bound to admit, had come from Margaret.

"My dear George, it's the easiest thing in the world, and you could do

it nicely! Why don't you ask us to dinner? Aunt and I, and old Pybus

to round it off." Square it off, I suspect she meant, because, of

course, that would make four with me. But I didn't correct her. "And

then you and I could look over the house together--after dinner."

So I asked them. And they came. Old Pybus said he would be delighted.

I don't care for Pybus myself, but Mrs. Chalmers does, and this was an

occasion on which her taste had to be consulted rather than mine. And

during dinner I began on "Aunt Jane's Jalap."

"Well, it's all settled with Hughes."

I addressed myself to Margaret.

"What about?"

"'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

Mrs. Chalmers put down her spoon. This was while the soup was on.

"'Aunt Jane's Jalap!' Whatever's that?"

"The new patent medicine--the coming boom. You must know that my

friend Francis Hughes has a wonderful old nurse, and this wonderful

old nurse has the most wonderful medicine, which she used to

administer to all her charges. Hughes has obtained the receipt from

her."

"How much did he give her for it? Half-a-crown?"

I crushed Pybus.

"That is a private matter, but _rather_ more than half-a-crown."

As a plain statement of fact he hadn't given her anything as yet. But,

of course, we should both of us see that she made a good thing of it

when the sale got up.

"I need scarcely observe what fortunes have been made in patent

medicines."

"And lost in them, my boy."

This was just like Pybus--but I let it pass.

"Millions, literally millions, have been made, and, I may safely say,

that none of them can compare with 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

"Have you tried the stuff upon yourself?"

"No, Pybus, I have not. I am ready at any time to try it upon you.

Well, Hughes has supplied the medicine, and I am going to supply part

of the capital."

"What part?"

"That is another private matter, Pybus. Sufficient, I trust, to bring

the matter before the public eye."

"Don't you think the name is rather a funny one?--'Aunt Jane's

Jalap!'"

This was hard, coming from Margaret.

"My dear Margaret, the name is half the battle. Hughes thinks it's a

splendid one."

"But don't you think it makes one think of indigestion?"

"That's exactly what it's meant to do."

"Before, or afterwards?"

This, of course, was Pybus.

"Let those laugh who win. Wait till you see the name blazoned on every

dead wall. Then you'll welcome 'Aunt Jane's Jalap' as a friend."

That dinner, I confess, was a little patent mediciney. More than once

I rather wished that I had kept the subject out of it. Pybus told some

pleasant and characteristic anecdotes about injurious effects of

patent medicines. How he had known whole families killed by taking

them. How more than half the infant mortality of Great Britain was

owing to their unrestricted sale. How the habit of taking patent

medicines was worse than the habit of dram drinking, and the why, and

the wherefore, and so on. I could not, at my own table, take the man

by the scruff of the neck and drop him from the first floor window.

But I know that Margaret didn't like it--and I didn't either. Mrs.

Chalmers seemed undecided. She herself swears by some noxious

compound, which is absurdly named "Daddy's Delight," and which I know,

by the mere smell of it, is nothing else but poison.

"Have you any of the stuff in the house?" she asked.

"I have a bottle of 'Aunt Jane's Jalap,' which is not stuff, my dear

Mrs. Chalmers, but a most invaluable medicine. Hughes brought it this

afternoon as a sample."

"Trot it out," said Pybus.

Pybus is fifty-five, if he is a day, but he uses the slang of a

schoolboy. I was not going to act on such a hint as that, but when

Mrs. Chalmers expressed a wish to look at it I fetched the bottle. It

was a small black bottle, such as is used for "samples" of wines,

about quarter-bottle size. I held it in my hand.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.' It is a name

which I trust will soon be familiar in your mouths as household words.

This, however, is its first appearance on the scene, and I propose, to

mark the importance of the occasion, that we drink to its success. I

propose, ladies and gentlemen, that we drink to 'Aunt Jane's Jalap'

_in_ 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.' Brooks, bring four claret glasses."

I drew the cork.

"George, you don't mean that we're to drink the stuff?"

"I do, my dear Margaret, why not? The dose is a wine-glassful, to be

taken immediately after meals. Mrs. Chalmers, allow me to offer you a

glass of 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

She sniffed at it.

"It has a very disagreeable smell."

That was good. I protest that I have smelt "Daddy's Delight" when I

was passing the house, and took it--till I knew better--for drains.

"Margaret, a glass of 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

"But, George, I assure you that I never do take medicine."

"Some people's wine is no better than medicine. We drink that, and

pretend we like it. Why not jalap?"

This was Pybus! As he had just before been making insinuations about

my wine, the allusion was pointed. But the man's proverbial.

"No heeltraps--'Aunt Jane's Jalap'--with the honours!"

We all stood up. I drained my glass. I immediately wished I hadn't.

The others drained their glasses. I saw they wished they hadn't too. I

do not think I ever tasted anything quite so nasty. I wished I had

sampled it before. As it was, it took me by surprise, so much by

surprise that my first impulse was to fly for shelter. It was

like--well, the taste was really so exceedingly disagreeable that

comparison fails me.

"It is a case of kill or cure," observed Pybus, with the most

extraordinary expression of countenance I ever saw. "The man who takes

much of that stuff will be killed if he isn't cured. Death for me,

rather than 'Aunt Jane's Jalap'--if it _is_ jalap."

"It is rather pungent," I owned.

"I don't know about pungent," continued Pybus, who certainly seemed to

be suffering; "but with ice pudding it's a failure."

"Never," declared Mrs. Chalmers, who was leaning back in her chair,

and had her handkerchief in her hand, "never did I taste anything like

it! Never! and after dinner, too!"

Margaret's feelings seemed for the moment to be too strong for speech.

I perceived the thing had been a failure. Still, I endeavoured to pass

it off, which was difficult, for I myself felt really ill.

"Ah! it is to the after effects we must look forward."

"It is the after effects I'm thinking of," said Pybus.

That was almost more than I could bear; it was the after effects I was

thinking of as well.

"Come, let's adjourn and have a little music."

"Have we finished the bottle of jalap?" inquired Pybus.

"I really must apologise; I confess I had no idea what a peculiar

taste it had; it certainly is peculiar." Mrs. Chalmers put her

handkerchief up to her eyes.

"And after dinner, too!"

We accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, as well as we could.

Pybus went with Mrs. Chalmers, I took Margaret. As we went I whispered

in her ear:

"Now, you and I can look over the house together."

"I am afraid, George, you must excuse me. I--I couldn't walk about

just yet. Do take me to a chair!"

We had planned that we would examine the house together from attic to

basement; indeed, the whole affair had been got up for that express

purpose. Everything was in apple-pie order and ready for inspection.

The servants were on the tiptoe of expectation. As we went, Margaret

was to make suggestions for alterations which would fit the house for

its mistress. And opportunities might arise for a little confidential

intercourse. But, of course, I could not drag the girl about the place

against her will. Love works wonders. But there _are_ circumstances

which prove too strong.

The atmosphere of the drawing-room was depressing. It was no use my

talking to Margaret, because she wouldn't talk to me. And general

conversation seemed out of the question. So I tried another line.

"Pybus, give us a song." (Pybus thinks he can sing. He may have been

able to--once.) "Here's 'Drink to me only.' That's a favourite of

yours." (You should hear him sing it.) "Margaret will play the

accompaniment."

"Lucas," he said, "Do you think, by any chance, that dose of jalap was

too strong? I ask the question because I remember, when I was a boy,

hearing of a family being poisoned by an overdose of jalap. In their

case they took it by mistake. Though, judging from the taste of your

jalap, I can't see how that could be. Still, if there is likely to be

any danger it is as well that we should be prepared for it."

"Margaret," murmured Mrs. Chalmers, "let's go home."

"Why, aunt? It will pass off in time."

In time! At that moment I heartily wished that Hughes had been at

Jericho before he induced me to dabble in his patent medicines. I

always did hate them, even as a child.

"It is quite impossible," continued Pybus, "that the sensations which

I am now experiencing are the ordinary and natural outcome of a dose

of jalap."

"Margaret," groaned Mrs. Chalmers, "I insist upon your coming home."

"Aunt, what is the use of going home?"

"You haven't got a book in the house, Lucas, treating of poisons?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Pybus. It really is unfair. I

quite perceive that I made a mistake in administering the dose after

dinner; in fact, I am myself inclined to believe that I misunderstood

Hughes, and that the dose ought to be administered before a meal."

"Good God!"

"Pybus!"

"I can't help it. I really cannot help it, sir. The idea of a

reasonable person voluntarily swallowing such a concoction as that

before his dinner is enough to make any man profane!"

"I don't think, Mr. Lucas," murmured Mrs. Chalmers, "that you have the

least idea how ill I feel."

"My dear Mrs. Chalmers, if--if there is anything I can do for you."

"Yes," said Pybus, "another bottle."

CHAPTER II

AFTER TAKING.

Just then Brooks came in.

"Mr. Hughes, sir, wishes to speak to you."

"Excuse me one moment--I'll be back directly."

I found Hughes waiting for me in my snuggery.

"Sorry to interrupt you, old man, but I just called in to prevent

accidents."

"What do you mean?"

"You know that bottle I brought you this afternoon. I thought it was

'Aunt Jane's Jalap,' but it isn't. I found it out directly I got home.

You see, I keep all sorts of bottles in my cupboard--regular chemist's

shop!--and I caught hold of the wrong one by mistake."

"Not 'Aunt Jane's Jalap!'"

"No, it's laudanum."

"Laudanum? Hughes!"

"The fact is--Lucas!--What's the matter?--You don't mean to say you

have been drinking some?"

"Is--is it poison?"

"Poison!--Why, it's pure laudanum!"

"Would--would a wineglassful do any harm?"

"A wineglassful! Lucas, old man, don't say you've drank a

wineglassful!"

"We all have."

"All have!"

"Margaret, and Mrs. Chalmers, and Pybus.

"Great powers!"

"We--we thought it was 'Aunt Jane's Jalap,' and we drank to its

success."

"Are they dead?"

"Dead! Hughes!"

"How long ago is it since they took it?"

"Not long. After dinner."

"But--a wineglassful! Are they conscious?"

"They were when I just now left them. But they weren't feeling well.

I--I'm not either. We couldn't understand it. This--this explains it.

Hughes, you--you've murdered us!"

"Never mind, old man. Keep your head; I'll pull you through. Trust all

to me. The great thing in a case like this is to keep your head. Don't

sit down; keep yourself in constant circulation! Just one second!

Brooks! Brooks! Run, Brooks, to the nearest doctor, and then to

half-a-dozen others, and tell them there's a case of laudanum

poisoning, and they're to come at once."

"Laudanum poisoning, sir! What, in the house?"

"Yes, in the house. Don't stand there like a pig in a fit. It's a

question of life or death!"

"One moment, sir, while I get my hat."

"Go without your hat. Here; take mine. Now, run for your life.

Remember, if anything happens through you, you will be held

responsible in the eyes of the law. Come along, Lucas, let's go in to

them. Keep yourself awake, old man; jump about. Don't say a word to

them about what has happened. Don't let them even suspect from your

manner that anything is wrong. The great thing is to keep them in

entire ignorance. And keep cool--keep cool."

He gave a jerk at my arm which almost pulled me forward on my face.

"I say, Hughes, don't!"

"But I must, old man, I must. I must keep you alive, at any cost. Oh,

Lucas, old man, if anything should happen---- But I won't talk like

that, or I shall make a fool of myself. Come along, old man, and mind

what I say. Keep cool."

We went along--that is to say, he took me by the arm and dragged me

towards the drawing-room. My emotions I am unable to describe. I

always think that when a man is able to describe his emotions he

hasn't had any worth describing. But through it all I had a dim

perception that, in spite of his repeated adjurations, Hughes himself

kept anything but cool. Outside the drawing-room door I brought the

procession to a standstill. I gripped his arm.

"Hughes, do you think that she will die?"

"Who?"

"Margaret."

"Nonsense! Don't I tell you no one's going to die? For goodness' sake

don't talk like that. Don't I keep telling you to keep cool?"

He did. But it was scarcely with an air of coolness that he threw the

door wide open, and with so much force that it seemed as if he were

trying to wrench it from its hinges. I fancy our entry made a slight

sensation. It was strange if it didn't. They were certainly not

unconscious--yet! Even amidst my own agitation it was with quite a

sensation of relief that I perceived so much. Mrs. Chalmers was

reclining on the couch, with her head thrown back, and a look about

her which I did not like. Margaret was on a settee, seeming as though

the proceedings had lost all interest for her. Pybus sat in an arm

chair, his hands crossed upon his stomach.

"Good evening," said Hughes. I could see he did not like the look of

things. "I--I've just dropped in."

Pybus rose.

"I'm just dropping out. Good evening, Lucas. I have to thank you for a

very pleasant evening. I'll send you the doctor's bill when I get it."

Hughes looked at me, then at Pybus.

"You're not going, Mr. Pybus?"

"Do you wish me to be ill here?"

"But I was looking forward to a song, or a dance, or something."

"Dance! I feel like dancing; and singing, too. I've been the victim of

an outrage, Mr. Hughes. I've been introduced to 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

"I've heard of it. Lucas ought not to have given it you."

"And after dinner!"

This was a murmur from the couch.

"That was wrong--quite wrong. The dose should have been administered

before the meal."

"In that case," I observed, a little nettled, "we should all of us

been dead by now."

Pybus glanced at me sharply.

"Dead! What do you mean?"

Hughes turned on me in a rage.

"Yes. What do you mean?"

I felt I had made a mistake.

"I--I mean nothing. Only--only I think Hughes was as much to blame as

I was."

Hughes took Pybus away. They went to Mrs. Chalmers. So far as I could

judge, the lady was rapidly sinking into a lethargic condition. I

remained standing where I was. I began gradually to realise my

situation--the approaching tragedy in which, by fate or circumstance,

I was cast as an actor. A strange leaden feeling seemed to be stealing

over me, but, in spite of it, I began to understand that at any moment

the drawing-room, this drawing-room, my drawing-room, might be strewed

with corpses. I knew nothing of the effects of laudanum poisoning, but

Hughes seemed to be surprised that we were not all of us dead already.

Here was Margaret, the woman I loved best in all the world, upon my

right. There was her aunt, for whom, I own, my love was less, upon the

couch. There was old Pybus. That old man's blood was also on my hands.

What would they call me? A suicide? The irony! In the full flush of

health and strength, with fortune, all the world before me, and a

wife. A wife whom I loved with a great fulness of love which was quite

old-fashioned. I had wrought this hecatomb. I felt impelled to scream

aloud. To warn my victims of the frightful fate which was stealing

fast upon them, and of which they were still unconscious.

Someone touched me on the arm. I turned. It was Margaret!

"George, what is the matter?"

"Margaret!"

My voice trembled. There was a choking in my throat. I wished to take

her in my arms before them all. It might be a last embrace.

"George, tell me, what is wrong?"

I made an effort to pull myself together.

"Oh! there's nothing wrong. I--I'm only a bit upset."

She put her arm through mine. She led me across the room. I required

leading. She drew me into an alcove, which was formed by a window bay.

"Now, George, tell me what is wrong. I know there is something wrong.

Tell me what it is."

I was at a loss for words. I trifled with her.

"Margaret! What do you mean?"

"George, was"--her voice sank to a whisper--"was there anything wrong

about that stuff you gave us?"

What could I say to her?

"It--it was a mistake drinking it after dinner."

"Is that all? Was it the right stuff, George?"

"It--it was the stuff Hughes gave me."

"You are trifling with me? I know that there is something wrong. I can

see it in your manner and in Mr. Hughes's. See how strangely Mr.

Hughes is behaving now."

I peeped round the corner. Hughes was behaving strangely. He was

frantically urging Mrs. Chalmers to stand up and dance, though anyone

looking less like dancing than she did I never saw. He was evidently

forgetting his own axiom--keep cool. A curious qualm came over me.

Almost without knowing it I leaned for support against the wall.

"George! What is the matter? You are ill."

Margaret's eager face looked into mine.

"It will be all right in a minute."

"It won't! I know it won't! Tell me what it is. There was something

the matter with that stuff you gave us. I knew it directly I had

swallowed it. Do you think I am a coward? Do you think I am afraid?

But it is only fair that you should tell me. If you won't tell me,

George, I will go to Mr. Hughes and insist upon his telling me."

"Don't, Margaret. The doctor will be here directly."

"The doctor?" She drew herself straight up. A strange look came into

her eyes.

She spoke almost in a whisper. "What is the doctor coming for?"

"Hughes thought that he had better come."

"Is it so bad as that? George, what was that stuff you gave us?"

"I have not said that it was anything. The--the dose was too strong."

"Was it poison?"

"Margaret!"

I took her two hands in mine. She came into my arms. I held her to my

breast.

"Was it poison? If you love me half as much as I love you you will

tell me, George."

"Margaret!"

"What poison was it?"

"Laudanum!"

She drew herself away from me. She looked at me with her great wide

open eyes. Then her eyes were closed. Before I had the least suspicion

of what was going to happen she had fallen to the ground. I knelt

beside her.

"Margaret!" I cried. I cried to her in vain. I was seized with a great

horror. "She is dead!" I exclaimed.

Hughes came running forward. I almost sprang at him.

"You have killed her!"

"Don't be an idiot, Lucas! She _can't_ be dead!"

"She is dead. And it is your work. For the matter of that, all our

blood is upon your head. But we shall not die alone. You shall come,

too, my friend."