"If you don't take your hands away, Lucas, I shall have to do you a

mischief."

"Mr. Lucas! Mr. Hughes! Have you both of you gone mad? Are you aware

that there are ladies present?"

The interference came from Pybus. He dragged us asunder. He showed

more presence of mind, and more coolness, too, than I had credited him

with. He was a great deal calmer than either Lucas or I.

"What is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour? And what is the

matter with Miss Hammond?"

"He has killed her."

"Who has killed her?"

"That scamp; with his infernal negligence."

"I don't in the least understand you. And I think that instead of

wrangling here your attentions were better bestowed upon Miss

Hammond."

I threw myself at her side. I was like a man distraught in the

whirlwind of conflicting emotions which came sweeping over me.

"My darling! Oh, my darling! I shall soon be with you. Already the

poison is stealing through my veins. May my end be as rapid as was

yours. Why doesn't the doctor come? I don't believe that you have sent

for him. Go and fetch him."

Again I sprang at Hughes. And again Pybus interposed.

"Mr. Lucas, may I ask for an explanation of your singular conduct? Has

Miss Hammond fainted?"

"Fainted! He has poisoned her!"

"Poisoned her!"

"Yes, and you and me and all of us! We all, like her, are doomed to

die."

"Mr. Lucas!"

"Lucas, you're--you're mad, you know."

This was Hughes. But a piercing scream came from the couch.

"I knew that I was poisoned!"

Mrs. Chalmers might know that she was poisoned, but that was no reason

why, on the strength of her knowledge, she should develope violent

hysterics, which she immediately did. I had never seen so much of the

man in Pybus as he showed just then. He gave one look at Mrs.

Chalmers, and then he turned to Hughes.

"Mr. Hughes, will you be so good as to tell me if there is any meaning

in Mr. Lucas's words?"

Hughes was ghastly white.

"The great point is to bring Miss Hammond back to life again. While we

are talking here she may be dying at our feet. I appeal to your

manhood, Mr. Pybus, to help me bring her back to consciousness."

Hughes knelt down by Margaret. Pybus turned to me.

"What does he mean?" he said.

I did not answer. I knelt down by Hughes. He had my darling's hand in

his. I saw that he was putting great restraint upon himself. Beads of

perspiration were on his brow.

"She is not dead," he stammered. "She is in a faint or something. At

any cost we must bring her back to consciousness. Be a man, Lucas, and

help me. Her life should be even more precious to you than to me."

"Don't talk like that, Hughes. Don't you see that I am nearly mad

already? What can I do?"

"Help me to raise her."

Between us we raised her to a perpendicular position.

"Mr. Pybus, can I trouble you to order some brandy? Stay, she is

coming back to life again!"

She was. She sighed. She opened her eyes, as if she were waking out of

sleep. She turned to me.

"George!"

"My darling!"

I caught her in my arms. I held her to my breast. What mattered it if

there were others there? We were standing by an open grave!

"I do so love you, George!"

She was dreaming. She thought we were alone.

"Margaret!"

I kissed her. Something caused her to look round. There was old Pybus

standing at her side. She drew herself away from me. She blushed a

rosy red; then her glance travelled round the room. She pressed her

hands against her bosom. A startled look came into her eyes.

"Then--it wasn't all a dream."

Hughes slipped his arm through hers.

"Miss Hammond, I must insist upon your taking exercise. Take a sharp

turn or two round the room with me. Lucas, I wish you'd sit down and

play us a dance. Or, better still, let me sit down and play, and you

and Miss Hammond take a few turns together. Mr. Pybus, you must dance

with Mrs. Chalmers. A flyaway gallop, or a rattling polka. They're

better than valses."

There was a remarkable expression upon old Pybus's enamelled

countenance. So far as that goes, I expect there was on mine--but, as

to that, no matter.

"Might I ask, once more, for an explanation of these very singular

proceedings?"

"I warn you, Mr. Pybus, that if you do not dance with Mrs. Chalmers,

you must be responsible for the consequences, both as they regard

yourself and the lady."

Pybus's eyes wandered from Hughes to Mrs. Chalmers. The lady was

making noise enough for ten. She did not strike the imagination as

being a promising partner for a dance. So Pybus seemed to think.

Hughes struck up, "You should see me dance the polka," playing it at

the rate of about sixty miles an hour. Margaret looked at me.

"Are you and I to dance? Why dance?"

I shook my head.

"Hughes," I said, "I can't."

"You must, man, you must! Are you mad?"

"I can't."

I couldn't. A numbness seemed to be settling on my brain. My legs

refused to support me. I sank into a chair. Margaret hesitated for

just one second. I could see her trembling. Then she sat on the ground

close to my feet. She leaned her arm upon my knee. Her face was turned

towards mine.

"Nor can I. If we must die, George, let us die together; but not

dancing."

"What on earth," inquired Pybus, "is all this talk of dying, Mr.

Hughes? I insist upon an answer, sir."

In a sort of fury Hughes leaped from the music-stool.

"And I insist, Mr. Pybus, upon your dancing with Mrs. Chalmers. I warn

you that if you don't you will be morally guilty, not only of murder,

but of suicide." He turned to me. "As for you--are you a man? Do you

think that it is your life only which is hanging in the balance? I

tell you that the only hope for Miss Hammond is to keep her

circulating. Do that, and I will answer for it with my own life, that

all will yet be well."

"Come, while I can, let me keep you circulating, Maggie!"

It was not often that I called my "rare, pale Margaret" Maggie. But,

at that master moment of our lives, I felt that the endearing name was

best. She rose, my darling. I put my arm about her waist.

"George, whatever you think it best."

"That's better," said Hughes.

"Now let me see you go it. Give her fits, my boy."

Again he dashed into Mr. Grossmith's popular air. I never heard it

played at such a rate before. Possibly with a view of raising our

spirits, he shouted out the chorus in a tone of voice which must have

been audible quite two streets away. It was deafening!

You should see me dance the polka,

You should see me cover the ground;

You should see my coat-tails flying--

My coat-tails were anything but flying. We made no attempt at keeping

time with Hughes. Under the most favourable circumstances the thing

would have been impossible. We moved, Margaret and I, as if we were

treading a funeral measure. My legs were going at the knees. I felt

her frail frame quivering in my arms.

"Now, then, Pybus," shouted Hughes, "off you go with Mrs. Chalmers.

Don't ask her; make her. Pull her off the couch and jump her about!"

Pybus appeared to be endeavouring to persuade Mrs. Chalmers to join

him in the mazy dance. The lady had suddenly become still, which, for

some reasons, the chief one being the noise which Hughes was making,

was perhaps as well.

"How can I pull her off the couch," answered Pybus, "when she's in a

fit, or dead, or something?"

Up jumped Hughes.

"Keep going, you two! Don't stop for a single instant. Lucas,

everything depends upon your keeping Miss Hammond circulating."

"I can't," I said.

"Nor can I," said Margaret.

The utterances were almost simultaneous. Simultaneously we sank into

an ottoman.

"Mrs. Chalmers! Mrs. Chalmers!" shouted Hughes, "Pybus, help me to

lift her off the couch. Now, then, you two, what have you stopped

for?"

He turned to Margaret and me. Something in our faces or in our

attitudes appeared to frighten him. He ran to the door yelling in a

manner which absolutely frightened me.

"Brooks! Brooks! Oh, my God, why doesn't the doctor come?"

CHAPTER III.

DOCTORS TO THE RESCUE!

Just as he reached the door it was opened. A very tall, and very

stout, old gentleman entered. He had a black bag in his hand. But he

did not seem to be the least in a hurry.

"Good evening. I trust there is nothing serious the matter."

I suppose that in the agitated state of his nervous system, the

stranger's sudden appearance took Hughes by surprise. He stared at him

as though he were a ghost.

"Are--are you the doctor?"

"I am the doctor--Dr. Goldsmith."

I had already recognised him as the doctor who lived at the corner of

the square. Although I had not the pleasure of his personal

acquaintance, I had more than once wondered why he did not try

Banting. Leaving off sugar, and butter, and milk, and trying a piece

of lemon in your tea, is an excellent method of reducing the flesh. He

looked round the room, and bowed--a little vaguely. Then he said,

addressing Hughes, whom he apparently took to be the master of the

house, "Where is the patient?"

"They're--they're all patients."

This answer seemed to cause the doctor to experience a slight sense of

mystification. He placed a pair of gold glasses upon the bridge of his

nose. He cast another glance around the room.

"All patients?"

Pybus came forward. Pybus knows everyone.

"How are you, Dr. Goldsmith?"

"How are you, Mr. Pybus? Charmed to see you."

"Whether I am charmed to see you remains to be seen. May I ask--and

don't think it's an impertinent question--what you have come for?"

"Come for? I----" The doctor threw a glance of interrogation towards

Hughes. "I--someone came to my house and said that I was wanted for a

case of----"

Old Pybus laid his hand upon the doctor's arm.

"Case of what?"

"A case of laudanum poisoning."

"Laudanum poisoning!"

"I understood that it was a----" The doctor ceased. Pybus's face had

assumed a very singular hue. "I--I hope that I have said nothing----"

"No, you have said nothing. Laudanum poisoning?" He turned to Hughes.

"So that is it." And then to me. "So that was 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'

It's--it's rather hard--that a man of my years--should--die

of--jalap."

Pybus took a seat. The doctor stared at him.

"Mr. Pybus, I hope that nothing is the matter."

"Nothing, only--I'm the man--that's poisoned."

"You!"

"Me, Sam Pybus. I've been dining with a man, who asked me to meet--his

girl--and smooth the tabby--and he gives me--jalap, which is another

name for laudanum."

The doctor seemed bewildered.

"I am afraid I don't understand."

Hughes endeavoured to explain. He was suffering as much as either of

us. The words fell from his stammering lips.

"What Mr. Pybus says is correct. There's been a mistake."

"Yes," said Pybus, "there's been a mistake."

"My friend, Lucas, thought he was giving his guests 'Aunt Jane's

Jalap,' and instead of that he was giving them--I am afraid, through

my carelessness--pure laudanum."

"Oh, it was through your carelessness, was it?" Pybus assumed towards

Hughes a little air of ferocity. But it soon disappeared. "But what

does it matter if I must die?"

"Pure laudanum!" said the doctor. "Of what strength?"

"The highest possible."

"In what quantity?"

"Enough to kill a dozen men. A bottleful."

"A bottleful of laudanum!"

The words were uttered by a newcomer--a little man who came running in

as if he ran a race. It was Dunn, another doctor, who had recently

started practice round the corner. In appearance he was a complete

contrast to Goldsmith. He was a little, wiry, hungry-looking man, who

seemed as though he never could keep still. He hurried past Pybus,

patting him on the shoulder as he went. Had Pybus been more himself he

would have resented the insult to the death.

"Come, my dear sir, keep yourself alive. That's the great secret; let

us keep our spirits up!" he paused in front of Margaret. "Now, my dear

young lady, don't we feel quite well? Just a little out of sorts.

Come, wake up!"

He actually caught Margaret by the shoulder and shook her. I don't

know what Margaret's feelings were, but if I myself had not been quite

so prostrate, I fancy that I should have let him know that he

presumed. Then he turned and shook me.

"Come, my dear sir, wake up, wake up, wake up! We must keep ourselves

awake." He wheeled round; he marched to the couch. When he saw Mrs.

Chalmers lying on it, still in a dead faint--so far as I know no one

had moved a finger to bring her round--he shook his head.

"Serious; I am afraid it's very, very serious. But we will do our

best; always do our best. Let all the servants in the house be

summoned, and let assistance be given to carry the poor dear sufferers

up to their beds."

The little man took command of everything. The servants were summoned

and they came trooping in. Several other doctors came in also. There

is no necessity to specify their number. Brooks liberally carried out

the instructions Hughes had given him. He fetched as many as he could.

There were not one or two, but several. I have their bills.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISTAKE EXPLAINED.

I will not dwell upon the dreadful details of that night. There are

scenes, not necessarily pathetic scenes, on which a curtain should be

drawn. Through it all I never once lost consciousness. I wish I had.

One need but allude to the stomach pump to draw up visions from the

vasty deep. Over such agonies let a veil be drawn. This is not an

episode of vivisection. And, afterwards, when--when a too eager

medical man, thinking the process had not gone far enough--he meant

well; it was his zeal; may he be forgiven--tried emetics, mustard and

water, and other preparations from the medical pharmacop[oe]ia--do not

let us touch upon these subjects. Never, when the sea was at its

wildest, among passengers entirely unused to the mysteries of

navigation, was ever seen the like. I still live, and I was through it

all. It is wonderful what a vigorous constitution will endure.

Mrs. Chalmers was put into my bedroom. There was nothing particular of

mine lying about, but I would rather they had put her somewhere else.

Margaret had the best guest-room, Pybus the second best, and I was put

into an apartment which had not been occupied for years. It was done

in the confusion, I suppose. Looking back, I am surprised they did not

overlook me altogether. I wish they had. And all through the night the

issue was hanging in the balance. Hamlet's question was waiting for an

answer. "To be, or not to be?" What their sufferings were--Margaret's,

her aunt's, and Pybus's--I can imagine when I let memory hark back to

my own. But none of them succumbed. And in the morning I, for one, was

able to leave my room; in fact, I insisted on doing so. Had I remained

any longer in that dreadful chamber I should certainly have died. Pale

and ghastly, with my dressing-gown wrapped round my trembling limbs, I

descended to my snuggery. I felt that I was but the wreck of what once

I was. Hughes was there--the sight of me seemed to give him pain--well

it might!--and Dr. Dunn, and Dr. Goldsmith, and a Dr. Casey. He was a

tall, thin man, with a serious manner. I always think of Dr. Casey

when I think of Mr. Stiggins. Dunn seemed in quite a cheerful frame of

mind.

"Well, that's over. With a little care, Mr. Lucas, you'll forget all

about it in a week."

Never! But I did not tell him so. And he went on:

"And this all comes of what I venture to call a trifling indiscretion.

You think it's jalap, and it's laudanum."

"Laudanum is not a thing to trifle with," said Dr. Casey.

"It certainly isn't a thing to drink in pailfuls."

As he said this, Dr. Goldsmith rattled his keys and coppers.

"Nor is it to be recommended as a liqueur with dessert--eh, Mr.

Lucas?" Dunn rubbed his hands, and grinned at me.

"The poor lady," said Dr. Casey, "whom I treated found it a very

serious matter."

This was Mrs. Chalmers.

"The sweet young thing," said Goldsmith, "for whom I did my best, did

not seem to think that the occasion was altogether a festive one," and

this was how he spoke of her.

"I dare say, Mr. Lucas," sniggered Dunn, "that you have spent far more

agreeable nights."

Dunn was the fiend who had pushed his zeal too far. And now he laughed

at me!

"Dr. Lambert," observed Dr. Casey, "who treated the other gentleman,

assured me that his patient asked him to put him out of his misery

rather than push his treatment further."

That was Pybus. I could easily believe it. Death was preferable to

Dunn's emetics.

"Now, where is the bottle which contained the cause of all the

mischief?"

The fatal bottle had been brought into my snuggery for safety. It was

handed to Dunn. He sniffed at it.

"Hum!" He sniffed again. "Hum!" He seemed surprised. "Rather--rather

an odd smell for laudanum. Smell that!"

He handed it to Goldsmith.

"Very"--sniff!--"odd"--sniff!--"indeed"--sniff. "You are sure it is

the bottle?"

There was not the slightest doubt about its being the bottle. It was

passed to Casey. He had a smell.

"This isn't laudanum," he declared.

"_Not_ laudanum!" Back it went to Dunn.

"It doesn't smell like laudanum."

"It isn't laudanum," said Goldsmith.

"Not a trace of it," said Casey.

NOT laudanum! I looked at Hughes. He looked at me. Then he staggered

towards that fatal bottle.

"Let me--let me smell it."

They let him. An extraordinary change came over his countenance as he

applied it to his nose. He staggered against the wall.

"Good--good heavens!"

What was it? Had he mistaken the poison? Was it strychnine, arsenic,

prussic acid? Would the treatment have to be gone through all over

again? For me, death rather than that.

"I see it all," cried Hughes, "I see the mistake I made. After all, it

was not the bottle I supposed. I remember now that I placed that upon

the shelf above."

"What is it?" I screamed.

"It's--it's what I thought it was."

"What you thought it was?"

"It's 'Aunt Jane's Jalap.'"

"'Aunt Jane's Jalap!'"

The words came from the three medical gentlemen in a sort of chorus.

As for me, in spite of my piteous condition, I felt inclined to tear

my hair--and Hughes's!

"I see, quite clearly, how the mistake arose. It was in this way.

There were two sample bottles of the mixture, only in one of them the

quantities were wrong. I placed it where I generally keep my

laudanum--so that I shouldn't mistake it. And when I found it missing,

of course I thought it was the laudanum which had gone."

"Was it--was it poison?"

"Not a bit of it, dear boy! The finest medicine in the world! Only in

that particular bottle there was a little too much jalap, and, taking

it on the top of such a dinner as you'd been eating, it a little upset

you--that was all."

That was all?

I thought of how those doctors had spent the night in practising on us

their dreadful arts, of their bills, and----that was all.

WILLYUM.

I had been seated in the next chair to hers for at least two minutes.

I felt that it was time to introduce myself.

"It's a fine evening."

She turned, she looked me up and down, then she looked straight in

front of her again.

"I don't know you."

But I was not to be crushed; there was something about the shape of

her that which suggested sociability.

"That is my misfortune, rather than my fault."

"I don't know nothing at all about that. I do not speak to strangers

as a rule. Sometimes there's never no knowing who they are."

I felt that I was getting on--so I went on.

"What do you think of the band?"

"It's not loud enough for me. I like a band as I can hear."

One suspected there might be occasions on which one could almost like

a band which one could not hear, but I did not say so. That broke the

ice, and the conversation drifting on to personal topics she explained

to me that she had a young man, who, so to speak, was "resting," owing

to what she called a "difference" which she had had with him. It

struck me that the tale, as she told it, contained elements of

tragedy.

"Bakers," she observed, "is what I like. I have a sister who likes

butchers. To me there's always the smell of the meat about a butcher.

But it's as you're made. The worst of bakers is, they're such a

thirsty lot."

"Possibly," I suggested, "that is in a measure owing to the nature of

their occupation."

"That may be, but still there is a limit, and when a man is always

drinking, I think it's time for him to stop."

I thought so too, but she went on:

"My young man, his name is Willyum Evans, is a baker, and him and me

have been walking out together four years come next month. So I said

to him, 'Willyum, it's my day out, Tuesday. I shall expect you to take

me somewhere.' So he said, 'I will.' So I said, 'Hyde Park Corner,

half-past ten.' I was there as the clock was striking, and a fine

scuffle I had to get there too; and, if you'll believe me, he kept me

waiting two hours and three-quarters by the clock what's over the

gatekeeper's lodge--which is longer than any gentleman ought to keep a

lady waiting, I don't care who he is. So when he did come, I was a bit

huffy.

"So I said, 'Well, Willyum, I hope I've put you to no hurry, and it's

a pity you should have troubled yourself to come at this time of day,

seeing as how I'm just off home.' So he said, and he wiped his lips,

and I could see he had had a moistener, if not more, 'It's like

this--I accidentally had an appointment, which was of the nature of

business, and which I couldn't help; and that's how it is I'm a little

behind!' 'I see,' I said, 'and it had something to do with pint pots,

I have no doubt.' So he sat down on a seat, which was wet, owing to

there being a drizzle on, and as it seemed silly for me to stand

whilst he was sitting, I sat down likewise.

"So there we sat, neither of us saying nothing, till I began to feel a

little damp, because I had my thin things on, and it was beginning to

come down heavy. So I said, 'Well, Willyum, have you forgotten it's my

day out? I thought you was going to take me somewhere.' He said, 'So I

am.' So I said, 'Where are you going to take me to? It's getting on,

and I'm likewise getting wet'--which I was. So he said, 'What do you

say to Battersea Park?' So I said, 'I say nothing. And the idea,

Willyum, of your talking about taking me to Battersea Park, when, as

you very well know, it is raining cats and dogs, is not what I

expected'-because, as he could very well see, I only had a parasol,

which was red, and the rain was coming through, and the colour coming

out. But he didn't care for the rain no more than nothing; because, as

I tell you, he being a baker, to him it was a kind of a change.

"You must know that Willyum is that near about money that I never saw

nothing like him; not that it's a bad thing in a man, though it may be

carried too far and I must say I do think Willyum do carry it too far.

He has never given me nothing which he didn't want me to pay for, not

even half a pint of beer. So I was not surprised when he said, 'The

fact is Matilda'--which is me--'I haven't got no money.' 'Well,' I

said, 'that's a nice thing, to promise to take me out, and then to

have no money.' So he said, 'If you was to pay the expenses for both

the two of us, it might make things more pleasant.' So I said, 'No, I

thank you,' because I had been had that way before, and more than

once. So I got up, and I said, 'Well, Willyum, I will now wish you a

good day; because I have been here since half-past ten, and it

is now past two, and my clothes is sticking to me, and I don't

care to stop no longer.' So he said, 'Now, Matilda, don't you get

disagreeable'--which I was beginning to feel it, and so I own. 'We

are both of us having a day out,' he said, 'and don't let no bad

tempers spoil our pleasure. I may have some money somewhere,

unbeknown to myself, so I will look and see; though I must say I do

think it hard that all the expenses should be borne by me!'

"So he begins feeling in his pockets, and, presently, he gives a kind

of a start, and he brings out half-a-crown. 'There,' he said, 'is

half-a-crown; and if you put five shillings to it, it will make it

seven and six!' 'No!' I said, 'I shall put no five shillings of mine

to no half-crown of yours, and so the least said the soonest mended.

And, if you don't mind, I will go and get myself something to eat,

being hungry, and having, I am thankful to say, money of my own with

which to pay for it.' Then he gives another kind of start, and he

says, 'There! If I didn't make a pasty for you, last night, with my

own hands, and I've been sitting on it all the time,' which he had,

and anything like the mess he'd made of it you never saw. He held it

out to me. 'No,' I said. 'I thank you. I am particular about my

vittles, and I never eat no scraps, and, still less, things what have

been sat down upon.' 'Well,' he said, 'it's a pity it should be

wasted, I'll eat it myself.' Which he did, and me standing in the rain

there looking on. That did put my back up. 'Mr. Evans,' I said, short

and sharp, 'I wish you a good day. I am going.' So I goes. And he

comes running after me, picking at the bits of pasty what was stuck to

the paper; I must say this for Willyum, that it takes a deal to get

his temper up. So I pulls up. 'Now, let us understand each other.

Willyum, if you please, are you going to pay for something for me to

eat, or are you not?' He gives himself a kind of a shake, so as to get

his courage up, and he says, 'You shall have anything you like to eat,

at my expense, Matilda, so long as the cost does not exceed'--then he

hesitated--'ninepence.' Then he gave himself another kind of shake,

which I took as a sign that his courage was running down, 'for both

the two of us.'

"That made me fairly wild it really did. To think that he had promised

to take me somewhere, and that I had been more than three hours there

in the rain, and got wet through, and my things all spoiled--which it

was a new dress I had on, what I had got special for the occasion, and

it had only come home from the dressmaker's the day before--and the

colour was coming out of my parasol--which was likewise new--and my

hair all coming out of curl, and me feeling as limp as a rag,

and starving hungry, and that he should want to put me off with

fourpence-halfpenny worth of food, drawn from him as if it were his

eye-tooth--it did make me feel really wild.

"I never said a word to him, but I walks right out of the park. He

comes running after me, and he catches hold of my arm and he says,

'Now, Matilda, what did I say just now about letting no bad tempers

spoil our pleasure?' I said, 'I don't know what your idea of pleasure

is, but it isn't mine, and as I don't want to have no more to do with

you, Mr. Evans, perhaps you will be so kind as to let me go.' But he

holds on to me all the tighter, and he says, 'I tell you what,

Matilda, a idea has just come into my head 'My brother, as you have

heard me talk about, lives close by here, we will go and dine with

him. He being a married man, and with a comfortable home, he will be

glad to see us.'

"Well, I didn't know what to do, not liking to have no quarrel with

him in the street, so off we starts for his brother's. He took me to a

mews what led out of Park Lane, and, as we was turning the corner, he

said, 'There's only this one thing about my brother, him and me has

had a little difference of opinion, and he is not of a forgiving

disposition.' So I said, 'Now, Willyum, what do you mean by that?' So

he said, 'No. 32, on the other side, is where he lives, and if you was

to go on and knock at the door, and ask for Mrs. Henry Evans, what is

my brother's wife, so to speak, it might smooth the way.' So I said,

'I do not understand you. Just now you was saying as how your brother

would be glad to see us. Are you now insinuating otherwise?' He

catches a glimpse of my eye, and he sees the kind of mood I was in,

and he plucks up, and he walks on, and he says, 'We will hope for the

best. Do not let us spoil our day's pleasure by no disagreeable

observations. There is never no knowing what might happen.' All of a

sudden he cries out, 'There is my brother! Now, Matilda, don't you let

him start hitting me.' And he jumps behind me, so as to get into the

shadow, as it were. So I says, 'Willyum, whatever is the matter now?

Your conduct do seem to me to be of the most extraordinary character.'

"And there was a great big giant of a man on the other side of the

road, washing a carriage, with a bucket of water and I don't know

what, and as I moves on one side he catches sight of Willyum, and

anything like the way in which he started swearing you never heard.

'Hollo' he says, 'there's that putty-faced brother of mine. I've been

looking for you for some time. Here's something for you, Willyum.' And

before I had no idea of what he was going to do, he catches up the

bucket of water and he throws it over Willyum, and some of it went

over me. Oh, dear me, you never saw nothing like the mess that I was

in! And he grabs hold of Willyum by the collar, and he says, 'Hang me

if I don't wipe down the street with you!' And he shouts out,

''Enrietta, here's Brother Willyum. Haven't you got anything for him?

You bet your life he's come for something.' And a window opens over

the way, and a woman puts her head out, and she empties something out

of a pail over Willyum, and again some of it went over me. Oh dear! oh

dear! And that giant of a man he set about Willyum something cruel;

and all the mews was in a uproar, and I hurried away as hard as ever I

could, I was that frightened, and I got into a cab, just as I was--and

you should have seen how the cabman stared, and drove right away to a

sister of mine what lives at Camberwell, and I nearly cried my eyes

out, and I've never spoken to Willyum nor set eyes on him since then,

which it's a fortnight the day after to-morrow, and if you had been in

my place, and had been treated as I was, would you have let things go

on as usual, just as if there hadn't been no difference?"

No, I said, I should not. I should have insisted on their going on in

quite a different kind of way.

And so I told her.

HIS FIRST EXPERIMENT.

CHAPTER I.

THE LADY.

Last winter George Pownceby spent some weeks at the Empire Hotel. One

morning he was coming along the corridor leading from the smoking-room

when he met Mrs. Pratt. The lady stopped.

"What is that you have in your hand?" she asked.

Mr. Pownceby had in his hand a slim pamphlet, in a green paper cover.

He held it up.

"I've got it!"

"No?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, I say!"

These remarks are not given here as examples of English conversation,

but with a view of presenting the reader with an accurate report of

what was spoken. There was a pause. Then the lady said, with great

solemnity:--

"You don't mean to say that it has actually come?"

"I do!" Mr. Pownceby held out the slim pamphlet at arm's length in

front of him. He pointed at it with the index-finger of his other

hand: "'How to Hypnotise. A Practical Treatise. Hints to Amateurs.

With full instructions for marvellous experiments. Price 7d. post

free, eight stamps.'"

"Oh, Mr. Pownceby, I am so sorry."

"Sorry, Mrs. Pratt! Why, it was, at your instigation I plunged to the

extent of those eight stamps."

"But you don't understand; my husband's coming; I have to meet him at

the station at 12.32." Mr. Pownceby stroked his moustache; there was

not much, but he was fond of stroking what there was of it. Mrs.

Pratt's husband had been rather a joke. People who winter in hotels

are, as a rule, quite prepared to be epigrammatic at the expense of a

pretty married woman whose husband is not in evidence. And Mrs.

Pratt's husband had not been in evidence--as yet.

"I don't quite follow you." Mr. Pownceby spoke with a little malice.

"Whence your sorrow? Because your husband is coming by the 12.32?"

"Don't you see, I want to be the first to be experimented on. I've

been waiting for that book two days, and now it just comes when I

can't stay. Don't' you think there's time? Come into my sitting-room."

They went into her sitting-room. When they were there, the lady again

assailed the gentleman with the inquiry:

"Don't you think there's time?"

"It depends. I think you're going too fast. To commence with, I've

been looking through the thing in the smoking-room, and I believe it's

a swindle."

"A swindle! Oh, don't say that."

"It's nothing but a hash of old mesmeric tricks I've seen performed at

country fairs."

"But doesn't it tell you how to do them?"

"It pretends to. It gives some ridiculous directions--but I don't

believe they can be done that way."

"Try!--do!--on me!"

Mr. Pownceby laughed. Mrs. Pratt amused him; and not for the first

time either.

"To begin with, we have to sit face to face and stare at each other

for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour."

"Come along! Let's begin."

The lady brought forward a couple of chairs and they sat down on them,

face to face; and very close together. Opening the pamphlet, Mr.

Pownceby searched for further instructions.

"You're not staring at me," remarked the lady.

"Half a minute; I'm looking for what comes next."

"What does it say? Read it aloud."

"After I've stared at you long enough----It doesn't sound civil, does

it?"

"Never mind the civility; go on!"

"'After I've stared at you long enough, you begin to feel queer.

Then'"--Mr. Pownceby read from the pamphlet, "'Place the thumb of your

left hand on the subject's forehead'--you're the subject--'just above

the nose, and level with the eyebrows.'" Mrs. Pratt placed her pretty

little hand above her pretty little nose to point out the exact spot

denoted. Mr. Pownceby read on. "'This is the locality of the

Phrenological Organ of Individuality.'"

"Is it?" said Mrs. Pratt in an awe-struck whisper. The reader

continued:

"'Rest the ends of your fingers on the top of the subject's head. At

the same time take hold of the left hand with your right hand, applying

the inside part of your thumb to the middle of the palm of the hand.'

I'm punctuating this," interpolated Mr. Pownceby, "as I go on. The man

who printed it seems to have had a fount of type containing no other

stops but commas. 'The object of this is for the operator to get in

contact with two very important nerves that pass in the palm of the

hand which are called Ulnar and Median nerves'--I don't know if that's

true, or what it means, but it says so here--'with your left hand,

still keeping the thumb on the forehead between the eyes, and the

fingers resting on the subject's head, which must be inclined slightly

back. Say, "Look into my eyes." After gazing in his eyes intently for

a few seconds, say in a loud, clear, firm tone of voice, "Close your

eyes quite tight." Let him remain a few seconds like this,'--and the

trick is done. There's a lot more nonsense to follow, but when

you've remained for a few seconds like that you're supposed to be

mesmerised, or hypnotised, or whatever they call the thing."

"Really! It sounds quite simple."

"It does--simple folly."

"Hush! You shouldn't speak like that. Perhaps, if you don't believe,

you mayn't succeed."

"It says something to that effect in these precious pages."

"Then try to believe. Let us begin."

They began. The lady was preternaturally solemn, but the gentleman was

tortured by a desire to smile. He felt that the lady might resent his

laughter. Under these circumstances the ten minutes' stare was trying.

Mrs. Pratt had sweet blue eyes, which were large and round--the sort

of eyes which the average man would not object to stare at for ten

minutes or even longer. As the appointed space of time drew to a

conclusion even Mr. Pownceby became reconciled to his lot. He placed

his left thumb on the lady's forehead above her nose.

"Is that level with my eyebrows?" she inquired. He reproved her.

"I don't think you ought to speak. You destroy the connection."

Mrs. Pratt was dumb. Mr. Pownceby proceeded in accordance with the

directions contained in the pamphlet. He rested the tips of his

fingers on the top of the lady's head. He took hold of her left hand

with his right. He applied the "inside part" of his thumb to the

centre of her palm. He said to her:

"Look into my eyes."

She looked into his eyes, her head inclined a little backwards. This

part of the proceedings was, so far as the gentleman was concerned, on

the whole agreeable. He gazed fixedly into her pretty eyes. Then he

added, in a "loud, clear, firm tone of voice":

"Close your eyes quite tight."

She closed her eyes. There was a pause for a few seconds. Remembering

the instructions contained in the pamphlet, he proceeded another step:

"You cannot open your eyes," he said. "Your eyes are fast, quite

fast."

The pamphlet had it, "Should the subject be very sensitive he will be

unable to open them." Apparently the subject, though in this case

feminine, was very sensitive. At least Mrs. Pratt kept her eyes shut

fast. Mr. Pownceby was a little startled. He removed his touch from

her brow and released her hand.

"Mrs. Pratt, are you hypnotised already?" Mrs. Pratt was silent. "Mrs.

Pratt, you don't mean you're really hypnotised?" Still silence. He

leant forward and stared at the lady, not in the same way he had done

before, but quite as fixedly. "By Jove! I believe she is!" He got up

from the chair. He glanced at the pamphlet. He wanted to know how to

reverse the process--how to bring the lady to again.

"This is a pretty state of things! The thing is not such a swindle as

I thought it was. But it's all nonsense. She can't be magnetised, or

mesmerised, or hypnotised, or whatever it is. If she is, the thing's

as easy as winking. If I'd only known it I'd have been mesmerising

people since the days of childhood. Mrs. Pratt!"

But Mrs. Pratt was silent. If she was not "hypnotised," then she was

in some condition which was equally curious. She sat back in her

chair, with her face turned up to the ceiling, in a state of the most

complete quiescence. Something in her appearance struck Mr. Pownceby

as even unpleasantly odd. He recommenced searching down the page of

the green covered pamphlet for the reversal process. It was

beautifully simple.

"In order to release him," the pamphlet said--throughout the writer

had taken it for granted that the "subject" would be masculine--"blow

a sharp, cold wind from your mouth on his eyes, and say with

authority, 'Now you can open them.' Repeat if necessary. It is

important to recollect that a cold wind blown from the operator

destroys the effect and demagnetises."

One could not but suspect that some subjects might not like this. But

its simplicity was charming. If that was all that was necessary, then,

so far as Mr. Pownceby was concerned, the whole science of hypnotism

was already mastered.

He approached Mrs. Pratt. He bent over her, devoutly hoping that no

one might enter the room as he was engaged in doing so. Quite a shock

went through him as he advanced his face towards hers, the expression

of her countenance was so very much like death. He blew a "cold wind"

on her eyes--those pretty blue eyes, whose cerulean hue he had veiled.

"Now you can open them."

The words were spoken with as much "authority" as he could muster in

the then agitated state of his mind; but Mrs. Pratt did not open them.

The pamphlet said, "Repeat if necessary." Mr. Pownceby repeated. He

blew, and he blew. He blew the "cold wind" all out of him, so that the

beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, but still the "subject"

gave no signs.

"Mrs. Pratt! Mrs. Pratt! I say, Mrs. Pratt, for heaven's sake do look

at me!"

All signs of "authority" had gone from him now. But wind and voice

alike were ineffectual. Apparently it was easier to hypnotise than to

do the other thing. In his trouble Mr. Pownceby told himself that the

writer of that pamphlet was--well, untrustworthy. Or else something

had gone wrong in the working. But what could it be? He looked at his

watch.

"Half-past twelve! I shall have her husband here directly. I imagine

that he will make some observations if he finds his wife like this."

Such a contingency was only to be expected. When a man, after long

absence from his wife, returns to find a stranger experimenting on

her, and she in a "hypnotic" condition, from which the stranger cannot

release her, his first feelings towards that stranger are not, in

civilised countries, invariably friendly. Mr. Pownceby, when he had

blown the "cold wind" all out of him, arrived at a resolution.

"I will tell Doris. I must get her to help me. It is quite certain

that, whatever happens, I mustn't let that man come and find me alone

with his wife."

It was only the dread of such a catastrophe that brought him to the

"sticking-point" of his resolution. Miss Haseltine--christened

Doris--was Mr. Pownceby's betrothed. She also was wintering in the

hotel with her mamma. Mr. Pownceby was aware, even painfully aware,

that the young lady's feelings towards Mrs. Pratt were not of the

warmest possible kind. He was equally conscious that her impression

was that his feelings were, if anything, _too_ warm. He would rather

anything had happened, almost, than that he should have been reduced

to the necessity of acquainting Miss Haseltine with the situation he

was in. But it was certainly impossible for him to allow the returning

husband to come in and find him there, alone with his wife, and she

apparently in a chronic hypnotic condition.

So he went in search of the young lady. Of course he found her where

he would have least wished to find her--in the drawing-room with the

ladies. He had to call her out, and at first she wouldn't come.

But as it would have been impossible for him to tell his tale in the

presence of a dozen sharp-eared and sharp-tongued women, he protested

that there was something of the utmost importance which he must say to

her alone. "Well, what is it?" she asked, directly he had got her

outside the door. He perceived that she was not in one of her

sentimental moods. Perhaps something in his manner had roused her

suspicions.

"Mrs. Pratt has fainted."

"Indeed? What has that to do with me? Let her faint. She looks to me

as though she were the sort of person who could faint at pleasure."

"Doris, for goodness' sake hear me out; I want your help. It's through

me she's fainted."

"Pray what do you mean?"

"It's--it's this confounded thing." Mr. Pownceby held out the slim,

green-covered pamphlet. "You know I told you I'd written for that

pamphlet, 'How to Hypnotise.' Well, the thing came this morning; here

it is! I've been experimenting on her, and I've not only hypnotised

her, but, by George, I can't get her round again."

"A pretty state of things, upon my word."

"Don't pitch into me now, Doris, don't. There she is in her

sitting-room in a fit or something; I don't know what's the matter

with her; and her husband's coming this morning."

"He is coming at last, is he?"

"I expect him every moment; he's due at 12.32."

"She seems to have told you all about it."

"She told me so much, at any rate. I know I've been an ass, I can see

that now, but lend me a hand first, and let me have it afterwards. I

was obliged to come to you. I couldn't let him find me alone with her

in such a state as that. Come and see what you can do for her, there's

a darling, do! After all, it's for me, you know, not her."

Miss Haseltine yielded so far as to advance with him along the

corridor. There was a fresh arrival when they reached the hall--a

gentleman. He was speaking to the young lady, who acted as

book-keeper, through the office window.

"My name is Pratt--Gilead J. Pratt. I believe my wife is staying

here."

Mr. Pownceby clutched Miss Haseltine's arm.

"It's he!" he whispered.

"There is a Mrs. Pratt staying here," replied the book-keeper. "Her

sitting-room is No. 13."

The new arrival was about to be ushered into No. 13, when Mr. Pownceby

interposed. He hurried across the hall and touched him on the

shoulder. "Excuse me, may I speak to you? My name is Pownceby."

The new arrival turned and faced him. As he did so Mr. Pownceby

perceived, a little dimly perhaps, what sort of a man he was. He was

of medium height, slightly built, about forty years of age, very dark,

with a clean-shaven face and a pair of keen black eyes, which looked

at Mr. Pownceby as though they meant to pierce him.

"Delighted to hear you speak, or any man, even if his name's not

Pownceby."

Directly the words were spoken Mr. Pownceby became conscious that the

new arrival was an American.

"I believe you are Mr. Pratt--Mrs. Pratt's husband."

"I am--worse luck."

"Eh--she intended to meet you at 12.32."

"She did, did she? That's her all through. As she used to be. She

never did get farther than intentions. It is about two years since I

saw her, and I don't see her now. Have you a message to deliver? Does

she desire that I should go away for another two years? If so, I'm

willing."

As this was said out loud, without the slightest attempt at

concealment, so that every word was audible, not only to Mr. Pownceby,

to whom the remarks were addressed, but also to Miss Haseltine, and

the book-keeper, and the porter, and the boots, and the waiter, and

the chambermaid, and any other straggler who might happen to be within

fifty yards or so, it would seem that in her husband Mrs. Pratt

possessed a man of character. But Mr. Pownceby was not fond of such

publicity.

"Can I say a word to you alone?"

"No, sir, you cannot. If you have a message from my wife, say it. If

not, lead on to No. 13."

"The fact is, Mr. Pratt, eh--Mrs. Pratt is not--eh--quite well."

"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. It's a comfort to know that only

sickness would keep her from her husband; though it wouldn't need much

of that to keep her from a chance of seeing me."

"The fact is, I wish, Mr. Pratt, you would let me speak to you alone."

"No, sir, I will not. If she's dead, don't spare my feelings. If she

has left me for a better man, don't spare my feelings either."

"The fact is, she's in a hypnotic state."

"In a what state?"

"A hypnotic state."

"What state's that?"

"'Hypnotic' 's a new word--it's been brought in lately--it means

'mesmeric.'"

Mr. Pratt paused before replying. He looked Mr. Pownceby up and down.

"Look here, Mr. ---- I think you mentioned Pownceby; I don't know who

you are, but you seem a friendly kind of man. Take my advice and get

something off your chest. I see you've got it on."

Mr. Pownceby smiled, rather faintly. He did not lack presence of mind,

as a rule, though just then the situation was as much as he could

manage. He made a dash at it.

"I wish you would give me half a minute alone; but, since you will

not, I must try to tell my story where we are. You see this book?" Mr.

Pownceby held up the fatal treatise. "It contains instructions for the

performance of mesmeric experiments. Mrs. Pratt insisted on my

performing one of them on her. I succeeded in producing the mesmeric

state, but I--I couldn't get her out of it."

There was a curious twinkle in Mr. Pratt's eyes.

"I don't catch on," he said.

"I say that I hypnotised her--that is, produced the mesmeric state,

but that I--I couldn't get her out of it."

"Well?"

"She's in it now."

"In what?"

"The mesmeric state."

"Does she seem to like it?"

"That is more than I can say. I had just induced Miss Haseltine to

come to my assistance when we were so fortunate as to encounter you."

"Then I am to understand that when she ought to have been at the depot

looking out for me, she was engaged in looking out for the mesmeric

state along with you; is that so?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"Where is she?"

"In her sitting-room, No. 13."

"Lead on to No. 13."

The procession started. The waiter went first, Mr. Pratt next, and

after him Miss Haseltine and Mr. Pownceby. Miss Haseltine's demeanour

was severe. Either her severity or something else seemed to weigh upon

her lover, who did not appear to be altogether at his ease. They

reached No. 13. The waiter knocked. There was no reply. He knocked

again; still no reply. Mr. Pratt turned towards Mr. Pownceby.

"I guess she's still in that state of yours. I think we'll all go in."

He turned the handle of the door and entered. "I guess she's quitted."

The room was empty.

CHAPTER II.

AND THE GENTLEMAN.

It was undoubtedly the case, unless they were to suppose that she had

hidden under the sofa, or behind the curtains. Mr. Pownceby looked

about him, conscious of a slight feeling of bewilderment. There were

the two chairs, exactly as he left them, but the one which Mrs. Pratt

had occupied was vacant.

"It's very odd," he murmured.

"How?"

"She was certainly unconscious when I left her."

"Perhaps the knowledge that she was failing in her duty as a wife came

to her in that mesmeric state; came to her so strongly that she

started off to the depot, just then and there, to look for me. If

she's at the depot now, in the state you say she was, I guess she'll

soon be popular."

"Don't you think I'd better go and look for her?"

"I do not. If she's gone, she's gone, and if she comes back again she

comes, but I'm not the man to put my friends out for a trifle. My

friend, if you will allow me to call you so, give me your hand."

Before Mr. Pownceby was quite aware of it, Mr. Pratt had possession of

his hand. "I thank you. You have placed me under an obligation to you

this day. But it may be that I shall cry you evens yet. Let's liquor.

Perhaps the young lady will pool in?" Miss Haseltine, however, making

some inaudible remark having reference to her mamma, vanished out of

sight. Mr. Pratt was not at all abashed. He addressed the waiters.

"Champagne--a large bottle--and a bucket of ice."

Mr. Pownceby protested.

"You are very kind, but I don't drink at this hour of the day, and

only so----"

Mr. Pratt cut him short.

"Fetch the drink." The waiter fled. "If, after performing those

pleasing experiments on the wife, you refuse to drink with the

husband, I shall take it quite unkindly."

"But don't you think some inquiries ought to be made for Mrs. Pratt?"

"I do not. What I do think is that I ought to cultivate your

friendship now that I have the chance. A man who knows the wife so

well should know something of the husband too."

The drink came. Mr. Pratt saw two bumpers filled. Mr. Pownceby, who

was an abstemious man, had a difficulty in escaping being compelled to

drain his draught.

"Bring another bottle when I ring," said Mr. Pratt as the waiter left

the room.

The two gentlemen were left alone. Mr. Pownceby still did not feel

quite easy in his mind. Champagne generally disagreed with him at any

time, always in the morning. He had some glimmerings of an idea that,

if he refused to drink, Mr. Pratt would seek in his refusal an

occasion to quarrel. He had heard and read of some curious customs in

the States; how, for instance, to refuse, under certain circumstances,

to drink with a citizen of the Great Republic was to place on him an

insult which could only be wiped out by blood--blood in which

six-shooters played a part. He half suspected that Mr. Pratt was a

citizen like that. Certainly he was unlike any American he had seen.

His indifference to his wife's fate was almost brutal. Mr. Pownceby

felt this, but he also felt that it was impossible for him to insist

on making inquiries if the husband declined to sanction them. Nor was

his uneasiness lessened by Mr. Pratt's appearance of entire ease. That

gentleman leaned back in his chair--the one his wife had occupied--his

summer coat unbuttoned, his hat tilted on to the back of his head.

"So you hypnotised my wife?" Mr. Pownceby smiled faintly; the subject

was beginning to be unpleasant. "Hypnotise me."

Mr. Pownceby started.

"I suppose you're joking?"

"Why? My wife had an inquiring mind, why shouldn't I have too? Perhaps

you prefer trying those sort of experiments on wives rather than on

their husbands."

Mr. Pownceby was not quite sure if this remark was intended

disagreeably. It made him wince.

"Perhaps you think I have been trying these experiments all my life.

Until this pamphlet was brought by this morning's post I knew no more

about hypnotism than you do. My first experiment was tried, at her own

urgent request, upon your wife."

"I take after her; I'm fond of experiments too. That book must be a

treasure. Oblige me with a glance at it."

Mr. Pownceby handed it to him. Mr. Pratt began reading at the end.

"There's a nice little bit as a finish." Mr. Pratt read it aloud: "'In

conclusion, I would earnestly ask all my readers to remember that this

valuable science should not be abused, especially in the case of

females, and that, in all cases when making experiments, they should

have friends or other persons present.' That's sound advice. Did you

notice it?"

"I--I think it caught my eye!"

Mr. Pownceby seemed a little fidgety. Mr. Pratt turned to the

beginning.

"I see it mentions that the subject is to stare at the operator, and

the operator is to stare at the subject, for about ten minutes or a

quarter of an hour. Did you work the thing like that?"

"I followed, to the best of my ability, the instructions contained in

the pamphlet."

"Did you stare at my wife?"

"It sounds uncivil, but I'm afraid I did."

"For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour?"

"About that."

"And did my wife stare at you?"

Mr. Pownceby laughed. He was conscious that Mr. Pratt's line of

examination was tending to place him in a false position.

"I perceive you've marked this work with your pencil where it says,

'Place the thumb of your left hand on the subject's forehead, just

above the nose, and level with the eyebrows.' Did you place the thumb

of your left hand on my wife's forehead just above the nose, level

with the eyebrows?"

"Really, Mr. Pratt, I can only say that, with the view of making a

little experiment, I followed, to the best of my ability, the

instructions generally."

"You seem to have seen the thing well through. It says that you've

next to rest the ends of your fingers on the top of the subject's

head. Did you rest the ends of your fingers on the top of my wife's

head?"

"You may take it for granted that I did whatever the book directs."

"May I? That's kind. You increase my sense of obligation. Then you're

to say to the subject, 'Look into my eyes.' Did you ask my wife to

look into your eyes?"

"I did--certainly."

"Certainly. Of course. You're thorough--like the book. The man who put

this book together had seen it done before. Then you're to say, 'Close

your eyes quite tight.' Did you tell my wife to close her eyes quite

tight?"

"I did. It was at that point that she went off into the hypnotic

state."

"Was it now? This is really interesting. And what did you do next?"

"I tried to bring her to."

"Now, hark at that! And after all the trouble you had taken to send

her off. And did she come?"

"I am sorry to say, as I have already explained to you, that my

efforts were not attended with success."

"That was mean of her--real mean. And I suppose that, when you were

performing these little experiments of yours upon my wife, this room

was filled with a large assemblage?"

"We were alone together. I wish, now, it had been otherwise."

"Why?"

"After the questions you have already put to me, that needs no

answer."

"Think not? Well, let me fill up your glass for you, Mr. Pownceby."

"I am obliged to you, but must beg you to excuse me."

"Is that so? You don't show yourself so friendly towards me as towards

my wife. Perhaps, Mr. Pownceby, you're not aware that for the last two

years I've been trotting round the world picking up the pieces to

throw into her lap. She's English, and I'm American. She's not at all

times fond of me, and we sometimes differ; but I love her, in my way.

So you may think that when the first thing I hear, when I come to

catch a sight of her after a two years' parting, is this little tale

of yours, I find it a pleasing tale entirely. I find it that, I do

assure you. Now, the only thing I should like you to do would be to

play those little tricks on me which you played upon my wife. I should

like to be hypnotised, uncommonly."

"If I were to attempt to do so I don't think that I should succeed.

But, in any case, after my experience of this morning, it will be a

long time before I make any more experiments on any one."

"Is that so? Think it over, Mr. Pownceby, while I lock this door and

slip the key into my pocket."

Mr. Pratt locked the door and "slipped," as he called it, the key into

his pocket.

"Mr. Pratt, I insist upon your unlocking that door."

"Mr. Pownceby, I was raised out West, and I was raised fighting, and I

learnt to smell a fight when it was coming, and there's as big a fight

now coming as ever I yet smelt."

"Why do you use this language, sir, to me?"

"It's my ignorance, may be. But in those parts where I was raised,

when one man played upon another man's wife the tricks you've played

on mine, it generally ended up in fighting. You bet it's going to end

in fighting now." Mr. Pownceby made a movement towards the bell. Mr.

Pratt sprang in front of him. "You can ring the bell, sir, afterwards;

but first you'll listen to me. They'll have to break the door down to

get into this room, and that'll be a scandal; and while they're

breaking it down I'll be whipping you. You'd better, take it fighting.

I've got a shooter." Putting his hand to his pistol-pocket, Mr. Pratt

flashed the barrel of a revolver in Mr. Pownceby's face. "But I know

your English notions, and I don't want to use it in a little affair

like this. Let's strip to the waist, and clear the furniture out of

the middle of the room, and have a little prize-fight all to

ourselves."

"Do you take me for a madman, Mr. Pratt? If you don't immediately

unlock the door I shall summon assistance, and if you use any violence

towards me, I shall give you into the charge of the police."

"Is that your line? That's mine!"

Dropping the hand which held the revolver, Mr. Pratt delivered with

his left. Delivered so neatly, in the centre of Mr. Pownceby's

forehead, that that gentleman was hurled backwards on to the floor.

"If you like you can take it lying down, and you can summon assistance

while you are taking it; but you'll take it somehow--that you bet."

Mr. Pownceby, lying on the floor, looked up at Mr. Pratt standing over

him.

"Let me get up." He got up. The blow had cut the skin, and the blood

was trickling through. With his handkerchief he staunched the flow.

"In America, Mr. Pratt, they may think the sort of thing that you

propose heroic. In England they consider a row of any sort

ridiculous."

"Consider! It isn't what they consider I'm thinking of, it's how

you're going to take it."

Mr. Pownceby fixed his glance on Mr. Pratt's keen black eyes. He

smiled.

"Take it? I'll take it fighting, like the converter of Colonel Quagg!"

"I thought you would. I smelt it coming on."

As he spoke Mr. Pratt placed his revolver on the mantelshelf. Mr.

Pownceby was still smiling.

"Do you propose to settle it now?"

"I do. I propose to settle it before you leave this room."

"In that case don't you think we'd better pull the blind down, or

people walking on the terrace will be able to see the fun? If we are

going to make asses of ourselves, we may as well do it, as far as

possible, in private."

Mr. Pratt pulled the blind down. The sun was shining outside. The room

was still quite light.

"I guess," said Mr. Pratt, "we had better clear the furniture out of

the middle of the room."

Mr. Pownceby assisted him in doing so, what little there was to clear.

The bottle of champagne and the two glasses they placed with the

revolver on the mantelshelf. They then proceeded to strip. As they

were doing so Mr. Pownceby asked a question.

"How shall we manage about time?"

"We will call time when we feel we want it. You understand, this is

not only a fight; it's a whipping. I'm whipping you."

Mr. Pownceby smiled as he answered: "I understand exactly."

When they were in position there was not much, so far as appearance

went, for a lover of the "fancy" to choose between the two. Now that

they were peeled, both seemed thoroughly fit--as fit almost as though

they had been trained. Mr. Pownceby was fair, Mr. Pratt was dark; that

was about the only difference. Both would have turned the scale at

something near eleven stone, and both measured something under five

foot eight. Nor did it take long to show that both could use their

hands. There was none of that waiting for each other which so often

tries the patience of the spectators round a ring. Mr. Pratt came at

once to business; with, perhaps, rather too much self-confidence. He

was apparently under the impression that it was going to be a case of

whipping his opponent from the first; which was the reason, doubtless,

that Mr. Pownceby succeeded in returning the compliment which had been

paid himself, and landing Mr. Pratt upon his back. That gentleman

seemed surprised.

"I say," he asked, lying where he had fallen, "what's this?"

Mr. Pownceby replied politely: "I hope I haven't hurt you?"

"You haven't hurt me--much. You've surprised me--more. I reckon we'll

continue."

The proceedings recommenced. But this time Mr. Pratt had changed his

tactics. Instead of coming up with the apparent intention of wiping

his opponent off the face of the earth with a single blow, he played

his game more cautiously. He fenced; but, becoming tired of this, and

feeling possibly that the whipping was not proceeding fast enough, he

led off with his right, and followed on with his left, and Mr.

Pownceby countered and returned--returned with such effect that for

half a minute Mr. Pratt was dancing about while Mr. Pownceby was

performing on him much in the fashion which the regimental drummer

beats to quarters on his drum.

"Time!" he cried.

The round was over. A pause ensued, during which his feelings were

plainly too deep for words.

"Have you ever had a whipping before?" he asked.

Mr. Pownceby smiled; it was evident that his smile was a smile of

enjoyment at last.

"One or two," he said.

"Like this?"

"Not exactly. In England we don't, as a rule, indulge in this form of

amusement in the private sitting-room of an hotel."

"Don't you? Well, it's as well. I smelt that a big fight was coming,

and it's come. I'm going to enjoy myself entirely. You've closed up

one of my eyes, I should say, from the feel of it, for ever. You've

broken the bridge of my nose; what there'll be to pay for the blood

upon the carpet--there's a quart gone from me already--is more than I

quite care to think. Before I've finished whipping you I reckon I'll

be slain."

"Come, Mr. Pratt, don't you think this foolish business had better

cease? If you require an apology I am willing to tender one in any

form you like. What passed between your wife and myself was simply in

the nature of a little scientific experiment."

"It'll be in the nature of a little scientific experiment what's going

to pass between us too. I'm fond of experiments as well as you. Time!"

Mr. Pratt fell into position. He struck at Mr. Pownceby. Mr. Pownceby

laughed as he warded off the blow.

"Come, Mr. Pratt, why will you persist in this absurdity?"

"I'm going to whip you, sir."

"In that case you really must excuse me for putting on the steam. If a

waiter or someone were to come and find me engaged like this, I should

never hear the last of it as long as I lived. Here goes!"

It went. He had been warding off Mr. Pratt's blows while he was

speaking. When he ceased the battle really joined. Mr. Pratt's guards

were nowhere. In spite of all that he could do to save himself, his

antagonist proceeded to administer severe punishment in thoroughly

workmanlike style. The blows rang out upon his head and body. Mr.

Pownceby wound up with one under the chin which lifted him off his

feet and laid him on his back. He lay where he fell. The blow had

knocked him senseless. Mr. Pownceby proceeded to revive him with the

remains of the champagne.

"This," he murmured, opening his eyes and looking up, "is nice."

Mr. Pownceby propped him up upon a chair.

"You compelled me to rush the thing; but I hope I haven't hurt you

much."

"Well," said Mr. Pratt, "you haven't killed me--quite. I never enjoyed

whipping a man so much before. Say, stranger, is this the first little

fight you've had?"

"I've sparred for the amateur championship, and won it twice. I'm

going in for it again next week."

"You might have mentioned that before the game began."

"If the inherent absurdity of your proposal could not deter you, I

doubt if any information I might have imparted would have been of much

avail."

"There's something in that. Time!"

Mr. Pratt rose from his chair. He stood on his feet--rather

doubtfully.

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Pownceby.

"I'm going on whipping you."

"Look here, Mr. Pratt, each time you stand up I shall simply knock you

down again. Of course you can go on with that sort of thing as long as

you like."

"That is so; I can. And that's a sort of thing of which one doesn't

care to get more than enough."

Mr. Pratt rested his hand on the back of a chair. It seemed as though,

without some support of that kind, he could not stand. Mr. Pownceby

advanced to him.

"Mr. Pratt, give me your hand."

Mr. Pratt gave it to him, it would seem, mechanically. The two men

stood looking at each other in silence--the one almost without a

scratch, the other a battered ruin. While they were so engaged the

latch of the French window was opened from without, the blind was

thrust aside, and a lady entered. It was Mrs. Pratt. When she saw what

met her eyes she stared, which, as a breach of good manners, was,

under the circumstances, excusable.

"Mr. Pownceby! Gilead! What have you been doing?"

"I've been whipping him," said Mr. Pratt. "I must be off my ordinary,

for I never whipped a man that way before."

Mr. Pownceby slipped on his jacket. He helped Mr. Pratt to put on his.

"It's my fault, Mrs. Pratt. When I told your husband of our little

experiment and that I found myself unable to release you from the

hypnotic state which I had induced he thought I must have done you a

serious injury, and that he naturally resented."

Mrs. Pratt looked at Mr. Pownceby. There was a twinkle of intelligence

in her sweet blue eyes.

"I see. Miss Haseltine is looking for you. You'll find her in the

drawing-room."

"Thank you," said Mr. Pownceby. "I--I'll go and look for her."

As he sneaked out of the room, with his shirt and waistcoat under his

arm, devoutly hoping that no one might encounter him on his journey to

his own apartment, he heard Mrs. Pratt make this remark to her

husband--the first after two years absence:

"So, Gilead, you've been at it again."

He heard Mr. Pratt reply:

"I have. I was raised fighting, and I reckon that fighting I shall

die. If I have to whip that Pownceby again it is a certainty I shall."

AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS.

CHAPTER I.

THE PROMISE.

"An old-fashioned Christmas.--A lively family will accept a gentleman

as paying guest to join them in spending an old-fashioned Christmas in

the heart of the country."

That was the advertisement. It had its points. I was not sure what, in

this case, an old-fashioned Christmas might happen to mean. I imagine

there were several kinds of "old-fashioned" Christmases; but it could

hardly be worse than a chop in my chambers, or--horror of horrors!--at

the club; or my cousin Lucy's notion of what she calls the "festive

season." Festive? Yes! She and her husband, who suffers from

melancholia, and all the other complaints which flesh is heir to, and

I, dragging through what I call a patent-medicine dinner, and talking

of everybody who is dead and gone, or else going, and of nothing else.

So I wrote to the advertiser. The reply was written in a sprawling

feminine hand. It was a little vague. It appeared that the terms would

be five guineas; but there was no mention of the length of time which

that fee would cover. I might arrive, it seemed, on Christmas Eve, but

there was no hint as to when I was to go, if ever. The whole thing was

a trifle odd. There was nothing said about the sort of accommodation

which would be provided, nothing about the kind of establishment which

was maintained, or the table which was kept. No references were

offered or asked for. It was merely stated that "we're a very lively

family, and that if you're lively yourself you'll get on uncommonly

well." The letter was signed "Madge Wilson."

Now it is a remarkable thing that I have always had an extraordinary

predilection for the name Madge. I do not know why. I have never known

a Madge. And yet, from my boyhood upward, I have desired to meet one.

Here was an opportunity offered. She was apparently the careworn

mother of a "lively family." Under such circumstances she was hardly

likely to be "lively" herself, but her name was Madge, and it was the

accident of her Christian name which decided me to go.

I had no illusions. No doubt the five guineas were badly wanted; even

a "lively family" would be hardly likely to advertise for a perfect

stranger to spend Christmas with them if they were not. I did not

expect a princely entertainment. Still I felt that it could hardly be

worse than a chop or cousin Lucy; the subjects of her conversation I

never cared about when they were alive, and I certainly do not want to

talk about them now they are dead. As for the "pills" and "drops" with

which her husband doses himself between the courses, it makes me ill

even to think of them.

On Christmas Eve the weather was abominable. All night it had been

blowing and raining. In the morning it began to freeze. By the time

the streets were like so many skating rinks it commenced to snow. And

it kept on snowing; that turned out to be quite a record in the way of

snow-storms. Hardly the sort of weather to start for an unknown

destination "in the heart of the country." But, at the last moment, I

did not like to back out. I said I would go, and I meant to go.

I had been idiot enough to load myself with a lot of Christmas

presents, without the faintest notion why. I had not given a Christmas

present for years--there had been no one to give them to. Lucy cannot

bear such trifling, and her husband's only notion of a present at any

time was a gallon jar of somebody's Stomach Stirrer. I am no dealer in

poisons.

I knew nothing of the people I was going to. The youngest member of

the family might be twenty, or the oldest ten. No doubt the things I

had bought would be laughed at, probably I should never venture to

offer them. Still, if you have not tried your hand at that kind of

thing for ever so long, the mere act of purchasing is a pleasure. That

is a fact.

I had never enjoyed "shopping" so much since I was a boy. I felt quite

lively myself as I mingled with the Christmas crowd, looking for

things which might not turn out to be absolutely preposterous. I even

bought something for Madge--I mean Mrs. Wilson. Of course, I knew that

I had no right to do anything of the kind, and was aware that the

chances were a hundred to one against my ever presuming to hint at its

existence. I was actually ass enough to buy something for her

husband--two things, indeed; alternatives, as it were--a box of

cigars, if he turned out to be a smoker, and a case of whiskey if he

didn't. I hoped to goodness that he would not prove to be a

hypochondriac, like Lucy's husband. I would not give him pills. What

the "lively family" would think of a perfect stranger arriving

burdened with rubbish, as if he had known them all their lives, I did

not dare to think. No doubt they would set him down as a lunatic right

away.

It was a horrible journey. The trains were late, and, of course,

overcrowded; there was enough luggage in our compartment to have

filled it, and still there was one more passenger than there ought to

have been; an ill-conditioned old fellow who wanted my hat-box put

into the van because it happened to tumble off the rack on to his

head. I pointed out to him that the rack was specially constructed for

light luggage, that a hat-box was light luggage, and that if the train

jolted, he ought to blame the company, not me. He was impervious to

reason. His wrangling and jangling so upset me, that I went past

the station at which I ought to have changed. Then I had to wait

three-quarters of an hour for a train to take me back again, only to

find that I had missed the one I intended to catch. So I had to cool

my heels for two hours and a half in a wretched cowshed amidst a

bitter, whirling snowstorm. It is some satisfaction for me to be able

to reflect that I made it warm for the officials, however cold I might

have been myself.

When the train did start, some forty minutes after scheduled time, it

jolted along in a laborious fashion at the rate of about six miles an

hour, stopping at every roadside hovel. I counted seven in a distance,

I am convinced, of less than twenty miles. When at last I reached

Crofton, my journey's end, it turned out that the station staff

consisted of a half-witted individual, who was stationmaster, porter,

and clerk combined, and a hulking lad who did whatever else there was

to do. No one had come to meet me, the village was "about half a

mile," and Hangar Dene, the house for which my steps were bent, "about

four miles by the road"--how far it was across ploughed fields my

informant did not mention.

There was a trap at the "Boy and Blunderbuss," but that required

fetching. Finally the hulking lad was dispatched. It took him some

time, considering the distance was only "about half a mile." When the

trap did appear it looked to me uncommonly like an open spring cart.

In it I was deposited, with my luggage. The snow was still descending

in whirling clouds. Never shall I forget the drive, in that miserable

cart, through the storm and those pitch black country lanes. We had

been jogging along some time before the driver opened his mouth.

"Be you going to stop with they Wilsons?"

"I am."

"Ah!"

There was something in the tone of his "Ah!" which whetted my

curiosity, near the end of my tether though I was.

"Why do you ask?"

"It be about time as someone were to stay with them as were a bit

capable like."

I did not know what he meant. I did not ask. I was beyond it. I was

chilled to the bone, wet, tired, hungry. I had long been wishing that

an old-fashioned Christmas had been completely extinct before I had

thought of adventuring in quest of one. Better cousin Lucy's notion of

the "festive season."

We passed through a gate, which I had to get down to open, along some

sort of avenue. Suddenly the cart pulled up.

"Here we be."

That might be so. It was a pity he did not add where "here" was. There

was a great shadow, which possibly did duty for a house, but, if so,

there was not a light in any of the windows, and there was nothing

visible in the shape of a door. The whereabouts of this, however, the

driver presently made clear.

"There be the door in front of you; you go up three steps, if you can

find 'em. There's a knocker, if none of 'em haven't twisted it off. If

they have, there's a bell on your right, if it isn't broken."

There appeared to be no knocker, though whether it had been "twisted"

off was more than I could say. But there was a bell, which creaked

with rust, though it was not broken. I heard it tinkle in the

distance. No answer; though I allowed a more than decent interval.

"Better ring again," suggested the driver. "Hard. Maybe they're up to

some of their games, and wants rousing."

Was there a chuckle in the fellow's voice? I rang again, and again

with all the force I could. The bell reverberated through what seemed

like an empty house.

"Is there no one in the place?"

"They're there right enough. Where's another thing. Maybe on the roof;

or in the cellar. If they know you're coming perhaps they hear and

don't choose to answer. Better ring again."

I sounded another peal. Presently feet were heard advancing along the

passage--several pairs it seemed--and a light gleamed through the

window over the door. A voice inquired: "Who's there?"

"Mr. Christopher, from London."

The information was greeted with what sounded uncommonly like a chorus

of laughter. There was a rush of retreating feet, an expostulating

voice, then darkness again, and silence.

"Who lives here? Are the people mad?"

"Well--thereabouts."

Once more I suspected the driver of a chuckle. My temper was rising. I

had not come all that way, and subjected myself to so much discomfort,

to be played tricks with. I tolled the bell again. After a few

seconds' interval the pit-pat of what was obviously one pair of feet

came towards the door. Again a light gleamed through the pane. A key

was turned, a chain unfastened, bolts withdrawn; it seemed as if some

one had to drag a chair forward before one of these latter could be

reached. After a vast amount of unfastening, the door was opened, and

on the threshold there stood a girl, with a lighted candle in her

hand. The storm rushed in; she put up her hand to shield the light

from danger.

"Can I see Mrs. Wilson? I'm expected. I'm Mr. Christopher, from

London."

"Oh!"

That was all she said. I looked at her; she at me. The driver's voice

came from the background.

"I drove him over from the station, Miss. There be a lot of luggage.

He do say he's come to stay with you."

"Is that you, Tidy? I'm afraid I can offer you nothing to drink. We've

lost the key of the cellar, and there's nothing out, except water, and

I don't think you'd care for that."

"I can't say rightly as how I should, Miss. Next time will do. Be it

all right?"

The girl continued to regard me.

"Perhaps you had better come inside."

"I think I had."

I went inside; it was time.

"Have you any luggage?" I admitted that I had. "Perhaps it had better

be brought in."

"Perhaps it had."

"Do you think that you could manage, Tidy?"

"The mare, she'll stand still enough. I should think I could, miss."

CHAPTER II.

AND THE PERFORMANCE.

By degrees my belongings were borne into the hall, hidden under an

envelope of snow. The girl seemed surprised at their number. The

driver was paid, the cart disappeared, the door was shut; the girl and

I were alone together.

"We didn't expect that you would come."

"Not expect me? But it was all arranged; I wrote to say that I would

come. Did you not receive my letter?"

"We thought that you were joking."

"Joking! Why should you imagine that?"

"We were joking."

"You were? Then I am to gather that I have been made the subject of a

practical joke, and that I am an intruder here?"

"Well, it's quite true that we did not think you were in earnest. You

see, it's this way, we're alone."

"Alone? Who are 'we'?"

"Well, it will take a good while to explain, and you look tired and

cold."

"I am both."

"Perhaps you're hungry?"

"I am."

"I don't know what you can have to eat, unless it's to-morrow's

dinner."

"To-morrow's dinner!" I stared. "Can I see Mrs. Wilson?"

"Mrs. Wilson? That's mamma. She's dead."

"I beg your pardon. Can I see your father?"

"Oh, father's been dead for years."

"Then to whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"

"I'm Madge. I'm mother now."

"You are--mother now?"

"The trouble will be about where you are to sleep--unless it's with

the boys. The rooms are all anyhow, and I'm sure I don't know where

the beds are."

"I suppose there are servants in the house?"

She shook her head.

"No. The boys thought that they were nuisances so we got rid of them.

The last went yesterday. She wouldn't do any work, so we thought she'd

better go."

"Under those circumstances I think it probable that you were right.

Then am I to understand that there are children?"

"Rather!"

As she spoke there came a burst of laughter from the other end of the

passage. I spun round. No one was in sight. She explained.

"They're waiting round the corner. Perhaps we'd better have them here.

You people, you'd better come and let me introduce you to Mr.

Christopher."

A procession began to appear from round the corner of boys and girls.

In front was a girl of about sixteen. She advanced with outstretched

hand and an air of self-possession which took me at a disadvantage.

"I'm Bessie. I'm sorry we kept you waiting at the door, but the fact

is that we thought it was Eliza's brother who had come to insult us

again."

"Pray, don't mention it. I am glad that it was not Eliza's brother."

"So am I. He is a dreadful man."

I shook hands with the rest of them. There were six more, four boys

and two girls. They formed a considerable congregation as they stood

eyeing me with inquiring glances. Madge was the first to speak.

"I wondered all along if he would take it as a joke or not, and you

see he hasn't. I thought all the time that it was a risky thing to

do."

"I like that! You keep your thoughts to yourself then. It was you

proposed it. You said you'd been reading about something of the kind

in a story, and you voted for our advertising ourselves for a lark."

The speaker was the biggest boy, a good-looking youngster, with sallow

cheeks and shrewd black eyes.

"But, Rupert, I never meant it to go so far as this."

"How far did you mean it to go then? It was your idea all through. You

sent in the advertisement, you wrote the letters, and now he's here.

If you didn't mean it, why didn't you stop his coming?"

"Rupert!"

The girls cheeks were crimson. Bessie interposed.

"The thing is that as he is here it's no good worrying about whose

fault it is. We shall simply have to make the best of it." Then, to

me, "I suppose you really have come to stay?"

"I confess that I had some notion of the kind--to spend an

old-fashioned Christmas."

At this there was laughter, chiefly from the boys. Rupert exclaimed:

"A nice sort of old-fashioned Christmas you'll find it will be. You'll

be sorry you came before it's through."

"I am not so sure of that."

There appeared to be something in my tone which caused a touch of

silence to descend upon the group. They regarded each other

doubtfully, as if in my words a reproof was implied. Bessie was again

the spokeswoman.

"Of course, now that you have come, we mean to be nice to you, that is

as nice as we can. Because the thing is that we are not in a condition

to receive visitors. Do we look as if we were?"

To be frank, they did not. Even Madge was a little unkempt, while the

boys were in what I believe is the average state of the average boy.

"And," murmured Madge, "where is Mr. Christopher to sleep?"

"What is he to eat?" inquired Bessie. She glanced at my packages. "I

suppose you have brought nothing with you?"

"I'm afraid I haven't. I had hoped to have found something ready for

me on my arrival."

Again they peeped at each other, as if ashamed. Madge repeated her

former suggestion.

"There's to-morrow's dinner."

"Oh, hang it!" exclaimed Rupert. "It's not so bad as that. There's a

ham."

"Uncooked."