"A blessed day," I answered, "the most blessed of my life."

There was a long pause here, and even the blackbird could hardly fill

it up.

"Do you regret it?"

(Why does man on these occasions ask such a heap of questions?)

"Why should I?"

(Why does woman invariably answer his query with another?)

"I hope there is no reason," I answered, "and yet--oh, can you not

see of what that day was the beginning? Can you not see whither

these last four months have carried me?"

The sun struck slanting on the water and ran in tapering lustre to

our feet. The gilded ripple slipped and murmured below us; the

bronzed leaves overhead bent carefully to veil her answer. The bird

within the covert uttered an anxious note.

"They have carried you, it seems," she answered, with eyes gently

lowered, "back to the same place."

"They have carried me," I echoed, "from spring to summer. If they

have brought me back to this spot, it is because the place and I have

changed--Claire!"

As I called her by her Christian name she gave one quick glance, and

then turned her eyes away again. I could see the soft rose creeping

over her white neck and cheek. Had I offended? Between hope and

desperation, I continued--

"Claire--I will call you Claire, for that was the name you told me

just four months ago--I am changed, oh, changed past all remembrance!

Are you not changed at all? Am I still nothing to you?"

She put up her hand as if to ward off further speech, but spoke no

word herself.

"Answer me, Claire; give me some answer if only a word. Am I still

no more than the beggar who rescued your boat that day?"

"Of course, you are my friend--now. Please forget that I took you

for a beggar."

The words came with effort. Within the bushes the blackbird still

chirped expectant, and the ripple below murmured to the bank,

"The old story--the old story."

"But I am a beggar," I broke out. "Claire, I am always a beggar on

my knees before you. Oh, Claire!"

Her face was yet more averted--the sun kissed her waving locks with

soft lips of gold, the breeze half stirred the delicate draperies

around her. The blackbird's note was broken and halting as my own

speech.

"Claire, have you not guessed? will you never guess? Oh, have pity

on me!"

I could see the soft bosom heaving now. The little hand was pulling

at the gown. Her whole sweet shape drooped away from me in vague

alarm--but still no answer came.

"Courage! Courage!" chirped the bird, and the river murmured

responsive, "Courage!"

"Claire!"--and now there was a ring of agony in the voice; the tones

came alien and scarcely recognised--"Claire, I have watched and

waited for this day, and now that it has come, for good or for evil,

answer me--I love you!"

O time-honoured and most simple of propositions! "I love you!" Night

after night had I lain upon my bed rehearsing speeches, tender,

passionate and florid, and lo! to this had it all come--to these

three words, which, as my lips uttered them, made my heart leap in

awe of their crude and naked daring.

And she? The words, as though they smote her, chased for an instant

the rich blood from her cheek. For a moment the bosom heaved wildly,

then the colour came slowly back, and ebbed again. A soft tremor

shook the bending form, the little hand clutched the gown, but she

made no answer.

"Speak to me, Claire! I love you! With my life and soul I love you.

Can you not care for me?" I took the little hand. "Claire, my heart

is in your hands--do with it what you will, but speak to me. Can you

not--do you not--care for me?"

The head drooped lower yet, the warm fingers quivered within mine,

then tightened, and--

What was that whisper, that less than whisper, for which I bent my

head? Had I heard aright? Or why was it that the figure drooped

closer, and the bird's note sprang up jubilant?

"Claire!"

A moment--one tremulous, heart-shaking moment--and then her form bent

to me, abandoned, conquered; her face looked up, then sank upon my

breast; but before it sank I read upon it a tenderness and a passion

infinite, and caught in her eyes the perfect light of love.

As the glory of delight came flooding on my soul, the sun's disc

dropped, and the first cold shadow of night fell upon earth.

The blackbird uttered a broken "Amen," and was gone no man knew

whither. The golden ripple passed up the river, and vanished in a

leaden grey. One low shuddering sigh swept through the trees, then

all was dumb. I looked westward. Towards the horizon the blue of

day was fading downwards through indistinguishable zones of purple,

amethyst, and palest rose, the whole heaven arching in one perfect

rainbow of love.

But while I looked and listened to the beating of that beloved heart

girdled with my arm, there grew a something on the western sky that

well-nigh turned my own heart to marble. At first, a lightest

shadow--a mere breath upon heaven's mirror, no more. Then as I

gazed, it deepened, gathering all shadows from around the pole,

heaping, massing, wreathing them around one spot in the troubled

west--a shape that grew and threatened and still grew, until I looked

on--what?

Up from the calm sea of air rose one solitary island, black and

looming, rose and took shape and stood out--the very form and

semblance of Dead Man's Rock! Sable and real as death it towered

there against the pale evening, until its shadow, falling on my heart

itself and on the soft brown head that bent and nestled there, lay

round us clasped so, and with its frown cursed the morning of our

love.

Something in my heart's beat, or in the stiffening of my arm, must

have startled my darling, for as I gazed I felt her stir, and,

looking down, caught her eyes turned wistfully upwards. My lips bent

to hers.

"Mine, Claire! Mine for ever!"

And there, beneath the shadow of the Rock, our lips drew closer, met,

and were locked in their first kiss.

When I looked up again the shadow had vanished, and the west was grey

and clear.

So in the tranquil evening we rowed homewards, our hearts too full

for speech. The wan moon rose and trod the waters, but we had no

thoughts, no eyes for her. Our eyes were looking into each other's

depths, our thoughts no thoughts at all, but rather a dazzled and

wondering awe.

Only as a light or two gleamed out, and Streatley twinkled in the

distance, Claire said--

"Can it be true? You know nothing of me."

"I know you love me. What more should I know, or wish to know?"

The red lips were pursed in a manner that spoke whole tomes of

wisdom.

"You do not know that I work for my living all the week?"

"When you are mine you shall work no more."

"'But sit on a cushion and sew a gold seam'? Ah, no; I have to work.

It is strange," she said, musingly, "so strange."

"What is strange, Claire?"

"That you have never seen me except on my holidays--that we have

never met. What have you done since you have been in London?"

I thought of my walks and tireless quest in Oxford Street with a kind

of shame. That old life was severed from the present by whole

worlds.

"I have lived very quietly," I answered. "But is it so strange that

we have never met?"

She laughed a low and musical laugh, and as the boat drew shoreward

and grounded, replied--

"Perhaps not. Come, let us go to mother--Jasper."

O sweet sound from sweetest lips! We stepped ashore, and

hand-in-hand entered the room where her mother sat.

As she looked up and saw us standing there together, she knew the

truth in a moment. Her blue eyes filled with sudden fear, her worn

hand went upwards to her heart. Until that instant she had not known

of my presence there that day, and in a flash divined its meaning.

"I feared it," she answered at length, as I told my story and stood

waiting for an answer. "I feared it, and for long have been

expecting it. Claire, my love, are you sure? Oh, be quite sure

before you leave me."

For answer, Claire only knelt and flung her white arms round her

mother's neck, and hid her face upon her mother's bosom.

"You love him now, you think; but, oh, be careful. Search your heart

before you rob me of it. I have known love, too, Claire, or thought

I did; and indeed it can fade--and then, what anguish, what anguish!"

"Mother, mother! I will never leave you."

Mrs. Luttrell sighed.

"Ah, child, it is your happiness I am thinking of."

"I will never leave you, mother."

"And you, sir," continued Mrs. Luttrell, "are you sure? I am giving

you what is dearer than life itself; and as you value her now, treat

her worthily hereafter. Swear this to me, if my gift is worth so

much in your eyes. Sir, do you know--"

"Mother!"

Claire drew her mother's head down towards her and whispered in her

ear. Mrs. Luttrell frowned, hesitated, and finally said--

"Well, it shall be as you wish--though I doubt if it be wise.

God bless you, Claire--and you, sir; but oh, be certain, be certain!"

What incoherent speech I made in answer I know not, but my heart was

sore for this poor soul. Claire turned her eyes to me and rose,

smoothing her mother's grey locks.

"We will not leave her, will we? Tell her that we will not."

I echoed her words, and stepping to Mrs. Luttrell, took the frail,

white hand.

"Sir," she said, "you who take her from me should be my bitterest

foe. Yet see, I take you for a son."

Still rapt with the glory of my great triumph, and drunk with the

passion of that farewell kiss, I walked into our lodgings and laid my

hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Tom, I have news for you."

Tom started up. "And so have I for you."

"Great news."

"Glorious news!"

"Tom, listen: I am accepted."

"Bless my soul! Jasper, so am I."

"You?"

"Yes."

"When? Where?"

"This afternoon. Jasper, our success has come at last: for you the

Loves, for me the Muses; for you the rose, for me the bay. Jasper,

dear boy, they have learnt her worth at last."

"Her! Who?"

"Francesca. Jasper, in three months I shall be famous; for next

November 'Francesca: a Tragedy' will be produced at the Coliseum."

CHAPTER V.

TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN ROSE UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY."

Again my story may hurry, for on the enchanted weeks that followed it

would weary all but lovers to dwell, and lovers for the most part

find their own matters sufficient food for pondering. Tom was busy

with the rehearsals at the Coliseum, and I, being left alone, had

little taste for the _Materia Medica_. On Sundays only did I see

Claire; for this Mrs. Luttrell had stipulated, and my love, too, most

mysteriously professed herself busy during the week. As for me, it

was clear that before marriage could be talked of I must at least

have gained my diplomas, so that the more work I did during the week

the better. The result of this was a goodly sowing of resolutions

and very little harvest. In the evenings, Tom and I would sit

together--he tirelessly polishing and pruning the tragedy, and I for

the most part smoking and giving advice which I am bound to say in

duty to the author ("Francesca" having gained some considerable fame

since those days) was invariably rejected.

Tom had been growing silent and moody of late--a change for which I

could find no cause. He would answer my questions at random, pause

in his work to gaze long and intently on the ceiling, and altogether

behave in ways unaccountable and strange. The play had been written

at white-hot speed: the corrections proceeded at a snail's pace.

The author had also fallen into a habit of bolting his meals in

silence, and, when rebuked, of slowly bringing his eyes to bear upon

me as a person whose presence was until the moment unsuspected.

All this I saw in mild wonder, but I reflected on certain moods of my

own of late, and held my peace.

The explanation came without my seeking. We were seated together one

evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some

especially herbaceous nook of the _Materia Medica_, when Tom looked

up and said--

"Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage. Listen to this."

Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:--

"She is no violet to veil and hide

Before the lusty sun, but as the flower,

His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light

And images his look of lordly love--

Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queen

Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel

And worship, conscious of a Sovranty

Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven

That minist'ring to all is queen of all,

And wears the proud sun's self but as a gem

To grace her girdle, one among the stars.

Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.

Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,

And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,

Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes--"

"Stay," I interrupted, "unless I am mistaken her eyes are like the

Pleiads, a simile to which I have more than once objected."

"If you would only listen you would find those lines cut out," said

Tom, pettishly.

"In that case I apologise: nevertheless, if that is your idea of a

Francesca, I confess she seems to me a trifle--shall we say?--

massive."

"Your Claire, I suppose, is stumpy?"

"My Claire," I replied with dignity, "is neither stumpy nor

stupendous."

"In fact, just the right height."

"Well, yes, just the right height."

Tom paid no attention, but went on in full career--

"I hate your Griseldas, your Jessamys, your Mary Anns; give me

Semiramis, Dido, Joan of--"

"My dear Tom, not all at once, I hope."

"Bah! you are so taken up with your own choice, that you must needs

scoff at anyone who happens to differ. I tell you, woman should be

imperial, majestic; should walk as a queen and talk as a goddess.

You scoff because you have never seen such; you shut your eyes and go

about saying, 'There is no such woman.' By heaven, Jasper, if you

could only see--"

At this point Tom suddenly pulled up and blushed like any child.

"Go on--whom shall I see?"

Tom's blush was beautiful to look upon.

"The Lambert, for instance; I meant--"

"Who is the Lambert?"

"Do you mean to say you have never heard of Clarissa Lambert, the

most glorious actress in London?"

"Never. Is she acting at the Coliseum?"

"Of course she is. She takes Francesca. Oh, Jasper, you should see

her, she is divine!"

Here another blush succeeded.

"So," I said after a pause, "you have taken upon yourself to fall in

love with this Clarissa Lambert."

Tom looked unutterably sheepish.

"Is the passion returned?"

"Jasper, don't talk like that and don't be a fool. Of course I have

never breathed a word to her. Why, she hardly knows me, has hardly

spoken to me beyond a few simple sentences. How should I, a

miserable author without even a name, speak to her? Jasper, do you

like the name Clarissa?"

"Not half so well as Claire."

"Nonsense; Claire is well enough as names go, but nothing to

Clarissa. Mark how the ending gives it grace and quaintness; what a

grand eighteenth-century ring it has! It is superb--so sweet, and at

the same time so stately."

"And replaces Francesca so well in scansion."

Tom's face was confession.

"You should see her, Jasper--her eyes. What colour are Claire's?"

"Deep grey."

"Clarissa's are hazel brown: I prefer brown; in fact I always thought

a woman should have brown eyes: we won't quarrel about inches, but

you will give way in the matter of eyes, will you not?"

"Not an inch."

"It really is wonderful," said Tom, "how the mere fact of being in

love is apt to corrupt a man's taste. Now in the matter of voice--I

dare wager that your Claire speaks in soft and gentle numbers."

"As an Aeolian harp," said I, and I spoke truth.

"Of course, unrelieved tenderness and not a high note in the gamut.

But you should hear Clarissa; I only ask you to hear her once, and

let those glorious accents play upon your crass heart for a moment or

two. O Jasper, Jasper, it shakes the very soul!"

Tom was evidently in a very advanced stage of the sickness; I could

not find it in my heart to return his flouts of a month before, so I

said--

"Very well, my dear Tom, I shall look upon your divinity in November.

I do not promise you she will have the effect that you look forward

to, but I am glad your Francesca will be worthily played; and, Tom, I

am glad you are in love; I think it improves you."

"It is hopeless--absolutely hopeless; she is cold as ice."

"What, with that voice and those eyes? Nonsense, man."

"She is cold as ice," groaned poor Tom; "everyone says so."

"Of course everyone says so; you ought to be glad of that, for this

is the one point on which what everyone says must from the nature of

things be false. Why, man, if she beamed on the whole world, then I

might believe you."

From which it will be gathered that I had learned something from

being in love.

So sad did I consider Tom's case, that I spoke to Claire about it

when I saw her next.

"Claire," I said, "you have often heard me speak of Tom."

"Really, Jasper, you seldom speak of anybody else. In fact I am

growing quite jealous of this friend."

After the diversion caused by this speech, I resumed--

"But really Tom is the best of fellows, and if I talk much of him it

is because he is my only friend. You must see him, Claire, and you

will be sure to like him. He is so clever!"

"What is the name of this genius--I mean the other name?"

"Why, Loveday, of course--Thomas Loveday. Do you mean to say I have

never told you?"

"Never," said Claire, meditatively. "Loveday--Thomas Loveday--is it

a common name?"

"No, I should think not very common. Don't you like it?"

"It--begins well."

Here followed another diversion.

"But what I was going to say about Tom," I continued, "is this--he

has fallen in love; in fact, I have never seen a man so deeply in

love."

"Oh!"

"Anyone else," I corrected, "for of course I was quite as bad; you

understand that."

"We were talking of Thomas Loveday."

"Oh, yes, of Tom. Well, Tom, you know--or perhaps you do not.

At any rate, Tom has written a tragedy."

"All about love?"

"Well, not quite all; though there is a good deal in it, considering

it was written when the author had no idea of what the passion was

like. But that is not the point. This tragedy is coming out at the

Coliseum in November. Are you not well, Claire?"

"Yes, yes; go on. What has all this to do with Tom's love?"

"I am coming to that. Tom, of course, has been attending the

rehearsals lately. He will not let me come until the piece is ready,

for he is wonderfully nervous. I am to come and see it on the first

night. Well, as I was saying, Tom has been going to rehearsals, and

has fallen in love with--guess with whom."

Claire was certainly getting very white.

"Are you sure you are well, Claire?" I asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes; quite sure. But tell me with whom--how should I guess?"

"Why, with the leading actress; one Clarissa Lambert, is it not?"

"Clarissa--Lambert!"

"Why, Claire, what is the matter? Are you faint?" For my love had

turned deathly pale, and seemed as though she would faint indeed.

We were in the old spot so often revisited, though the leaves were

yellowing fast, and the blackbird's note had long ceased utterly.

I placed my arm around her for support, but my darling unlocked it

after a moment, struggled with her pallor, and said--

"No, no; I am better. It was a little faintness, but is passing off.

Go on, and tell me about Mr. Loveday."

"I am afraid I bored you. But that is all. Do you know this

Clarissa Lambert? Have you seen her?"

"Yes--I have seen her."

"I suppose she is very famous; at least, Tom says so. He also says

she is divine; but I expect, from his description, that she is of the

usual stamp of Tragedy Queen, tall and loud, with a big voice."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No, of course Tom raves about her. But there is no accounting for

what a lover will say." This statement was made with all the sublime

assurance of an accepted man. "But you have seen her," I went on,

"and can tell me how far his description is true. I suppose she is

much the same as other actresses, is she not?"

"Jasper," said Claire, very gently, after a pause, "do you ever go to

a theatre?"

"Very seldom; in fact, about twice only since I have been in London."

"I suppose you were taught as a boy to hate such things?"

"Well," I laughed, "I do not expect Uncle Loveday would have approved

of Tom's choice, if that is what you mean. But that does not matter,

I fear, as Tom swears that his case is hopeless. He worships from

afar, and says that she is as cold as ice. In fact, he has never

told his love, but lets concealment like a--"

"That is not what I meant. Do you--do you think all actors and

actresses wicked?"

"Of course not. Why should I?"

"You are going to see--"

"'Francesca'? Oh, yes, on the opening night."

"Then possibly we shall meet. Will you look out for me?"

"Let me take you, Claire. Oh, I am glad indeed! You will see Tom

there, and, I hope, be able to congratulate him on his triumph.

So let me take you."

She shook her head.

"No, no."

"Why?"

"Because that is impossible--really. I shall see you there, and you

will see me. Is not that enough?"

"If you say so, it must be," I answered sadly. "But--"

"'But me no buts,'" she quoted. "See, it is getting late; we must be

going."

A most strange silence fell upon us on the way back to Streatley.

Claire's face had not yet wholly regained its colour, and she seemed

disinclined to talk. So I had to solace myself by drinking in long

draughts of her loveliness, and by whispering to my soul how poorly

Tom's Queen of Tragedy would show beside my sweetheart.

O fool and blind!

Presently my love asked musingly--

"Jasper, do you think that you could cease to love me?"

"Claire, how can you ask it?"

"You are quite sure? You remember what mother said?"

"Claire, love is strong as death. How does the text run?

'Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if

a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would

utterly be contemned.' Claire, you must believe that!"

"'Strong as death,'" she murmured. "Yes, I believe it. What a

lovely text that is!"

The boat touched shore at Streatley, and we stepped out.

"Jasper," she said again at parting that night, "you have no

doubt, no grain of doubt, about my question, and the answer?

'Strong as death,' you are sure?"

For answer I strained her to my heart.

O fool and blind! O fool and blind!

The night that was big with Tom's fate had come. The Coliseum was

crowded as we entered. In those days the theatre had no stalls, so

we sat in the front row of the dress circle, Tom having in his

modesty refused a box. He was behind the scenes until some five

minutes before the play began, so that before he joined me I had

ample time to study the house and look about for some sign of Claire.

Certainly, the sedulous manner in which the new tragedy had been

advertised was not without result. To me, unused as I was to

theatre-going, the host of people, the hot air, the glare of the

gas-lights were intoxicating. In a flutter of anxiety for Tom's

success, of sweet perturbation at the prospect of meeting Claire, at

first I could grasp but a confused image of the scene. By degrees,

however, I began to look about me, and then to scan the audience

narrowly for sight of my love.

Surely I should note her at once among thousands. Yet my first

glance was fruitless. I looked again, examined the house slowly face

by face, and again was baffled. I could see all but a small portion

of the pit, the upper boxes and gallery. Pit and gallery were out of

the question. She might, though it was hardly likely, be in the tier

just above, and I determined to satisfy myself after the end of Act

I. Meantime I scanned the boxes. There were twelve on either side

of the house, and all were full. By degrees I satisfied myself that

strangers occupied all of them, except the box nearest the stage on

the right of the tier where I was sitting. The occupants of this

were out of sight. Only a large yellow and black fan was swaying

slowly backwards and forwards to tell me that somebody sat there.

Somehow, the slow, ceaseless motion of this pricked my curiosity.

Its pace, as it waved to and fro, was unaltered; the hand that moved

it seemingly tireless; but even the hand was hidden. Not a finger

could I gain a glimpse of. By some silly freak of fancy I was

positively burning with eagerness to see the fan's owner, when Tom

returned and took his seat beside me.

"It begins in five minutes; everything is ready," said he, and his

voice had a nervous tremor which he sought in vain to hide.

"Courage!" I said; "at least the numbers here should flatter you."

"They frighten me! What shall I do if it fails?"

The overture was drawing to its close. Tom looked anxiously around

the house.

"Yes," he said, "it is crowded, indeed. By the way, was not Claire

to have been here? Point her out to me."

"She was; but I cannot see her anywhere. Perhaps she is late."

"If so, I cannot see where she is to find a place. Hush! they are

ending."

As he spoke, the last strains of the orchestra died slowly and

mournfully away, and the curtain rose upon "Francesca: a Tragedy."

This play has since gained such a name, not only from its own merits

(which are considerable), but in consequence also of certain

circumstances which this story will relate, that it would be not only

tedious but unnecessary to follow its action in detail. For the

benefit, however, of those who did not see it at the Coliseum, I here

subjoin a short sketch of the plot, which the better-informed reader

may omit.

Francesca is the daughter of Sebastian, at one time Duke of Bologna,

but deposed and driven from his palace by the intrigues of his

younger brother Charles. At the time when the action begins,

Sebastian is chief of a band of brigands, the remains of his faithful

adherents, whom he has taken with him to the fastnesses of the

Apennines. Charles, who has already usurped the duchy for some

sixteen years, is travelling with his son Valentine, a youth of

twenty, near the haunt of his injured brother. Separated from their

escort, they are wandering up a pass, when Valentine stops to admire

the view, promising his father to join him at the summit. While thus

occupied, he is startled by the entrance of Francesca, and, struck

with her beauty, accosts her. She, sympathising for so noble a

youth, warns him of the banditti, and he hastens on only to find his

father lying at the foot of a precipitous rock, dead. He supposes

him to have fallen, has the body conveyed back to Bologna, and having

by this time fallen deeply in love with Francesca, prevails on her to

leave her father and come with him. She consents, and flies with

him, but after some time finds that he is deserting her for Julia,

daughter of the Duke of Ferrara. Slighted and driven to desperation,

she makes her way back to her father, is forgiven, and learns that

Charles' death was due to no accident, but to her father's hand.

No sooner is this discovery made than Valentine and Julia are brought

in by the banditti, who have surprised and captured them, but do not

know their rank. The deposed duke, Sebastian, does not recognise

Valentine, and consigns him, with his wife, to a cave, under guard of

the brigands. It is settled by Sebastian that on the morrow

Valentine is to go and fetch a ransom, leaving his wife behind.

Francesca, having plied the guards with drink, enters by night into

the cave where they lie captive, is recognised by them, and offers to

change dresses with Julia in order that husband and wife may escape.

A fine scene follows of insistence and self-reproach, but ultimately

Francesca prevails. Valentine and Julia pass out in the grey dawn,

and Francesca, left alone, stabs herself. The play concludes as her

father enters the cave and discovers his daughter's corpse.

The first scene (which is placed at the court of Bologna) passed

without disaster, and the curtain fell for a moment before it rose

upon the mountain pass. Hitherto the audience had been chilly.

They did not hiss, but neither did they applaud; and I could feel,

without being able to give any definite reason for the impression,

that so far the play had failed. Tom saw it too. I did not dare to

look in his face, but could tell his agony by his short and laboured

breathing. Luckily his torture did not last long, for the curtain

quickly rose for Scene 2.

The scene was beautifully painted and awakened a momentary enthusiasm

in the audience. It died away, however, as Sebastian and Valentine

entered. The dialogue between them was short, and Valentine was very

soon left alone to a rather dull soliloquy (since shortened) which

began to weary the audience most unmistakably. I caught the sound of

a faint hiss, saw one or two people yawning; and then--

Stealing, rising, swelling, gathering as it thrilled the ear all

graces and delights of perfect sound; sweeping the awed heart with

touch that set the strings quivering to an ecstasy that was almost

pain; breathing through them in passionate whispering; hovering,

swaying, soaring upward to the very roof, then shivering down again

in celestial shower of silver--there came a voice that trod all

conceptions, all comparisons, all dreams to scorn; a voice beyond

hope, beyond belief; a voice that in its unimaginable beauty seemed

to compel the very heaven to listen.

And yet--surely I knew--surely it could not be--

I must be dreaming--mad! The bare notion was incredible--and even as

my heart spoke the words, the theatre grew dim and shadowy; the vast

sea of faces heaved, melted, swam in confusion; all sound came dull

and hoarse upon my ear; while there--there--

There, in the blaze of light, radiant, lovely, a glorified and

triumphant queen, stepped forward before the eyes of that vast

multitude--my love, my Claire!

CHAPTER VI.

TELLS HOW THE BLACK AND YELLOW FAN SENT A MESSAGE; AND HOW I SAW A

FACE IN THE FOG.

As I sat stupefied our eyes met. It was but for an instant, but in

that instant I saw that she recognised me and mutely challenged my

verdict. Then she turned to Valentine.

The theatre rang with tumultuous plaudits as her song ended. I could

feel Tom's grasp at my elbow, but I could neither echo the applause

nor answer him. It was all so wildly, grotesquely improbable.

This then was my love, this the Claire whom I had wooed and won in

the shy covert of Pangbourne Woods--this deified and transfigured

being before whom thousands were hushed in awe. Those were the lips

that had faltered in sweet confession--those before which the breath

of thousands came and went in agitated wonder. It was incredible.

And then, as Tom's hand was laid upon my arm, it flashed upon me that

the woman he loved was my plighted bride--and he knew nothing of it.

As this broke upon me there swept over me an awful dread lest he

should see my face and guess the truth. How could I tell him?

Poor Tom! Poor Tom!

I turned my eyes upon Claire again. Yes, she was superb: beyond all

challenge glorious. And all the more I felt as one who has betrayed

his friend and is angry with fate for sealing such betrayal beyond

revoke.

Whether Claire misinterpreted my look of utter stupefaction or not, I

do not know; but as she turned and recognised Valentine there was a

tremor in her voice which the audience mistook for art, though I knew

it to be but too real. I tried to smile and to applaud, but neither

eyes nor hand would obey my will; and so even Claire's acting became

a reproach and an appeal to me, pleading forgiveness to which my soul

cried assent though my voice denied it. Minute after minute I sat

beneath an agonising spell I could not hope to break.

"Congratulate me, Jasper. What do you think of her?"

It was Tom's voice beside me. Congratulate him! I felt the meanest

among men.

"She is--glorious," I stammered.

"I knew you would say so. Unbeliever, did ever man see such eyes?

Confess now, what are Claire's beside them?"

"Claire's--are--much the same."

"Why, man, Claire's were deep grey but a day or two ago, and

Clarissa's are the brownest of brown; but of course you cannot see

from here."

Alas! I knew too surely the colour of Claire's eyes, so like brown

in the blaze of the foot-lights. And her height--Tom had only seen

her walk in tragic buskin. How fatally easy had the mistake been!

"Tom, your success is certain now."

"Yes, thanks to her. They were going to damn the play before she

entered. I could see it. Did you see, Jasper? She looked this way

for a moment. Do you think she meant to encourage me? By the way,

have you caught sight of Claire yet?"

Oh, Tom, Tom, let me spare you for this night! My heart throbbed and

something in my throat seemed choking me as I muttered, "Yes."

"Then do not stay congratulating me, but fly. Success spoils the

lover. Ah, Jasper, if only Clarissa had summoned me! Hasten: I will

keep my eye upon you and smile approval on your taste. Where is

she?"

Again something seemed to catch me by the throat; I was struggling to

answer when I heard a voice behind me say, "For you, sir," and a note

was thrust into my hand. With beating heart I opened it, expecting

to see Claire's handwriting. But the note was not from her. It was

scribbled hastily with pencil in a bold hand, and ran thus:--

"An old friend wishes to see you. Come, if you have time.

Box No. 7."

At first I thought the message must have reached me by mistake, but

it was very plainly directed to "J. Trenoweth, Esq." I looked around

for the messenger but found him gone, and fell to scanning the boxes

once more.

As before, they were filled with strangers; and, as before, the black

and yellow fan was waving slowly to and fro, as though the hand that

wielded it was no hand at all, but rather some untiring machine.

Still the owner remained invisible. I hesitated, reflected a moment,

and decided that even a fool's errand was better than enduring the

agony of Tom's rapture. I rose.

"I will be back again directly," I said, and then left him.

Still pondering on the meaning of this message, I made my way down

the passages until I came to the doors of the boxes, and stopped

opposite that labelled "No. 7." As I did so, it struck me that this,

from its position, must be the one which contained the black and

yellow fan. By this time thoroughly curious, I knocked.

"Come in," said a low voice which I seemed to remember.

I entered and found myself face to face with the yellow woman--the

mistress of the gambling-hell.

She was seated there alone, slightly retired from the view of the

house and in the shadow; but her arm, as it rested on the cushion,

still swayed the black and yellow fan, and her diamonds sparkled

lustrously as ever in the glare that beat into the box. Her dress,

as if to emphasise the hideousness of her skin and form a staring

contrast with her wrinkled face and white hair, was of black and

yellow, in which she seemed some grisly corpse masquerading as youth.

Struck dumb by this apparition, I took the seat into which she

motioned me, while her wonderful eyes regarded my face with stony

impassiveness. I could hear the hoarse murmurs of the house and feel

the stifling heat as it swept upwards from the pit. The strange

woman did not stir except to keep up the ceaseless motion of her

wrist.

For a full five minutes, as it seemed to me, we sat there silently

regarding each other. Then at last she spoke, and the soft voice was

as musically sympathetic as ever.

"You seem astonished to see me, Mr. Trenoweth, and yet I have been

looking for you for a long time."

I bowed.

"I have been expecting you to give me a chance of redeeming my

defeat."

"I am sorry," stammered I, not fully recovered from my surprise,

"but that is not likely."

"No? From my point of view it was extremely likely. But somehow

I had a suspicion that you would be different from the rest.

Perhaps it was because I had set my heart upon your coming."

"I hope," said I, "that the money--"

She smiled and waved her hand slightly.

"Do not trouble about that. Had I chosen, I could have gone on

losing to you until this moment. No, perhaps it was simply because

you were least likely to do so, that I wished you to come back as all

other young men would come back. I hope you reached home safely with

what you won; but I need not ask that."

"Indeed you need. I was attacked as I left the room, and but for a

lucky accident, should now be dead."

"Ah," she said placidly; "you suspect me. Don't say 'no,' for

I can see you do. Nevertheless you are entirely wrong.

Why, Mr. Trenoweth, had I chosen, do you think I could not have had

you robbed before you had gone three paces from the house?"

This was said with such composure, and her eyes were so absolutely

void of emotion, that I could but sit and gasp. Once more I recalled

the moment when, as I fled down the dark passage, I had seen her

sitting motionless and calm in the light of her countless candles.

"But do you think I sent for you to tell you that?" she continued.

"I sent for you because you interested me, and because I want a talk

with you. Hush! the curtain is rising for the second act. Let us

resume when it has finished; you will not deny me that favour at

least."

I bowed again, and was silent as the curtain rose--and once more

Claire's superb voice thrilled the house. Surely man was seldom more

strangely placed than was I, between the speech of my love and the

eyes of this extraordinary woman. As I sat in the shadow and

listened, I felt those blazing fires burning into my very soul; yet

whenever I looked up and met them, their icy glitter baffled all

interpretation. Still as I sat there, the voice of Claire came to me

as though beseeching and praying for my judgment, and rising with the

blaze of light and heated atmosphere of the house, swept into the box

until I could bear the oppression no longer. She must have looked

for me, and seeing my place empty, have guessed that I condemned her.

Mad with the thought, I rose to my feet and stood for a minute full

in the light of the theatre. It may not have been even a minute, but

she saw me, and once more, as our gaze met, faltered for an instant.

Then the voice rang out clear and true again, and I knew that all was

well between us. Yet in her look there was something which I could

not well interpret.

As I sank back in my seat, I met the eyes of my companion still

impenetrably regarding me. But as the curtain fell she said

quietly--

"So you know Clarissa Lambert?"

I stammered an affirmative.

"Well? You admire her acting?"

"I never saw it until to-night."

"That is strange; and yet you know her?"

I nodded.

"She is a great success--on which I congratulate myself, for I

discovered her."

"You!" I could only exclaim.

"Yes, I. Is it so extraordinary? She and I are connected, so to

speak; which makes it the more odd that she should never have

mentioned you."

The eyes seemed now to be reading me as a book. I summoned all my

courage and tried to return their steady stare. There was a pause,

broken only by the light_ frou-frou_ of the fan, as it still waved

slowly backwards and forwards. Among all the discoveries of this

night, it was hard enough to summon reason, harder to utter speech.

"But you will be leaving me again if I do not explain why I sent for

you. You are wondering now on my reasons. They are very simple--

professional even, in part. In the first place, I wished to have a

good look at you. Do you wonder why an old woman should wish to look

upon a comely youth? Do not blush; but listen to my other and

professional reason. I should greatly like, if I may, to look upon

your talisman--that golden buckle or whatever it was that brought

such marvellous luck. Is it on you to-night?"

I wore it, as a matter of fact, in my waistcoat pocket, attached to

one end of my chain; but I hesitated for a moment.

"You need not be afraid," she said, and there was a suspicion of

mockery in her tone. "I will return it, as I returned it before.

But if you are reluctant to let me see it (and remember, I have seen

it once), do not hesitate to refuse. I shall not be annoyed."

Reflecting that, after all, her curiosity was certain to be baffled,

I handed her the Golden Clasp, with the chain, in silence.

"It is a curious relic," said she, as she slowly examined it and laid

it on her lap for a moment. "If the question be allowed, how did you

become possessed of it?"

"It belonged to my father," I answered.

"Excuse me," she said, deliberately, "that is hardly an answer to my

question."

During the silence that followed, she took up the clasp again, and

studied the writing. As she did so she used her right hand only;

indeed, during the whole time, her left had been occupied with her

tireless fan. I fancied, though I could not be certain, that it was

waving slightly faster than before.

"The writing seems to be nonsense. What is this--'Moon end

South--deep at point'? I can make no meaning of it. I suppose

there is a meaning?"

"Not to my knowledge," said I, and immediately repented, for once

more I seemed to catch that gleam in her eyes which had so baffled me

when first she saw the Clasp. The curtain rose upon the third act of

"Francesca," and we sat in silence, she with the Clasp lying upon her

lap, I wondering by what possibility she could know anything about my

father's secret. She could not, I determined. The whole history of

the Golden Clasp made it impossible. And yet I repented my rashness.

It was too late now, however; so, when the act was over I waited for

her to speak.

"So this belonged to your father. Tell me, was he at all like you?"

"He was about my height, I should guess," said I, wondering at this

new question; "but otherwise quite unlike. He was a fair man, I am

dark."

"But your grandfather--was he not dark?"

"I believe so," I answered, "but really--"

"You wonder at my questions, of course. Never mind me; think me a

witch, if you like. Do I not look a witch?"

Indeed she did, as she sat there. The diamonds flashed and gleamed,

lighting up the awful colour of her skin until she seemed a very

"Death-in-Life."

"I see that I puzzle you; but your looks, Mr. Trenoweth, are hardly

complimentary. However, you are forgiven. Here, take your talisman,

and guard it jealously; I thank you for showing it to me, but if I

were you I should keep it secret. Shall I see you again? I suppose

not. I am afraid I have made you miss some of the tragedy. You must

pardon me for that, as I have waited long to see you. At any rate,

there is the last act to come. Good-bye, and be careful of your

talisman."

As she spoke, she shut her fan with a sharp click, and then it

flashed upon me that it had never ceased its pendulous motion until

that instant. It was a strange idea to strike me then, but a

stranger yet succeeded. Was it that I heard a low mocking laugh

within the box as I stepped out into the passage? I cannot clearly

tell; perhaps it is but a fancy conjured up by later reflection on

that meeting and its consequences. I only know that as I bowed and

left her, the vision that I bore away was not of the gleaming gems,

the yellow face, the white hair, or waving fan, but of two coal-black

and impenetrable eyes.

I sought my place, and dropped into the seat beside Tom. The fourth

act was beginning, so that I had time to speculate upon my interview,

but could find no hope of solution. Finally, I abandoned guessing,

to admire Claire. As the play went on, her acting grew more and more

transcendent. Lines which I had heard from Tom's lips and scoffed

at, were now fused with subtle meaning and passion. Scenes which I

had condemned as awkward and heavy, became instinct with exquisite

pathos. There comes a point in acting at which criticism ceases,

content to wonder; this point it was clear that my love had touched.

The new play was a triumphant success.

"So," said Tom, before the last act, "Claire carries a yellow fan,

does she? I looked everywhere for you at first, and only caught

sight of you for an instant by the merest chance. You behaved rather

shabbily in giving me no chance of criticism, for I never caught a

glimpse of her. I hope she admired--Hallo! she's gone!"

I followed his gaze, and saw that Box No. 7 was no longer occupied by

the fan.

"I suppose you saw her off? Well, I do not admire your taste, I must

confess--nor Claire's--to go when Francesca was beginning to touch

her grandest height. Whew! you lovers make me blush for you."

"Tom." I said, anxious to lead him from all mention of Claire,

"you must forgive me for having laughed at your play."

"Forgive you! I will forgive you if you weep during the next act;

only on that condition."

How shall I describe the last act? Those who read "Francesca" in its

published form can form no adequate idea of the enthusiasm in the

Coliseum that night. To them it is a skeleton; then it was clothed

with passionate flesh and blood, breathed, sobbed and wept in purest

pathos; to me, even now, as I read it again, it is charged with the

inspiration of that wonderful art, so true, so tender, that made its

last act a miracle. I saw old men sob, and young men bow their heads

to hide the emotion which they could not check. I saw that audience

which had come to criticise, tremble and break into tumultuous

weeping. Beside me, a greyheaded man was crying as any child.

Yet why do I go on? No one who saw Clarissa Lambert can ever

forget--no one who saw her not can ever imagine.

Tom had bowed his acknowledgments, the last flower had been flung,

the last cheer had died away as we stepped out into the Strand

together. The street was wrapped in the densest of November fogs.

So thick was it that the lamps, the shop windows, came into sight,

stared at us in ghostly weakness for a moment, and then were gone,

leaving us in Egyptian gloom. I could not hope to see Claire

to-night, and Tom was too modest to offer his congratulations until

the morning. Both he and I were too shaken by the scene just past

for many words, and outside the black fog caught and held us by the

throat.

Even in the pitchy gloom I could feel that Tom's step was buoyant.

He was treading already in imagination the path of love and fame.

How should I have the heart to tell him? How wither the chaplet that

already seemed to bind his brow?

Tom was the first to break the silence which had fallen upon us.

"Jasper, did you ever see or hear the like? Can a man help

worshipping her? But for her, 'Francesca' would have been hissed.

I know it, I could see it, and now, I suppose, I shall be famous.

"Famous!" continued he, soliloquising. "Three months ago I would

have given the last drop of my blood for fame; and now, without

Clarissa, fame will be a mockery. Do you think I might have any

chance, the least chance?"

How could I answer him? The fog caught my breath as I tried to

stammer a reply, and Tom, misinterpreting my want of words, read his

condemnation.

"You do not? Of course, you do not; and you are right. Success has

intoxicated me, I suppose. I am not used to the drink!" and he

laughed a joyless laugh.

Then, with a change of mood, he caught my hat from off my head, and

set his own in its place.

"We will change characters for the nonce," he said, "after the

fashion of Falstaff and Prince Hal, and I will read myself a

chastening discourse on the vanity of human wishes. 'Do thou stand

for me, and I'll play my father.' Eh, Jasper?"

"'Well, here I am set,'" quoted I, content to humour him.

"Well, then, I know thee; thou art Thomas Loveday, a beggarly Grub

Street author, i' faith, a man of literature, and wouldst set eyes

upon one to whom princes fling bouquets; a low Endymion puffing a

scrannel pipe, and wouldst call therewith a queen to be thy bride.

Out upon thee for such monstrous folly!"

In his voice, as it came to me through the dense gloom, there rang,

for all its summoned gaiety, a desperate mockery hideous to hear.

"Behold, success hath turned thy weak brain. But an hour agone

enfranchised from Grub Street, thou must sing 'I'd be a butterfly.'

Thou art vanity absolute, conceit beyond measure, and presumption out

of all whooping. Yea, and but as a fool Pygmalion, not content with

loving thine own handiwork, thou must needs fall in love with the

goddess that breathed life into its stiff limbs; must yearn, not for

Galatea, but for Aphrodite; not for Francesca, but for--Ah!"

What was that? I saw a figure start up as if from below our feet,

and Tom's hand go up to his breast. There was a scuffle, a curse,

and as I dashed forward, a dull, dim gleam--and Tom, with a groan,

sank back into my arms.

That was all. A moment, and all had happened. Yet not all; for as I

caught the body of my friend, and saw his face turn ashy white in the

gloom, I saw also, saw unmistakably framed for an instant in the

blackness of the fog, a face I knew; a face I should know until death

robbed my eyes of sight and my brain of remembrance--the face of

Simon Colliver.

A moment, and before I could pursue, before I could even shout or

utter its name, it had faded into the darkness, and was gone.

CHAPTER VII.

TELLS HOW CLAIRE WENT TO THE PLAY; AND HOW SHE SAW THE GOLDEN CLASP.

Tom was dying. His depositions had been taken and signed with his

failing hand; the surgeon had given his judgment, and my friend was

lying upon his bed, face to face with the supreme struggle.

The knife had missed his heart by little more than an inch, but the

inward bleeding was killing him and there was no hope. He knew it,

and though the reason of that cowardly blow was a mystery to him, he

asked few questions, but faced his fate with the old boyish pluck.

His eyes as they turned to mine were lit with the old boyish love.

Once only since his evidence was taken had his lips moved, and then

to murmur _her_ name. I had sent for her: a short note with only the

words "Tom is dying and wants to speak with you." So, while we

waited, I sat holding my friend's hand and busy with my own black

thoughts.

I knew that he had received the blow meant for me, and that

the secret of this too, as well as that other assault in the

gambling-den, hung on the Golden Clasp and the Great Ruby.

Whatever that secret was, the yellow woman knew of it, and held it

beneath the glitter of her awful eyes. She it was that had directed

the murderous knife in the hands of Simon Colliver. Bitterly I

cursed the folly which had prompted my rash words in the theatre, and

so sacrificed my friend. With what passion, even in my despair, I

thanked Heaven that the act which led to Colliver's mistake had been

Tom's and not mine! Yet, what consolation was it? It was I, not he,

that should be lying there. He had given his life for his friend--a

friend who had already robbed him of his love. O false and

traitorous friend!

In my humiliation I would have taken my hand from his, but a feeble

pressure and a look of faint reproach restrained me. So he lay there

and I sat beside him, and both counted the moments until Claire

should come--or death.

A knock at the door outside. Tom heard it and in his eyes shone a

light of ineffable joy. In answer to his look I dropped his hand and

went to meet her.

"Claire, how can I thank you for this speed?"

"How did it happen?"

"Murdered!" said I. "Foully struck down last night as he left the

theatre."

Her eyes looked for a moment as though they would have questioned me

further, but she simply asked--

"Does he want to see me?"

"When he heard he was to die he asked for you. Claire, if you only

knew how he longs to see you; had you only seen his eyes when he

heard you come! You know why--"

She nodded gravely.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "we had better say nothing of--"

"Nothing," I answered; "it is better so. If there be any knowledge

beyond the grave he will know all soon."

Claire was silent.

"Yes," she assented at length, "it is better so. Take me to him."

I drew back as Claire approached the bed, dreading to meet Tom's

eyes; but I saw them welcome her in a flash of thankful rapture, then

slowly close as though unable wholly to bear this glad vision.

Altogether lovely she was as she bent and lifted his nerveless hand,

with the light of purest compassion on her face.

"You have come then," said the dying man. "God bless you for that!"

"I am come, and oh! I am so very, very sorry."

"I saw Jasper write and knew he had sent, but I hardly dared to hope.

I am--very weak--and am going--fast."

For answer, a tear of infinite pity dropped on the white hand.

"Don't weep--I can't bear to see you weeping. It is all for the

best. I can see that I have had hopes and visions, but I should

never have attained them--never. Now I shall not have to strive.

Better so--better so."

For a moment or two the lips moved inaudibly; then they spoke again--

"It was so good of you--to come; I was afraid--afraid--but you are

good. You saved my play last night, but you cannot save--me."

A wan smile played over the white face and was gone.

"Better so, for I can speak now and be pardoned. Do you know why I

sent for you? I wanted to tell something--before I died. Do not be

angry--I shall be dead soon, and in the grave, they say, there is no

knowledge. Clarissa! oh, pity me--pity me, if I speak!"

The eyes looked up imploringly and met their pardon.

"I have loved you--yes, loved you. Can you forgive? It need not

distress--you--now. It was mad--mad--but I loved you. Jasper, come

here."

I stepped to the bed.

"Tell her I loved her, and ask her--to forgive me. Tell her I knew

it was hopeless. Tell her so, Jasper."

Powerless to meet those trustful eyes, weary with the anguish of my

remorse, I stood there helpless.

"Jasper is too much--upset just now to speak. Never mind, he will

tell you later. He is in love himself. I have never seen her, but I

hope he may be happier than I. Forgive me for saying that. I am

happy now--happy now.

"You do not know Jasper," continued the dying man after a pause; "but

he saw you last night--and admired--how could he help it? I hope you

will be friends--for my sake. Jasper is my only friend."

There was a grey shadow on his face now--the shadow of death.

Tom must have felt it draw near, for suddenly raising himself upon

his elbow, he cried--

"Ah, I was selfish--I did not think. They are waiting at the

theatre--go to them. You will act your best--for my sake.

Forget what I have said, if you cannot forgive."

"Oh, why will you think that?"

"You do forgive? Oh, God bless you, God bless you for it! Clarissa,

if that be so, grant one thing more of your infinite mercy. Kiss me

once--once only--on the lips. I shall die happier so. Will you--can

you--do this?"

The film was gathering fast upon those eyes once so full of laughter;

but through it they gazed in passionate appeal. For answer, my love

bent gravely over the bed and with her lips met his; then, still

clasping his hand, sank on her knees beside the bed.

"Thank God! My love--oh, let me call you that--you cannot--help--my

loving you. Do not pray--I am happy now and--they are waiting for

you."

Slowly Claire arose to her feet and stood waiting for his last word--

"They are waiting--waiting. Good-bye, Jasper--old friend--and

Clarissa--Clarissa--my love--they are waiting--I cannot come--Clar--"

Slowly Claire bent and once more touched his lips, then without a

word passed slowly out. As she went Death entered and found on its

victim's face a changeless, rapturous smile.

So "Francesca" was played a second time and, as the papers said next

morning, with even more perfect art and amid more awed enthusiasm

than on the first night. But as the piece went on, a rumour passed

through the house that its young author was dead--suddenly and

mysteriously dead while the dawn of his fame was yet breaking--struck

down, some said, outside the theatre by a rival, while others

whispered that he had taken poison, but none knew for certain.

Only, as Claire passed from one heart-shaking scene to another, the

rumour grew and grew, so that when the curtain fell the audience

parted in awed and murmured speculations.

And all the while I was kneeling beside the body of my murdered

friend.

A week had passed and I was standing with Claire beside Tom's grave.

We had met and spoken at the funeral, but some restraint had lain

upon our tongues. For myself, I was still as one who had sold his

brother for a price, and Claire had forborne from questioning my

grief.

The coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of "Murder by a certain

person unknown," and now the police were occupied in following such

clues as I could give them. All the daily papers assigned robbery as

the motive, and the disappearance of Tom's watch-chain gave

plausibility to the theory. But I knew too well why that chain had

disappeared, and even in my grief found consolation in the thought of

Colliver's impotent rage when he should come to examine his prize.

I had described the face and figure of my enemy and had even

identified him with the long-missing sailor Georgio Rhodojani, so

that they promised to lay hands on him in a very short space.

But the public knew nothing of this. The only effect of the

newspapers' version of the murder was to send the town crowding in

greater numbers than ever to see the dead man's play.

Since the first night of "Francesca," Claire and I had only met by

Tom's bedside and at his funeral. But as I entered the gloomy

cemetery that afternoon I spied a figure draped in black beside the

yet unsettled mound, and as I drew near knew it to be Claire.

So we stood there facing one another for a full minute, at a loss for

words. A wreath of _immortelles_ lay upon the grave. In my heart I

thanked her for the gift, but could not speak. It seemed as though

the hillock that parted us were some impassable barrier to words.

Had I but guessed the truth I should have known that, unseen and

unsuspected, across that foot or two of turf was stretched a gulf we

were never more to cross: between our lives lay the body of my

friend; and not his only, but many a pallid corpse that with its mute

lips cursed our loves.

Presently Claire raised her head and spoke.

"Jasper, you have much to forgive me, and I hardly dare ask your

forgiveness. It is too late to ask forgiveness of a dead man, but

could he hear now I would entreat him to pardon the folly that

wrought this cruel mistake."

"Claire, you could not know. How was it possible to guess?"

"That is true, but it is no less cruel. And I deceived you. Can you

ever forgive?"

"Forgive! forgive what? That I found my love peerless among women?

Oh, Claire, Claire, 'forgive'?"

"Yes; what matters it that for the moment I have what is called fame?

I deceived you--yet, believe me, it was only because I thought to

make the surprise more pleasant. I thought--but it is too late.

Only believe I had no other thought, no other wish. My poor scheme

seemed so harmless at first: then as the days went on I began to

doubt. But until you told me, as we stood beside the river, of--

_him_, I never guessed;--oh, believe me, I never guessed!"

"Love, do not accuse yourself in this way. It hurts me to hear you

speak so. If there was any fault it was mine; but the Fates blinded

us. If you had known Tom, you would know that he would forgive could

he hear us now. For me, Claire, what have I to pardon?"

Claire did not answer for a moment. There was still a trouble in her

face, as though something yet remained to be said and she had not the

courage to utter it.

"Jasper, there is something besides, which you have to pardon if you

can."

"My love!"

"Do you remember what I asked you that night, when you first told me

about _him_?"

"You asked me a foolish question, if I remember rightly. You asked

if I could ever cease to love you."

"No, not foolish; I really meant it seriously, and I believed you

when you answered me. Are you of the same mind now? Believe me, I

am not asking lightly."

"I answer you as I answered you then: 'Love is strong as death.'

My love, put away these thoughts and be sure that I love you as my

own soul."

"But perhaps, even so, you might be so angry that--Oh, Jasper, how

can I tell you?"

"Tell me all, Claire."

"I told you I was called, or that they called me Claire. Were you

not surprised when you saw my name as Clarissa Lambert?"

"Is that all?" I cried. "Why, of course, I knew how common it is for

actresses to take another name. I was even glad of it; for the name

I know, your own name, is now a secret, and all the sweeter so.

All the world admires Clarissa Lambert, but I alone love Claire

Luttrell, and know that Claire Luttrell loves me."

"But that is not all," she expostulated, whilst the trouble in her

eyes grew deeper. "Oh, why will you make it so hard for me to

explain? I never thought, when I told you so carelessly on that

night when we met for the first time, that you would grow to care for

me at all. And it was the same afterwards, when I introduced you to

my mother; I gave you the name Luttrell, without ever dreaming--"

"Was Luttrell not your mother's name?" I asked, perplexed.

"That is the name by which she is always called now; and I am always

called Claire; in fact, it is my name, but I have another, and I

ought to have told you."

"Why, as Claire I know you, and as Claire I shall always love you.

What does it matter if your real name be Lambert? You will change

it, love, soon, I trust."

But my poor little jest woke no mirth in her eyes.

"No, it is not Lambert. That is only the name I took when I went on

the stage. Nor am I called Luttrell. It is a sad story; but let me

tell it now, and put an end to all deception. I meant to do so long

ago; but lately I thought I would wait until after you had seen me on

the stage; I thought I would explain all together, not knowing

that _he_--but it has all gone wrong. Jasper, I know you will pity

poor mother, even though she had allowed you to be deceived. She has

been so unhappy. But let me tell it first, and then you will judge.

She calls herself Luttrell to avoid persecution; to avoid a man who

is--"

"A villain, I am sure."

"A villain, yes; but worse. He is her husband; not my father, but a

second husband. My father died when I was quite a little child, and

she married again. Ever since that day she has been miserable.

I remember her face--oh, so well! when she first discovered the real

character of the man. For years she suffered--we were abroad then--

until at last she could bear it no longer, so she fled--fled back to

England, and took me with her. I think, but I am not sure, that her

husband did not dare to follow her to England, because he had done

something against the laws. I only guess this, for I never dare to

ask mother about him. I did so once, and shall never forget the look

of terror that came into her eyes. I only guess he has some strong

reason for avoiding England, for I remember we went abroad hastily,

almost directly after that night when mother first discovered that

she had been deceived. However that may be, we came to England,

mother and I, and changed our name to Luttrell, which was her maiden

name. After this, our life became one perpetual dread of discovery.

We were miserably poor, of course, and I was unable to do anything to

help for many years. Mother was so careful; why, she even called me

by my second name, so desperately anxious was she to hide all traces

from that man. Then suddenly we were discovered--not by him, but by

his mother, whom he set to search for us, and she--for she was not

wholly bad--promised to make my fortune on the single condition that

half my earnings were sent to him. Otherwise, she threatened that

mother should have no rest. What could I do? It was the only way to

save ourselves. Well, I promised to go upon the stage, for this

woman fancied she discovered some talent in me. Why, Jasper, how

strangely you are looking!"

"Tell me--tell me," I cried, "who is this woman?"

"You ought to know that, for you were in the box with her during most

of the first night of 'Francesca.'"

A horrible, paralysing dread had seized me.

"Her name, and his? Quick--tell me, for God's sake!"

"Colliver. He is called Simon Colliver. But, Jasper, what is it?

What--"

I took the chain and Golden Clasp and handed them to Claire without

speech.

"Why, what is this?" she cried. "He has a piece exactly like this,

the fellow to it; I remember seeing it when I was quite small.

Oh, speak! what new mystery, what new trouble is this?"

"Claire, Colliver is here in London, or was but a week ago."

"Here!"

"Yes, Claire; and it was he that murdered Thomas Loveday."

"Murdered Thomas Loveday! I do not understand." She had turned

a deathly white, and spread out her hands as if for support.

"Tell me--"

"Yes, Claire," I said, as I stepped to her, and put my arm about her;

"it is truth, as I stand here. Colliver, your mother's husband,

foully murdered my innocent friend for the sake of that piece of

gold; and more, Simon Colliver, for the sake of this same accursed

token, murdered my father!"

"Your father!"

She shook off my arm, and stood facing me there, by Tom's grave, with

a look of utter horror that froze my blood.

"Yes, my father; or stay, I am wrong. Though Colliver prompted, his

was not the hand that did the deed. That he left to a poor wretch

whom he afterwards slew himself--one Railton--John Railton."

"What!"

"Why, Claire, Claire! What is it? Speak!"

"I am Janet Railton!"

CHAPTER VIII.

TELLS HOW THE CURTAIN FELL UPON "FRANCESCA: A TRAGEDY."

For a moment I staggered back as though buffeted in the face, then,

as our eyes met and read in each other the desperate truth, I sprang

forward just in time to catch her as she fell. Blindly, as if in

some hideous trance, reeling and stumbling over the graves, I carried

her in my arms to the cemetery gate and stood there panting and

bewildered.

Cold and white as marble she lay in my arms, so that for one terrible

moment I thought her dead. "Better so," my heart had cried, and then

I laughed aloud (God forgive me!) at the utter cruelty of it all.

But she was not dead. As I watched the lovely ashen face, the slow

blood came trickling back and throbbed faintly at her temples, the

light breath flickered and went and came once more. Feebly and with

wonder the dark eyes opened to the light of day, then closed again as

the lips parted in a moaning whisper.

"Claire!" I cried, and my voice seemed to come from far away, so

hollow and unnatural was it, "I must take you to your home; are you

well enough to go?"

I had laid her on the stone upon which the bearers were used to set

down the coffins when weary. Scarcely a week ago, poor Tom's corpse

had rested for a moment upon this grim stone. As I bent to catch the

answer, and saw how like to death her face was, I thought how well it

were for both of us, should we be resting there so together; not

leaving the acre of the dead, but entering it as rightful heirs of

its oblivion.

After a while, as I repeated my question, the lips again parted and I

heard.

I looked down the road. The cemetery lay far out in one of the

northern suburbs, and just now the neighbourhood seemed utterly

deserted. By good chance, however, I spied an old four-wheeler

crawling along in the distance. I ran after it, hailed it, brought

it back, and with the help of the wondering driver, placed my love

inside; then I gave the man the address, and bidding him drive with

all speed, sprang in beside Claire.

Still faint, she was lying back against the cushion. The cab crawled

along at a snail's pace, but long as the journey was, it was passed

in utter silence. She never opened her eyes, and as for me, what

comfortable words could I speak? Yet as I saw the soft rise and fall

of her breast, I longed for words, Heaven knows how madly! But none

came, and in silence we drew up at length before a modest doorway in

Old Kensington.

Here Claire summoned all her strength lest her mother should be

frightened. Still keeping her eyes averted, she stepped as bravely

as she could from the cab, and laid her hand upon the door-handle.

I made as if to follow.

"No, no," she said hastily, "leave me to myself--I will write

to-morrow and perhaps see you; but, oh, pray, not to-day!"

Before I could answer she had passed into the house.

Twenty-four hours had passed and left me as they found me, in

torture. Despite my doubt, I swore she should not cast me off; then

knelt and prayed as I had never prayed before, that Heaven would deny

some of its cruelty to my darling. In the abandonment of my

supplication, I was ready to fling the secret from me and forgive

all, to forgive my father's murderer, my life-long enemy, and let him

go unsought, rather than give up Claire. Yet as I prayed, my

entreaties and my tears went up to no compassionate God, but beat

themselves upon the adamantine face of Dead Man's Rock that still

rose inexorable between me and Heaven.

That night the crowd that gathered in the Coliseum to see the new

play, went away angry and disappointed; for Clarissa Lambert was not

acting. Another actress took her part--but how differently! And all

the while she, for whose sake they had come, was on her knees

wrestling with a grimmer tragedy than "Francesca," with no other

audience than the angels of pity.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and found me hastening towards Old

Kensington; for in my pocket lay a note bearing only the words

"Come at 3.30--Claire," and on my heart rested a load of suspense

unbearable. For many minutes beforehand, I paced up and down outside

the house in an agony, and as my watch pointed to the half-hour,

knocked and was admitted.

Mrs. Luttrell met me in the passage. She seemed most terribly white

and worn, so that I was astonished when she simply said, "Claire is

slightly unwell, and in fact could not act last night, but she wishes

to see you for some reason."

Wondering why Claire's mother should look so strangely if she guessed

nothing of what had happened, but supposing illness to be the reason,

I stopped for an instant to ask.

"Am I pale?" she answered. "It is nothing--nothing--do not take any

notice of it. I am rather weaker than usual to-day, that is all--a

mere nothing. You will find Claire in the drawing-room there."

And so she left me.

I knocked at the drawing-room door, and hearing a faint voice inside,

entered. As I did so, Claire rose to meet me. She was very pale,

and the dark circles around her eyes told of a long vigil; but her

manner at first was composed and even cold.

"Claire!" I cried, and stretched out my hands.

"Not yet," she said, and motioned me to a chair. "I sent for you

because I have been thinking of--of--what happened yesterday, and I

want you to tell me all; the whole story from beginning to end."

"But--"

"There is no 'but' in the case, Jasper. I am Janet Railton, and you

say that my father killed yours. Tell me how it was."

Her manner was so calm that I hesitated at first, bewildered.

Then, finding that she waited for me to speak, I sat down facing her

and began my story.

I told it through, without suppression or concealment, from the time

when my father started to seek the treasure, down to the cowardly

blow that had taken my friend's life. During the whole narrative she

never took her eyes from my face for more than a moment. Her very

lips were bloodless, but her manner was as quiet as though I were

reading her some story of people who had never lived. Once only she

interrupted me. I was repeating the conversation between her father

and Simon Colliver upon Dead Man's Rock.

"You are quite sure," she asked, "of the words? You are positive he

said, 'Captain, it was your knife'?"

"Certain," I answered sadly.

"You are giving the very words they both used?"

"As well as I can remember; and I have cause for a good memory."

"Go on," she replied simply.

So I unrolled the whole chronicle of our unhappy fates, and even read

to her Lucy Railton's letter which I had brought with me. Then, as I

ceased, for full a minute we sat in absolute silence, reading each

other's gaze.

"Let me see the letter," she said, and held out her hand for it.

I gave it to her. She read it slowly through and handed it back.

"Yes, it is my mother's letter," she said, slowly.

Then again silence fell upon us. I could hear the clock tick slowly

on the mantelpiece, and the beating of my own heart that raced and

outstripped it. That was all; until at length the slow, measured

footfall of the timepiece grew maddening to hear; it seemed a symbol

of the unrelenting doom pursuing us, and I longed to rise and break

it to atoms.

I could stand it no longer.

"Claire, tell me that this will not--cannot alter you--that you are

mine yet, as you were before."

"This is impossible," she said, very gravely and quietly.

"Impossible? Oh, no, no, do not say that! You cannot, you must not

say that!"

"Yes, Jasper," she repeated, and her face was pallid as snow; "it is

impossible."

But as I heard my doom, I arose and fought it with blind despair.

"Claire, you do not know what you are saying. You love me, Claire;

you have told me so, and I love you as my very soul. Surely, then,

you will not say this thing. How were we to know? How could you

have told? Oh, Claire! is it that you do not love me?"

Her eyes were full of infinite compassion and tenderness, but her

lips were firm and cold.

"You know that I love you."

"Then, oh, my love! how can this come between us? What does it

matter that our fathers fought and killed each other, if only we

love? Surely, surely Heaven cannot fix the seal of this crime upon

us for ever? Speak, Claire, and tell me that you will be mine in

spite of all!"

"It cannot be," she answered, very gently.

"Cannot be!" I echoed. "Then I was right, and you do not love, but

fancied that you did for a while. Love, love, was that fair?

No power on earth--no, nor in heaven--should have made me cast you

off so."

My rage died out before the mute reproach of those lovely eyes.

I caught the white hand.

"Forgive me, Claire; I was desperate, and knew not what I was saying.

I know you love me--you have said so, and you are truth itself; truth

and all goodness. But if you have loved, then you can love me still.

Remember our text, Claire, 'Love is strong as death.' Strong as

death, and can it be overcome so easily?"

She was trembling terribly, and from the little hand within mine I

could feel her agitation. But though the soft eyes spoke appealingly

as they were raised in answer, I could see, behind all their anguish,

an immutable resolve.

"No, Jasper; it can never be--never. Do you think I am not

suffering--that it is nothing to me to lose you? Try to think better

of me. Oh, Jasper, it is hard indeed for me, and--I love you so."

"No, no," she went on; "do not make the task harder for me. Why can

you not curse me? It would be easier then. Why can you not hate me

as you ought? Oh, if you would but strike me and go, I could better

bear this hour!"

There was such abandonment of entreaty in her tones that my heart

bled for her; yet I could only answer--

"Claire, I will not give you up; not though you went on your knees

and implored it. Death alone can divide us now; and even death will

never kill my love."

"Death!" she answered. "Think, then, that I am dead; think of me as

under the mould. Ah, love, hearts do not break so easily. You would

grieve at first, but in a little while I should be forgotten."

"Claire!"

"Forgive me, love; not forgotten. I wronged you when I said the

word. Believe me, Jasper, that if there be any gleam of day in the

blackness that surrounds me it is the thought that you so love me;

and yet it would have been far easier otherwise--far easier."

Little by little my hope was slipping from me; but still I strove

with her as a man battles for his life. I raved, protested, called

earth and heaven to witness her cruelty; but all in vain.

"It would be a sin--a horrible sin!" she kept saying. "God would

never forgive it. No, no; do not try to persuade me--it is

horrible!" and she shuddered.

Utterly beaten at last by her obstinacy, I said--

"I will leave you now to think it over. Let me call again and hear

that you repent."

"No, love; we must never meet again. This must be our last good-bye.

Stay!" and she smiled for the first time since that meeting in the

cemetery. "Come to 'Francesca' to-night; I am going to act."

"What! to-night?"

"Yes. One must live, you see, even though one suffers. See, I have

a ticket for you--for a box. You will come? Promise me."

"Never, Claire."

"Yes, promise me. Do me this last favour; I shall never ask

another."

I took the card in silence.

"And now," she said, "you may kiss me. Kiss me on the lips for the

last time, and may God bless you, my love."

Quite calmly and gently she lifted her lips to mine, and on her face

was the glory of unutterable tenderness.

"Claire! My love, my love!" My arms were round her, her whole form

yielded helplessly to mine, and as our lips met in that one

passionate, shuddering caress, sank on my breast.

"You will not leave me?" I cried.

And through her sobs came the answer--

"Yes, yes; it must be, it must be."

Then drawing herself up, she held out her hand and said--

"To-night, remember, and so--farewell."

And so, in the fading light of that grey December afternoon I left

her standing there.

Mad and distraught with the passion of that parting, I sat that

evening in the shadow of my box and waited for the curtain to rise

upon "Francesca." The Coliseum was crowded to the roof, for it was

known that Clarissa Lambert's illness had been merely a slight

indisposition, and to-night she would again be acting. I was too

busy with my own hard thoughts to pay much attention at first, but I

noticed that my box was the one nearest to the stage, in the tier

next above it. So that once more I should hear my darling's voice,

and see her form close to me. Once or twice I vaguely scanned the

audience. The boxes opposite were full; but, of course, I could see

nothing of my own side of the theatre. After a moment's listless

glance, I leaned back in the shadow and waited.

I do not know who composed the overture. It is haunted by one

exquisite air, repeated, fading into variations, then rising once

more only to sink into the tender sorrow of a minor key. I have

heard it but twice in my life, but the music of it is with me to this

day. Then, as I heard it, it carried me back to the hour when Tom

and I sat expectant in this same theatre, he trembling for his play's

success, I for the sight of my love. Poor Tom! The sad melody

wailed upwards as though it were the voice of the wind playing about

his grave, every note breathing pathos or suspiring in tremulous

anguish. Poor Tom! Yet your love was happier than mine; better to

die with Claire's kiss warm upon the lips than to live with but the

memory of it.

The throbbing music had ended, and the play began. As before, the

audience were without enthusiasm at first, but to-night they knew

they had but to wait, and they did so patiently; so that when at last

Claire's voice died softly away at the close of her opening song, the

hushed house was suddenly shaken to its roof with the storm and

tumult of applause.

There she stood, serene and glowing, as one that had never known

pain. My very eyes doubted. On her face was no sign of suffering,

no trace of a tear. Was she, then, utterly without heart? In my

memory I retraced the scene of that afternoon, and all my reason

acquitted her. Yet, as she stood there in her glorious epiphany,

illumined with the blazing lights, and radiant in the joy and

freshness of youth, I could have doubted whether, after all, Clarissa

Lambert and Claire Luttrell were one and the same.