A SNAKE AVENGES A HADDOCK AND LUCILLE BEHAVES IN AN UN-SMELLIEAN
MANNER.
Finding himself free for the afternoon, and the proud possessor of
several shillings, “Trooper Matthewson” decided to walk to Folkestone,
attend an attractively advertised concert on the pier, and then indulge
in an absolutely private meal in some small tea-room or confectioner’s
shop.
Arrayed in scarlet shell-jacket, white-striped overalls, and pill-box
cap, he started forth, carrying himself as though exceeding proud to be
what he was, and wondering whether a swim in the sea, which should end
somewhere between Shorncliffe and Dieppe (and end his troubles too),
would not be a better pastime.
Arrived at the Folkestone pier, Dam approached the ticket office at the
entrance and tendered his shilling to the oily-curled, curly-nosed
young Jew who sat at the receipt of custom.
“Clear out o’ this,” said Levi Solomonson.
“I want a ticket for the concert,” said Dam, not understanding.
“Would you like a row o’ stalls to sprawl your dirty carcase on?…
Outside, I tell yer, Tommy Atkins, this ain’t a music-’all nor yet a
pub. Soldiers _not_ ‘’alf-price to cheap seats’ nor yet full-price—nor
yet for ten pound a time. Out yer go, lobster.”
The powerful hand of Damocles de Warrenne approached the window and,
for a second, Mr. Levi Solomonson was in danger—but only for a second.
Dam was being well-broken-in, and quickly realized that he was no
longer a free British citizen entitled to the rights of such so long as
he behaved as a citizen should, but a mere horrible defender of those
of his countrymen, who were averse from the toils and possible dangers
of self-defence. It was brought home to him, then and there, with some
clearness, that the noble Britons who (perhaps) “never never will be
slaves,” have a fine and high contempt for those whose life-work is to
save them from that distressing position; that the noble Briton, while
stoutly (and truly Britishly) refusing to hear of universal service and
the doing by each man of his first duty to the State, is informed with
a bitter loathing of those who, for wretched hire and under wretched
conditions, perform those duties for him. Dam did not mind, though he
did not enjoy, doing housemaid’s work in the barrack-room, scrubbing
floors, blackleading iron table-legs and grates, sweeping, dusting, and
certain other more unpleasant menial tasks; he did not mind, though he
did not like, “mucking-out” stables and scavenging; he could take at
their proper value the insults of ignorant boors set in authority over
him; he could stand, if not enjoy, the hardships of the soldier’s
life—but he did _not_ see why his doing his duty in that particular
sphere—an arduous, difficult, and frequently dangerous sphere—should
earn him the united insult of the united public! Why should an educated
and cultured man, a gentleman in point of fact, be absolutely
prohibited from hearing a “classical” concert because he wore the
Queen’s uniform and did that most important and necessary work which
the noble Briton is too slack-baked, too hypocritically genteel, too
degenerate, to perform, each man for himself?
In a somewhat bitter frame of mind the unfortunate young man strolled
along the Leas and seated himself on a public bench, honestly wondering
as he did so, whether he were sufficiently a member of the great and
glorious public to have a right to do it while wearing the disgraceful
and disgracing garb of a Trooper of the Queen…. Members of that great
and glorious public passed him by in rapid succession. Narrow-chested
youths of all classes, and all crying aloud in slack-lipped silence for
the drill-sergeant to teach them how to stand and walk; for the
gymnasium-instructor to make them, what they would never be, _men_; for
some one to give them an aim and an ideal beyond cigarettes, socks, and
giggling “gels” or “gals” or “garls” or “gyurls” or “gurrls” according
to their social sphere. Vast-stomached middle-aged men of all classes,
and all crying aloud in fat-lipped silence of indulgence, physical
sloth, physical decay before physical prime should have been reached,
of mental, moral, and physical decadence from the great Past
incredible, and who would one and all, if asked, congratulate
themselves on living in these glorious modern times of ’igh
civilization and not in the dark, ignorant days of old.
(Decidedly a bitter young man, this.)
Place Mister Albert Pringle, Insurance Agent; Mister Peter Snagget,
Grocer; Mister Alphonso Pumper, Rate Collector; Mister Bill ’Iggins,
Publican; Mister Walter Weed, Clerk; Mister Jeremiah Ramsmouth, Local
Preacher; Mr. ’Ookey Snagg, Loafer; Mister William Guppy, Potman—place
them beside Hybrias, Goat-herd; Damon, Shepherd; Phydias, Writer;
Nicarchus, Ploughman; Balbus, Bricklayer; Glaucus, Potter; Caius,
Carter; Marcus, Weaver; Aeneas, Bronze-worker; Antonius, Corn-seller;
Canidius, Charioteer—and then talk of the glorious modern times of high
civilization and the dark ignorant days of old!…
And as he sat musing thus foolishly and pessimistically, who should
loom upon his horizon but—of all people in the world—the Haddock, the
fishy, flabby, stale, unprofitable Haddock! Most certainly Solomon in
all his glory was not arrayed like this. A beautiful confection of
pearly-grey, pearl-buttoned flannel draped his droopy form, a
pearly-grey silk tie, pearl-pinned, encircled his lofty collar,
pearly-grey silk socks spanned the divorcing gap ’twixt beautiful grey
kid shoes and correctest trousers, a pearly-grey silk handkerchief
peeped knowingly from the cuff of his pearly-grey silk shirt by his
pearly-grey kid glove, and his little cane was of grey lacquer, and of
pearl handle. One could almost have sworn that a pearl-grey smile
adorned the scarce-shut mouth of the beautiful modern product of
education and civilization, to carry on the so well-devised
colour-scheme to the pearly-grey grey-ribboned soft hat.
The Haddock’s mind wandered not in empty places, but wrestled sternly
with the problem—_would_ it not have been better, after all, perhaps,
to have worn the pearly-grey spats (with the pearl buttons) instead of
relying on the pearly-grey socks alone? When one sat down and modestly
protruded an elegant foot as one crossed one’s legs and gently drew up
one’s trouser (lest a baggy knee bring black shame), one could display
both—the spat itself, _and_, above it, the sock. Of course! To the
passer-by, awe-inspired, admiring, stimulated, would then have been
administered the double shock and edification. While gratefully
observing the so-harmonizing grey spat and grey shoe he would have
noted the Ossa of grey silk sock piled upon that Pelion of
ultra-fashionable foot-joy! Yes. He had acted hastily and had erred and
strayed from the Perfect Way—and a cloud, at first no bigger than a
continent or two, arose and darkened his mental sky.
But what of the cloud that settled upon him, black as that of the
night’s Plutonian shore, a cloud much bigger than the Universe, when a
beastly, awful, ghastly, common private soldier arose from a seat—a
common seat for which you do not pay a penny and show your
selectitude—arose, I say, from a beastly common seat and SEIZED HIM BY
THE ARM and remarked in horrible, affected, mocking tones:—
“And how’s the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, common breakfast
Haddock?”
Yes, in full sight of the Leas of Folkestone, and the nobility, gentry,
shopmen, nurse-girls, suburban yachtsmen, nuts, noisettes,
bath-chairmen and all the world of rank and fashion, a common soldier
took the pearly-grey arm of _the_ Haddon Berners as he took the air and
walked abroad to give the public a treat. And proved to be his
shameful, shameless, disgraced, disgraceful, cowardly relative,
Damocles de Warrenne!
The Haddock reeled, but did not fall.
On catching sight of the beautiful young man, Dam’s first impulse was
to spring up and flee, his second to complete the work of Mr. Levi
Solomonson of the pier concert and see for himself, once again, how he
was regarded by the eyes of all right-minded and respectable members of
society, including those of a kinsman with whom he had grown up.
Yes, in his bitterness of soul, and foolish youthful revolt against
Fate, he was attracted by the idea of claiming acquaintance with the
superb Haddock in his triumphant progress, take him by the arm, and
solemnly march him the whole length of the Leas! He would, by Jove! _He
did_.
Confronting the resplendent languid loafer, he silkily observed, as he
placed his cutting-whip beneath his left arm and extended his white
cotton-gloved right hand:—
“And how’s the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, common breakfast
Haddock?”
Had it been Ormonde Delorme, any friend of Monksmead days, any school
or Sandhurst acquaintance, had it been any other relative, had it been
Lucille, he would have fled for his life, he would have seen his hand
paralysed ere he would have extended it, he would have been struck dumb
rather than speak, he would have died before he would have inflicted
upon them the indignity of being seen in the company of a common
soldier. But the Haddock! ’twould do the Haddock a world of good; the
Haddock who had mocked him as he fought for sanity and life on the lawn
at Monksmead—the Haddock who “made love” to Lucille.
The Haddock affected not to see the hand.
“I—er—don’t—ah—know you, surely, do I?” he managed to mumble as he
backed away and turned to escape.
“Probably not, dear Haddock,” replied the embittered desperate Dam,
“but you’re going to. We’re going for a walk together.”
“Are you—ah—dwunk, fellow? Do you suppose I walk with—ah—_soldiers_?”
“I don’t, my Fish, but you’re going to now—if I have to carry you. And
if I have to do that I’ll slap you well, when I put you down!”
“I’ll call a policeman and give you in charge if you dare molest me.
What do you—ah—desire? Money?… If you come to my hotel this evening—”
and the hapless young man was swung round, his limp thin arm tucked
beneath a powerful and mighty one, and he was whirled along at five
miles an hour in the direction of the pier, gasping, feebly struggling,
and a sight to move the High Gods to pity.
“To the pier, my Haddock, and then back to the turnpike gate, and if
you let a yell, or signal a policeman, I’ll twist your little neck.
Fancy our Haddock in a vulgar street row with a common soldier and in
the Police Court! Step it out, you worm!”
Then the agonized Haddock dropped pretence.
“Oh, Dam, I’m awf’ly sorry. I apologize, old chap. _Let up_—I say—this
is _awful_…. Good God, here’s Lady Plonk, the Mayor’s wife!”
“You shall introduce me, Lovely One—but no, we mustn’t annoy ladies.
You must _not_ go trying to introduce your low companions—nay,
relations—to Lady Plonkses. Step out—and look happy.”
“Dam—for God’s sake, let me go! I didn’t know you, old chap. I swear I
didn’t. The disgrace will kill me. I’ll give you—”
“Look here, wee Fish, you offer me money again and I’ll—I’ll undress
you and run away with your clothes. I will, upon my soul.”
“I shall call to this policeman,” gasped the Haddock.
“And appear with your low-class _relation_ in Court? Not you, Haddock.
I’d swear you were my twin brother, and that you wouldn’t pay me the
four pence you borrowed of me last week.”
And the cruel penance was inflicted to the last inch. Near the end the
Haddock groaned: “Here’s Amelia Harringport—Oh! my God,” and Dam
quickly turned his face unto the South and gazed at the fair land of
France. He remembered that General Harringport dwelt in these parts.
At the toll-gate Dam released the perspiration-soaked wretch, who had
suffered the torments of the damned, and who seemed to have met every
man and woman whom he knew in the world as he paraded the promenade
hanging lovingly to the arm of a common soldier! He thought of suicide
and shuddered at the bare idea.
“Well, I’m awf’ly sorry to have to run away and leave you now, dear
Haddock. I might have taken you to all the pubs in Folkestone if I’d
had time. I might have come to your hotel and dined with you. You
_will_ excuse me, won’t you? I _must_ go now. I’ve got to wash up the
tea things and clean the Sergeant’s boots,” said Dam, cruelly wringing
the Haddock’s agonized soft hand, and, with a complete and
disconcerting change, added, “And if you breathe a word about having
seen me, at Monksmead, or tell Lucille, _I’ll seek you out, my
Haddock_, and—we will hold converse with thee”. Then he strode away,
cursing himself for a fool, a cad, and a deteriorated, demoralized
ruffian. Anyhow, the Haddock would not mention the appalling incident
and give him away.
Nemesis followed him.
Seeking a quiet shop in a back street where he could have the
long-desired meal in private, he came to a small taxidermist’s, glanced
in as he passed, and beheld the pride and joy of the taxidermist’s
heart—a magnificent and really well-mounted boa-constrictor, and fell
shrieking, struggling, and screaming in the gutter.
That night Damocles de Warrenne, ill, incoherent, and delirious, passed
in a cell, on a charge of drunk and disorderly and disgracing the
Queen’s uniform.
Mr. Levi Solomonson had not disgraced it, of course.
“If we were not eating this excellent bread-and-dripping and drinking
this vile tea, what would you like to be eating and drinking,
Matthewson?” asked Trooper Nemo (formerly Aubrey Roussac d’Aubigny of
Harrow and Trinity).
“Oh, … a little real turtle,” said Dam, “just a lamina of _sole frite_,
a trifle of _vol an vent à la financière_, a breast of partridge, a
mite of _paté de fois gras_, a peach _à la Melba_, the roe of a
bloater, and a few fat grapes—”
“’Twould do. ’Twould pass,” sighed Trooper Burke, and added, “I would
suggest a certain Moselle I used to get at the Byculla Club in Bombay,
and a wondrous fine claret that spread a ruby haze of charm o’er my
lunch at the Yacht Club of the same fair city. A ‘_Mouton Rothschild_
something,’ which was cheap at nine rupees a small bottle on the morrow
of a good day on the Mahaluxmi Racecourse.” (It was strongly suspected
that Trooper Burke had worn a star on his shoulder-strap in those
Indian days.)
“It’s an awful shame we can’t all emerge from the depths and run up to
Town to breathe the sweet original atmosphere for just one night before
we leave old England,” put in Trooper Punch Peerson (son of a noble
lord) who would at that moment have been in the Officers’ Mess but for
a congenital weakness in spelling and a dislike of mathematics. “Pity
we can’t get ‘leaf,’ and do ourselves glorious at the Carlton, and
‘afterwards’. We could change at my Governor’s place into borrowed,
stolen, and hired evening-kit, paint the village as scarlet as Sin or a
trooper’s jacket, and then come home, like the Blackbird, to tea. I am
going, and if I can’t get ‘leaf’ I shall return under the bread in the
rations-cart. Money’s the root of all (successful) evil.”
Trooper Punch Peerson was a born leader of men, a splendid horseman and
soldier, and he had the Army in his ardent, gallant blood and bones;
but how shall a man head a cavalry charge or win the love and
enthusiastic obedience of men and horses when he is weak in spelling
and has a dislike of mathematics?
However, he was determined to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors,
to serve his country in spite of her, and his Commission was certain
and near. Meanwhile he endeavoured to be a first-class trooper, had his
uniform made of officers’ materials in Bond Street by his father’s
famous tailor, and “got the stick” with ease and frequency.
“We’re not all gilded popinjays (nor poppin’ bottles),” observed a
young giant who called himself Adam Goate, and had certainly been one
in the days when he was Eugene Featherstonthwaite. “All very well for
you to come to the surface and breathe, seeing that you’ll be out of it
soon. You’re having nothing but a valuable experience and a hardening.
You’re going through the mill. We’ve got to _live_ in it. What’s the
good of our stirring everything up again? Dam-silly of a skinned eel to
grow another skin, to be skinned again…. No, ‘my co-mates and brothers
in exile,’ what I say is—you can get just as drunk on ‘four-’arf’ as on
champagne, and a lot cheaper. Ask my honourable friend, Bear.”
(Trooper Bear gave a realistic, but musical hiccup.)
“Also, to the Philosopher, bread-and-dripping is as interesting and
desirable prog as the voluble-varied heterogeny of the menu at the
Carlton or the Ritz—’specially when you’ve no choice.”
“Hear, hear,” put in Dam.
“Goatey ol’ Goate!” said Trooper Bear with impressive solemnity. “Give
me your hand, Philossiler. I adore dripping. I’ss a (hic) mystery. (No,
I don’ want both hands,” as Goate offered his right to Bear’s warm
embrace.) I’m a colliseur of Dripping. I understan’ it. I write odes to
it. Yesh. A basin of dripping is like a Woman. ’Strornarillily. You
never know what’s beneath fair surface…. Below a placid, level,
unrevealing surface there may be—nothing … and there may be a rich
deposit of glorious, stimulating, piquant _essence_.”
“Oh, shut up, Bear, and don’t be an Ass,” implored Trooper Burke
(formerly Desmond Villiers FitzGerald) … “but I admit, all the same,
there’s lots of worse prog in the Officers’ Mess than a crisp crust
generously bedaubed with the rich jellified gravy that (occasionally)
lurks like rubies beneath the fatty soil of dripping.”
“Sound plan to think so, anyway,” agreed Trooper Little (_ci devant_
Man About Town and the Honourable Bertie Le Grand). “Reminds me of a
proverb I used to hear in Alt Heidelberg, _‘What I have in my hand is
best’_.”
“Qui’ sho,” murmured Trooper Bear with a seraphic smile, “an’ wha’ I
have in my ‘place of departed _spirits_,’ my tummy, is better. Glor’us
mixshure. Earned an honest penny sheven sheparate times cleaning the
’coutrements of better men … _‘an look at me for shevenpence’_ …” and
he slept happily on Dam’s shoulder.
In liquor, Trooper Bear was, if possible, gentler, kinder, and of
sweeter disposition than when sober; wittier, more hopelessly lovable
and disarming. These eight men—the “gentlemen-rankers” of the Queen’s
Greys, made it a point of honour to out-Tommy “Tommy” as troopers, and,
when in his company, to show a heavier cavalry-swagger, a broader
accent, a quiffier “quiff,” a cuttier cutty-pipe, a smarter smartness;
to groom a horse better, to muck out a stall better, to scrub a floor
better, to spring more smartly to attention or to a disagreeable
“fatigue,” and to set an example of Tomminess from turning out on an
Inspection Parade to waxing a moustache.
Trooper Bear professed to specialize as a model in the carrying of
liquor “like a man and a soldier”. When by themselves, they made it a
point of honour to behave and speak as though in the clubs to which
they once belonged, to eat with washen hands and ordered attire, to
behave at table and elsewhere with that truest of consideration that
offends no man willingly by mannerism, appearance, word or act, and
which is the whole Art of Gentility.
They carefully avoided any appearance of exclusiveness, but sought
every legitimate opportunity of united companionship, and formed a
“mess” of eight at a table which just held that number, and on a couple
of benches each of which exactly fulfilled the slang expression “room
for four Dragoons on a form”.
It was their great ambition to avoid the reproach of earning the
soubriquet “gentleman-ranker,” a term that too often, and too justly,
stinks in the nostrils of officer, non-commissioned officer, and man
(for, as a rule, the “gentleman-ranker” is a complete failure as a
gentleman and a completer one as a ranker).
To prove a rule by a remarkably fine exception, these eight were among
the very smartest and best troopers of one of the smartest and best
Corps in the world—and to Damocles de Warrenne, their “Society of the
Knights of the dirty Square Table” was a Rock and a Salvation in the
midst of a howling sea of misery—a cool pool in a searing branding
Hell.
Trooper Bear’s brief nap appeared to have revived him wonderfully.
“Let us, like the Hosts of Midian, prowl around this happy Sabbeth eve,
my dear,” quoth he to Dam, “and, like wise virgins, up and smite them,
when we meet the Red-Caps…. No, I’m getting confused. It’s they up and
smite us, when we’ve nothing to tip them…. I feel I could be virtuous
in your company—since you never offer beer to the (more or less)
fatherless and widowed—and since I’m stony. How _did_ you work that
colossal drunk, Matty, when you came home on a stretcher and the
Red-Caps said you _‘was the first-classest delirious-trimmings as ever
was, aseein’ snakes somethink ’orrible,’_ and in no wise to be
persuaded _‘as ’ow there wasn’t one underyer bloomin’ foot the ’ole
time’_. Oh you teetotallers!”
Dam shuddered and paled. “Yes, let’s go for as long a walk as we can
manage, and get as far from this cursed place as time allows,” he
replied.
His hair was still short and horribly hacked from the prison-crop he
had had as a preliminary to “168 hours cells,” for “drunk and
disorderly”.
“I’ll come too,” announced the Honourable Bertie.
“Yes,” chimed in Trooper Adam Goate, “let’s go and gladden the eyes, if
not the hearts of the nurse-maids of Folkestone.”
“Bless their nurse-maidenly hearts,” murmured Trooper Bear. “One made
honourable proposals of marriage to me, quite recently, in return for
my catching the runaway hat of her young charge…. Come on.” And in due
course the four derelicts set forth with a uniformity of step and
action that corresponded with their uniformity of dress.
“Let’s take the Lower Road,” said Dam, as they reached the western
limit of the front at Folkestone. “I fear we rather contaminate the
pure social air of the Upper Road and the fashionable promenade.”
“Where every prospect pleases and only man, in the Queen’s uniform, is
vile,” observed Trooper Bear.
Dam remembered afterwards that it was he who sought the quiet Lower
Road—and he had good reason to remember it. For suddenly, a fashionably
dressed and beautiful young girl, sitting alone in a passing private
victoria, stood up, called “Stop! Stop!” to the coachman, and ere the
carriage well came to a standstill, sprang out, rushed up to the double
file of soldiers, and flung her arms around the neck of the outside one
of the front rank.
With a cry of “Oh, _Dam_! Oh, _Dammy_!”—a cry that mightily scandalized
a serious-minded policeman who stood monumentally at the corner—she
kissed him again and again!
Troopers Bear, Goate, and Little, halting not in their stride, glancing
not unto the right hand nor unto the left hand, speaking no word, and
giving no sign of surprise, marched on in perfect silence, until
Trooper Bear observed to the world in general “The lady was _not_
swearing. His _name_ must be Dam—short for Damon or Pythias or
Iphigenia or something which we may proceed to forget…. Poor old
chappie—no wonder he’s taking to secret drinking. _I_ should drink,
myself. _Poor_ chap!” and Trooper Goate, heaving a sympathetic sigh,
murmured also “Poor chap!”
But Trooper Little, once the Hon. Bertie Le Grand, thought “Poor
_lady_!”
The heart of Damocles de Warrenne bounded within him, stood still, and
then seemed like to burst.
“Oh, _Lucille_! Oh, darling!” he groaned, as he kissed her fiercely and
then endeavoured to thrust her from him. “Jump into your carriage
quickly. _Lucille_—Don’t … _Here_ …! Not _here_…. People are looking …
_You …!_ A common soldier…. Let me go. Quick…. Your carriage…. Some one
may—”
“Let you _go_, darling …! Now I have found you…. If you say another
word I’ll serve you as you served the Haddock. I’ll hang on to your arm
right along the Leas. I’ll hang round your neck and scream if you try
to run away. This is poetic justice, darling. Now you know how our
Haddock felt. _No_—I _won’t_ leave go of your sleeve. Where shall we
go, dearest darling Dammy. Dare you drive up and down the Front with me
in Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man’s mother’s victoria? oh, my
_darling_ Dam….” and Lucille burst into happy tears.
“Go up that winding path and I’ll follow in a minute. There will be
secluded seats.”
“And you’ll bolt directly I leave go of you?… I—”
“No, darling, God knows I should if I were a man, but I can’t, _I
can’t_. Oh, Lucille!”
“Stay here,” cried the utterly fearless, unashamed girl to the
unspeakably astounded coachman of the mother of the minor Canon who had
the felicity of being Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man, and she
strode up the pathway that wound, tree-shaded, along the front of the
gently sloping cliff.
In the utter privacy of a small seat-enclosing, bush-hidden half-cave,
Damocles de Warrenne crushed Lucille to his breast as she again flung
her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Lucille, how _could_ you expose yourself to scandal like that; I
ought to be hung for not taking to my heels as you came, but I could
not believe my eyes, I thought I was going mad again,” and he shivered.
“What should I have cared if every soul in the world who knows me had
arranged himself and herself in rows and ranks to get a good view? I’d
have done the same if Grumper had been beside me in the carriage. What
is the rest of the World to me, beside _you_, darling?… Oh, your _poor_
hair, and what is that horrid scar, my dearest? And you are a ‘2 Q.G.’
are you, and how soon may you marry? I’m going to disappear from
Monksmead, now, just like you did, darling, and I’m coming here and I’m
going to be a soldier’s wife. Can I live with you in your house in
barracks, Dammy, or must I live outside, and you come home directly
your drill and things are finished?”
Dam groaned aloud in hopeless bitterness of soul.
“Lucille—listen,” said he. “I earn one-and tuppence a day. I may not
marry. If you were a factory-girl or a coster-woman I would not drag
you down so. Apart from that, I am unfit to marry any decent woman. I
am—what you know I am…. I have—fits. I am not—sound—normal—I may go
m….”
“Don’t be a pure priceless Ass, darling. You are my own splendid
hero—and I am going to marry you, if I have to _be_ a factory-girl or a
coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you. You
want looking after, my own boy. I shall have some money, though, when I
am of age. When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?”
“Lucille,” groaned the miserable man. “Do you think that the sight of
you in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier? Can’t you
realize that I’m ruined and done—disgraced and smashed? Lucille, I am
not sane at times…. The SNAKE … _Do_ you love me, Lucille? Then if so,
I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to wait awhile
and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome _man_—who is neither a
coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic. Lucille, you double and treble
my misery. I _can’t_ bear it if I see you. Oh, why didn’t you forget me
and do the right and proper thing? I am unfit to touch you! I am a
damned scoundrel to be here now,” and leaping up he fled like a
maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road, nor
ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spot whereon
he had suffered as he believed few men had done before.
And thus and thus we women live!
With none to question, none to give
The Nay or Aye, the Aye or Nay
That might smoothe half our cares away.
O, strange indeed! And sad to know
We pitch too high and doing so,
Intent and eager not to fall,
We miss the low clear note of call.
Why is it so? Are we indeed
So like unto the shaken reed?
Of such poor clay? Such puny strength?
That e’en throughout the breadth and length
Of purer vision’s stern domain
We bend to serve and serve in vain?
To some, indeed, strange power is lent
To stand content. Love, heaven-sent,
(For things or high or pure or rare)
Shows likest God, makes Life less bare.
And, ever and anon there stray
In faint far-reaching virèlay
The songs of angels, Heav’nward-found,
Of little children, earthward-bound.
A. L. WREN.