Chapter VII

A week went by slowly: the hours crept like snails, and yet the days were surely slipping away, bringing nearer and nearer the one which was to give Sir John Chetwynd his second wife.

He had hardly seen Lady Ethel since the evening when she had yielded a coy assent to his not (it must be confessed) very amorous request that she would fix an early day for their nuptials, and his state of mind was anything but an enviable one. If ever a man was torn two ways, halting between prudence and worldly consideration on one side and the force and power of a love which he had honestly believed was laid for ever in its grave, that man was Sir John. The idea of seeing Bella again did not occur to him for some days, but when it fastened on him he could not shake it off. It was stronger than himself. He excused his temptation by the condition of her health, though in his heart of hearts he knew well enough that this was not sufficiently critical to serve for a reason.

Twice he seized his hat with the intention of going to her, then laid it aside, angry and disgusted with his own weakness.

His profession no longer occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of every other topic. He sat for hours buried in the newly awakened memories that that one brief glimpse of her had conjured up, unable, unwilling to rouse himself.

And then he made a compromise with his own weakness and irresolution. He would not go to Cecil Street, since by so doing he would be offering a tacit insult to the woman he had pledged himself to marry, but he would, he must see Bella, himself unseen and his presence unsuspected, and this he could effect easily by going to the Empire.

The notion pleased him, and that self-same evening he carried it out.

Bella was worse. She could no longer deceive herself. It was only by a superhuman effort that she could pull herself together sufficiently to sing the one song which was all her part consisted of now.

After she had got into her pretty sea-green skirts of lace and tulle and shimmering silk, like so much sea foam, she had to lie still and, let the poor over-strained lungs and heart recover themselves, and then, when the summons came she called up a smile to her wan face and pluckily did her best.

But that night she looked up at Saidie after the last ribbon was in its place.

"I'll have to throw up the sponge, after all," she said wearily; "it is beyond me. They are right and I was wrong,--I must have a rest."

Saidie muttered something in reply, but when the door closed upon her sister, she sighed.

"She _is_ bad; there is no denying it," remarked the dresser, who was busily stroking out the roses which were to garland Saidie's dress. "It gives me a turn every time I see her go on the stage."

"She looks worse than she really is," returned Saidie; "sometimes she is as brisk and lively as you like--she so soon gets tired."

"She is a tidy sight worse than 'tired,' and it strikes me her voice was weak like to-night. Did you notice it, Miss?"

"Oh, she varies so. I guess she would be as right as any of us the moment she was on the boards."

Nevertheless, although she was not going to confess it, Saidie was troubled and uneasy. There was something in Bella's face she had not seen before, and it frightened her--a little. She stood at the wings with a quick-beating heart, but the next moment laughed at her own fears.

Bella was singing her very best. Not a falter in the clear, bell-like tones, and her face was smiling and radiant.

And then--her eyes fastened themselves on a box in the grand tier; with a scared expression she shrank back a little, and her lip quivered, but with a mighty effort she controlled herself and caught up the refrain again--carolled a word or two, faltered, swayed helplessly, uncertainly forward, and fell headlong on the stage.

They were round her in a second, lifting her gently and tenderly. Her head had fallen back and a thin stream of blood was welling over the laces at her bosom.

"She is dead!" cried Saidie. "Oh, will someone fetch a doctor, quick!"

But almost before the words were spoken he was there, and when Bella opened her eyes they fell on the grave, anxious, kindly face of the man whose wife she had been.

"Jack! Jack! is this--the end?"

"Hush--no--no! Keep still--perfectly still--you must not move."

"I am not--in pain--a little dizzy--nothing more, and my head feels light."

"Drink this and don't talk. As soon as you are a little recovered we will go home."

"Home! Jack!"

Oh, the wistful look in the deep blue eyes--the prophetic droop about the perfect mouth! It was almost more than he could bear.

"I will go with you myself if you will do what I tell you, keep absolutely quiet--your life depends upon it."

She looked up tremulously.

"I don't care--a--cent _now_," she whispered.

She bore the journey to Cecil Street better than they could hope, and the bleeding from the lungs had ceased.

Downstairs Saidie expressed a wish to remain all night with her sister.

"She ought not to be left," she said.

"Most decidedly she must not be left," replied Sir John--"I intend remaining with your sister."

"You! Well, this beats all, upon my word!"

So great was Miss Blackall's surprise that when she found herself ousted from the position of head nurse and the door metaphorically closed upon her, she had not a word to say, but called a hansom and had herself driven to Bayswater, where she had been living since her mother's death, now nearly a year ago.

"And I used to think he didn't amount to a row of pins," she murmured with an odd sort of penitence. "Well, I guess I was wrong, that's all."

Through the long hours of that never-ending night John Chetwynd watched by Bella's bedside. For the most part, she lay mute and inert, but towards morning she grew restless.

"I must talk," she cried excitedly--"to see you sit there and to think--to remember--oh! if only I had run straight, Jack--I don't think I was meant for this, do you?"

He had no words with which to answer her. He folded his arms across his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table. On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of chalk.

She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he held them tightly in his own--rings and all.

She was never meant for the life she had chosen!

His heart felt breaking.

The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos in her regretful cry--the past with its load of gall and shame and misery--which could never be obliterated. Never!

"Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I thought--I feared--I was going to die; if I had there was no one to care but--Saidie."

"Do you not think what it would mean to--me?"

The words broke from him against his will.

"To--you, Jack! then you care--still!"

"Care!"

He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum without.

Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in them--and then the lids fell over them.

"I feel strangely weak--but--so--happy, Jack," she said. Her breath came more easily and she slept.

Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour, grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for another night's vigil.

"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her. "She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"

"I am afraid to say--it depends so much on what recuperative power she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."

"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again, I suppose?"

"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.

At that moment came a smart tap at the door.

"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.

"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too late. The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man walked in.

"Miss Blackhall--how unkind to deny me admittance. You must know how fearfully anxious I am. How is she?"

"There's the doctor--ask him."

The stranger turned eagerly.

"This is not serious, I trust. She was always delicate, but--it is wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over."

For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.

Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella? He forced himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew what he was saying.

"If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more, poor darling," he said brokenly. "I suppose I can go in, eh?"

His hand was on the door--John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.

"No one must see her," he cried excitedly. "I absolutely forbid it. It would be most dangerous--most improper."

The two men looked into each other's faces for the space of several seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an impatient word. "Absurd! As if I could do her any harm," he said. "Well, I will be round again later in the day," he added with a nod to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.

"Who is that man?" asked Sir John sternly.

Saidie shrugged her shoulders.

"You shall tell me--what is he to Bella?"

"He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his wife."

And there was silence--a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts--facts stripped of false adornments--naked, convincing.

Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.

She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.

She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and she smiled happily, contentedly.

Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.

"No--no," cried Bella vehemently; "send him away. I don't want to see him."

"But he is so anxious, dear."

"Is he?--poor Charlie! Tell him I am in no pain, and I should like to think he will never quite forget me."

"He will never do that," said Saidie, going away with her message but half satisfied, and Bella turned a flushed cheek to her pillow.

And then, for the second time, John Chetwynd asked, "Who is that man?"

And Bella tried feebly to tell him. He had been attached to her for a long time, and had come over with her from the States.

"And you--did you mean to marry him, Bella?"

"I had thought of it--it seemed suicidal to say no to such an offer, and then I--oh, Jack, when I saw you I knew I could never love any other man!"

He poured out a draught and held it to her trembling lips.

"I feel so strangely weak," she said; "you are going to marry Ethel, and I am nothing to you now?"

John Chetwynd drew her close to him, so that the tired head rested on his shoulder with the sweet familiarity of long ago.

"Listen," he said. "I have been a coward, frightened of the truth. The world was dearer to me than happiness, or I thought so, and I hesitated, afraid of its contempt. But amid my weakness was one thought, one impulse, which no amount of worldly prudence or consideration could stifle, and Bella--my wife--that was my love for you."

"Jack, Jack, is it true?"

"I have loved you always, through all my life, you and no other. I see now how hard I must have seemed to you and how wild and unreasonable I was in my expectation from you and how at last it drove you from my side. The shame of it is not more yours than mine. We both erred, we both sinned; but I was older and should have been wiser; the burden of it should fall on me. The world is nothing to me now--less than nothing. Let us take up life where we broke it off. Give me back the past, which held for me all of happiness I have ever known."

She lay with a smile of peace upon her face, both hands clinging to his.

"I have communed with myself and thought it well out, and I believe that to bind my life, with its memories of you, to the girl to whom I am engaged, would be a cruel wrong and an injustice to her. She deserves a better fate, and I honestly feel that the rupture will not grieve her much. We will remarry, you and I. I will take you away from England, I will guard and cherish you, and in my love for you, you will grow stronger. Oh! my darling, my darling, if you knew what life has been to me since you went; how I have blamed myself,--I who ought to have shielded you against yourself, and have been a moral backbone to your weakness. Then as time went on I persuaded myself that I had succeeded in putting you out of my heart,--that I had forgotten you,--and then--you came back to me, and the past leapt living from the years that had no power to bury it, and I knew that you were more to me than honour or fame or anything the world held. Hence-forth I will be so gentle with you, so tender--so loving."

"Will you--kiss me--Jack?"

She had gradually pulled herself upright on the pillows.

"Will you kiss me--and say--once more, as you used to--'God bless you--wifie'?"

Their lips met and clung together.

"God bless you--wifie."

And there was silence, a long silence, broken by a gasp, a sigh, and a gentle unloosening of the clasping arms.

"Bella--Bella--speak to me, my beloved."

But the passionate cry fell on ears that heard not.

The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels' wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death.

* * * * *

ONE CAN'T ALWAYS TELL.

_From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford Street, Park Lane_.

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. _July 15th, 1901._

Dearest Amy,

Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather is perfect, and I am having a very good time. Jack's mother is on board, and is really devoted to me. I am a lucky girl to have such a sweet mother-in-law in prospective. She is the dearest old lady in the world. The wedding has been decided upon for the last week in September, so I suppose that I shall have to come back to town before very long to see about my trousseau.

There is really nothing so bewildering to anyone who sees it for the first time as the exquisite order and dainty perfection of a yacht in which its owner takes a pride, and can afford to gratify his whim. And this is the case with Jack. The deck shines like polished parquet. The sails and ropes are faultlessly clean, and Jack says that the masts have just been scraped and the funnel repainted. The brass nails and the binnacle are as perfectly in order as if they were costly instruments in an optician's window. There is a small deck cargo of coal in white canvas sacks, with leather straps and handles. And there is the deck-house with its plate-glass windows and velvet fittings and spring-blinds.

Soon after I arrived I went down into the engine-room, where I saw machinery as scrupulously clean as if it were part of some gigantic watch which a grain of dust might throw out of gear. On the deck are delightful P. and O. lounges with their arms doing duty for small tables. All around the wheel and upon the roof of the deck-house, and here and there on stands against the bulwarks, there are ranged in pots, bright red geraniums contrasted with the yellow calceolaria, and the deliriously scented heliotrope. Altogether, everything is charming.

We go delightful trips every day, and it doesn't matter whether there is a favourable wind or not, as Jack's is a steam yacht. We have slept on board except one night when it was rather rough, and then Mrs. Vivian and I stayed at the South Western Hotel.

Altogether I am enjoying myself more than I have ever done in my life. Jack is an angel and adores me, the darling.

Fond love, From your affectionate ROSE.

P.S.--There is a Mrs. Tenterden, a widow, coming down to the yacht on Thursday to stay for a few days. Mrs. Vivian tells me that she is very good-looking.

_From the Same to the Same._

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. _July 22nd, 1901._

Dearest Amy,

We are still here. Mrs. Tenterden, the lady I spoke about in my last letter, arrived here on Thursday.

I hate her! I hate her!! I hate her!!!

You will doubtless wonder why I, who am, as a rule, a quiet, harmless little dove, should indulge in such sinful feelings, but you will cease doing so when I tell you the truth.

Mrs. Tenterden has set her cap at Jack! He has--I know it--fallen under the spell of the enchantress. And she is an enchantress. She is a woman of about thirty, tall, fair, with striking features, lovely eyes, and the most superb complexion I have ever seen. The best complexion I ever recollect was that of a peasant girl's at Ivy Bridge in Devonshire, but hers was nothing to compare with Mrs. Tenterden's. It is perfect. I can say no more.

Then she is extremely amusing, being a brilliant talker (for I heard Jack say so) and very witty (for he is constantly laughing at the things she says, and which for the most part I don't understand).

But this I know, that since her advent I have changed from the happiest girl in the world into one of the most miserable.

Mrs. Tenterden is the widow of Colonel Tenterden, who was a brother officer of Jack's father, Colonel Vivian. Her husband died in India about six months ago, and she has lately returned to England. Jack had never seen her before, but Mrs. Vivian, who knew her as a young girl, asked her down here.

She has made a dead set at Jack, and I feel (I can't help it) that he has fallen a captive to her bow and spear, for his manner towards me has entirely changed. He is not my darling, loving Jack, at all, but merely a polite friend.

Mrs. Vivian must be blind not to see what is going on. But I cannot enlighten her, and what am I to do? Do give me your advice, dear Amy?

Ever your affectionate ROSE.

_From Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.

ALFORD STREET. TUESDAY.

My dearest Child,

Just got yours. You ask my advice, and to use a phrase of my brother Tom's, "I give it you in once." Don't be a little goose and bother your pretty little head. I am older than you, and I understand women of the Mrs. Tenterden type. They amuse men for a time, and very often take them captive, but in nineteen cases out of twenty the prisoner escapes. In other words, they are not the women who men care to marry. Fancy your Jack, for instance, preferring a _rusee_ garrison hack, like Mrs. Tenterden, to your own sweet self. It is absolutely ridiculous.

Do nothing and say nothing. Don't worry yourself and all will come right. The temporary infatuation will pass away, and Mr. Vivian will love you all the better afterwards. You will see if I am not right.

So be comforted, darling Rose. Ever your loving AMY.

_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_, 170A, _Ebury Street, S.W._

YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. _July 23rd_, 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

I promised to let you know how I got on, and to write as soon as there was anything to write about. So here goes. I am on board Jack Vivian's yacht, and a ripper it is. That is to say, I am on the yacht in the day, but sleep at the South Western Hotel. I hate sleeping on board a yacht, and never do so if I can help it. It may benefit one's health--daresay that it does--but I do like to take my rest on shore. Well, now, as to my news. I have made a great impression on Mr. Vivian. He is the easiest man to deal with I ever met in my life, and he is as putty in my hands. That stupid girl, Miss Dacre, to whom he is supposed to be engaged--I say supposed because he does not seem to be quite clear about it himself--hasn't got a chance with me. What Jack Vivian could have ever seen in her I can't guess. She is the usual type of English Miss who can say "Papa and Mamma," and that is about all. I can see that she loathes me, and I don't wonder at it. But I am perfectly charming to her, and affect not to notice her palpable dislike.

Mrs. Vivian--Jack's mother--seems not to have the remotest idea how matters are shaping, and fondly imagines that her beloved son is going to marry Miss Dacre. My dear Lily, as the Americans say, "it will be a cold day in August before that event comes off." The fact is that Jack pays her only the slightest attention and is absolutely engrossed with me. If I, therefore, don't pull off this _coup_ I deserve to be hanged. When I have actually landed my fish I shall take my departure for a day while he breaks matters off with mademoiselle. You may not perhaps approve of this, but I know what I am about.

More in a day or two.

Ever yours, ALICE.

_From Mrs. Montague Mount to Mrs. Tenterden_.

170A, EBURY STREET, _24th July_ 1901.

DEAREST ALICE,

I was much interested in your letter. Needless to say that I wish you the success that you are sure to attain. One word of advice. If I were you, while you are at Southampton, I should manage to be a good deal more at the hotel than you appear to be. You cannot have much opportunity for conversation on board the yacht, but at the hotel you can have Mr. Vivian all to yourself. And you can easily make excuses to get off the yacht, and as he is evidently so _epris_, he will follow you to the hotel, when you will have him more or less at your mercy. I shall be longing to hear how the plot thickens.

With fond love, Believe me, Your devoted friend, LILY.

_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_.

_July 29th,_ 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

Thanks for yours. My dear child, I have taken your excellent advice and am very glad that I did so. Your plan of campaign has proved most successful. I have had Jack with me for hours in the smoking room at the hotel, where the ladies staying in the hotel as well as the men always resort. It is a large room and affords ample opportunity for a _tete-a-tete_. Of these opportunities I have availed myself to the fullest possible extent. And with what result, you will naturally ask? With the result, my dear, of making this man absolutely mad about me. He has become an utter imbecile. _C'est tout dit_. His incoherent raving would only bore you, so, like the kindhearted little person I am, I spare you this infliction. Suffice it to say that he is mine body and soul. I say nothing about his fortune, because that naturally goes with the other two.

Let me thank you sincerely for your wise counsels,

And, believe me, Ever affectionately yours, ALICE.

_Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.

ALFORD STREET. THURSDAY.

DEAREST ROSE,

I have been anxiously expecting to hear from you, but you have not sent me a single line. I say "anxiously," not that I really feel the least anxiety about you, being perfectly positive, as I am, that all will be right. But, my dearest girl, I am so deeply interested in this affair that, of course, I am anxious to hear how matters are going on. And you are a very naughty child not to have written to me before. Repair your sin of omission as soon as possible, and let me have a full account of all your proceedings.

With much love, Yours ever, AMY.

_From Miss Rose Dacre to Miss Amy Conway,_ 30, _Alford Street, Park Lane_.

YACHT "MARIE," COWES. _August 2nd_, 1901.

DEAREST AMY,

Pray forgive me for not having written sooner. But as the French say, _tout savoir est tout pardonner._ And having been for many days in the depth of despair, worried out of my life, and half dead with anxiety, I have not really been able to put pen to paper. But now all is changed, and I am able to address you with a light heart.

I am sure, Amy, that you will be longing to know why, and for this reason I will not for a moment leave you a victim to the most terrible ailment that can attack our sex--unsatisfied feminine curiosity.

Two days ago we were still at Southampton, and it was proposed that after lunch we should take a little trip down the river Hamble--a river which runs into Southampton Water. Well, we started--Jack, and a friend of his, Captain Cleland, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Tenterden, and myself. All went well for about an hour, when a breeze sprang up which soon developed into half a gale. At least I understood the captain of the yacht to say so. I didn't mind it in the least, but Mrs. Vivian, poor old lady, was dreadfully ill and nervous, and though I did all I could to comfort and reassure her, it was not of much use. As for Mrs. Tenterden, she absolutely collapsed. In abject terror she uttered incoherent cries, and no one could make out what she wished to be done. Jack seemed very upset and tried to soothe her as well as he could, but it was all to no effect, and indeed she once turned on him just like a virago, saying,

"I never wanted to come on your horrid yacht, but you would make me, and see what has happened to me now."

Poor Jack--I call him "Poor Jack" although he has behaved like a very naughty boy--seemed to wince, but made no reply.

Eventually we arrived opposite the village of Hamble, and there the anchor was weighed--if that is the right expression. Jack suggested that the three ladies, including myself, should go ashore in the dingey and stay at the hotel. Mrs. Vivian said that she did not want to do this, and Mrs. Tenterden positively refused.

"Do you think that I am going to risk my life that jim-crack boat?" she asked. "I am not quite an imbecile. Though I think I must be after all, otherwise I should not have come on this idiotic cruise."

Jack again made no reply, but there was something in his face that told me that he was becoming disillusioned.

Shortly after that he sent the skipper and a boy ashore, who returned with some marvellous looking lobsters and a huge crab. It seems that this place is famous for its shell-fish, and I can only say that I never tasted anything more delicious than the crab in question.

Mrs. Vivian managed to eat a little dinner, but Mrs. Tenterden retired to her cabin and contented herself with some soup.

I for my part, ate a most capital dinner, and I fancied that Jack seemed sorry for the way he has been treating me lately; treatment which I should never have put up with, except from a man whom I love so devotedly--a man whom I meant to rescue (selfishly, I admit) from that siren's clutches. In all I have done I have been guided by your advice, and therefore to you remains all the credit, coupled with the life-long devotion of your little friend.

Well, we slept on board the yacht, and the morning brought its revelations.

Mrs. Tenterden was not present at breakfast, and came on deck very late. And only imagine, my dear, how she had changed. That beautiful pink complexion that I had admired so much, and even envied, had disappeared altogether. Her face was of a greyish hue, and possessed no shade of pink. Those beautiful pencilled eyebrows seemed to have strangely altered, and to have unaccountably thinned down. The charming woman-of-the-world manner had entirely disappeared, and, later on, when we descended to the cabin, at luncheon time, Mrs. Tenterden cast furtive and certainly not reassuring glances at the little mirror hanging there.

I confess that at first I was a wee bit sorry for her, but after all, this Nemesis was thoroughly deserved, and when I saw the impression that the metamorphosis had made on Jack--the darling goose can't conceal his feelings--I must own to having been overjoyed.

"The Enchantress" left for London the same evening, looking in her war paint quite a different being. But this made no difference, for Jack, I need scarcely say, had evidently altered his mind.

Since her departure, everything has gone back to its old state. Jack, poor fickle boy, is devotion itself, and I have not thought proper to resist his entreaties to consent to an immediate marriage. You will not blame me, darling, will you?

Ever your affectionate and Happy friend, ROSE.

SONGS.

AFTER VICTOR HUGO, ARMAND SILVESTRE, CHARLES ROUSSEAU AND THE VICOMTE DE BORELLI.

DARLING ARISE.

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

Pretty one, tho' the morning is breaking
Thy lattice is fasten'd close
How is it that thou art not waking
When awake is the rose?

Darling, arise! for I am he
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

Nature loud at thy lattice is beating:
I am Day says the morning above
I am music the bird sings repeating,
And my heart cries "I am Love."

Darling, arise! for I am he,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.

ROSE.

(VIELLE CHANSON DU JEUNE TEMPS.)

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

I never thought at all of Rose,
As Rose and I went through the dell,
We fell a talking I suppose,
But yet of what I cannot tell.

Pebbles below and mosses over,
Rippled a cool and limpid rill;
Nature lay sleeping like a lover
In the embrace of the woods so still.

Shoes and stockings off she slipped,
And with her sweetly innocent air
Into the stream her feet she dipped,
Yet I never saw her feet were bare.

I only talked, the time beguiling
As we wandered, she and I;
And sometimes I saw her smiling,
But now and then I heard her sigh.

Only her beauty dawned on me
When silent woods were left behind,
"Never mind that now!" said she
And now I shall always mind.

REGRETS.

(AFTER CHARLES ROUSSEAU.)

Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!
Vain regrets for misspent powers,
Wasted chances, faded flowers,
Vex my lonely spirit sore.
Had I only known before!
Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!

TOO LATE.

(PEINE D'AMOUR.)

(AFTER ARMAND SILVESTRE.)

When your hand was laid upon mine
'Twas in painful dread that I grasped it,
For some hesitation malign,
Made tremble the fingers that clasped it.

When you turned your forehead so near,
'Twas in painful dread that I kissed it,
For some cruel prompting of fear
Made me timidly seek to resist it.

Ah!--and my life thenceforward approved
Sorrow's bitterness had o'ercome me,
I only knew how I loved
The day that had taken you from me.

IF THERE BE A GARDEN GAY.

(S'IL EST UN CHARMANT GAZON.)

(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)

If there be a garden gay
Man has not molested,
Where blaze through the summer day
Flowers golden crested,
Where tallest lilies grow,
And honeysuckles blow
There, oh there I fain would go
Where thy foot, thy foot has rested!

If there be a rosy dream
By true love invested,
Where all things delightful seem
Close together nested
Where soul to soul may tell
The joy they know so well
'Tis there, oh there I fain would dwell
Where thy heart, thy heart has rested.

THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSES.

(ENVOI DE ROSES.)

(AFTER VICOMTE DE BORELLI.)

Oh, if the fairest of these roses
With its red lips to thee shall tell
Such things as language knows not of,
As in thy bosom it reposes,
Then keep it well
It is my love!

But if the sweetest of the roses
With its red lips shall silent be,
And only seek instead the bliss
Which thy delightful mouth discloses,
Return it me
It is my kiss!

LOVE WENT OUT WHEN MONEY WAS INVENTED.

"You're a very foolish man, John," said my sister Ruth. "You're worse than foolish. A man never gets any happiness by marrying out of his station."

"You may be right," I answered, "but after all I have something to offer. I am rich, and Marie is poor. I admit that she is a patrician and that I am a plebeian. But money, after all, counts for something, especially in these days. I don't see how Marie can spend a very happy existence now, but I am determined to make her life a dream of happiness. You will see, my dear Ruth, that my marriage will be a success."

"I think not," replied my sister, "and I therefore give you my warning before it is too late. If you don't heed it and decide on marrying Miss Dalmayne, I shall naturally do any little thing in my power to endeavour to prove that I have been a false prophetess; but, mark my words, John, I shan't succeed. And, to tell you the truth, my dear brother, I tremble for the future."

"You're a sweet little silly goose," I answered. "You let your affection for me run away with your better judgment. Why in heaven's name should I not be happy with Marie? She is beautiful, and I admit that it was her rare beauty that first commended her to me, and she has a sweet nature and character; and after all, goodness of character outweighs even good looks. Then, too, she is very clever and bright, and altogether she is exactly the sort of girl calculated to make a man happy."

"I hope that I may be wrong, and that you may be right, John," said Ruth; "but I don't think that I am wrong, and, of course, time will only show. At present we need say no more. Your mind is evidently made up, and I shall urge nothing further to prevent you from following your own inclinations. But in the time to come, don't forget that your sister warned you." And with that last shaft Ruth left the room.

My name is John Gardner, my age is thirty-six, and I am what is generally known as "a self-made man." But had I really had the making of myself I should have endeavoured to produce a different being. I recollect at the grammar school in Cambridgeshire, where I received a plain education, hearing one of the masters, Mr. Ruddock, mention a Greek proverb, "Know thyself," and advise the boys in his form to act upon the advice given by the Greek sage who pronounced these words. I was not, as a rule, struck with much that fell from Mr. Ruddock's lips, for he was a dull, stupid, and pompous man, possessing much more force of manner than of character. But I did take this advice to heart and endeavoured to act up to it, with the result that I know as much about my own uninteresting self as most other human beings know about themselves.

Well, this is how I appear in my own eyes. A strong, healthy man with an active disposition, and capable of, and a lover of hard work. A blunt manner, and with an entire absence of tact in anything in which strict business is not concerned. I know that I am truthful, for, in addition to a natural hatred of lying which I must have inherited from my dear parents, I have always recognised the fact that in business and in everything else the truth always pays the best. During the sixteen years that I have devoted to business I have endeavoured to act squarely and fairly with everyone with whom I have been brought in contact, and I may say without conceit that I have earned a good name in addition to the three hundred thousand pounds that I have been able to save.

I have never got on particularly well with the other sex, partly, I suppose, from my manners, which, to say the least, are not attractive, and partly to the fact that up to the time I met Marie Dalmayne I have never cared for a woman. I came across the girl that I have grown to love so well in this fashion. I am interested in a West Australian mine to the extent of about a hundred thousand pounds, and am one of the three partners who control the concern. One of them is a member of the great City house of Bleichopsheim, and the other is Mr. Ross, a wealthy iron-master. It was at the latter's house in St. James's Square that I met my fate.

I took Miss Dalmayne down to dinner, and I think that my heart went out to her from the first. I found her clever and sensible, and with apparently little of the frivolity which characterises most of the young women with whom I have been brought in contact. Her conversation, if not absolutely brilliant, was at any rate bright and amusing, and possessed a considerable amount of shrewdness.

Miss Dalmayne was about twenty-three, tall and fair,' possessing a perfect figure and the most beautiful and expressive hazel eyes. Her hair was nut brown with a warm reddish sun-kissed glint, and her features were regular and aristocratic. Her smile was delightful. In short, I fell in love.

Next morning I ascertained from Adam Ross full particulars in reference to Miss Dalmayne. She is the only daughter of the Honourable George Dalmayne, and is related to many of the highest English families. Mr. Dalmayne and his wife are not well off, and the former is very much in debt and has taxed the generosity of my friend Ross to a very considerable extent. The Dalmaynes live in a small house in Eaton Terrace. They have only one other child, and that is a son who is in the Army and is at present with his regiment in India.

There are some people that one feels one can confide in in matters of a delicate nature, and there are others to whom one could never open one's mouth. Now, Ross and I have been friends for ten years, during which time we have never had the least difference. He is a man absolutely to be trusted. I told him during this interview what a deep impression Miss Dalmayne had made upon me. He said that he did not in the least wonder at it, for she was greatly admired, and added that if it were not for her father she would no doubt have made a brilliant marriage already. I told my friend that I cared nothing about her father, that I was not marrying him but his daughter--that is to say, if I were fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife.

"I don't think that there is much fear of a failure," answered Ross, "old Dalmayne is looking out for a rich husband for Marie. Indeed, in a confidential mood one day recently he told me almost as much himself. And he is not likely in a hurry to find one so rich as yourself."

"Well, I shall call upon him to-morrow," said I, "and ask his permission to speak to his daughter."

"I wish you every success, my dear friend," said Ross, "and I have no doubt as to the result of your interview. And I don't see why you should not be very happy. After all, as you say, you are not marrying the father. You are marrying Marie, who is a very high-principled girl, who is beautiful, who is accomplished, and who would, I am certain, do everything to make her husband happy."

And so it was settled, and next morning I called on Mr. Dalmayne.

Mr. Dalmayne, a tall, aristocratic man of about sixty, received me with great cordiality. Whether Ross, who had dined with him on the previous night, had mentioned anything of my matter to him I don't know, but the old gentleman did not seem to be the least surprised when I told him what the object of my visit was.

"Mr. Dalmayne," said I, "you will doubtless be wondering why I have called to see you"--Mr. Dalmayne's face assumed a sphinx-like expression--I will not keep you waiting for an explanation. The truth is that I have fallen in love with your daughter. Our mutual friend Adam Ross can tell you all about me, and I don't think that his report would be an unfavourable one. My position is this. I have saved three hundred thousand pounds, which produces an income of about twelve thousand a year. And I am making at least another twenty thousand a year from my share of our mine and other sound enterprises. Should you permit me to address Miss Dalmayne, and should I be happy and fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife, I should propose to settle two hundred thousand pounds upon her for her exclusive use."

"Your proposals are most generous," said Mr. Dalmayne, "and do you credit. But in matters of this kind I should never dream of attempting to control my daughter. You have, however, my full permission to speak to her, and if she is willing to marry you, you both have my full consent. My wife shares my views entirely. Marie is out with her mother at the present moment, but she will be in all the afternoon, and if you will call about four I will see that you have the opportunity for which you are seeking."

I thanked Mr. Dalmayne most cordially and promised to return in the afternoon. When I again arrived at Eaton Terrace I was shown into the drawing-room, where I found Mrs. and Miss Dalmayne and a sister of Mrs. Dalmayne's. Tea was brought in, and shortly afterwards the visitor took her departure. A few minutes later Mrs. Dalmayne made some excuse for leaving the room, and I was left alone with Marie. My heart had beaten hard from excitement as I had knocked at the door, but strange to say I felt no nervousness now. I plunged into the matter that brought me without delay. I told Miss Dalmayne of the wonderful effect produced upon me by her beauty and charm, and in the fewest words possible I asked her to be my wife, promising that she would never repent it.

"You have done me a great honour," said Miss Dalmayne, "but I must have a little time to think over what you have said and to consult my parents. You shall hear from me at latest the day after tomorrow."

I shortly afterwards took my leave, and departed buoyed up by the strong hope that the desire of my heart would be obtained.

Nor was I disappointed. On the day she had promised I received a letter from Miss Dalmayne saying that she was willing to accept me, but frankly confessing that she had no love for me as yet, though admitting that she liked me. "If," she continued, "you are willing to take me on this understanding, I am ready to be your wife."

Needless to say I was willing to accept these terms, and three months afterwards we were man and wife.

It was in the month of July that we were married, and we went to Aix-les-Bains for the honeymoon. A few days previously Mr. Dalmayne asked me to lend him a thousand pounds, which I did cheerfully, for after what my friend Ross had told me I was fully prepared for such a request.

My wife had never been to Aix before, and seemed to amuse herself very much. She played a little at the tables, and with a considerable amount of success. I must admit that she was very kind to me, and though of course I easily saw that I did not at present possess her real affection, I was not discontented, and hoped for the time to come when we should be all in all to each other. We had met very few acquaintances at Aix, for it was not a good season as far as English visitors were concerned, owing to attacks on our country and Government by the French papers. But when we had been there about three weeks a Captain Morland came upon the scene. Captain Morland, who was an officer in the Grenadier Guards, had known my wife since she was a child. They seemed very pleased to see each other again, but there was a certain sadness that I noticed in the young officer's manner. He had just been invalided home from South Africa, where he had been on active service during the time with which my narrative deals. He was a handsome young man, tall and well built, and with kind and expressive blue eyes. He was singularly reticent as to his exploits during the war, though I heard from a friend of his who was with him at Aix that he had been mentioned in despatches and had been recommended for the D.S.O. He was a man to whom the merest chance acquaintance was certain to take a fancy. I am bound to say that I did so myself, and I hope that in what I am calmly relating I shall not be considered to have intentionally failed to do him justice.

It was the second week in August, and as the weather was very hot, my wife and I had determined to leave Aix and go to Trouville for a little sea air and bathing. Three days before our departure I returned to the hotel to dress for dinner. I was just going through the corridor when I heard voices in our sitting-room. They were the voices of my wife and Captain Morland.

I don't think that I am naturally a mean man, but I was mean enough to listen on this occasion.

"You mustn't blame me, Hubert," said my wife, "we were all on the verge of ruin, and I was bound to marry him."

"How could you consent to do such a thing? You don't care for him in the least."

"No," said my wife; "nor shall I ever do so if I live for fifty years. I care for no one but you. But I shall always do my duty to my husband, who is a kind and good man and lives entirely for me."

"If he died, you would marry me?" asked Captain Morland.

"Of course I would, and, as the children's storybooks say, 'live happily ever afterwards.' But don't let us discuss deplorable futurities."

This was enough for me. I saw, now that it was too late, how wise my sister Ruth had been, and how foolishly I had acted. There was nothing to be done, however, to remedy matters, in view of the words spoken by my wife, and words which breathed of truth. I went out quietly into the garden of the hotel and came back a few minutes later. I asked Captain Morland to dine with us, and he accepted my invitation. I carefully watched him and my wife during the evening, and clearly saw that the case was hopeless from my point of view.

On the morrow I made my will, and left everything to my wife with the exception of fifty thousand pounds for my sister Ruth. I then wrote the little history of my mistake, and am posting it from the top of Mont Revard to my friend Ross, and have asked him to act as he thinks best. It is hard to die, but, in my position, it is still harder to live.

Having set my entire affections in one direction, and having been hopelessly unsuccessful, there is only one thing to be done, and that is to end matters. And I shall end them to-night.

* * * * *

Extract from an Aix-les-Bains newspaper:--

"The body of a rich Englishman, named Gardner, who was staying at the Hotel de l'Europe, was found lying at the bottom of the precipice between Aix and Mont Revard. It is, of course, pure conjecture how the unfortunate gentleman met his fate, but no foul play is suspected, as his money and valuables were found upon his body. We anxiously await developments. The police are maintaining a strict reserve."

* * * * *

A PUZZLED PAINTER.

WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH THE LATE SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS.

CAST.

REMBRANDT TEMPENNY, an Artist.

MRS. TEMPENNY, his Wife.

CHARLES SYLVESTER, an Artist.

MRS. SYLVESTER, his Wife.

ROSALINE, a Model.

HENRICH SCHERCL, an Art Dealer.

ROBERT ADDISON, a Sporting Man.

SARAH ANN, a Maid-of-all-Work.

SUSAN, Parlourmaid at the Tempenny's.

GROGGINS, a Sheriff's Officer.

A PUZZLED PAINTER.