Chapter III: Part 3

‘Yes, that is the phrase, of course; still, in justice to the profession, I must say that a great many actresses go about quite as dowdily as the royal family. There is no distinctive badge which can be applied to all the members of the profession.’

‘But I cannot imagine Mr. Travers tolerating anything that isn’t in the best taste.’

‘He no doubt prefers everything about him to be of the best; but as he has effectually cut himself off from it by being twice caught in the act of cheating at cards, he will have to satisfy himself with the second best now.’

‘Tell me what is a man’s real feeling about this cheating at cards. Why is it the most terrible sin he can commit? It seems to me, from hearing people talk, that it is quite possible to break every one of the commandments without losing a single acquaintance, but directly you commit this particular crime the whole world cuts you.’

‘I will explain. You know among the Arabs there is another unwritten law, that you may kill or destroy the property of any man who annoys you; but if you have once eaten salt with him, you must hold your hand, whatever provocation you may receive. All these things are a sign of a bond that exists between certain members of the community. Cards are to the European what salt is to the Arabian. They are the sacred symbol of fidelity; and any man who does not feel this must be cast out.’

‘But why? it seems such an arbitrary thing.’

‘I can’t help that. We have all been brought up to believe that it is a beastly thing to betray our friends; and a man must be regarded as a friend from the moment you sit down to a game of chance with him.’

‘Well, I don’t believe I shall ever understand; but perhaps women have no moral sense.’

‘Exactly what I have always said, Lady Geraldine. The only safe place for a woman is under lock and key, and even then you ought to stop up the keyhole with sealing-wax.’

‘It is because we are kept under lock and key that we don’t care what we do. We feel we are unjustly treated, and that we have a perfect right to cheat, and lie, and prevaricate. It is the only means of retaliation we have. Oh, I wonder if the time will ever come when we shall get fair play.’

‘No, it will not; I can tell you that much. No man or woman, from the Queen down to the beggar who spends the night on a doorstep, gets fair play. There isn’t a single human being in all the world who hasn’t been kept back from doing all he might by other people, or by circumstances of one sort or another. This place is meant for a struggle; and the only way to get through it comfortably is to cultivate a taste for struggling.’

‘I’m sure you know you needn’t say that to me, Mr. Clausen.’

‘Yes, you struggle a little--too much, in fact; for the secret of all success is to discern the difference between the possible and the impossible. Turn your back on the impossible, and make steadily for the possible.’

‘O Mr. Clausen, how wise you sound now! I wish I had been there to see when you were young.’

‘I wish you had. You would no doubt have found me quite foolish enough to please you then.’

‘And did you turn your back on the impossible?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are you glad you did?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, I knew that.’

‘It is perfectly true, a temptation resisted gives you no pleasure; but that does not prevent a temptation yielded to giving you an inevitable retribution.’

‘Oh, that sounds so like a copy-book, I am sure it can’t be true.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mr. Clausen, can’t you understand what it is when a girl grows up and finds out bit by bit everything she has been taught and told is a pack of lies.’

‘But surely your mother----’

‘No, no, it isn’t my mother; it’s the governesses, it’s the nurses, it’s the silly novels, it’s other girls. It makes me shudder when I think what a world of shams I’m living in, and what a sham I am myself.’

‘My dear child, I fear I have only one consolation to offer you, and that is, that you would shudder a good deal more if you for one moment saw the truths which underlie these shams.’

‘You talk as if the world was a pest-house. Surely we are some of us beautiful; we are not all diseased and horrible.’

‘One hears a good deal about the beauty of life; but I am very much afraid you will find in the long run that the beauty of life is like the beauty of a lady’s complexion--very fleeting, or else sham.’

‘There I have cornered you, Mr. Clausen. There’s a beauty about a gypsy’s skin which isn’t fleeting, and which is very real; and it is beautiful, just because it is exposed to the sun and the rain. In a word, freedom is beauty, and gives beauty.’

‘Well, perhaps there’s something in what you say; but I don’t think you’d find gypsies very satisfactory companions at close quarters.’

‘I should like to get a chance of seeing for myself.’

‘Take my advice, and don’t. I am sure your tastes are too fastidious for such realities as that,’ said Mr. Clausen, laughing. Here the rest of the party came up, conversation ceased, and chatter reigned in its stead.

* * * * *

Lady Geraldine’s mind was much perturbed by her conversation with Clausen. She doubted Travers, but felt she must see him, she must get some sort of proof herself. Poor girl! after all her outcry, she was only a very ordinary woman, wrapped up in her own little chaos of emotions and foolish little thoughts. She thought it would be a splendid thing to sacrifice herself for love. Mediocrity was her bugbear, just as it has been the bugbear of thousands of other mediocre people, and she was ready to take the most desperate measures to escape from it. The only way she could think of to show how different she was from the rest of her sex was to cultivate her instincts and let them lead her whither they would. To overcome the world and remain a slave to your own passions has been the ideal of all the splendid failures of history, but she only recognised their splendour, and did not stop to consider their defeat. So, with her mind strung up to a high pitch of romantic passion, Lady Geraldine went to meet Travers in the Kirkdale woods.

She found him leaning against a tree cleaning a horseshoe he had just picked up. His little fox-terrier was running about smelling the rabbit-holes and following trails with a suspicious and preoccupied air, as if he was not quite sure whether these joys were permitted to him or not. He ran forward to see who Geraldine was, and licked her hand; then he hung his head and ran back to his master and sat down by his side. Travers looked up; he had not seen Geraldine approach, and he said, ‘So you have actually come to see the last of the poor outcast.’

‘Is it the last? Is it true that you are going to America to act?’

He started a little, wondering how this could have come to her knowledge, but recovered himself quickly. ‘There seems nothing else left for me to do.’

‘But if there was?’

‘I would gladly take the alternative.’

‘I thought so; I didn’t believe you could willingly take up that sort of life.’

‘Indeed you are right there. What an angel you are to come here like this! I can’t think how I deserved such a thing.’

‘I don’t know whether you deserve it or not, and I don’t care much: I have come because I love you, and because--’

He took the hand she held out to him and kissed it; she put her other hand round his neck, and he kissed her lips. Then feeling he had done all that was expected of him, he was about to gallantly release her, when he found she was almost fainting in his arms.

‘By George, this is serious,’ he murmured, and he led her to a felled tree, sat her down on it, and went to look for some water. When he returned he found she was calmer.

He had a little pocket flask with him and had filled the cup with water. She refused to drink, but dipped her finger in it and wiped her forehead. Then he sat down by her side, and she leant on his shoulder and said--

‘What shall we do? Will you come away from England with me, or shall we stay here?’

‘Whichever you think best; your wishes are my law.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you exactly how I stand. I have eight hundred pounds a year now, and shall have four hundred pounds a year more when mamma dies. It is settled on me, and they cannot take it from me whatever I do.’

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘in the hands of trustees, I suppose.’

‘Yes, that is the worst of it: I cannot touch the capital.’

‘But, dear Lady Geraldine, have you ever considered what it would be for two people to try and live on eight hundred pounds a year?’

‘I know it would be very difficult, but I am willing to try anything if it will save you from that dreadful life. We could take a flat in Venice or Florence, and you would have to be divorced; then we could be married, and no one would mind in a few years.’

‘I am sure you would regret it, if you took such a step.’

‘I should never regret it. I hate this life in England. We would have a beautiful home, and then we could come to your place at Old Windsor sometimes.’

‘That is not my house.’

‘Not your house! what do you mean?’

‘It belongs to a friend of mine; he asked me to take it.’ Travers stopped himself, and for once in his life, by a supreme effort, told the truth. ‘I mean he offered to lend it me because he was going away. You don’t know what a poor devil I am, Lady Geraldine.’

‘Don’t call me by that hateful title. And so you have been very, very poor. Why, my wretched little eight hundred pounds a year will seem quite a lot of money to you. I am so glad you know what it is to be poor.’

‘I can’t deny that poverty and I are old bed-fellows, Lady Geraldine; but all the same----’

‘Why are you hesitating?’

‘Well, it sounds rather ungrateful; but I think I ought to tell you that if my wife and I went to America to-morrow, the very smallest salary I would accept would be one hundred pounds a week between us.’

‘But your wife is not a great actress.’

‘No. If she were a great actress she would get that sum without having me thrown in; but during my last engagement at Mallock’s Theatre I had seventy pounds a week myself.’

‘I see; I cannot bribe you high enough. I am sorry to have troubled you to come here to-night.’

‘I am terribly distressed about the whole business; but I am sure you would be miserable living abroad like that yourself. Think of what it would mean. I have been disgraced publicly; you would be disgraced; we should both be shunned as if we were plague-stricken. I am sure you see things as I do.’

Lady Geraldine got up to walk away. Suddenly she turned and flung herself at Travers’s feet, saying: ‘Oh, don’t let us talk or think about the hateful money! Act if you like, if you find it so profitable, but don’t, don’t leave England. Cut yourself free from that woman. I will do anything you like. I love you wildly, desperately. I cannot, cannot leave you.’

He gently disengaged her fingers. She rose on her knees and looked him straight in the eyes. Then she cried out--

‘You don’t love me the least little bit in the world. Why is it? Am I not beautiful enough? Haven’t you told me a hundred times I was? O George, George, tell me what is the meaning of it all!’

‘It means I love you too well to wish to injure you.’

‘Then you do not love me at all. Is it that you love this other woman, this wife of yours?’

‘Perhaps; I can’t tell what it is.’

‘I will sit down quietly by your side now; I won’t rave at you any more, don’t be afraid. Tell me exactly what you feel.’ She stood for a moment, then put her hand in her pocket, took out her handkerchief, then sat down, holding it in her lap.

‘Now tell me, dear one,’ and she laid her hand on his arm. He shuddered a little. She noticed it and removed her hand. ‘What do you feel about her and me?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think it must be this. When I fell in love with her, I did so in the terrible blind, reckless way that only comes over one once in a lifetime. It is more a nightmare than anything else. I couldn’t understand myself at the time, and I can’t understand myself now.’

‘Oh, you have got over it, then?’ she said, leaning towards him.

‘Yes, I have got over it. I am sickened of love. But my wife is a clever woman. I believe I can do something with her. She has a most extraordinary talent for acting, and that interests me. I don’t suppose there is a man alive, take it all in all, who knows more about the tricks of the trade than I do. These are just what she wants to be taught, and it is interesting to me to see what she’ll turn out. This feeling has taken the place of love. She is about as tired of love-making as I am, and now we are going to set seriously to work together.’

‘But if you are so tired of love, why are you here to-night? Did you think you would get money out of me to go to America with her?’

He laughed a little. ‘Well, it does sound absurd now you put it like that, but I suppose I did.’

She was sitting to his right. Her fingers closed on something that had been hidden in her handkerchief; then came the loud report of a pistol, a puff of smoke, a groan from Travers as he fell sideways with a crash in a heap among the brackens.

Lady Geraldine sat perfectly motionless for a moment; then she saw the blood beginning ooze from the wound just over his heart, and she drew her dress carefully on one side. She did not look at his face for about five minutes. She turned round then, and saw his eyes fixed on her with a terrible stare.

‘No, I will not suffer for you,’ she whispered, as if replying to their silent menace, and she put the pistol into his hand and closed the fingers round it. They would not keep as she placed them. At last she left the thing on the ground by his side, then she walked rapidly away. Before she had got far she remembered the compromising letters she had written: she must go back and get them at any price. She found his pocket-book; she found her three letters in it; she took them, and replaced the pocket-book. Then she went. Just as she was leaving the wood, the fox-terrier, which had been off on a hunting expedition, ran up to her, smelling her dress. She put down her hand to pat its head. It licked off a little spot of blood that soiled her first finger. She tried to speak to it, to tell it to go to its master, but she found her mouth was parched and dry. She could not utter a word. But it went all the same, following the track of her footsteps into the wood.

She went through what would probably occur. He would be found alone with a pistol. She thought of what would happen if the pistol was identified. She had taken it from the gun-room at home; she had thought it would add to the romance of the situation. Two of them had been hanging on the wall; she remembered them all her life. Sometimes her father had allowed her and her sisters to practise with them on Sunday afternoons, much to the scandal of the neighbourhood. Kirkdale would go to look at the body; he would be sure to recognise the pistol. She got into the house unobserved just as the clock struck eleven. First she went up to her bedroom and dusted her shoes; her feet were covered with dust. She took off her stockings and wiped them clean as well as she could without making a mess. Then she went downstairs. She had sent her maid to bed. Nobody seemed to be up except Kirkdale and Clausen, whom she could hear playing billiards as she passed the door. She went down the passage, entered the gun-room, and examined the window. She saw it was accessible from the outside. It was one of the old-fashioned hasp bolts, so she took a rusty pocket-knife she found lying in a forgotten heap of odds and ends and passed it between the crack of the window. She scratched the bolt as best she could to make it appear as if it had been opened from the outside; then she dropped the knife outside the window, closed the door, and went to bed. She lay awake wondering if there was any precaution she had forgotten to take; and when at last she slept, she dreamed that she was a child again, and that her father was alive. He was in one of his rarely affectionate moods, dancing her on his knee and calling her his own dear little girl. He called her mother and sisters and little Stephen to look at her as he stood her upon the table--Mr. Clausen was there too,--and then her father laughed and clapped his hands, and said, ‘She’s the flower of the flock, she’s my very own daughter,’ and he rushed at the others and chased them out of the room. Then it seemed to her they were afraid of her as they had been of him. She saw their faces peeping in at the window at her, as if she was a terror to them. She looked at her father for explanation, but he no longer spoke or moved; his face was cold and lifeless, as if formed from damp yellow clay; and she went and touched his fingers, which closed on hers, and she felt she was becoming clay too. The cold crept up her arm; she could not stir hand or foot. Just as the cold reached her heart she woke and tried to scream, but once again she could utter no sound, and lay there motionless. At last the morning came. The horror of the dream had taken all her attention: she thought of nothing else; she felt she must speak of it, yet feared that in some vague way it might betray her. She could not bear to stay in the house waiting. She ordered the pony-carriage, and drove herself over to Lyndhurst, where she found some friends at home. They got her to put up there, and she did not return to Ringwood until dinner-time. Driving home she went over in her mind every possible thing that could happen: they would know the pistol; they would find it was impossible for the gun-room to have been entered from the outside; he would have boasted that he was going to meet her; somebody had seen her in the wood with him. She had gone to her room with a headache at nine o’clock, and asked not to be disturbed; perhaps Elizabeth had brought her something just before going to bed, and had discovered her absence. She imagined herself being driven away handcuffed between two policemen. She went through all the horrors of the last scene of all, when she would go blindfold into eternity. She shuddered terribly, then suddenly remembered the groom was sitting behind her, and was probably taking notes of her behaviour, and that he would be able to give his evidence too. As she drove over the bridge a train was arriving at the station. She pulled up a moment and watched the passengers alight. She saw a girl get out of a carriage and a tall man meeting her, and, leading her tenderly through the station, put her into a closed carriage. She saw that it was Kirkdale. Then she understood everything had been found out, and they had sent for the wife.

She drove into the village, sending the groom into the draper’s to get her some riding gloves. The man came out to deliver them to her himself. He looked very serious, and said, ‘Terrible news, isn’t it, my lady?’

‘What is terrible?’ she asked. ‘I have been away all day.’

‘A gentleman found murdered in the woods close to Kirkdale Castle.’

‘Murdered!’ she cried.

‘Well, the police are very reticent; I can’t say how it was done, but I know he was shot through the heart.’

‘Dear, dear! I must try and find out as quickly as possible,’ and she drove off without noticing the man’s parting salutation.

‘Murdered,’ she said over and over to herself. ‘After all, they know, they know everything.’

Mr. Clausen met her as she drove up to the principal entrance, and solemnly led her into the library. ‘You have heard?’ he said.

‘Yes. Weyman told me that he had been found dead.’

‘George Travers?’

‘Yes.’

‘He has not been publicly identified yet. How did Weyman know who he was?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose he heard it somehow.’ She looked up nervously. She met Mr. Clausen’s eyes looking steadily at hers, and she knew he guessed. After a pause she said, ‘Tell me what is known.’

‘I will. This morning the footman spoke to Kirkdale after breakfast, and informed him the gun-room had apparently been broken into.’ Mr. Clausen laid ever so slight a stress on the word ‘apparently.’ He continued, ‘A careful search was made and nothing was missing but one of a brace of pistols, that had been hanging together over the mantelpiece. I formed my own theory on the matter, and was just about to demonstrate to Kirkdale that it was impossible that the window should have been entered from the outside, when the news of the dead body being found reached us. I therefore refrained from making any remarks, and later in the day, when every one was agog over the conveyance of the body to the parish room, I went outside the gun-room window and tried myself to get into it from the outside. I found it was possible, but very difficult, and I knocked down some plaster, besides disturbing a good deal of dust which I had noticed was quite undisturbed in the morning. I may have done away with some circumstantial evidence, but it is always a satisfaction to try things for one’s-self.’ Again their eyes met, this time with a fuller understanding than before.

‘At the moment Kirkdale and I went at once to the scene of the tragedy, and found poor Travers dead, with his little terrier by his side, shivering and trembling, and refusing to stir; indeed, we had the greatest difficulty to coax it away. While the constable was taking notes, I saw the revolver lying among the ferns close to his hand, but the constable did not; I thought it better not to attract Kirkdale’s attention to it at the time, so I let them remove the body without saying a word. I then went back to the gun-room and did what I have told you; and having satisfied myself that the chain of evidence was complete, I went down to the village, and advised the constable to come up and search the scene of the fatality more thoroughly. Kirkdale came too, and it was not long before we found the revolver this time. The sight of the pistol at once reminded Kirkdale of the open window, and without a moment’s hesitation he told the constable all he knew. The constable came along, and having pointed out to him the marks of feet outside, the footman having given his evidence, and having wired for Mrs. Travers, whom by the way Lady Kirkdale has most kindly consented to put up, and who arrived about half an hour ago, I watched for you, so as to put you in full possession of the facts of the case.’ For the third time their eyes met.

‘How can I ever thank you?’

‘Good God, woman, don’t thank me! You owe me nothing. It is for your mother’s sake that I have become your accomplice, and that I have taken this burden on myself.’ She bent her head. He continued, ‘People who sin against human life in this way cannot expect sympathy. Your punishment is that you are cut off from fellowship with your race; the memory of that murdered man will rise between you and those who guess, and those who do not guess, your guilt.’

‘Supposing, after all, others discover that I did it?’ she whispered.

‘They shall not, they must not! I command you not to betray yourself; it is the least you can do.’

‘You needn’t be afraid. I dare say you think I am sorry that I did it, but I am not; I am glad. I should be miserable if it had not been done.’

‘He would never have done anything so criminal as this.’

‘No, he hadn’t the courage, but he would have sneaked and lied and shivered through life, taking men’s and women’s souls and bodies and tearing them to shreds, dragging them down until they could see nothing in life but a struggle for amusement, nothing beyond but a rest from torment. I know I did it from a horrible motive, just to gratify my mad injured pride, to revenge myself on the cur that had turned on me; but all the same it is a good deed done, and I am glad I did it.’

‘I do not understand you, Lady Geraldine.’

She got up and walked past him to the door; then she turned and said, ‘I am my father’s daughter. People like him and me belong to a race apart; we are only mortal clay, while you and mamma, and Maisy and all the rest of you have immortal souls.’

She came towards him once more. ‘Oh, don’t be afraid, I won’t touch you, I won’t contaminate you. Yes, I see it plainly now: you all of you have immortal souls, you show it in your lives, don’t you?’

* * * * *

It was the day of the funeral. ‘_Suicide while of unsound mind_’ was the verdict brought in by the jury. Lady Geraldine was alone with Mrs. Travers for the first time. They were sitting with books in their hands pretending to read. Both were dressed in black. Both were somewhat restless. Lady Kirkdale had left them in the drawing-room. The funeral had taken place in the little village churchyard early in the morning. There was nothing more to be done. Mrs. Travers was going to London the following day to commence rehearsing for a new piece at Horsham’s Theatre. Lady Kirkdale had suggested she must stay with them and rest, but she only thanked her very much, and said she should prefer to set to work at once.

Lady Geraldine sat eyeing her surreptitiously. At last she said--

‘You are very fond of your profession, are you not, Mrs. Travers?’

‘Indeed I am. I don’t know how I should have lived during the last few months if it had not been for the thought of it.’

‘You were going to America, I heard?’

‘Yes; George spoke of doing so.’

‘Will you tell me what your real feeling about this is; you seem very calm, and yet----’

‘And yet I loved him, you mean.’ Lady Geraldine nodded. ‘Yes, I loved him; and I suppose if this had happened two months ago I should have gone nearly mad with grief. But a curious change has been taking place during that time. It used to seem as if great floods of emotion came over me, enfolded me, and took possession of me. I had no power to resist them. One day I suddenly found I could, as it were, swim through; I knew what I was doing; I could guide and control myself; I could use the emotion as I pleased.’

‘Yes, yes; I believe I know what you mean; go on telling me.’

‘Well, that is what it comes to. In real life you get an emotion which masters you; in art, in acting, in all works of genius, I suppose, you master an emotion. That is why artists are set apart from the rest of the world; they cannot enjoy the common emotion long, they demand too much from it.’

‘And do you not regret your loss at all?’

‘Oh, we are all human, of course. I loved him, but still I feared him. He made me see things in his way: I had no freedom of judgment. When he was with me I thought he was a splendidly clever person; even when I found out how bad he was, and what terrible things he had done, he only had to make some ridiculous excuse for me to believe every word he said.’

‘Don’t you think it is a good thing for you that he is dead? Don’t you feel that if you had seen much more of him you would have become a thoroughly bad woman?’

‘Yes, I do. I sometimes wonder even now if I can get away altogether from his influence. But how did you know this? What made you imagine it?’

‘I will tell you exactly why. You know we were quite ignorant that he had a wife until about a fortnight ago. I must confess to you that from the first day I saw him I would have married him at any moment if he had asked me, and given up everything in the world for him. I found out by degrees what he was, and I thought that if it were true, I could not bear that he should live. And now that he is dead I am glad. I feel a weight is off my soul.’

‘Yes,’ whispered Grace Travers, ‘that is just what I feel, a weight is off my soul: to live with him was to be morally contaminated. Almost the last time I talked to him, I remember feeling as if it would be a glorious thing to be a great criminal, and that if you could not rule by fair means, you should rule by foul. George had such a horror of mediocrity.’

‘He thought anything better than that, eh?’

‘Yes, I believe the only person who could really fascinate him would be some one who could make him suffer terribly.’

‘Was there anything that could make him suffer?’

‘No, I don’t think there was, he always took things so easily. But he didn’t want to die; he hated the thought of it. I can’t think how he ever came to kill himself.’

‘Well, it is unfortunate that the only person who could attempt to fascinate him in the way you suggest would be compelled, by the circumstances of the case, to prevent him from showing that he was fascinated.’

‘Poor George, what a pity he isn’t here! That would have amused him; it is just the sort of thing he would have said himself.’

THE END.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

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6d. net.

COLERIDGE (HON. STEPHEN).

THE SANCTITY OF CONFESSION: A Romance. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s.
net. [_A few remain._

CRANE (WALTER).

RENASCENCE: A Book of Verse. Frontispiece and 38 designs by the
Author. [_Small paper edition out of print._

There remain a few large paper copies, fcap. 4to. £1, 1s. net. And
a few fcap. 4to, Japanese vellum. £1, 15s. net.

CROSSING (WM.).

THE ANCIENT CROSSES OF DARTMOOR. With 11 plates. 8vo, cloth. 4s. 6d.
net. [_Very few remain._

DAVIDSON (JOHN).

PLAYS: An Unhistorical Pastoral; A Romantic Farce; Bruce, a Chronicle
Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a
Frontispiece, Title-page, and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 500
copies. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net.

DAVIDSON (JOHN).

FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s. net.

DAVIDSON (JOHN).

A RANDOM ITINERARY: Prose Sketches, with a Ballad. Frontispiece,
Title-page, and Cover Design by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Fcap. 8vo. Uniform
with ‘Fleet Street Eclogues.’ 5s. net.

DAVIDSON (JOHN).

THE NORTH WALL. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

_The few remaining copies transferred by the Author to the present
Publishers._

DE GRUCHY (AUGUSTA).

UNDER THE HAWTHORN, AND OTHER VERSES. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE.
300 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [_Very few remain._

Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15s. net.

DE TABLEY (LORD).

POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER WARREN (Lord De
Tabley). Illustrations and Cover Design by C. S. RICKETTS. Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.

FIELD (MICHAEL).

SIGHT AND SONG. (Poems on Pictures.) 400 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.
[_Very few remain._

FIELD (MICHAEL).

STEPHANIA: A Trialogue in Three Acts. 250 copies. Pott 4to. 6s. net.
[_Very few remain._

GALE (NORMAN).

ORCHARD SONGS. Fcap. 8vo. With Title-page and Cover Design by J.
ILLINGWORTH KAY. 5s. net.

Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound
in English vellum. £1, 1s. net.

GARNETT (RICHARD).

POEMS. With Title-page designed by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 350 copies.
Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

GOSSE (EDMUND).

THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Now first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s.
net.

GRAHAME (KENNETH).

PAGAN PAPERS: A Volume of Essays. With Title-page by AUBREY
BEARDSLEY. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.

GREENE (G. A.).

ITALIAN LYRISTS OF TO-DAY. Translations in the original metres from
about thirty-five living Italian poets, with bibliographical and
biographical notes. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

HAKE (DR. T. GORDON).

A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS. Edited by Mrs. MEYNELL. With a Portrait
after D. G. ROSSETTI, and a Cover Design by GLEESON WHITE. Crown 8vo.
5s. net.

HALLAM (ARTHUR HENRY).

THE POEMS, together with his essay ‘On Some of the Characteristics of
Modern Poetry and on the Lyrical Poems of ALFRED TENNYSON.’ Edited,
with an Introduction, by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 550 copies. Fcap. 8vo.
5s. net. [_Very few remain._

HAMILTON (COL. IAN).

THE BALLAD OF HADJI AND OTHER POEMS. Etched Frontispiece by WM.
STRANG. 50 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. net.

_Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._

HAZLITT (WILLIAM).

LIBER AMORIS, a reprint of the 1823 edition, with numerous original
documents appended never before printed, including Mrs. Hazlitt’s
Diary in Scotland, Portrait after Bewick, Facsimile Letters, etc.,
and the Critical Introduction by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE prefixed to the
edition of 1893. A limited number only. 4to. £1, 1s. net.
[_In the Press._

HICKEY (EMILY H.).

VERSE TALES, LYRICS AND TRANSLATIONS. 300 copies. Imp. 16mo. 5s. net.

HORNE (HERBERT P.).

DIVERSI COLORES: Poems. With ornaments by the Author. 250 copies.
16mo. 5s. net.

JAMES (W. P.).

ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS: A Volume of Essays, with Title-page by J.
ILLINGWORTH KAY. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

JOHNSON (EFFIE).

IN THE FIRE AND OTHER FANCIES. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 500
copies. Imp. 16mo. 3s. 6d. net.

JOHNSON (LIONEL).

THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY: Six Essays. With Etched Portrait by WM.
STRANG, and Bibliography by JOHN LANE. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net.

Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £1, 1s.
net. [_Very shortly._

JOHNSON (LIONEL).

A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. [_In preparation._

KEATS (JOHN).

THREE ESSAYS, now issued in book form for the first time. Edited by
H. BUXTON FORMAN. With Life-mask by HAYDON. Fcap. 4to. 10s. 6d. net.
[_Very few remain._

KEYNOTES SERIES.

Each volume complete in itself. Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. net.

Vol. I. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. With Title-page by AUBREY
BEARDSLEY. [_Fourth edition now ready._

Vol. II. POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of F. Dostoievsky
by LENA MILMAN. With a Preface by GEORGE MOORE.
[_In rapid preparation._

Vol. III. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE EMERY.

Vol. IV. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. [_Shortly._

Vol. V. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT. By ARTHUR MACHEN.
[_Shortly._

LEATHER (R. K.).

VERSES. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. net.

_Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._

LEATHER (R. K.), & RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

THE STUDENT AND THE BODY-SNATCHER AND OTHER TRIFLES.
[_Small paper edition out of print._

There remain a very few of the 50 large paper copies. 7s. 6d. net.

LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).

PROSE FANCIES. With a Portrait of the Author by WILSON STEER. Crown
8vo. Purple cloth, uniform with ‘The Religion of a Literary Man.’ 5s.
net.

Also a limited large paper edition. 12s. 6d. net.

LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).

THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS. An Account rendered by RICHARD LE
GALLIENNE. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net.

LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).

ENGLISH POEMS. Third Edition, crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform with
‘The Religion of a Literary Man.’ 5s. net.

LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).

GEORGE MEREDITH: Some Characteristics. With a Bibliography (much
enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, etc. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s.
6d. net.

LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).

THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY MAN. 3rd thousand. Crown 8vo. Purple
cloth. 3s. 6d. net.

Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. 8vo. 10s. 6d.
net.

LETTERS TO LIVING ARTISTS.

500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. [_Very few remain._

MARSTON (PHILIP BOURKE).

A LAST HARVEST: LYRICS AND SONNETS FROM THE BOOK OF LOVE. Edited by
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.

Also 50 copies on large paper, hand-made. 10s. 6d. net.
[_Very few remain._

MARTIN (W. WILSEY).

QUATRAINS, LIFE’S MYSTERY AND OTHER POEMS. 16mo. 2s. 6d. net.
[_Very few remain._

MARZIALS (THEO.).

THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.
[_Very few remain._

_Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._

MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON).

POEMS. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 large
paper copies (First Edition) remain. 12s. 6d. net.

MEYNELL (MRS.).

THE RHYTHM OF LIFE, AND OTHER ESSAYS. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.
6d. net. A few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain.
12s. 6d. net.

MONKHOUSE (ALLAN).

BOOKS AND PLAYS: A Volume of Essays. 400 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

MURRAY (ALMA).

PORTRAIT AS BEATRICE CENCI. With critical notice containing four
letters from ROBERT BROWNING. 8vo, wrapper. 2s. net.

NETTLESHIP (J. T.).

ROBERT BROWNING: Essays and Thoughts. A Third Edition is in
preparation. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. Half a dozen of the Whatman
large paper copies (First Edition) remain. £1, 1s. net.

NOBLE (JAS. ASHCROFT).

THE SONNET IN ENGLAND AND OTHER ESSAYS. Title-page and Cover Design
by AUSTIN YOUNG. 600 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

Also 50 copies large paper. 12s. 6d. net.

NOEL (HON. RODEN).

POOR PEOPLE’S CHRISTMAS. 250 copies. 16mo. 1s. net.
[_Very few remain._

OXFORD CHARACTERS.

A series of lithographed portraits by WILL ROTHENSTEIN, with text
by F. YORK POWELL and others. To be issued monthly in term. Each
number will contain two portraits. Parts I. to V. ready. 200 sets
only, folio, wrapper, 5s. net per part; 25 special large paper sets
containing proof impressions of the portraits signed by the artist,
10s. 6d. net per part.

PINKERTON (PERCY).

GALEAZZO: A Venetian Episode and other Poems. Etched Frontispiece.
16mo. 5s. net. [_Very few remain._

_Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._

RADFORD (DOLLIE).

SONGS. A New Volume of Verse. [_In preparation._

RADFORD (ERNEST).

CHAMBERS TWAIN. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 250 copies. Imp. 16mo.
5s. net.

Also 50 copies large paper. 10s. 6d. net. [_Very few remain._

RHYS (ERNEST).

A LONDON ROSE AND OTHER RHYMES. With Title-page designed by SELWYN
IMAGE. 500 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

RICKETTS (C. S.) AND C. H. SHANNON.

HERO AND LEANDER. By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE and GEORGE CHAPMAN. With
Borders, Initials, and Illustrations designed and engraved on the
wood by C. S. RICKETTS and C. H. SHANNON. Bound in English vellum and
gold. 200 copies only. 35s. net.

RHYMERS’ CLUB, THE BOOK OF THE.

A second volume will appear in the Spring of 1894.

SCHAFF (DR. P.).

LITERATURE AND POETRY: Papers on Dante, etc. Portrait and Plates, 100
copies only. 8vo. 10s. net.

STODDARD (R. H.).

THE LION’S CUB; WITH OTHER VERSE. Portrait. 100 copies only, bound in
an illuminated Persian design. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. [_Very few remain._

STREET (G. S.).

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY. Passages selected by his friend G. S. S.
With Title-page designed by C. W. FURSE. 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.
6d. net.

SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON).

IN THE KEY OF BLUE, AND OTHER PROSE ESSAYS. Cover designed by C. S.
RICKETTS. Second Edition. Thick Crown 8vo. 8s. 6d. net.

THOMPSON (FRANCIS).

POEMS. With Frontispiece, Title-page and Cover Design by LAURENCE
HOUSMAN. Fourth Edition. Pott 4to. 5s. net.

TODHUNTER (JOHN).

A SICILIAN IDYLL. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 250 copies. Imp.
16mo. 5s. net.

Also 50 copies large paper, fcap. 4to. 10s. 6d. net.
[_Very few remain._

TOMSON (GRAHAM R.).

AFTER SUNSET. A Volume of Poems. With Title-page and Cover Design by
R. ANNING BELL. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.

Also a limited large paper edition. 12s. 6d. net. [_In preparation._

TREE (H. BEERBOHM).

THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY: A Lecture delivered at the Royal
Institution. With portrait of Mr. TREE from an unpublished drawing by
the Marchioness of Granby. Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2s. 6d. net.

TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE).

CUCKOO SONGS. With Title-page and Cover Design by LAURENCE HOUSMAN.
500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.

VAN DYKE (HENRY).

THE POETRY OF TENNYSON. Third Edition, enlarged. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d.
net.

_The late Laureate himself gave valuable aid in correcting various
details._

WATSON (WILLIAM).

THE ELOPING ANGELS: A Caprice. Second Edition. Square 16mo. buckram.
3s. 6d. net.

WATSON (WILLIAM).

EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM: being some Prose Recreations of a Rhymer.
Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net.

WATSON (WILLIAM).

THE PRINCE’S QUEST, AND OTHER POEMS. With a Bibliographical Note
added. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.

WEDMORE (FREDERICK).

PASTORALS OF FRANCE--RENUNCIATIONS. A volume of Stories. Title-page
by JOHN FULLEYLOVE, R.I. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

_A few of the large paper copies of Renunciations (First Edition)
remain. 10s. 6d. net._

WICKSTEED (P. H.).

DANTE. Six Sermons. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s. net.

WILDE (OSCAR).

THE SPHINX. A poem decorated throughout in line and colour, and bound
in a design by CHARLES RICKETTS. 250 copies. £2, 2s. net. 25 copies
large paper. £5, 5s. net.

WILDE (OSCAR).

The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. H., being the true
secret of Shakespear’s sonnets now for the first time here fully set
forth, with initial letters and cover design by CHARLES RICKETTS. 500
copies. 10s. 6d. net.

Also 50 copies large paper. 21s. net. [_In preparation._

WILDE (OSCAR).

DRAMATIC WORKS, now printed for the first time with a specially
designed Title-page and binding to each volume, by CHARLES SHANNON.
500 copies. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net per vol.

Also 50 copies large paper. 15s. net per vol.

Vol. I. LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN: A Comedy in Four Acts. [_Ready._

Vol. II. A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE: A Comedy in Four Acts. [_Shortly._

Vol. III. THE DUCHESS OF PADUA: A Blank Verse Tragedy in Five Acts.
[_In preparation._

WILDE (OSCAR).

SALOMÉ: A Tragedy in one Act, done into English. With 11
Illustrations, Title-page, and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 500
copies. Small 4to. 15s. net.

Also 100 copies, large paper. 30s. net.

WYNNE (FRANCES).

WHISPER. A Volume of Verse. With a Memoir by Katharine Tynan and a
Portrait added. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

_Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._

The Hobby Horse

A new series of this illustrated magazine will be published quarterly by subscription, under the Editorship of Herbert P. Horne. Subscription £1 per annum, post free, for the four numbers. Quarto, printed on hand-made paper, and issued in a limited edition to subscribers only. The Magazine will contain articles upon Literature, Music, Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, and the Decorative Arts; Poems; Essays; Fiction; original Designs; with reproductions of pictures and drawings by the old masters and contemporary artists. There will be a new title-page and ornaments designed by the Editor.

Among the contributors to the Hobby Horse are:

The late MATTHEW ARNOLD.
LAURENCE BINYON.
WILFRID BLUNT.
FORD MADOX BROWN.
The late ARTHUR BURGESS.
E. BURNE-JONES, A.R.A.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.
A. J. HIPKINS, F.S.A.
SELWYN IMAGE.
LIONEL JOHNSON.
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
SIR F. LEIGHTON, Bart., P.R.A.
T. HOPE MCLACHLAN.
MAY MORRIS.
C. HUBERT H. PARRY, Mus. Doc.
A. W. POLLARD.
F. YORK POWELL.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
W. M. ROSSETTI.
JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L., LL.D.
FREDERICK SANDYS.
The late W. BELL SCOTT.
FREDERICK J. SHIELDS.
J. H. SHORTHOUSE.
The late JAMES SMETHAM.
SIMEON SOLOMON.
A. SOMERVELL.
The late J. ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
KATHARINE TYNAN.
G. F. WATTS, R.A.
FREDERICK WEDMORE.
OSCAR WILDE.

_Prospectuses on Application._

THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO STREET, LONDON, W.

‘Nearly every book put out by Messrs. Elkin Mathews & John Lane, at the Sign of the Bodley Head, is a satisfaction to the special senses of the modern bookman for bindings, shapes, types, and papers. They have surpassed themselves, and registered a real achievement in English bookmaking by the volume of “Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical,” of Lord De Tabley.’_Newcastle Daily Chronicle._

‘A ray of hopefulness is stealing again into English poetry after the twilight greys of Clough and Arnold and Tennyson. Even unbelief wears braver colours. Despite the jeremiads, which are the dirges of the elder gods, England is still a nest of singing-birds (_teste_ the Catalogue of Elkin Mathews and John Lane).’--Mr. ZANGWILL in _Pall Mall Magazine_.

‘All Messrs. Mathews & Lane’s Books are so beautifully printed and so tastefully issued, that it rejoices the heart of a book-lover to handle them; but they have shown their sound judgment not less markedly in the literary quality of their publications. The choiceness of form is not inappropriate to the matter, which is always of something more than ephemeral worth. This was a distinction on which the better publishers at one time prided themselves; they never lent their names to trash; but some names associated with worthy traditions have proved more than once a delusion and a snare. The record of Messrs. Elkin Mathews & John Lane is perfect in this respect, and their imprint is a guarantee of the worth of what they publish.’--_Birmingham Daily Post_, Nov. 6, 1893.

‘One can nearly always be certain when one sees on the title-page of any given book the name of Messrs Elkin Mathews & John Lane as being the publishers thereof that there will be something worth reading to be found between the boards.’--_World._

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE
Printers to Her Majesty

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.