Chapter IV (1)

The nameless piece was a brilliant success. The critics said the pathos was wonderful. Both performers seemed to have but one soul between them, as in truth they really had. Lord Alison sat like one petrified as the music ebbed and flowed, but only Giovanni noted that he did not join in the applause that followed. It cut him to the quick, this negligence; and when the guests clamoured for an encore he selected a different piece, greatly to their disgust.

After all the company had gone and that curious dreariness that invariably invades the scene of a recent merry-making spread through the rooms, Lord Alison, pale to the very lips, called Giovanni into the study.

"Take a cigar, boy, and settle yourself to hear a story," he said, as he closed the door.

Giovanni obeyed, and sank into the corner of the very sofa he had occupied the first time he entered the house.

After a pause the elder man told a strange tale that was also a confession. He told how his brother Jack, his big brother Jack, the poet and musician, had vanished in Italy long years before. Rumour said he had married a singer whose beauty had captivated him, and that he feared to return lest his uncle, Lord Alison, should disinherit him. As time went on, Arthur was recognised as the next-of-kin, and on succeeding to his father's property had quitted Scotch law and come to London, where he soon found the gay life of an heir-presumptive to a great title indispensable to his happiness. Now and then the dread of his brother's return painted black spots on his sun, but he strove to erase them, and generally succeeded.

Then came the strange evening when he played his brother's composition, a relic of college days, and was answered from outside by an unseen player. From the first he had no doubt who the child was; and the packet given him by the dying woman confirmed his suspicion, as well as the worn little dressing-case which he remembered perfectly. He resolved to reveal all when Giovanni should come of age, but the fair face of Hester Trenoweth came between them. Then, when the dread of the missing document was removed, he persuaded himself to sacrifice conscience to passion. His resolution was increased ten-fold by the knowledge that Lady Hester loved Giovanni. Arthur's keen eye had detected her secret. He almost hated them both when the truth became plain to him. "Boy," he exclaimed, at length, "I've foully wronged you; but Jack's dead voice spoke again to-night in his melody. It led you to me, it made me resolve to shelter you (perchance it helped to rob me of her); but to-night it preached repentance. Take Hester and be happy. I can claim a younger brother's portion, and I have my profession to return to, though a selfish life has blunted that weapon I fear. Boy, say you don't hate me!"

Giovanni's warm Italian blood drove him to a demonstration impossible to an Englishman.

"Uncle Arthur, _I_ hate you? Never! Oh, I've robbed you sorely, I fear! It's a poor return for what you've done for me. Though you've erred, you've more than atoned for your error, which has done me no great harm, and you shall _never_ leave me, _never_." The men embraced silently, and Arthur Dalziel's face wore a new strange softness, like that it wore on the night he found Giovanni.

* * * * *

Old Lord Trenoweth had hard work to relish the explanations Dalziel favoured him with next day. When, however, Dalziel mentioned the true state of things between Hester and Giovanni, and insisted on his consenting to their wedding, he seemed infinitely relieved. He summoned Hester and gently told her that, as he had heard of her love for Giovanni, he would no longer insist on her engagement to Alison.

"But," she quivered out, "I've pledged my word to marry Lord Alison."

"And so you shall," said her father. "Giovanni is Lord Alison. There has been a great discovery."

But Hester never knew how long ago that discovery had taken place. Neither did Society, who, after the first shock, smiled benignant acquiescence, and said, "To think of its being all through that little theme with variations that Giovanni wrote from memory. Delightfully romantic!"

"Oh! Uncle Arthur, you're too, too kind to us," Hester said later in the day.

But Dalziel was silent.

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO

By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd]

XX.--ZIG-ZAG DASYPIDIAN.

The Dasypidæ are not such fearful wild-fowl as their name may seem to indicate; for the name Dasypus is nothing but the scientific naturalist's innocent little Greek way of saying "hairy-foot." The Sloth, the Scaly Manis, the Armadillo, the Platypus, the Aard-Vark, the Ant-eater, and one or two more comprise the family, presenting the appearance of a job-lot of odds and ends at the tail of an auctioneer's catalogue. Not only is the family of a job-lot nature, but each individual seems a sort of haphazard assemblage of odd parts made up together to save wasting the pieces; for some have tremendous tails, and some have almost none; some have armour and some have hair; one has an odd beak, apparently discarded by a duck as awkwardly shaped; some have two toes only on a foot, some three, some four, and some five--just as luck might have it in the scramble, so to speak; they only agree in being all very hard up for teeth.

The sloth is an admirable creature in many respects. Chiefly, he has a glorious gift of inaction--a thing too little esteemed and insufficiently cultivated in these times. If it is sweet to do nothing, as we have it on the unimpeachable authority of a proverb, therefore it must be actually noble to do nothing on scientific principles, as does the sloth. The objectionably moral and energetic class of philosopher is always ready to enlist the ant, the bee, and similarly absurdly busy creatures as practical sermons on his side; and that the indolent philosopher has never retaliated with the sloth is due merely to the fact that he _is_ indolent, practically as well as theoretically. Yet the sloth has well-esteemed relations. Consider other proverbs. "Sloth," says one, "is the mother of necessity." Then another. "Necessity," says this second, "is the mother of invention." Whence it plainly follows that sloth is invention's grandmother--although nobody would think it to look at the sloth here, in house number forty-seven.

Now there are persons who attempt to deprive the sloth of the credit due to his laziness by explaining that his limbs are not adapted for use on the ground. This is a fact, although it is mean to use it to discredit so fine a reputation. The sloth is indeed a deal more active when he is hanging upside down by his toes--but then that is all a part of his system, since it is plain that his greatest state of activity is merely one of suspended animation. It is only when he is in a state of suspense that the sloth is really happy, and this is only one aspect of the topsy-turviness of his entire nature. Hanging horizontally, head and tail downward, is his normal position in society, and this is apt to lead to a belief among the unthinking that he must have lived long in Australia and there become thoroughly used to holding on to the world in his usual attitude; but his actual home is Central and South America--not altogether "down under" but merely on the slope.

The sloth in this place is, in the eyes of most visitors, a mere mop in a heap of straw. Let but the keeper stir him up and he reveals himself gradually, the picture of a ragged, rascally mendicant--a dirty ruffian whose vocation can be nothing more laborious than extorting coppers on pretence of sweeping a crossing. A little more stirring, and he will reach for his perch and invert himself, to think things over. To him the floor is inconvenient, for it is his ceiling; anybody's ceiling is inconvenient to crawl about on.

When one knows that the sloth never drinks, one is prepared to believe that he persistently refuses to stand; but then nobody can stand anything, even drinks, on a ceiling. If by any chance he finds himself on the ceiling (which, as I have said, is his word for floor), he can only hook his claws wherever he sees a hole, and drag himself. He is the poorest of all the Dasypidæ in the matter of tail, and was also unfortunate in the allotment of toes, only wearing two on each fore-foot. Which disposes of the sloth.

Of the Dasypidæ there are only, beside the sloth, various armadillos and an ant-eater in this place. The armadillo is a placid creature, with none of the warlike disposition that its armour might lead some to expect. Mild and placable, as well as rather bashful, it has somewhat the character of a beplated and armed theatrical super, who plays the flute and teaches in a Sunday-school when off duty. It is susceptible to cold, too, and regardless of any heroism of appearance in face of a chill in the air. Withal the armadillo is indifferent alike to flattery and abuse: you can no more hurt his feelings than his back.

There are several sorts of armadillo here, but all are equally indifferent to criticism. Nothing is more impervious to criticism (or anything else, if you come to that) than an armadillo. He should have been born a minor poet. An oyster appears to care very little for what is said of him, but a good deal of his indifference is assumed; you often catch him opening his shell to listen. The armadillo won't open his shell for anything--figuratively as well as literally speaking. If a raging mad jaguar prances up to an armadillo, the armadillo curls up quietly with an expression that says: "Really, you excite yourself overmuch; I suppose you want to gnaw me. If you expect to _eat_ me, after your length of experience, you must be--well, rather a fool, if I may say so. I shall go to sleep," which he does, while the jaguar ruins his teeth. Naturalists have marvelled at the fact that native Paraguayans find whether an armadillo is at home by poking a stick into his burrow, when (if he is) out comes a swarm of mosquitoes. "What," they ask, wonderingly, "can mosquitoes want with an armadillo, when other things not quite so hopeless are near at hand for biting?" But it is probably a mosquito championship meeting.

The sloth, _sluggard_ as he is, has not gone to the ant, but to the ant-eater; that is to say, his cage is not far from Sukey's here. Sukey is not a wise person. Nobody anxious to be an orator with so little talent for it can be wise. When first you enter the room you observe that Sukey is anxious to address a large meeting. She has a ledge before her, on which she rests her fore-knuckles in a manner so extremely suggestive of a lecture that you instinctively look for the customary carafe and glass, and feel perplexed at their absence. Regardless of this disadvantage, Sukey will turn this way and that, and thump alternately with one fist and the other, and even, in the excitement of her eloquence, bounce bodily upon the ledge before her, as one has heard of a gymnastic American divine doing in his pulpit. This will the voiceless Sukey do till public indifference disgusts her, and she flops heavily back on her knuckles into hinder retirement. But no failure can stifle her ambition, whether it be actually for oratorical distinction, as appearances indicate, or only for such cockroaches as you may choose to offer, as the keeper believes.

Sukey is not an impressive person--her features are against it. She is not equal to assuming a presence. With all her wealth of nose, she can't turn it up at anybody. Her sneer is a wretched failure. Any attempt at an imposing attitude is worse; a large nose of a sort is often a noble feature of itself; but a nose like this!... Sukey's extravagance in nose is paid for by a scarcity of mouth. Her small mouth may be a loveliness in itself, but it will never allow Sukey a sneer or a smile--let alone a laugh; it condemns her to perpetual prunes and prism. So that Sukey may neither impress you by a haughty presence, nor sneer at you, nor laugh at you; one thing only remains--and it a low expedient--she _can_ put out her tongue at you--by the yard.

I have often speculated as to how much of this tongue Sukey really has stowed away inside her, and what would happen if she let it all out at once. It would probably get entangled with everything and with itself, like a ball of string cast loose, and Mansbridge (who is Sukey's keeper) would spend an afternoon unfastening all the knots. One has to see Sukey many times before the lineal possibilities of her tongue begin to dawn on one. See her once or twice only, and she may only exhibit a mere foot or so of it--possibly only eight or ten inches. Another time she will let out a foot or eighteen inches more, and you are rather surprised; still, your belief is unshaken that there _is_ another end to that tongue somewhere. But when, some time later, she casually releases another yard or two, beyond the few feet wherewith you are familiar, with an aspect of keeping miles more in reserve, you abandon the doctrine of the finiteness of things earthly as mere scientific superstition. Plainly, I don't believe there is any other end to Sukey's tongue. It has the redeeming feature, however, of possessing _one_ end, which anybody may see; and as there is an end to Sukey's tongue we won't be too hard on her, remembering that there have been Sukeys--well, differently provided for.

Sukey's tongue is a sticky thing, and she waves it about with a view of eating any unfortunate insect that may adhere to it, on the catch-'em-alive-oh principle. Her chiefest tit-bit is a cockroach, and, as you will perceive from her manner as you make her acquaintance, it is a firm article of Sukey's belief that visitors carry these interesting insects about with them, in large quantities. When one remembers how comparatively unfashionable this practice is, one can understand that Sukey largely lives the life of a disappointed creature. By way of a great feast, she will sometimes be given a mouse; and she fishes perseveringly through such odd cracks and holes as she may find, in hopes of providing such a feast for herself. I respectfully suggest baiting the end of her tongue with a piece of cheese. As it is, I fear her catch of mice is scarcely sufficient to warrant the importation of the ant-eater as a substitute for the harmless necessary (but usually more harmful than necessary) Tom-cat of the garden-wall.

The ant-eater is not a prepossessing being. Anybody who had never before seen or heard of him would readily believe him to be an inhabitant of the moon. He looks the sort of animal one would invent in a nightmare; his comparatively sober colours and his bushy tail save him from being an absolute unearthly horror. Conceive, if you can, a pink ant-eater with blue spots and a forked tail!

Neither is the ant-eater very wise; nothing with so much tongue is very wise; and the ant-eater uses up so much of its head-stuff on its nose that nothing is left for the brain. The ant-eater never cuts his wisdom teeth, because he never has any teeth at all. Really the ant-eater scarcely seems a respectable character considered altogether. An animal with more than a foot of slender nose, expressly used for poking into other people's concerns (the ants'), an immeasurable tongue, no use for a tooth-brush, and an irregular longing for cockroaches for lunch--well, _is_ such an animal quite respectable? Would you, for instance, tolerate him in your club?

The only fairly respectable member of the Dasypidæ is the armadillo--unless you count the sloth's scientific indolence a claim to respectability; I rather think it is. But none of the Dasypidæ are clever--not one. They are all in the lowest form of the mammalian school, and whenever one is not at the bottom of the form it is because another already occupies the place. You will commonly find them placed last of the mammalia in the first book of natural history you look at.

_Actors' Make-Up._

The art of making-up is one which every actor cultivates most assiduously. He can convey as much by his countenance as he can by the words which so glibly roll off his tongue. An extra wrinkle about the eye will whisper of anything between a diabolical murder and a hungry interior; a highly-coloured nose may either betray a tendency to a too frequent falling down in adoration of Bacchus, or the excessive colour may act as a silent reminder of a "cobd it de head" and the advisability of an immediate application of a small bottle of glycerine. All well and good. But some of our actors are beginning to play pranks with their faces, and are forgetting that they possess a canvas which needs as delicate touching with the colours as that on the easel of a Royal Academician. There is a positive danger of "the Villain at the Vic" making a successful re-appearance again--that estimable individual whose corkscrew curls were as black as his deeds; whose every glance told that "ber-lud, ber-lud, nothing but ber-lud, and let it be cer-r-rimson at that, my lor-rd!" would satisfy. You remember him. But it is not intended that these pages should either by word from pen or picture from pencil libel the face of any actor breathing. It is only desirable that the disciples of Thespis should be warned against overdoing their stage faces. There is really no need for it. They are not at Sadler's Wells to-day.

I remember one old actor at Sadler's Wells in the good old days. He used to boast that he had played several hundreds of parts during the last fifteen years, and had made one wig do for every character! He would flour it, tie it with a ribbon bow, and, lo! he had a George III. He would red-ochre it for a carroty cranium of a comic countryman, and he admitted once to black-leading it. His make-up was equally in keeping with his head-gear. He burnt a cork for making moustaches and eyebrows, he utilized the white-washed walls for powder, and scraped the red-brick flooring with his pocket-knife to gain a little colour for his cheeks. And even then he used to wonder how it was he could never get his face clean! Though it is to be hoped that no modern actor will ever have to stoop so low as the floor for his rouge, yet there seems to be rising up in our midst a generation of actors who altogether misunderstand the use of brush and pencil. Glance at this worthy fellow, for instance. Doubtless he is endowed with the best of intentions, but he has made his face resemble a sweep's, and the five-barred gate he has put on his forehead would not disgrace the entrance to a highly respectable turnip field.

Now, he will enter like that, and would probably feel hurt if somebody were to cry out from the gallery that it would be as well if _some_ actors were to let the audience see their faces for a change occasionally. The cultivation of wrinkles--on the stage, of course--is a positive art.

"Must put plenty of lines on the face," says the actor; "I'm playing an old man to-night." But there is no necessity to wrinkle the face like badly-straightened-out forked lightning; there is no need to lay down a new line on your countenance such as a debilitated luggage train would scorn. The effect, from the front, of the lines laid down about the vicinity of the eyes appears like a huge pair of goggles without the connecting link across the bridge of the nose.

Then there is "the old man from the country." His wrinkles are nothing more or less than wicked. He is not content with resembling a cross between Paul Pry and a Drury Lane clown--he pitchforks the paint on, increases the size of his mouth by "bringing up" the corners to insure a perpetual smile, wears a wig which even a Joey Grimaldi would shudder at, dresses as no countryman ever dressed, and wears a huge sunflower from his back garden. Your old stage hand, when called upon to play a countryman, will tell you that there is nothing to equal a level colouring all over the face, with a little rouge on the cheeks, and the immediate neighbourhood of the eyes touched up to balance the effect. Our country friend is almost as wicked in his make-up as the individual who still pins his faith to the hare's foot--now almost obsolete--and grins at himself in the glass, and considers an admirable effect is obtained by "rouging" a somewhat prominent nasal organ.

Your Dutchman is a funny fellow. Make-up: flaxen wig and fat cheeks. There are several ways of obtaining this necessary rotundity of the cheeks. Padded pieces may be joined on to the other parts of the face with spirit-gum and coloured to match. I believe Mr. W. S. Penley adopted this course--and a very capital idea it was--when presenting his admirably amusing _Father Pelican_ in "Falka." But there is considerable risk in resorting to another course which has of late become popular. Figs are inserted in the mouth on either side. The effect may be all right, but, I repeat, the risk is great. In a pantomime recently played the audience were considerably surprised to see the fat boy's cheeks suddenly collapse. The actor--who was particularly fond of these highly delectable articles--having, through some cause unknown, had to rush on the stage without his evening meal, suddenly became terribly hungry, and quite forgetful of the consequences, ate his own cheeks off. The pad, or coloured wool delicately joined with gum, is therefore to be recommended.

Nothing like a good eye--an eagle eye. Hence the camel's hair brush is called into requisition, and our theatrical friend plays at latitude and longitude all over his face. The wrinkle on the stage is a distinctive art, and to become on familiar terms with it is very necessary. The camel's hair brush has been superseded by lining pencils, which can be obtained in any colour. They possess the great advantage--being made of grease--of giving a wrinkle that will not wash off with perspiration. The "wash off" is after the play is over, when the wise resort to vaseline or cold cream, with a wash in warm water afterwards. The gentleman who plunges his head well wrinkled into a basin of water before vaselining or cold creaming presents a sorry sight.

But, for really beautiful eyes, some ladies may be recommended. The fair performer has to play the juvenile part in a light comedy, has to be loved by the nice-looking young man who crowns himself with golden locks. Hence she goes in for a contrast--a strong contrast.

"Love!" she murmurs to herself--"love has eyes," and she immediately proceeds to "Two lovely black!"

A line under the eye will give it prominence. Too much prominence is not a desirable thing, especially about one's features. But the "juvenile" lady does not stop at black-eyeing. The lips have to be made to look kissable, so they are reddened to a delicately puckered-up appearance. The grand finale is a fair wig, in total rebellion to the two lovely black!

Then we have "the old head on young shoulders"--the young man who makes up his face as "the doctor" really very well, but forgets all about his legs. His half-bald wig is joined to a nicety; his eyebrows gummed on most artistically; the wrinkles are wonderfully, but not fearfully, made. A good figure-head! But his walk is that of a "two-year-old"; the cut of his clothes, the shape of his collar, are those of a fashionable dandy. He stopped short at making-up his head. He should have continued the process all over.

The ways of producing whiskers, beards, or moustaches are of three kinds. They can be made by sewing hair on thin silk gauze, which fits the part of the face it is intended to decorate, and stuck on with spirit gum, or they can be made out of crêpe hair--a plaited, imitation hair--which, in deft fingers, may be made into shape. These, too, are held on to the face with spirit gum. The last method is to paint the hair on. The latter course is not recommended.

I remember once hearing a capital gag at the Gaiety Theatre on this whisker-spirit-gum question. I believe it was by Mr. E. W. Royce, and it was during the burlesque days of Edward Terry and Nelly Farren. Royce's moustache came off; he was supposed to have been driven on to the scene in a conveyance. He picked it up and proceeded to stick it on again, quietly remarking:--

"Dear me! I really must be moulting;
Unless it is the carriage jolting!"

One of the most effective make-ups on the stage is that of the Jew--and the really marvellous change which may be obtained in three moves is well illustrated in this character. The face prepared and painted, the wig joined to the forehead with grease paint, the actor proceeds to put on his nose, again finding the spirit gum handy. Such stage noses are invariably made of wool, coloured to suit the complexion. The beard--which for such characters as these is always a ready-made one--is fastened to the face by means of wire over the ears. He shrugs his shoulders, opens his eyes, leers, and--there is the complete manufactured article.

_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives._

DR. MACKENZIE.

BORN 1847.

_From a Photo by P. Thompson, Edinburgh._]

_From a Photo by P. Thompson, Edinburgh._]

_From a Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street._]

Doctor Alexander Campbell Mackenzie, Principal of the Royal Academy of Music, was born at Edinburgh, and sent to Germany at the early age of ten to study under Ulrich Edward Stein. Four years later he entered the dual orchestra at Schwarzburg-Sondershausen, and remained in Germany till 1862, when he came to London to study the violin under M. Sainton. The same year he was elected King's Scholar at the Royal Academy of Music. The composition which made him famous was his opera, "Colomba," based upon Mérimée's celebrated story. This was produced with great success by the Carl Rosa Company at Drury Lane in 1884. His subsequent and most noted works are his second opera, "The Troubadour"; "The Story of Sayid," and in 1890 "Ravenswood" was successfully produced at the Lyceum. He was elected Principal of the Royal Academy of Music in February, 1888, in succession to the late Sir George Macfarren.

THE BISHOP OF LICHFIELD.

BORN 1839.

_From a Crayon Drawing._]

_From a Drawing._]

_From a Photo by Bayard & Bertall, Paris._]

_From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock, Birmingham._]

The Hon. Augustus Legge, Bishop of Lichfield, is the fourth son of William, fourth Earl of Dartmouth. At the age of fourteen he was sent to Eton, and later on to Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated B.A. He was ordained in 1864, his first curacy being at Handsworth, Birmingham. In 1879 he succeeded his uncle, the Hon. Henry Legge, in the important benefice of St. Mary's, Lewisham. He was made Bishop in September, 1893.

HENRIK IBSEN.

BORN 1828.

_From a Print._]

_From a Photo by Budtz, Muller & Co., Kjobenhavn._]

_From a Photo by Jos. Albert, Munich._]

Henrik Ibsen, the eminent Norwegian poet and dramatist, was born at Skien. He is of German descent and speaks German with fluency; but he has never written anything in that language. He at first studied medicine, but soon abandoned that profession for literature. Under the pseudonym of Brynjolf Bjarme, he published in 1850 "Catilina," a drama in three acts. In the same year he entered the University, where, in conjunction with others, he founded a literary journal, in the columns of which appeared his first satire, "Nora et Dukkehjem." Through the influence of Ole Bull, the violinist, he became director of the theatre at Bergen, and in 1857 went to Christiania, where several of his plays were produced with great success. For some time he lived in Rome, and in 1866 obtained from the Storthing a pension. His best known works are: "Fru Inger til Oesteraad," 1857; "Haer Maendene paa Helgeland," 1858; "Brandt," 1866; "Peer Gynt," 1867; "Keiser og Galelaeer," 1875; and a volume of poems, "Lyriske Digte," 1871. "The Pillars of Society," 1877, contains, perhaps, the best embodiment of his social philosophy. Other works of his are: "Ghosts," 1881; "A Social Enemy," 1882; "The Wild Duck," 1884; "Hedda Gabler," 1890; "The Master Builder," 1893.

LADY BURTON.

_From a Drawing._]

_From a Painting by Desanges._]

_From a Photograph._]

_From a Photo, by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._]

Lady Isabel Burton was born in London on the 20th of March, 1831, and married Sir Richard Burton, whose fame was due to no small extent to the assistance he received from her ability and wifely devotion. Lady Burton is a woman of great capacity, boundless energy, and immense force of character. Her recent book, "The Life of Sir Richard Burton," has brought her name prominently before the public. No one could have executed this work better than she who had followed him wherever his duty called; who had helped him with many of his works, and had taken part in all his undertakings. Lady Burton now lives a retired life, but always warmly welcomes the old friends of her husband.

ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS.

BORN 1824.

_From a Drawing._]

_From a Photograph._]

_From a Photo by Eug. Piron, Paris._]

Alexandre Dumas, the younger son of the late Alexandre Davy Dumas, novelist and dramatic writer, was born in Paris, and received his education in the Collège Bourbon. Following, at a very early age, in the footsteps of his renowned father, he published, at seventeen, a collection of poems, "Les Péchés de Jeunesse." He failed, however, to attract particular notice until he made one of his tales the groundwork for a drama called "La Dame aux Camélias," which became one of the best-known productions of the day. Dumas has enjoyed the satisfaction of finding himself the founder of a new school: for imitators rapidly succeeded without, however, being able to disturb his supremacy in this new line of art. He has the power of constructing a telling story, and his dialogue is well turned and pointed, displaying much shrewd observation of character. A comedy from his pen, entitled "Les Idées de Madame Aubray," was produced at Paris early in 1867. His "Visite de Noces" and "La Princesse Georges" were brought out at the Gymnase Dramatique in 1871. In 1872 he published a pamphlet called "L'Homme-Femme." It repeated the thesis of his novel, "L'Affaire Clémenceau," and a dramatic version of it was produced at the Gymnase in 1873 under the title of "La Femme de Claude." M. Dumas was installed as a Member of the French Academy, February 11th, 1875. He has published many works since, among which, "Joseph Balsamo," "Les Femmes qui tuent et les Femmes qui votent," "La Princesse de Bagdad," "Denise," and "Francillon" are well known.

_Stories from the Diary of a Doctor._

_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."

VIII.--"TEN YEARS' OBLIVION."

In the spring of 1890 I was asked to see a patient at Croydon with another doctor in consultation. In this stage of the illness it was only an ordinary case of somewhat severe typhoid fever, but the interest lies in the succeeding stages, when complete recovery seems to have taken place. I have noticed this remarkable illness in my case-book as an instance of perhaps the most extraordinary psychological condition which has occurred in my practice, or I might say in that of any other man.

The patient was a young barrister; he had a wife and three children. The wife was a pretty, rather nervous-looking woman. On the day when I went to see her husband, in consultation with the family doctor, I could not help noticing the intensely anxious expression of her face, and how her lips moved silently as she followed my words. The illness was severe, but I did not consider it as specially dangerous, and had, therefore, only encouraging opinions to give her.

I saw Mainwaring again at the end of the week. He was then much better, and I was able to communicate the cheerful tidings to his wife that he was practically out of danger. He was a man of about three-and-thirty years of age, tall, and rather gaunt in appearance, with deep-set grey eyes, and a big, massive brow. I have often noticed his peculiar style of face and head as belonging to the legal profession. I could quite believe that he was an astute and clever special pleader. Abbott, the family doctor, told me that he was a common-law barrister, and I could well understand his using eloquent words when he pleaded the case of an unfortunate client.

I did not visit him again, but Abbott wrote to tell me that he had made an excellent recovery without hitch or relapse. Under these circumstances his case had almost passed from my memory, when the following startling incident occurred.

I came home one evening prepared to hurry out again to see a sick patient, when my servant informed me that a lady was waiting in the consulting-room to see me.

"Did not you tell her that I am not in the habit of seeing patients at this hour?" I asked.

"I did, sir," replied the man, "but she would not leave. She says she will wait your convenience: but, whatever happens, she must have an interview with you to-night."

"I had better go and see her, and find out what she wants," I murmured to myself.

I crossed the hall with some impatience, for I had several most anxious cases on hand, and entered my consulting-room. A slight, girlish figure was seated partly with her back to me. She sprang up when the door opened, and I was confronted by the anxious and pleading face of Mrs. Mainwaring.

"You have come at last," she said, with a deep sigh. "That is a blessed relief. I have waited for you here because I want to ask your advice. I am in terrible anxiety about my husband."

"Your husband?" I replied. "But I understood Dr. Abbott to say that he had recovered perfectly. He said he had ordered him for a month to the seaside, and then hoped that he might resume his professional work."

"It was so," she replied. "My husband had a quick recovery. I am told that most typhoid fever patients take a long time to regain their strength, but in his case this was not so. After the worst was over, he seemed to get better by strides and bounds. A fortnight ago Dr. Abbott ordered him to the seaside. I had a fancy for Dover, and thought of going there. I had even written about lodgings, when my husband suddenly told me that he did not wish to go to the seaside, and would prefer spending a fortnight amongst his old haunts at Cambridge. We went there. We--we were very happy. I left the children at home. It seemed something like our honeymoon over again. Yesterday morning I received a letter telling me that my eldest child was not well. I hurried back to Croydon to see her, telling my husband that I would rejoin him to-day. My child's illness turned out to be a trivial one, and I went back to Cambridge by an early train this morning."

Here Mrs. Mainwaring paused and pressed her hand to her heart. Her face, excessively pale before, now turned almost ghastly. She had seated herself; she now stood up, the further to emphasize her words.

"When I reached our lodgings," she said, "my landlady met me with the astounding intelligence that Mr. Mainwaring had packed up all his belongings and had left Cambridge for London by the express train that morning.

"This news surprised me, but at first I heard it calmly enough. I believed that Edward had grown weary of his own society, was anxious about our little Nancy, and had hurried home. My landlady, however, looked so mysterious that I felt certain she had something further to say.

"'Come in, madam, do come in,' she said. 'Perhaps you think your good gentleman has gone home.'

"'I am sure he has,' I said. 'Can you get me a messenger? I will send a telegram at once and find out. If Mr. Mainwaring has gone home, he ought to have arrived by now.'

"My landlady was quite silent for a minute, then she said, gravely:--

"'Perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr. Mainwaring behaved in a very singular way before he left my house.'

"There was something in the woman's manner which impressed me even more than her words. I felt my heart beginning to sink. I followed her into the little sitting-room where my husband and I had spent some happy hours, and begged of her to explain herself.

"She did so without a moment's hesitation.

"'It all happened early this morning,' she said. 'I brought up breakfast as usual. Mr. Mainwaring was standing by one of the open windows.

"'I am going to town,' he said, 'by the express. I shall pack my things immediately. Bring me my bill.'

"'I was leaving the room to prepare it, when he shouted to me.'

"'How is it those things have got into the room?' he said. 'Take them away.'

"'What things do you mean, sir?'

"'Those woman's things,' he said, very crossly. 'That work-basket, and that white shawl.'

"'Why, sir,' I said, staring at him, 'those things belong to your good lady.'

"'He looked me full in the face and then burst out laughing.'

"'You must be mad,' he said; 'I dislike unseasonable jokes.'

"'He then went into his bedroom and slammed the door noisily behind him. Half an hour later he had paid the bill, ordered a cab, and gone off with his luggage. He left all your things behind him, madam. Mr. Mainwaring was collected and quiet enough, and seemed quite the gentleman except when he spoke of you; still I don't like the look of affairs at all.'

"I listened to my landlady," continued poor Mrs. Mainwaring, "while she told me this strange and most perplexing story. Then I glanced round the room for confirmation of her words. Yes, my husband and all his belongings had vanished, but my work-basket, my new hat, my mantle, my writing-case, and one or two little garments which I was making for the children, were still scattered about the drawing-room.

"I went into the bedroom and saw the clothes I had left behind me, flung into a heap in a corner of the room.

"While I was looking at them in a state of mind almost impossible to describe, my landlady tapped at the door and brought me a note.

"'Under the circumstances, madam,' she said, 'you may like to see this letter. I have just found it, stamped and directed as you see, on the davenport in the drawing-room. I think it is in Mr. Mainwaring's writing.'

"I took it from her and looked at it eagerly. It was addressed in my husband's writing to a Don of the college (Trinity) where he had taken his degree. I did not hesitate to open it. Here it is, Dr. Halifax; you may like to read it. It may possibly help you to throw some light on this awful mystery."

Mrs. Mainwaring gave me the note as she spoke. It contained the following words:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--I much regret having missed you when I called yesterday afternoon to say good-bye. I must take the present opportunity of thanking you for your kindness to me during the whole of my University career. I leave Cambridge by an early train this morning, or would call again to say farewell in person. I hope to call to see you on the first occasion when I revisit Cambridge.

"Yours sincerely,
"ED. MAINWARING."

I read the letter twice, and then returned it without comment to the wife.

"Will you redirect it and post it?" I said, after a pause.

She answered me almost in a whisper.

"The strange thing about that letter is this," she said. "It is addressed to a dead person. Mr. Grainger, Edward's old tutor, has been dead for many years. My husband felt his death keenly when it occurred. He has many times told me of the personal interest Mr. Grainger took in him. Have you no comment to make with regard to this letter, Dr. Halifax?"

"I shall have plenty to say in a moment," I answered. "That letter will give us a very important clue to our future actions, but now to proceed: Have you nothing further to tell me?"

"Yes; after reading the letter, I rushed to the nearest telegraph office and sent a telegram with a prepaid reply to my home. I waited with what patience I could for the answer, which came within an hour and a half. My husband had not returned to Stanley Villa. I then took the next train to town, and went back to Croydon on the chance of his having arrived there during the day. He had not done so. Dr. Abbott happens to be away, so I have come to you. Can you give me advice? Will you help me in any way?"

"Yes, of course, I will help you," I said. "Pray sit down." She had been standing with her hands clasped tightly together during the greater part of our interview. "Your story is a very strange one," I continued, "and I will give it and you my best attention in a moment. I must run away first, however, to give some instructions with regard to one of my patients, then I shall be at your service."

She sank into a chair when I told her to sit down. She was trembling all over. Her nerves were strung to a high pitch. I went into the hall, thought for a moment, then, putting on my hat, went out. As I was leaving the house, I told my servant to take a tray with wine and other refreshments into the consulting-room. Then I went a few doors off to see a brother physician. I told him I had a peculiar case to attend to, and asked him to see after my patients until the following day. I then went back to Mrs. Mainwaring; she had not touched the wine nor the biscuits which the servant had brought her.

"Come," I said, "this will never do. You must have this glass of wine immediately and one or two of these biscuits. You will be able to think much better and, consequently, to find your husband sooner if you take some necessary nourishment. Come, that is better."

I poured out a glass of port wine and gave it to her. She took it in her small, trembling hand and raised it to her lips, spilling the wine terribly as she did so.

"You will do better now," I said.

"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," she exclaimed, with impatience; "you have not told me what you think of my story. What possible reason can there be to account for my husband's most strange conduct?"

"I cannot give you a reason yet," I said. "My impression is that Mr. Mainwaring's mind is not quite right for the time being. Remember, I say for the time being. Typhoid is a very grave and terrible disease. Your husband suffered from an exceptionally serious attack. His apparently rapid recovery may have induced him to do more than he really had strength to undertake. If this were so, many strange symptoms might exhibit themselves. I can tell you more particulars with regard to the exact nature of his malady after I have seen him. The thing now is to try and find him. Before we begin our search, however, I should like to ask you a few questions of a practical nature. How old is your husband?"

"Nearly thirty-three."

"He took his degree at Cambridge, did he not?"

"Yes--just ten years ago. We talked much of it during the happy fortnight we spent there. We visited all his old haunts. He was a Trinity man, and loved his college with an enthusiasm I have seen in few. I never saw anyone happier than he was during the last fortnight. His spirits were gay. He seemed scarcely to know fatigue. He was always hunting up old friends."

"Were there many of the men of his time at Cambridge?"

"No--that was the sad thing. He has been unfortunate with regard to his friends. He made many, for he was popular and had a sympathetic manner which attracted people, but some had gone abroad and several had died. There was a Mr. Leigh in particular. He had been much attached to him in the old days. But he only heard of his death when we went to Cambridge, for he had completely lost sight of him for a long time. This news saddened him for a little."

"When did he hear of Leigh's death?"

"The day before yesterday. The Dean of his college told him. He was visibly affected for the time, and talked of him to me all the evening. He told me several incidents with regard to a foreign tour they had taken together."

"Indeed! And he seemed depressed while he spoke?"

"Only just for a time."

"When did your husband and Mr. Leigh go abroad?"

Mrs. Mainwaring thought for a moment.

"It was just after Edward had taken his degree," she said. "He mentioned that fact also when he talked over matters the evening before last."

"From what part of England did Mr. Mainwaring and Mr. Leigh start on their foreign tour?"

"I think it must have been from Dover. Yes, I remember now; Edward said that Mr. Leigh arranged to meet him at Dover. He failed to keep his first appointment, and Edward had to remain at Dover waiting for him for twenty-four hours."

I thought over this piece of information for some time. The story was altogether puzzling; the queer thing about it being not so much the fact of Mainwaring's brain having gone wrong as the strange form his aberration seemed to have taken. It was too evidently the fact that he was either possessed by an active dislike to his wife, or had forgotten her existence.

After some anxious thought I asked Mrs. Mainwaring one or two more questions.

"Did you notice anything peculiar in your husband the last evening and night you spent together?"

"Nothing whatever," she replied. "My dear husband was just his old self. His depression about Walter Leigh soon passed away, and he spoke cheerfully about his own prospects and said how exceptionally lucky he considered himself to be able to resume his professional work so soon after such a severe illness. The evening post, too, brought him a letter, which cheered him a good deal. It was from a solicitor in large practice, offering him the brief of a very important case which was to come on in the criminal courts. Edward was highly delighted at the thought of this work, which meant large fees, badly needed by us just at present. Early the next morning the post brought us the news about Nancy's illness. My husband wished to go with me to Croydon, but I dissuaded him. I did not consider him strong enough, notwithstanding his boasted return to health, for this fatigue. He saw me off at the station, however, and promised to meet me there the following morning, if the child were well enough for me to return."

"Were you surprised when you did not see him?"

"I was, for he is the sort of man who always keeps any engagement he makes."

"A few more questions, Mrs. Mainwaring; and first, how long have you been married?"

"Six years," she said, looking up with a faint blush on her white face, "and Nancy will be five in a week."

"You never happened to meet this Walter Leigh?"

"Never."

"Did your husband ever speak of him to you until two days ago?"

"It is strange, but he never did. He is, as a rule, a very busy man--much occupied with a growing practice."

"Did you happen to know any of his college friends?"

"No."

"You were not in any way connected with that part of his life?"

"No; we never met until, at least, three years after my husband left Cambridge."

"Thank you," I said. "I do not think I have anything further to ask you."

"But what do you mean to do?" she asked. "We can't sit here quietly and allow my unhappy husband to roam the country. He _must_ be found, and at once. He--he may have----" Her lips trembled, she lowered her eyes.

"No," I said. "He has not committed suicide. Rest easy on that point. From what you tell me of your husband I feel inclined to think--of course, I may be wrong--but I feel strongly inclined to think that he is at Dover at the present moment."

"What can you possibly mean?"

"What I say. It is quite within the region of probability that he may be at Dover waiting for his friend Walter Leigh to join him."

When I said this Mrs. Mainwaring looked at me as if she thought I, too, had taken leave of my senses. I took no notice of her expressive face.

"I am prepared to go with you to Dover," I said. "Shall we start at once?"

She looked dubious and terribly anxious.

"It seems a waste of time," she said, after a pause.

"I do not think so," I answered. "Your husband was in a weak state, notwithstanding his boasted strength. From what you tell me, he evidently exerted himself more than was wise while at Cambridge. By doing so, he strained a weakened frame. The brain forms the highest part of that frame, Mrs. Mainwaring, the highest and also the most easily put out of order. Your husband exerted his body too much, and excited his brain by old memories and the regrets which must come to a man when he visits the scene of vanished friendships. You say that Mr. Mainwaring was visibly affected when he heard of his great friend's death?"

"He was, he was. He turned white when the Dean told him. The death was tragic, too. Walter Leigh was killed on an Alpine expedition. The marvellous thing was how the news never reached my husband before. This can only be accounted for by the fact that he spent the year of Mr. Leigh's death in America."

"All this confirms my theory," I continued, "that your husband's brain, long weakened by serious illness, suddenly gave way. Brain derangement, as we know, takes all kinds of unexpected forms. I believe that the form it has taken in Mainwaring's case is this. He has forgotten the recent years of his life and has gone back again to his old college days. His letter to the Don of Trinity College who has so long been dead confirms this theory. His strange conduct with regard to you, Mrs. Mainwaring, further strengthens it. I feel almost certain that I am right in these impressions. They are sufficiently strong to make me anxious to visit Dover immediately. Now, shall I go alone, or will you come with me?"

"Of course I'll come with you," she answered.

She rose and began to draw on her gloves.

It was late June now, and the day had been a hot one. The twilight had faded into night when I assisted Mrs. Mainwaring into a hansom and directed the driver to take us to Victoria Station.

We caught our train by a minute or two, and in process of time found ourselves at Dover. During the journey Mrs. Mainwaring scarcely uttered a word. She had drawn her veil over her face and sat huddled up in a corner of the carriage, as if she were turned into stone. I saw that she was partly stunned by the shock, and I felt anxious about her, as well as her husband.

When we arrived at Dover, she drew up her veil and said, impulsively:--

"What do you mean to do?"

"Before I do anything I must ask you another question." I replied. "Have you any idea what your husband's habits were ten years ago? Was he extravagant or careful? For instance, on arriving at Dover, would he be likely to go to a good hotel?"

"He would go to the best," she answered. "He is not careful of money now, and I am sure he never could have been in the past."