CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5042.M6 1889a 
 
 Mike Fletcher: a novel. 
 
 3 1924 013 526 557 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013526557 
 
Ex LiBRIS 
 
 3. OTtitmore IBarrp 
 
MIKE FLETCHER 
 
 a Jiobti. • 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MOORE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "A MUMMER'S WIFE," "CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG MAN," ETC. 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 THE MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 lo West 23D Street, New York. 
 
 1889. 
 
Copyright, 1889, 
 
 BY 
 
 The Minerva Pub. Co. 
 
 Aii Rights Reserved. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Has any reader of this book ever visited one of 
 the dissecting-rooms in the great cities in Europe 
 and listened to Some eminent surgeon as with scalpel 
 in hand he dexterously cuts open a cadaver, and in 
 clear and concise language explains to his hearers 
 the ravages of disease in the human body? If so, I 
 am certain that all thoughts of the putrefying matter 
 vanished before the eloquence of the learned profes- 
 sor. A similar comparison may be made concerning 
 the author of " Mike Fletcher." He is the experi- 
 enced surgeon before whose description, language, 
 and diction all other thoughts disappear. Let 
 those who are ever ready to find fault and to cast a 
 stone raise their hands and eyes in orthodox fashion 
 and condemn George Moore, — Moore, whom I un- 
 hesitatingly pronounce to be the greatest realistic 
 writer of the present age, superior to Zola, inasmuch 
 as the author of " Mike Fletcher" is always sincere 
 and never vulgar. Let people with squeamish tastes 
 disparage George Moore. Broad-minded people, 
 generous people, people of the world, people who 
 constitute the brains and sinews of society, will de- 
 clare that " Mike Fletcher" is an imperishable master- 
 piece of the Anglo-Saxon tongue. 
 
 T. T. TlMAY^NIS. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oaths, vociferations, and the slamming of cab- 
 doors. The darkness was decorated by the pink of 
 a silk skirt, the crimson of an opera-cloak vivid in 
 the light of a carriage-lamp, with women's faces, 
 necks, and hair. The women sprang gaily from 
 hansoms and pushed through the swing-doors. It 
 was Lubini's famous restaurant. Within the din was 
 deafening. 
 
 " What cheer, 'Ria ! 
 'Ria's on the job," 
 
 roared thirty throats, all faultlessly clothed in the 
 purest linen. They stood round a small bar, and 
 two women and a boy endeavoured to execute their 
 constant orders for bra-ndies-and-sodas. They were 
 shoulder to shoulder, and had to hold their liquor 
 almost in each other's faces. A man whose hat had 
 been broken addressed reproaches to a friend, who 
 cursed him for interrupting his howling. 
 
 Issued from this saloon a long narrow gallery 
 set with a single line of tables, now all occupied by 
 supping courtesans and their men. An odour of 
 savouries, burnt cheese and vinegar met the nostrils, 
 also the sharp smell of a patchouli-scented handker- 
 
 5 
 
6 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 chief drawn quickly from a bodice ; and a young 
 man protested energetically against a wild duck 
 which had been kept a few days over its time. Lubini, 
 or Lubi, as he was called by his pals, signed to the 
 waiter, and deciding the case in favour of the young 
 man, he pulled a handful of silver out of his pocket 
 and offered to toss three lords, with whom he was 
 conversing, for drinks all round. 
 
 " Feeling awfully bad, dear boy ; haven't been what 
 I could call sober since Monday. Would you mind 
 holding my liquor for me ? I must go and speak to 
 that chappie." 
 
 Since John Norton ' had come to live in London, 
 his idea had been to put his theory of life, which he 
 had defined in his aphorism, " Let the world be my 
 monastery," into active practice. He did not there- 
 fore refuse to accompany Mike Fletcher to restaurants 
 and music-halls, and was satisfied so long as he was 
 allowed to disassociate and isolate himself from the 
 various women who clustered about Mike. But this 
 evening he viewed the courtesans with more than the 
 usual liberalism of mind, had even laughed loudly 
 when one fainted and was upheld by anxious friends, 
 the most zealous and the most intimate of whom 
 bathed her white tragic face and listened in alarm to 
 her incoherent murmurings of " Mike darling, oh, 
 Mike !" John had uttered no word of protest until 
 dear old Laura, who had never, as Mike said, behaved 
 badly to anybod)', and had been loved by everybody, 
 sat down at their table, and the discussion turned on 
 who was likely to be Bessie's first sweetheart, Bessie 
 being her youngest sister whom she was " bringing 
 out." Then he rose from the table and wished Mike 
 good-night ; but Mike's liking for John was sincere, 
 
 'See "A Mere Accident." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 7 
 
 and preferring his company to Laura's, he paid the 
 bill and followed his friend out of the restaurant ; 
 and as they walked home together he listened to his 
 grave and dignified admonitions, and though John 
 could not touch Mike's conscience, he always moved 
 his sympathies. It is the shallow and the insincere 
 that inspire ridicule and contempt, and even in the 
 dissipations of the Temple, where he had come to 
 live, he had not failed to enforce respect for his 
 convictions and ideals. 
 
 In the Temple John had made many acquaintances 
 and friends, and about him were found the contri- 
 butors to the Pilgrim, a weekly newspaper devoted 
 to young men, their doings, their amusements, their 
 literature, and their art. The editor and proprietor 
 of this organ of amusement was Escott. His editorial 
 work was principally done in his chambers in Temple 
 Gardens, where he lived with his friend, Mike 
 Fletcher. Of necessity the newspaper drew like 
 gravitation, art and literature, but the revelling lords 
 who assembled there were a disintegrating influence, 
 and made John Norton a sort of second centre ; and 
 Harding and Thompson and others of various tem- 
 peraments and talents found their way to Pump 
 Court. Like cuckoos, some men are only really at 
 home in the homes of others ; others are always ill 
 at ease when taken out of the surroundings which 
 they have composed to their ideas and requirements; 
 and John Norton was never really John Norton 
 except when, wrapped in his long dressing-gown and 
 sitting in his high canonical chair, he listened to 
 Harding's paradoxes or Thompson's sententious 
 utterances. These artistic discussions — when in the 
 passion of the moment, all the cares of life were 
 lost and the soul battled in pure idea — were full of 
 attraction and charm for John, and he often thought 
 
8 MIKE FLETCHEli. 
 
 he had never been so happy. And then Harding's 
 eyes would brighten, and his intelligence, eager as 
 a wolf prowling for food, ran to and fro, seeking 
 and sniffing in all John's interests and enthusiasms. 
 He was at once fascinated by the scheme for 
 the pessimistic poem and charmed with the pro- 
 jected voyage in Thibet and the book on the Great 
 Lamas. 
 
 One evening a discussion arose as to whether 
 Goethe had stolen from Schopenhauer, or Schopen- 
 hauer from Goethe, the comparison of man's life with 
 the sun "which seems to set to our earthly eyes, but 
 which in reality never sets, but shines on unceas- 
 ingly." The conversation came to a pause, and then 
 Harding said — 
 
 " Mike spoke to me of a pessimistic poem he has 
 in mind ; did he ever speak to you about it, 
 Escott?" 
 
 " I think he said something once, but he did not 
 tell me what it was about. He can speak of nothing 
 now but a nun whom he has persuaded to leave her 
 convent. I had thought of having some articles 
 written about convents, and we went to Roehampton. 
 While I was talking to my cousin, who is at school 
 there, he got into conversation -with one of the sisters. 
 I don't know how he managed it, but he has per- 
 suaded her to leave the .convent, and she is coming 
 to see him to-morrow." 
 
 " You don't mean to say," cried John, " that he has 
 persuaded one of the nuns at Roehampton to leave 
 the convent and to come and see him in Temple 
 Gardens? Such things should not be permitted. 
 The Reverend Mother or some one is in fault. That 
 man has been the ruin of hundreds, if not in fact, 
 in thought. He brings an atmosphere of sensuality 
 wherever he goes, and all must breathe it ; even the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 9 
 
 most virtuous are contaminated. I have felt the 
 pollution myself. If the woman is seventy she will 
 look pleased and coquette if he notices her. The 
 fascination is inexplicable !" 
 
 " We all experience it, and that is why we like 
 Mike," said Harding. " I heard a lady, and a woman 
 whose thoughts are not, I assure you, given to stray- 
 ing in that direction, say that the first time she saw 
 him she hated him, but soon felt an influence like the 
 fascination the serpent exercises over the bird steal- 
 ing over her. We find but ourselves in all that we 
 see, hear, and feel. The world is but our idea. All 
 that women have of goodness, sweetness, gentle- 
 ness, they keep for others. A woman would not 
 speak to you of what is bad in her, but she would 
 to Mike; her sensuality is the side of her nature 
 which she shows him, be she Messalina or St. 
 Theresa ; the proportion, not the principle is altered. 
 And this is why Mike cannot believe in virtue, 
 and declares his incredulity to be founded on 
 experience." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt!" 
 
 Fresh brandies-and-sodas were poured out, fresh 
 cigars were lighted, and John descended the staircase 
 and walked with his friends into Pump Court, where 
 they met Mike Fletcher. 
 
 " What have you been talking about to-night ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " We wanted Norton to read us the pessimistic 
 poem he is writing, but he says it is in a too un- 
 finished state. I told him you were at work on one 
 on the same subject. It is curious that you who 
 differ so absolutely on essentials should agree to sink 
 your differences at the very point at which you are 
 most opposed to principle and practice." 
 
 After a pause, Mike said — 
 
lO MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I suppose it was Schopenhauer's dislike of women 
 that first attracted you. He used to call women the 
 short-legged race, that were only admitted into 
 society a hundred and fifty years ago." 
 
 " Did he say that ? Oh, how good, and how true ! 
 I never could think a female figure as beautiful as 
 a male. A male figure rises to the head, and is a 
 symbol of the intelligence ; a woman's figure sinks 
 to the inferior parts of the body, and is expressive 
 of generation." 
 
 As he spoke his eyes followed the line and balance 
 of Mike's neck and shoulders, which showed at this 
 moment upon a dark shadow falling obliquely along 
 an old wall. Soft, violet eyes in which tenderness 
 dwelt, and the strangely tall and lithe figure was em- 
 phasized by the conventional pose — that pose of arm 
 and thigh which the Greeks never wearied of. Seeing 
 him, the mind turned from the reserve of the Christian 
 world towards the frank enjoyment of the Pagan ; 
 and John's solid, rhythmless form was as symbolic of 
 dogma as Mike's of the grace of Athens. 
 
 As he ascended the stairs, having bidden his friends 
 good-night, John thought of the unfortunate nun 
 whom that man Jiad persuaded to leave her convent, 
 and he wondered if he were justified in living in such 
 close communion of thought with those whose lives 
 were set in all opposition to the principles on which 
 he had staked his life's value. He was thinking and 
 writing the same thoughts as Fletcher. They were 
 swimming in the same waters; they were living the 
 same life. 
 
 Disturbed in mind he walked across this room, his 
 spectacles glimmering on his high nose, his dressing- 
 gown floating. The manuscript of the poems caught 
 his eyes, and he turned over the sheets, his hand 
 trembling \'iolently. And if they were antagonistic 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. U 
 
 to the spirit of his teaching, if not to the doctrine 
 that the Church in her eternal wisdom deemed health- 
 ful and wise, and conducive to the best attainable 
 morality and heaven ? What a fearful responsibility- 
 he was taking upon himself! He had learned in 
 bitter experience that he must seek salvation rather 
 in elimination than in acceptance of responsibilities. 
 But his poems were all he deemed best in the world. 
 For a moment John stood face to face with, and he 
 looked into the eyes of, the Church. The dome of 
 St. Peter's, a solitary pope, cardinals, bishops, and 
 priests. Oh ! wonderful symbolization of man's lust 
 of eternal life ! 
 
 Must he renounce all his beliefs? The wish so 
 dear to him that the unspeakable spectacle of life 
 might cease for ever ; must he give thanks for exist- 
 ence because it gave him a small chance of gaining 
 heaven ? Then it were well to bring others into the 
 world. . . . True it is that the Church does not 
 advance into such sloughs of optimism, but how 
 different is her teaching from that of the early fathers, 
 and how different is such dull optimism from the 
 severe spirit of early Christianity. 
 
 Whither lay his duty? Must he burn the poems? 
 Far better that they should burn and he should save 
 his soul from burning. A sudden vision of hell, a 
 realistic mediaeval hell full of black devils and ovens 
 came upon him, and he saw himself thrust into flame. 
 It seemed to him certain that his soul was lost — so 
 certain, that the source of prayer died within him 
 and he fell prostrate. He cursed with curses that 
 seared his soul as he uttered them, Harding, that 
 cynical atheist, who had striven to undermine his 
 faith, and he shrank from thought of Fletcher, that 
 dirty voluptuary. 
 
 He went out for long walks, hoping by exercise to 
 
12 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 throw off the gloom and horror which were thicken- 
 ing in his brain. He sought vainly to arrive at some 
 certain opinions concerning his poems, and he 
 weighed every line, not now for cadence and colour, 
 but with a view of determining their ethical ten- 
 dencies ; and this poor torn soul stood trembling on 
 the verge of fearful abyss of unreason and doubt. 
 
 And when he walked in the streets,London appeared 
 a dismal, phantom city. The tall houses vanishing 
 in darkness, the unending noise, the sudden and 
 vague figures passing; some with unclean _ gaze, 
 others in mysterious haste, the courtesans springing 
 from hansoms and entering their restaurant, lurking 
 prostitutes, jocular lads, and alleys suggestive of 
 crime. All and everything that is city fell violently 
 upon his mind, jarring it, and flashing over his brow 
 all the horror of delirium. His pace quickened, and 
 he longed for wings to rise out of the abominable 
 labyrinth. 
 
 At that moment a gable of a church rose against 
 the sky. The gates were open, and one passing 
 through seemed to John like an angel, and obeying 
 the instinct which compels the hunted animal to seek 
 refuge in the earth, he entered, and threw himself on 
 his knees. Relief came, and the dread about his 
 heart was loosened in the romantic twilight. One 
 poor woman knelt amid the chairs; presently she 
 rose and went to the confessional. He waited his 
 turn, his eyes fixed on the candles that burned in 
 the dusky distance. 
 
 " Father, forgive me, for I have sinned !" 
 
 The priest, an old man of gray and shrivelled 
 mien, settled his cassock and mumbled some Latin. 
 
 " I have come to ask your advice, father, rather 
 than to confess the sins I have committed in the last 
 week. Since I have come to live in London I have 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 3 
 
 been drawn into the society of the dissolute and the 
 impure." 
 
 " And you have found that your faith and your 
 morals are being weakened by association with these 
 men ?" 
 
 " I have to thank God that I am uninfluenced by 
 them. Their society presents no attractions for me, 
 but I am engaged in literary pursuits, and most of 
 the young men with whom I am brought in contact 
 lead unclean and unholy lives. I have striven, and 
 have in some measure succeeded, in enforcing respect 
 for my ideals ; never have I countenanced indecent 
 conversation, although perhaps I have not always set 
 as stern a face against it as I might have." 
 
 " But you have never joined in it?" 
 
 " Never. But, father, I am on the eve of the 
 publication of a volume of poems, and I am grievously 
 afflicted with scruples lest their tendency does not 
 stand in agreement with the teaching of our holy 
 Church." 
 
 " Do you fear their morality, my son ?" 
 
 " No, No!" said John in an agitated voice, which 
 caused the old man to raise his eyes and glance 
 inquiringly at his penitent ; " the poem I am most 
 fearful of is a philosophic poem based on Schopen- 
 hauer." 
 
 " I did not catch the name." 
 
 " Schopenhauer ; if you are acquainted with his 
 works, father, you will appreciate my anxieties, and 
 will see just where my difficulty lies." 
 
 " I cannot say I can call to mind at this moment 
 any exact idea of his philosophy ; does it include a 
 denial of the existence of God?" 
 
 " His teaching, I admit, is atheistic in its tendency, 
 but I do not follow him to his conclusions. A part 
 of his theory — that of the resignation of desire of life 
 
14 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 seems to me not only reconcilable with the tradi- 
 tions of the Church, but may really be said to have 
 been original and vital in early Christianity, however 
 much it may have been forgotten in these later 
 centuries. Jesus Christ our Lord is the perfect symbol 
 of the denial of the will to live." 
 
 " Jesus Christ our Lord died to save us from the 
 consequences of the sin of our first parents. He died 
 of His own free will, but we may not live an hour 
 more than is given to us to live, though we desire it 
 with our whole heart. We may be called away at 
 any moment." . 
 
 John bent his head before the sublime stupidity of 
 the priest. 
 
 " I was anxious, father, to give you in a few words 
 some accouut of the philosophy \\hich has been 
 engaging my attention, so that you might better 
 understand my difficulties. Although Schopenhauer 
 may be wrong in his theory regarding the \\ill, the 
 conclusions he draws from it, namel}-, that we may 
 only find lasting peace in resignation, seems to me 
 well within the dogma of our holy Church." 
 
 " It surprises me that he should hold such opinions, 
 for if he does not acknowledge a future state, the 
 present must be everything, and the gratification of 
 the senses the only . . ." 
 
 " I assure you, father, no one can be more opposed 
 to materialism than Schopenhauer. He holds the 
 world we live in to be a mere delusion — the veil of 
 Ma)-a." 
 
 " I am afraid, my son, I cannot speak with any 
 degree of certainty about either of those authors, but 
 I think it my duty to warn you against inclining too 
 willing an eart o the specious sophistries of German 
 philosophers. It would be well if you were to turn to 
 our Christian philosophers ; our great cardinal Car- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1$ 
 
 dinal Newman — has over and over again refuted the 
 enemies of the Church. I have forgotten the name." 
 
 " Schopenhauer." 
 
 " Now I will give you absolution." 
 
 The burlesque into which his confession had drifted 
 awakened new terrors in John and sensations of 
 sacrilege. He listened devoutly to the prattle of the 
 priest, and to crush the rebellious spirit in him he 
 promised to submit his poems ; and he did not 
 allow himself to think the old man incapable of un- 
 derstanding them. But he knew he would not submit 
 those poems, and turning from the degradation he 
 faced a command which had suddenly come upon 
 him. A great battle raged ; and growing at every 
 moment less conscious of all save his soul's salvation, 
 he walked through the streets, his stick held forward 
 like a church candle. 
 
 He walked through the city, seeing it not, and 
 hearing all cruel voices dying to one — this : " I can 
 only attain salvation by the elimination of all responsi- 
 bilities. There is therefore but one course to adopt." 
 Decision came upon him like the surgeon's knife. It 
 was in the cold darkness of his rooms in Pump 
 Court. He raised his face, deadly pale, from his 
 hands; but gradually it went aflame with the joy 
 and rapture of sacrifice, and taking his manuscript, 
 he lighted it in the gas. He held it for a few moments 
 till it was well on fire, and then threw it all blazing 
 under the grate. 
 
l6 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 An odour of spirits evaporated in the warm winds 
 of May which came through the open window. The 
 ricli velvet sofa of early English design was littered 
 with proofs and copies of the Pilgrim, and the stamped 
 velvet was two shades richer in tone than the pale, 
 dead-red of the floorcloth. Small pictures in light 
 frames harmonized with a green paper of long inter- 
 lacing leaves. On the right, the grand piano and the 
 slender brass lamps ; and the impression of refinement 
 and taste was continued, for between the blue chintz 
 curtains the river lay soft as a picture of old Venice. 
 The beauty of the water, full of the shadows of hay 
 and sails, many forms of chimneys, wharfs, and ware- 
 houses, made panoramic and picturesque by the 
 motion of the great hay-boats, were surely wanted 
 for the windows of this beautiful apartment. 
 
 Mike and Frank stood facing the view, and talked of 
 Lily Young, whom Mike was momentarily expecting. 
 
 " You know as much about it as I do. It was only 
 just at the end that you spoke to your cousin and I 
 got in a few words." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " What could I say ? Something to the effect that 
 the convent must be a very happy home." 
 
 " How did you know she cared for you ?" 
 
 "I always know that. The second time we went 
 there she told me she was going to leave the convent. 
 I asked her what had decided her to take that step, 
 and .she looked at me — that thirsting look which 
 women cannot repress. I said I hoped I should see 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 7 
 
 her when she came to London ; she said she hoped so 
 too. Then I knew it was all right. I pressed her 
 hand, and when we went again I said she would find 
 a letter waiting for her at the post-office. Somehow 
 she got the letter sooner than I expected, and wrote 
 to say she'd come here if she could. Here is the 
 letter. But will she come?" 
 
 " Even if she does, I don't see what good it will do 
 you ; it isn't as if you were really in love with her." 
 
 " I believe I am in love ; it sounds rather awful, 
 doesn't it? but she is wondrous sweet. I want to be 
 true to her. I want to live for her. I'm not half so 
 bad as you think I am. I have often tried to be 
 constant, and now I mean to be. This ceaseless 
 desire of change is very stupid, and it leads to 
 nothing. I'm sick of change, and would think of 
 none but her. You have no idea how I have altered 
 since I have seen her. I used to desire all women. 
 I wrote a ballad the other day on the women of two 
 centuries hence. Is it not shocking to think that we 
 shall lie mouldering in our graves while women are 
 dancing and kissing? They will not even know that 
 I lived and was loved. It will not occur to them to 
 say as they undress of an evening, ' Were he alive 
 to-day we might love him.' " 
 
 THE BALLADE OF DON JUAN DEAD. 
 
 My days for singing and loving are over. 
 
 And stark I lie in my narrow bed, 
 I care not at all if roses cover, 
 
 Or if above me the snow is spread ; 
 
 I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead. 
 All gone like me unto common clay. 
 Life's bowers are full of love's fair fray, 
 
 Of piercing kisses and subtle snares ; 
 So gallants are conquered, ah, well away ! — 
 
 My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 
 
1 8 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 O happy moths that now flit and hover 
 
 From the blossom of white to the blossom of red, 
 Take heed, for I was a lordly lover 
 
 Till the little day of my life had sped ; 
 
 As straight as a pine-tree, a golden head, 
 And eyes as blue as an austral bay. 
 Ladies, when loosing your evening array, 
 
 Reflect, had you lived in my years, my prayers 
 Might have won you from weakly lovers away — 
 
 My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 
 
 Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover 
 
 Sweet voices come down through the binding lead ; 
 O queens that every age must discover 
 
 For men, that man's delight may be fed ; 
 
 Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed. 
 For the space of a year, a month, a day, 
 No thirst but mine could your thirst allay; 
 
 And oh, for an hour of life, my dears, ' 
 To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay— 
 
 My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Prince was I ever of festival gay. 
 
 And time never silvered my locks with gray; 
 
 The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs, 
 bo thmk of me sometimes, dear ladies, I pray— 
 
 My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 
 
 "It is like all your poetry— merely metricious 
 glitter ; there is no heart in it. That a man should 
 hke to have a nice mistress, a girl he is really fond of 
 IS simple enough, but lamentation over the limbo of 
 unborn loveliness is, to my mind, sheer nonsense." 
 Mike laughed. 
 
 " Of course it is silly, but I cannot alter it • it is the 
 sex and not any individual woman that attracts me 
 1 enter a ball-room and I see one, one whom I have 
 never seen be ore, and I say, ' It is she whom I have 
 sought, I can love her.' I am always disappointed 
 but hope IS born again in every fresh face ^ Wo"S 
 are so common when they have loved you." "'''" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 9 
 
 Startled by his words, Mike strove to measure the 
 thought. 
 
 " I can see nothing interesting in the fact that it is 
 natural to you to behave badly to every woman who 
 gives you a chance of deceiving her. That's what it 
 amounts to. At the end of a week you'll tire of 
 this new girl as you did of the others. I think it a 
 great shame. It isn't gentlemanly." 
 
 Mike winced at the word ' gentlemanly.' For a 
 moment he thought of resentment, but his natural 
 amiability predominated, and he said — 
 
 " I hope not. I really do think I can love this 
 one ; she isn't like the others. Besides, I shall be 
 much happier. There is, I know, a great sweetness 
 inconstancy. L long for this sweetness." Seeing by 
 Frank's face that he was still angry, he pursued his 
 thoughts in the line which he fancied would be most 
 agreeable ; he did so without violence to his feelings. 
 It was as natural to him to think one way as another. 
 Mike's sycophancy was so innate that it did not 
 appear and was therefore almost invariably successful. 
 " I have been the lover of scores of women, but I 
 never loved one. I have always hoped to love ; it is 
 love that I seek. I find love-tokens and I do not know 
 who were the givers. I have possessed nothing but 
 the flesh, and I have always looked beyond the flesh. 
 I never sought a woman for her beauty. I dreamed 
 of a companion, one who would share each thought ; 
 I have dreamed of a woman to whom I could bring 
 my poetry, who could comprehend all sorrows, and 
 with whom I might deplore the sadness of life until 
 we forget it was sad, and I have been given some 
 more or less imperfect flesh." 
 
 " I," said Frank, " don't care a rap for your blue 
 stockings. I like a girl to look pretty and sweet in a 
 muslin dress, her hair with the sun on it slipping over 
 
20 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 her shoulders, a large hat throwing a shadow over 
 the garden of her face. I like her to come and sit on 
 my knee in the twilight before dinner, to come behind 
 me when I am working and put her hand on my fore- 
 head, saying, ' Poor old man, you are tired ! ' " 
 
 " And you could love one girl all your life — Lizzie 
 Baker, for instance ; and you could give up all women 
 for one, and never wander again free to gather ?" 
 
 " It is always the same thing." 
 
 " No, that is just what it is not. The last one was 
 thin, this one is fat ; the last one was tall, this one is 
 tiny. The last one was stupid, this one is witty. Some 
 men seek the source of the Nile, and the lace of a 
 bodice. A new love is a voyage of discovery. What 
 is her furniture like? Wliat will she say ? What are 
 her opinions of love? But when you have been a 
 woman's lover a month you know her morally and 
 physically. Society is based on the family. The 
 family alone survives, it floats like an ark over every 
 raging flood. But you may understand without being 
 able to accept, and I cannot accept, although I under- 
 stand and love family life. What promiscuity of 
 body and mind ! The idea of never being alone fills 
 me with horror to lose that secret self, which, like a 
 shy bird, flies out of sight in the day, but is with you^ 
 oh, how intensely in the morning!" 
 
 " Nothing pleases you so much as to be allowed to 
 talk nonsense about yourself." 
 
 Mike laughed. 
 
 " Let me have those opera-glasses. That woman 
 sitting on the bench is like her." 
 
 The trees of the embankment wa\-ed along the 
 laughing water, and in scores the sparrows flitted 
 across the sleek green sward. The porter in his 
 bright uniform, cocked hat, and brass buttons, ex- 
 plained the way out to a woman. Her child wo're a 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 21 
 
 red sash and stooped to play with a cat that came 
 along the railings, its tail high in the air. 
 
 " They know nothing of Lily Young," Mike said to 
 himself , and knowing the porter could not interfere, 
 he wondered what he would think if he knew all. " If 
 she comes nothing can save her, she must and shall 
 be mine." 
 
 Waterloo Bridge stood high above the river, level 
 and lovely. Over Charing Cross the brightness was 
 full of spires and pinnacles, but Southwark shore was 
 lost in fiat dimness. Then the sun glowed and West- 
 minster ascended tall and romantic, St. Thomas's and 
 St. John's floating in pale enchantment, and beneath 
 the haze that heaved and drifted, revealing coal-barges 
 moored by the Southwark shore, lay a sheet of gold. 
 The candour of the morning laughed upon the river ; 
 and there came a little steamer into the dazzling 
 water, her smoke heeling over, coiling and uncoiling 
 like a snake, and casting tremendous shadow — in her 
 train a line of boats laden to the edge with deal 
 planks. Then the haze heaved and London dis- 
 appeared, became again a gray city, faint and far 
 away — faint as spires seem in a dream. Again and 
 again the haze wreathed and went out, discovering 
 wharfs and gold inscriptions, uncovering barges 
 aground upon the purple slime of the Southwark 
 shore, their yellow yards pointing like birds with 
 outstretched necks. 
 
 The smoke of the little steamer curled and rolled 
 over, now like a great snake, now like a great bird 
 hovering with a snake in its talons ; and the little 
 steamer made pluckily for Blackfriars. Carts and 
 hansoms, yans and brewers' vans, all silhouetting. 
 Trains slip past, obliterating with white whiffs the 
 delicate distances, the perplexing distances that in 
 London are delicate and perplexing as a spider's web. 
 
22 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Great hay-boats, yellow in the sun, brown in the 
 shadow— great hay-boats came by, their sails scarce 
 filled with the light breeze ; standing high, they sailed 
 slowly and picturesquely, with men thrown in all 
 attitudes ; somnolent in sunshine and pungent odour 
 — one only at work, wielding the great rudder. 
 
 " Ah ! if she would not disappoint me ; if she would 
 only come ; I would give my life not to be dis- 
 appointed . . . One o'clock! She said she would be 
 here by one, if she came at all. I think I could love 
 her — I am sure of it ; it would be impossible to weary 
 of her — so frail — a white blond. She said she would 
 come, I know she wanted to . . . This waiting is 
 agony ! Oh, if I were only good-looking ! Whatever 
 power I have over women I have acquired ; it was 
 the desire to please women that gave me whatever 
 power I possess ; I was as soft as wax, and in the 
 fingers of desire was modified and moulded. You 
 did not know me when I was a boy — I was hideous. 
 It seemed to me impossible that women could love 
 men. Women seemed to me so beautiful and desir- 
 able, men so hideous and revolting. Could they touch 
 us without a revulsion of feeling .? Could they really 
 desire us ? That is why I could not bear to give 
 women money, nor a present of any kind — no, not 
 even a flower. If I did all my pleasure was gone ; I 
 could not help thinking it was for what they got out 
 of me that they liked me. I longed to penetrate the 
 mystery of woman's life. It seemed to me cruel that 
 the differences between the sexes should never be 
 allowed to dwindle, but should be strictly maintained 
 through all the observances of life. There were 
 beautiful beings walking by us of whom we knew 
 nothing — irreparably separated from us. I wanted 
 to be with this sex as a shadow is with its object." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 23 
 
 "You didn't find many opportunities of gratifying 
 your tastes in Cashel ?" 
 
 "No, indeed ! Of course the women about the 
 town were not to be thought of." Unpleasant 
 memories seemed to check his flow of words. 
 
 Without noticing his embarrassment, Frank said — 
 
 " After France it must have been a horrible change 
 to come to Ireland. How old were you ?" 
 
 " About fourteen. I could not endure the place. 
 Every day was so appallingly like the last. There 
 was nothing for me to do but to dream ; I dreamed 
 of everything. I longed to get alone and let my 
 fancy wander — weaving tales of which I was the hero, 
 building castles of which I was the lord." 
 
 " I remember always hearing of your riding and 
 sho-jting. No one knew of your literary tastes. 
 I don't mind telling you that Mount Rorke often 
 suspected you of being a bit of a poacher." 
 
 Mike laughed. 
 
 " I believe I have knocked down a pheasant or two. 
 I was an odd mixture — half a man of action, half a 
 man of dreams. My position in Cashel was unbear- 
 able. My mother was a lady ; my father — you know 
 how he had let himself down. You cannot imagine 
 the yearnings of a poor boy ; you were brought up 
 in all elegance and refinement. That beautiful park ! 
 On afternoons I used to walk there, and I remember 
 the very moments I passed under the foliage of the 
 great beeches and lay down to dream. I used to 
 wander to the outskirts of the wood as near as I 
 dared to the pleasure-grounds, and looking on the 
 towers strove to imagine the life there. The bitterest 
 curses lie in the hearts of young men, who under- 
 standing refinement and elegance, see it for ever out 
 of their reach. I used to watch the parade of dresses 
 passing on the summer lawns between the firs and 
 
24 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 flowering trees. What graceful and noble words 
 were spoken ! — and that man walking into the poetry 
 of the laburnum gold, did he put his arm about her? 
 And I wondered what silken ankles moved beneath 
 her skirts. My brain was on fire, and I was crazed ; 
 I thought I should never hold a lady in my arms. 
 A lady! all the delicacy of silk and lace, high-heeled 
 shoes, and the scent and colour of hair that a coiffeur 
 has braided." 
 
 " I think you are mad !" 
 
 Mike laughed and continued — 
 
 '' I was so when I was sixteen. There was a girl 
 staying there. Her hair was copper, and her flesh 
 was pink and white. Her waist, you could span it. 
 I saw her walking one day on . . ." 
 
 " You must mean Lady Alice Hargood, a very tall 
 girl?" 
 
 " Yes ; five feet seven, quite. I saw her walking 
 on the terrace with your uncle. Once she passed 
 our house, and I smarted with shame of it as of some 
 restless wound, and for days I remembered I was 
 little better than a peasant. Originally we came, as 
 you know, of good English stock, but nothing is vital 
 but the present. I cried and cursed my existence, 
 my father and the mother that bore me, and that 
 night T climbed out by my window and roved through 
 the dark about the castle so tall in the moonlight. 
 The sky that night was like a soft blue veil, and the 
 tices were painted quite black upon it. I looked 
 iox her window, and I imagined her sleeping with 
 her copper hair tossed in the moonlight, like an 
 illustration in a volume of Shelley. 
 
 " You remember the old wooden statue of a nymph 
 that stood in the sycamores at the end of the terraces ; 
 she was the first naked woman I saw. I used to 
 wander about her, sometimes at night, and I have 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 25 
 
 often climbed about and hung round those shoulders, 
 and ever since I have always met that breast of 
 wood. You have been loved more truly; you have 
 been possessed of woman more thoroughly than I. 
 Though I clasp a woman in my arms, it is as if the 
 Atlantic separated us. Did I never tell you of my 
 first love affair? That was the romance of the wood 
 nymph. One evening I climbed on the pedestal of 
 my divinity, my cheek was pale . . ." 
 
 " For God's sake, leave out the poetics, and come 
 to the facts." 
 
 " If you don't let me tell my story in my own way 
 I won't tell it at all. Out of my agony prayer rose 
 to Alice, for now it pleased me to fancy there was 
 some likeness between this statue and Lady Alice. 
 The dome of leafage was sprinkled with the colour 
 of the sunset, and as I pressed my lips to the wooden 
 breast, I heard dead leaves rustling under a footstep. 
 Holding the nymph with one arm, I turned and saw 
 a lady approaching. She asked me why I kissed the 
 statue. I looked away embarrassed, but she told me 
 not to go, and she said, 'You are a pretty boy.' I 
 said I had never seen a woman so beautiful. Again 
 I grew ashamed, but the lady laughed. We stood 
 talking in the stillness. She said I had pretty hands, 
 and asked me if I regretted the nymph was not a 
 real woman. She took my hands. I praised hers, and 
 then I grew frightened, for 1 knew she came from the 
 castle ; the castle was to me what the Ark of the Cove- 
 nant was to an Israelite. She put her arm about me, 
 and my fears departed in the thrilling of an exquisite 
 minute. She kissed me and said, ' Let us sit down.' " 
 
 " I wonder who she was ! What was her name ? 
 You can tell me." 
 
 " No, I never mention names ; besides, I am not 
 certain she gave her right name." 
 
26 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Are you sure she was staying at the castle ? For 
 if so, there would be no use for her to conceal her 
 name. You could easily have found it out." 
 
 " Oh, yes, she was staying at the castle ; she talked 
 about you all. Don't you beheve me?" 
 
 " What, all about the nymph ? I am certain you 
 thought you ought to have loved her, and if what 
 Harding says is right, that there is more truth in 
 what we think than in what we do, I'm sure you 
 might say that you had been on a wedding-tour with 
 one of the gargoyles." 
 
 Mike laughed ; and Frank did not suspect that he 
 had annoyed him. Mike's mother was a French- 
 woman, whom John Fletcher had met in Dublin and 
 had pressed into a sudden marriage. At the end of 
 . three years of married life she had been forced to 
 leave him, and strange were the legends of the pro- 
 fanities of that bed. She fled one day, taking her 
 son with her. Fletcher did not even inquire where 
 she had gone ; and when at her death Mike returned 
 to Ireland, he found his father in a small lodging- 
 house playing the flute. Scarcely deigning to turn his 
 head, he said — " Oh! is that you, Mike? — sit down." 
 
 At his father's death, Mike had sold the lease of 
 the farm for three hundred pounds, and with that 
 sum and a \-olume of verse he went to London. 
 When he had published his poems he wrote two 
 comedies. His efforts to get them produced led 
 him into various society. He was naturally clever 
 at cards, and one night he won three hundred pounds. 
 Journalism he had of course dabbled in — he was 
 di;n\n towards it by his eager, impatient nature; he 
 was drawn from it byhisgluttonous and artistic nature. 
 Only ten pounds for an article, whereas a successful 
 " bridge" brought him ten times that amount, and he 
 revolted against the column of platitudes that the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 2y 
 
 hours whelmed in obhvion. There had been times, 
 however, when he had been obHged to look to jour- 
 nalism for daily bread. The Spectator, always open 
 to young talent, had published many of his poems; 
 the Saturday had welcomed his paradoxes and 
 strained eloquence ; but whether he worked or 
 whether he idled he never wanted money. He was 
 one of those men who can always find five pounds 
 in the streets of London. 
 
 We meet Mike in his prime — in his twenty-ninth 
 year — a man of various capabilities, which an in- 
 veterate restlessness of temperament had left unde- 
 veloped — a man of genius, diswrought with passion, 
 occasionally stricken with ambition. 
 
 " Let me have those glasses. There she is ! I am 
 sure it is she — there, leaning against the Embank- 
 ment. Yes, yes, it is she. Look at her. I should 
 know her figure among a thousand — those frail 
 shoulders, that little waist; you could break her like 
 a reed. How sweet she is on that background of 
 flowing water, boats, wharves, and chimneys ; it all 
 rises about her like a dream, and all is as faint upon 
 the radiant air as a dream upon happy sleep. So 
 she is coming to see me. She will keep her promise. 
 I shall love her. I feel at last that love is near me. 
 Supposing I were to marry her?" 
 
 " Why shouldn't you marry her if you love her? 
 That is to say, if this is more than one of your ordi- 
 nary caprices, spiced by the fact that its object is a 
 nun." 
 
 The men looked at each other for a moment doubt- 
 ful. Then Mike laughed. 
 
 " I hope I don't love her too much, that is all. 
 But perhaps she will not come. Why is she stand- 
 ing there ?" 
 
28 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I should laugh if she turned on her heel and 
 walked away right under your very nose." 
 
 A cloud passed over Mike's face. 
 
 " That's not possible," he said, and he raised the 
 glass. " If I thought there was any chance of that I 
 should go down to see her." 
 
 "You couldn't force her to come up. She seems 
 to be admiring the view." 
 
 Then Lily left the Embankment and turned towards 
 the Temple. 
 
 "She is coming!" Mike cried, and laying down 
 the opera-glass he took up the scent and squirted it 
 about the room. " You won't make much noise like 
 a good fellow, will you ? I shall tell her I am here 
 alone." 
 
 " I shall make no noise — I shall finish my article. 
 I am expecting Lizzie about four; I will slip out and 
 meet her in the street. Good-bye." 
 
 Mike went to the head of the staircase, and looking 
 down the prodigious height, he waited. It occurred 
 to him that if he fell, the emparadised hour would be 
 lost for ever. If she were to pass through the Temple 
 without stopping at No. 2 ! The sound of little feet 
 and the colour of a heliotrope skirt dispersed his 
 fears, and he watched her growing larger as she 
 mounted each flight of stairs, when she stopped to 
 take breath; he thought of running down and carry- 
 ing her up in his arms, but he did not move^and she 
 did not see him until the last flight. 
 
 " Here you are at last !" 
 
 " I am afraid I have kept you waiting. I was not 
 certain whether I should come." 
 
 " And you stopped to look at the view instead ?" 
 
 " Yes; but how did you know that?" 
 
 "Ah! that's telling ; come in." 
 
 The girl went in shyly. 
 
 b 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 29 
 
 " So this is where you live ? How nicely you 
 have arranged the room. I never saw a room like 
 this before. How different from the convent ! What 
 would the nuns think if they saw me here ? What 
 strange pictures ! — those ballet-girls ; they remind me 
 of the pantomime. Did you buy those pictures ?" 
 
 "No; they are wonderful, aren't they? A friend 
 of mine bought them in France." 
 
 " Mr. Escott ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I forgot you knew him — how stupid of me ! 
 Had it not been for him I shouldn't have known you 
 — I was thinking of something else." 
 
 "Where is he now? I hope he will not return 
 while I am here. You did not tell him I was 
 coming?" 
 
 " Of course not ; he is away in France." 
 
 "And those portraits — it is always the same face." 
 
 " They are portraits of a girl he is in love with." 
 
 " Do you believe he is in love?" 
 
 " Yes, rather ; head over heels. What do you 
 thinlcof the painting?" 
 
 Lily did not answer. She stood puzzled, striving 
 to separate the confused notions the room conveyed 
 to her. She wore on her shoulders a small black 
 lace shawl and held a black silk parasol. She was 
 very slender, and her features were small and regular, 
 and so white was her face that the blue eyes seemed 
 the only colour. There was, however, about the 
 cheek-bones just such tint as mellow as a white 
 rose. 
 
 " How beautiful you are to-day. I knew you would 
 be beautiful when you discarded that shocking habit ; 
 but you are far more beautiful than I thought. Let 
 me kiss you." 
 
 " No, you will make me regret that I came here. 
 I wanted to see where you lived, so that when I was 
 
30 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 away I could imagine you writing your poems. Have 
 you nothing more to show me? I want to see 
 everything." 
 
 "Yes, come, I will show you our dining-room. 
 Mr. Escott often gives dinner parties. You must get 
 your mother to bring you." 
 
 " I should like to. But what a good idea to have 
 book-cases in the passages, they furnish the walls so 
 well. And what are those rooms?" 
 
 " Those belong to Escott. Here is where I sleep." 
 
 " Wliat a strange room ! " Discountenanced by 
 the great Christ, she turned her head. 
 
 " That crucifix is a present from Frank. He 
 bought it in Paris. It is superb expression of the 
 faith of the Middle Ages." 
 
 " Old .ages, I should think ; it is all worm-eaten. 
 And that Virgin ? I did not know you were so 
 religious." 
 
 " I do not believe, but I think Christ is picturesque 
 — the one bit of nakedness in Christianity." 
 
 "Christ is very beautiful. When I prayed to Him 
 an hour passed like a little minute. It always seemed 
 to me more natural to pray to Him than to the 
 Virgin ]\Iary. But is that your bed ?" 
 
 Upon a trellis supported by lion's claws a feather 
 bed was laid. The sheets and pillows were covered 
 with embroidered cloth, the gift of some unhappy 
 lad}', and about the t\\isted columns heavy draperies 
 hung in apparent disorder. Lily sat down on the 
 pouff ottoman. Mike took two Venetian glasses, 
 poured out some champagne, and sat at her feet. 
 She sipped the wine and nibbled a biscuit. 
 
 " Tell me about the convent," he said. " That is 
 now a thing over and done." 
 
 " Fortunately I was not professed ; had I taken 
 vows I could not have broken them." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 3 1 
 
 "Why not? A nun cannot be kept imprisoned 
 nowadays." 
 
 "I should not have broken my vows." 
 
 " It was I who saved you from them — if you had 
 not fallen in love with me . . ." 
 
 " I never said I had fallen in love with you ; I 
 liked you, that was all." 
 
 "But it was for me you left the convent?" 
 
 " No ; I had made up my mind to leave the con- 
 vent long before I saw you. So you thought it was 
 love at first sight." 
 
 " On my part, at least, it was love at first sight. 
 How happy I am ! — I can scarcely believe I have got 
 you. To have you here by me seems so unreal, so 
 impossible. I always loved you. I want to tell you 
 about myself. You were my ideal when I was a boy ; 
 I had already imagined you ; my poems were all 
 addressed to you. My own sweet ideal that none 
 knew of but myself. You shall come and see me 
 all the summer through, in this room — our room. 
 When will you come again ?" 
 
 " I shall never come again — it is time to go." 
 
 "To go 1 Why, you haven't kissed me yet !" 
 
 " I do not intend to kiss you." 
 
 " How cruel of you ! You say you will never 
 come and see me again ; you break and destroy my 
 dream." 
 
 " How did you dream of me?" 
 
 " I dreamed the world was buried in snow, barred 
 with frost — that I never went out, but sat here wait- 
 ing for you to come. I dreamed that you came to 
 see me on regular days. I saw myself writing poems 
 to you, looking up to see the clock from time to 
 time. Tea and wine were ready, and the room was 
 scented with your favourite perfume. Ting! How 
 the bell thrilled me, and with what precipitation I 
 
32 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 rushed to the door! There I found you. What 
 pleasure to lead you to the great fire, to help you to 
 take off your pelisse !" 
 
 The girl looked at him, her eyes full of innocent 
 wonderment. 
 
 " How can you think of such things? It sounds 
 like a fairy tale. And if it were summer-time?" 
 
 " Oh ! if it were summer we should have roses in 
 the room, and only a falling rose-leaf should remind 
 us of the imperceptible passing of the hours. We 
 should want no books, the picturesqueness of the 
 river would be enough. And holding your little 
 palm in mine, so silken and delicately moist, I would 
 draw close to you." 
 
 Knowing his skin was delicate to the touch, he 
 took her arm in his hand, but she drew her arm away, 
 and there was incipient denial in the withdrawal. His 
 face clouded. But he had not yet made up his mind 
 how he should act, and to gain time to think, he said — 
 
 " Tell me why you thought of entering a convent ?" 
 
 " I was not happy at home, and the convent, with 
 its prayers and duties, seemed preferable. But it 
 was not quite the same as I had imagined, and I 
 couldn't learn to forget that there was a world of 
 beauty, colour, and love." 
 
 " You could not but think of the world of men 
 that awaited you." 
 
 " I only thought of Him." 
 
 " And who was he ?" 
 
 " Ah ! He was a very great saint, a greater saint 
 than you'll ever be. I fell in love with Him when I 
 was quite a little girl." 
 
 " What was his name ?" 
 
 " I am not going to tell you. It was for Him I 
 went into the convent ; I was determined to be His 
 bride in heaven. I used to read His life, and think of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 33 
 
 Him all day long. I had a friend who was also in 
 love, but the reverend mother heard of our conversa- 
 tions, and we were forbidden to speak any more of 
 our saints." 
 
 " Tell me his name ? Was he anything like me ?" 
 
 " Well, perhaps there is a something in the eyes." 
 
 The conversation dropped, and he laid his hand 
 gently upon her foot. Drawing it back she spilt the 
 wine. 
 
 " I must go." 
 
 " No, dearest, you must not." 
 
 She looked round, taking the room in one swift 
 circular glance, her eyes resting one moment on the 
 crucifix. 
 
 " This is cruel of you," he said. " I dreamed of 
 you madly, and why do you destroy my dream ? 
 What shall I do ? — where shall I go ? — how shall I 
 live if I don't get you ?" 
 
 " Men do not mind whom they love ; even in the 
 convent we knew that." 
 
 " You seem to have known a good deal in that 
 convent ; I am not astonished that you left it." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" She settled her shawl on 
 her shoulders. 
 
 " Merely this : you are in a young man's room 
 alone, and I love you." 
 
 . " Love ! You profane the word ; loose me, I am 
 going." 
 
 "No, you are not going, you must remain." There 
 was an occasional nature in him, that of the vicious 
 dog, and now it snarled. " If you did not love me, 
 you should not have come here," he said interposing, 
 getting between her and the door. 
 
 Then she entreated him to let her go. He laughed 
 at her; then suddenly her face flamed with a passion 
 he was unprepared for, and her eyes danced with 
 
34 MIKEi FLETCHER. 
 
 strange lights. Few words were spoken, only a few 
 ejaculatory phrases such as " How dare you'" " Let 
 me go !" she said, as she strove to wrench her arms 
 from his grasp. She caught up one of the glasses; 
 but before she could throw it Mike seized her hand ; 
 he could not take it from her, and unconscious of 
 danger (for if the glass broke both would be cut to 
 the bone), she clenched it with a force that seemed 
 impossible in one so frail. Her rage was like wild- 
 fire. Mike grew afraid, and preferring that the glass 
 should be thrown than it should break in his hand, 
 he loosed his fingers. It smashed against the opposite 
 wall. He hoped that Frank had not heard; that he 
 had left the chambers. He seized the second glass. 
 When she raised her arm, Mike saw and heard the 
 shattered window falling into the court below. He 
 anticipated the porter's steps on the staircase and his 
 knock at the door, and it was with an intense relief 
 and triumph that he saw the bottle strike the curtain 
 and fall harmless. He would win yet. Lily screamed 
 piercingly. 
 
 " No one will hear," he said, laughing hoarsely. 
 
 She escaped him and she screamed three times. 
 And now quite like a mad woman, she snatched a 
 light chair and rushed to the window. Her frail 
 frame shook, her thin face was swollen, and she 
 seemed to have lost control over her eyes. If she 
 should die! If she should go mad! Now really 
 terrified, Mike prayed for forgiveness. She did not 
 answer ; she stood clenching her hands, choking. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, " drink something. You need 
 not be afraid of me now — do as you like, I am your 
 servant. I will ask only one thing of you — forgive- 
 ness. If you only knew !" 
 
 " Don't speak to me!" she gasped, "don't!" 
 
MI US: f LETCHER. 35 
 
 " Forgive me, I beseech you ; I love you better 
 than all the world." 
 
 "Don't touch me! How dare you? Oh! how 
 dare you?" 
 
 Mike watched her quivering. He saw she was 
 sublime in her rage, and torn with desire and regret 
 he continued his pleadings. It was some time before 
 she spoke. 
 
 " And it was for this," she said, " I left my con- 
 vent, and it was of him I used to dream ! Oh ! how 
 bitter is my awakening !" 
 
 She grasped one of the thin columns of the bed, 
 and her attitude bespoke the revulsion of feeling that 
 was passing in her soul ; beneath the heavy curtains 
 she stood pale all over, thrown by the shock of too 
 coarse a reality. His perception of her innocence 
 was a goad to his appetite, and his despair augmented 
 at losing her. Now, as died the fulgurant rage that 
 had supported her, and her normal strength being 
 exhausted, a sudden weakness intervened, and she 
 couldn't but allow Mike to lead her to a seat. 
 
 " I am sorry ; words cannot tell you how sorry I 
 am. Why do you tremble so? You are not going 
 to faint, say — drink something." Hastily he poured 
 out some wine and held it to her lips. " I never was 
 sorry before ; now I know what sorrow is — I am sorry, 
 Lily. I am not ashamed of my tears ; look at them, 
 and strive to understand. I never loved till I saw 
 you. Ah! that lily face, when I saw it beneath the 
 white veil, love leaped into my soul. Then I hated 
 God, and I longed to scale the sky to dispossess 
 Him of that which I held the one sacred and desir- 
 able thing— you ! My soul ! I would have given it 
 to Him to burn for ten thousand years for one kiss, 
 one touch of these snow-coloured hands. When I 
 saw, or thought I saw, that you loved me, I was God. 
 
36 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 I said on reading your sweet letter, ' My life shall 
 not pass without kissing at least once the lips of my 
 ideal.' " 
 
 Words and images rose in his mind without sensa- 
 tion or effort, and experiencing the giddiness and 
 exultation of the orator, he strove to win her with 
 eloquence. And all his magnetism was in his hands 
 and eyes — deep blue eyes full of fire and light were 
 fixed upon her — hands, soft yet powerful hands held 
 hers, sometimes were clenched on hers, and a voice 
 which seemed his soul rose and fell, striving to sting 
 her with passionate sound ; but she remained ab- 
 sorbed in, and could not be drawn out of, angry 
 thought. 
 
 " Now you are with me," he said, " nearly mine; 
 here I see you like a picture that is mine. Around 
 us is mighty London. I saved you from God,. am 
 I to lose you to man ? This was the prospect that 
 faced me, that faces me, that drove me mad. All I 
 did was to attempt to make you mine. I hold you 
 by so little — I could not bear the thought that you 
 might pass from me. A ship sails away, growing 
 indistinct, and then disappears in the shadows ; in 
 London a cab rattles, appears and disappears behind 
 other cabs, turns a corner and is lost for ever. I 
 failed, but had I succeeded you would have come 
 back to me ; I failed, is not that punishment enough? 
 \'ou will go from me; I shall not get you — that is 
 sorrow enough for me ; do not refuse me forgiveness. 
 Ah ! if you knew what it is to have sought love 
 passionately, the high hopes entertained, and then 
 the depth of every deception, and now the supreme 
 grief of finding love and losing. Seeing love leave 
 me without leaving one flying feather for token, I 
 strove to pluck one — that is my crime. Go, since 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 37 
 
 you must go, but do not go unforgiving, lest perhaps 
 you might regret." 
 
 Lily did not cry. Her indignation was vented in 
 broken phrases, the meaning of which she did not 
 seem to realize, and so jarred and shaken were her 
 nerves that without being aware of it her talk 
 branched into observations on her mother, her home 
 life, the convent, and the disappointments of child- 
 hood. So incoherently did she speak that for a 
 moment Mike feared her brain was affected, and his 
 efforts to lead her to speak of the present were fruit- 
 less. But suddenly, waxing calm, her inner nature 
 shining through the eyes like light through porcelain, 
 she said — 
 
 " I was wrong to come here, but I imagined men 
 different. We know so little of the world in the 
 convent . . . Ah, I should have stayed there. It 
 may be but a poor delusion, but it is better than 
 such wickedness." 
 
 " But I love you." 
 
 " Love me ! . . . You say you have sought love ; 
 we find love in contemplation and desire of higher 
 things. I 'am wanting in experience, but I know 
 that love lives in thought, and not in violent passion ; 
 I know that a look from the loved one on entering a 
 room, a touch of a hand at most will suffice, and I 
 should have been satisfied to have seen your windows, 
 and I should have gone away, my heart stored with 
 impressions of you, and I should have been happy 
 for weeks in the secret possession of such memories. 
 So I have always understood love ; so we understood 
 love in the convent." 
 
 They were standing face to face in the faint twi- 
 light and scent of the bedroom. Through the gauze 
 blind the river floated past, decorative and grand ; 
 the great hay-boats rose above the wharves and 
 
38 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Steamers ; one lay in the sun's silver casting a black 
 shadow ; a barge rowed by one man drifted round 
 and round in the tide. 
 
 " When I knelt in the choir I lifted my heart to 
 the saint I loved. How far was he from me? Mil- 
 lions of miles ! — and yet he wasvery near. I dreamed 
 of meeting him in heaven, of seeing him come robed 
 in white with a palm in his hand, and then in a little 
 darkness and dimness I felt him take me to his 
 breast. I loved to read of the miracles he per- 
 formed, and one night I dreanied I saw him in my 
 cell — or was it you?" 
 
 All anger was gone from her face, and it reflected 
 the play of her fancy. " I used to pray to you to 
 come down and speak to me." 
 
 " And now," said Mike, smiling, " now that I have 
 come to you, now that I call you, now that I hold 
 my arms to you — you the bride-elect — now that the 
 hour has come, shall I not possess you?" 
 
 " Do you think you can gain love by clasping me 
 to your bosom ? My love, though separated from 
 me by a million miles, is nearer to me^than yours 
 has ever been." 
 
 " Did you not speak of me as the' lover of your 
 prayer, and )ou said that in ecstasy the nuns — and 
 indeed it must be so — exchange a gibbeted saint for 
 some ideal man ? Give yourself ; make this after- 
 noon memorable." 
 
 " No ; good-bye ! Remember your promises. 
 Come; I am going." 
 
 " I must not loose you," he cried, drunk with her 
 beauty and doubly drunk with her sensuous idealism. 
 " May I not even kiss you ?" 
 
 " Well, if you like — once, just here," she said, 
 pointing where white melted to faint rose. 
 
 Mastered, he followed her down the long stairs; 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 39 
 
 but when they passed into the open air he felt he 
 had lost her irrevocably. The river was now tinted 
 with setting light, the balustrade of Waterloo Bridge 
 showed like lace-work, the glass roofing of Charing 
 Cross station was golden, and each spire distinct 
 -upon the moveless blue. The splashing of a steamer 
 sounded strange upon his ears. The " Citizen" 
 passed ! She was crowded with human beings, all 
 apparently alike. Then the eye separated them. 
 An old lady making her way down the deck, a young 
 man in gray clothes, a red soldier leaning over the 
 rail, the captain walking on the bridge. 
 
 Mike called a hansom ; a few seconds more and 
 she would pass from him into London. He saw the 
 horse's hoofs, saw the cab appear and disappear 
 behind other cabs ; it turned a corner, and she was 
 gone. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Seven hours had elapsed since he had parted from 
 Lily Young, and these seven hours he had spent in 
 restaurants and music-halls, seeking in dissipation sur- 
 cease of sorrow and disappointment. He had dined 
 at Lubi's, and had gone on with Lord Muchross and 
 Lord Snowdown to the Royal, and they had returned 
 in many hansoms and with many courtesans to drink 
 at Lubi's. But his heart was not in gaiety, and feel- 
 ing he could neither break a hat joyously nor allow 
 his own to be broken good-humouredly, nor even 
 sympathize with Dicky, the driver, who had not been 
 sober since Monday, he turned and left the place. 
 
 " This is why fellows marry," he said, v/hen he 
 returned home, and sat smoking in the shadows — he 
 
40 MJKE FLETCHER. 
 
 had lighted only one lamp — depressed by the lone- 
 liness of the apartment. And more than an hour 
 passed before he heard Frank's steps. Frank was in 
 evening dress ; he opened his cigarette-case, lighted 
 a cigarette, and sat down willing to be amused. Mike 
 told him the entire story with gestures and descrip- 
 tive touches ; on the right was the bed with its cur- 
 tains hanging superbly, on the left the great hay-boats 
 filling the window ; and by insisting on the cruelest as- 
 pects, he succeeded in rendering it almost unbearable. 
 But Frank had dined well, and as Lizzie had promised 
 to come to breakfast he was in excellent humour, and 
 on the whole relished the tale. He was duly im- 
 pressed and interested by the subtlety of the fancy 
 which made Lily tell how she used to identify her 
 Divine lover while praying to Him, Him with the 
 human ideal which had led her from the cloister, and 
 which she had come to seek in the world. He was 
 especially struck with, and he admired the conclusion 
 of, the story, for Mike had invented a dramatic and 
 effecti\e ending. 
 
 " \\'ell-nigh mad, drunk with her beauty and the 
 sensuous charm of her imagination, I threw my arms 
 about her. I felt her limbs against mine, and I said, 
 ' I am mad for you ; give yourself to me, and make this 
 afternoon memorable.' There was a faint smile of 
 reply in her eyes. They laughed gently, and she said, 
 ' Well, perhaps I do love you a little.' " , 
 
 Frank was deeply impressed by Mike's tact and 
 judgment, and they talked of women, discussing each 
 shade of feminine morality through the smoke of 
 innumerable cigarettes; and after each epigram they 
 looked in each others' eyes astonished at their genius 
 and originality. Then Mike spoke of the paper and 
 the articles that would have to be written on the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 41 
 
 morrow. He promised to get to work early, and they 
 said good-night. 
 
 When Frank left Southwick two years ago and 
 pursued Lizzie Baker to London, he had found her 
 in straitened circumstances and unable to obtain 
 employment. The first night he took her out to 
 dinner and bought her a hat, on the second he bought 
 her a gown, and soon after she became his mistress. 
 Henceforth his days were devoted to her ; they were 
 seen together in all popular restaurants, and in the 
 theatres. One day she went to see some relations, 
 and Frank had to dine alone. He turned into 
 Lubini's, but to his annoyance the only table available 
 was one which stood next where Mike Fletcher was 
 dining. " That fellow dining here," thought Frank, 
 "when he ought to be digging potatoes in Ireland." 
 But the accident of the waiter seeking for a newspaper 
 forced him to say a few words, and Mike talked so 
 agreeably that at the end of dinner they went out 
 together and walked up and down, talking on journal- 
 ism and women. 
 
 Suddenly the last strand of Frank's repugnance to 
 make a friend of Mike broke, and he asked him to 
 come up to his rooms and have a drink. They 
 remained talking till daybreak, and separated as 
 friends in the light of the empty town. Next day 
 they dined together, and a few days after Frank and 
 Lizzie breakfasted with Mike at his lodgings. But 
 during the next month they saw very little of him, and 
 this pause in the course of dining and journalistic 
 discussion, indicating, as Frank thought it did, a cool- 
 ness on Mike's part, determined the relation of these 
 two men. When they ran against each other in the 
 corridor of a theatre, Frank eagerly button-holed 
 Mike, and asked him why he had not been to dine at 
 Lubini's, and not suspecting that he dined there only 
 
42 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 when he was in funds, was surprised at his evasive 
 answers. Mistress and lover were equally anxious to 
 know why they had not been able to find him in any 
 of the usual haunts ; he urged a press of work, but 
 it transpired he was harassed by creditors, and was 
 looking out for rooms. Frank told him he was 
 thinking of moving into the Temple. 
 
 " Lucky fellow 1 I wish I could afford to live there." 
 
 " I wish you could. . . . The apartment I have in 
 mind is too large for me, you might take the half of it." 
 
 Mike knew where his comforts lay, and he accepted 
 his friend's offer. There they founded, and there they 
 edited the Pilgrim, a weekly sixpenny paper devoted 
 to young men, their doings, their amusements, their 
 literature and their art. Under their dual editorship 
 this journal had prospered ; it now circulated five ■ 
 thousand a week, and published twelve pages of ad- 
 vertisements. Frank, whose bent was hospitality, was 
 therefore able to entertain his friends as it pleased 
 him, and his rooms were daily and nightly filled with 
 revelling lords, comic vocalists, and chorus girls. 
 Mike often craved for other amusements and other 
 society. Temple Gardens was but one page in the 
 book of life, and every page in that book was equally 
 interesting to him. He desired all amusements, to 
 know all things, to be loved by every one, and longing 
 for new sensations of life he often escaped to the 
 Cock t.uern for a quiet dinner with some young 
 barristers, and a quiet smoke afterwards with them in 
 their rooms. It was there he had met John Norton. 
 
 The Pilgrim was composed of sixteen columns of 
 paragraphs in which society, art, and letters were 
 dealt with — the form of expression preferred being 
 the most exaggerated. Indeed, the formula of criticism 
 that Mike and Frank, guided by Harding, had de- 
 veloped, was to consider as worthless all that the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 43 
 
 world held in estimation, arid to laud as best all that 
 the world had agreed to discard. John Norton's views 
 regarding Latin literature had been adopted, and 
 Virgil was declared to be the great old bore of an- 
 tiquity, and some three or four quite unknown names, 
 gathered amid the Fathers, were upon occasion trailed 
 in triumph with adjectives of praise. 
 
 What painter of Madonnas does the world agree 
 to consider as the greatest ? Raphael — Raphael was 
 therefore descried as being scarcely superior to Sir 
 Frederick Leighton ; and one of the early Italian 
 painters, Francesco Bianchi, whom Vasari exhumes 
 in some three or four lines, was praised as possessing 
 a subtle and mysterious talent very different indeed 
 from the hesitating smile of La Jaconde. There is a 
 picture of the Holy Family by him in the Louvre, 
 and of it Harding wrote — "This canvas exhales for us 
 the most delicious emanations, sorrowful bewitch- 
 ments, insidious sacrileges, and troubled prayers." 
 
 All institutions, especially the Royal Academy, 
 St. Paul's Cathedral, Drury Lane Theatre, and Eton 
 College, were held to be the symbols of man's earthi- 
 ness, the bar-room and music-hall as certain proof 
 of his Divine origin ; actors were scorned and prize- 
 fighters revered ; the genius of courtesans, the folly 
 of education, and the poetry of pantomime formed 
 the themes on which the articles which made the cen- 
 tre of the paper were written. Insolent letters were 
 addressed to eminent people, and a novel by Harding, 
 the hero of which was a butler and the heroine a 
 cook, was in course of publication. 
 
 Mike was about to begin a series of articles in this 
 genial journal, entitled Lions of the Season. His first 
 lion was a young man who had invented a pantomime, 
 Pierrot murders his Wife, which he was acting with 
 success in fashionable drawing-rooms. A mute brings 
 
44 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Pierrot back more dead than alive from the cemetery, 
 and throws him in a chair. When Pierrot recovers 
 he re-acts the murder before a portrait of his wife — 
 how he tied her down and tickled her to death. 
 Then he begins drinking, and finally sets fire to the 
 curtains of the bed and is burnt. 
 
 It was the day before publishing-day, and since 
 breakfast the young men had been drinking, smoking, 
 telling tales, and writing paragraphs ; from time to 
 time the page-boy brought in proofs, and the narrators 
 made pause till he had left the room. Frank con- 
 tinued reading Mike's manuscript, now and then 
 stopping to praise a felicitous epithet. 
 
 At last he said — " Harding, what do you think of 
 this? — ' The .Sphynx is representative of the grave 
 and monumental genius of Egypt, the Faun of the 
 gracious genius of Rome, the Pierrot of the fantastic 
 genius of the Renaissance. And, in this one crea- 
 tion, I am not sure that the seventeenth does not 
 take the palm from the earlier centuries. Pierrot! — 
 there is music, there is poetry in the name. The soul 
 of an epoch lives in that name, evocative as it is of 
 shadowy trees, lawny spaces, brocade, pointed bodices, 
 high heels and guitars. And in expression how much 
 more perfect is he than his ancestor, the Faun ! His 
 animality is indicated without coarse or awkward 
 symbolism ; without cloven hoof or hirsute ears — only 
 a white face, a long white dress with large white but- 
 tons, and a black skull-cap; and yet, somehow, the 
 effect is achieved. The great white creature is not 
 quite human — hereditary sin has not descended upon 
 him ; he is not quite responsible for his acts.' " 
 
 " I like the paragraph," said Harding ; " you finish 
 up, of course, with the apotheosis of pantomimists, 
 and announce him as one of the lions of the season. 
 Who are your other lions and lionesses.'" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 45 
 
 " The others will be far better," said Mike. He 
 took a cigarette from a silver box on the table, and, 
 speaking as he puffed at it, entered into the explana- 
 tion of his ideas. 
 
 Mademoiselle D'Or, the preinitre danseiise who had 
 just arrived from Vienna, was to be the lioness of 
 next week. Mike told how he would translate into 
 words the insidious poetry of the blossom-like skirt 
 that the pink body pierces like a stem, the beautiful 
 springing, the lifted arms, then the flight from the 
 wings; the posturing, the artificial smiles; this art a 
 survival of oriental tradition ; this art at once so 
 carnal and so enthusiastically ideal. " A prize-fighter 
 will follow the danseiise. And I shall gloat in Gau- 
 tier-like cadence — if I can catch it — over each superb 
 muscle and each splendid development. But my best 
 article will be on Kitty Carew. Since Laura Bell and 
 Mabel Grey our courtesans have been but a mediocre 
 lot." 
 
 " You must not say that in the Pilgrim — we should 
 offend all our friends," Harding said, and he poured 
 himself out a brandy-and-soda. 
 
 Mike laughed, and walking up and down the room, 
 he continued — 
 
 " That it should be so is inexplicable, that it is so 
 is certain ; we have not had since Mabel Grey died a 
 courtesan with whom a foreign prince, passing Lon- 
 don, would visit as a matter of course as he would 
 visit'St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey; and yet Lon- 
 don has advanced enormously in all that constitutes 
 wealth and civilization. In Paris, as in ancient 
 Greece, courtesans are rich, brilliant, and depraved ; 
 here in London the women are poor, stupid, and al- 
 most virtuous. Kitty is revolution. I know for a 
 fact that she has had as much as ^looo from a for- 
 eign potentate, and she spends in one day upon her 
 
46 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 tiger-cat what would keep a poor family in affluence 
 for a week. Nor can she say half-a-dozen words 
 without being witty. What do you think of this? 
 We were discussing the old question, if it were well 
 for a woman to have a sweetheart. Kitty said, ' Lon- 
 don has given me everything but that. I can al- 
 ways find a man who will give me five-and-twenty 
 guineas, but a sweetheart I can't find.' " 
 
 Every pen stopped, and expectation was on every 
 face. After a pause Mike continued — 
 
 " Kitty said, ' In the first place he must please me, 
 and I am very difficult to please ; then I must please 
 him, and sufficiently for him to give up his whole 
 time to me. And he must not be poor, for although 
 he would not give me money, it would cost him 
 several hundreds a year to invite me to dinner and 
 send me flowers. And where am I to find this 
 combination of qualities ?' Can't you hear her saying 
 it, her sweet face like a tea-rose, those innocent blue 
 ejes all laughing with happiness? The great stock- 
 broker, who has been with her for the last ten years, 
 settled fifty thousand pounds when he first took her 
 up. She \\'as speaking to me about him the other 
 day, and when I said, ' Why didn't you leave him 
 when the rnoney was settled ?' she said, ' Oh no, I 
 wouldn't do a dirty trick like that ; I contented 
 m3-sclf simply by being unfaithful to him.' " 
 
 " This is no doubt very clever, but if you put all 
 you ha\e told us into your article, you'll certainly have 
 the paper turned off the book-stalls." 
 
 The conversation paused. Every one finished his 
 brandy-and-soda, and the correction of proofs was 
 continued in silence, interrupted only by an occasional 
 oath or a word of remonstrance from Frank, who 
 begged Drake, a huge-shouldered man, whose hand 
 was never out of the cigarette-box, not to drop the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 47 
 
 lighted ends on the carpet. Mike was reading 
 Harding's article. 
 
 " I think we shall have a good number this week," 
 said Mike. " But we want a piece of verse. I 
 wonder if you could get something from John Norton. 
 What do you think of Norton, Harding ?" 
 
 " He is one of the most interesting men I know. 
 His pessimism, his Catholicism, his yearning for 
 ritual, his very genuine hatred of women, it all 
 fascinates me." 
 
 " What do you think of that poem he told us of 
 the other night?" 
 
 " Intensely interesting ; but he will never be able 
 to complete it. A man may be full of talent and yet 
 be nothing of an artist; a man maybe far less clever 
 than Norton, and with a subtler artistic sense. If a 
 seal had really something to say, I believe it would 
 find a way of saying it ; but has John Norton really 
 got any idea so overwhelmingly new and personal 
 that it would force a way of utterance where none 
 existed? The Christian creed with its tale of Mary 
 must be of all creeds most antipathetic to his natural 
 instincts, he nevertheless accepts it. . . . If you 
 agitate a pool from different sides you must stir up 
 mud, and this is what occurs in Norton's brain ; it is 
 agitated equally from different sides, and the result 
 is mud." 
 
 Mike looked at Harding inquiringly, for a moment 
 wondered if the novelist understood him as he 
 seemed to understand Norton. 
 
 A knock was heard, and Norton entered. His 
 popularity was visible in the pleasant smiles and 
 words which greeted him. 
 
 '' You are just the man we want," cried Frank. 
 " We want to publish one of your poems in the paper 
 this week." 
 
48 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I have burnt my poems," he answered, with 
 something more of sacerdotal tone and gesture than 
 usual. 
 
 All the scribblers looked up. " You don't mean to 
 say seriously that you have burnt )'our poems?" 
 
 " Yes : but I do not care to discuss my reasons. 
 You do not feel as I do." 
 
 " You mean to say that you have burnt TJte Last 
 Struggle — the poem you told us about the other 
 night ?" 
 
 " Yes, I felt 1 could not reconcile its teaching, or 
 I should say the tendency of its teaching, to my 
 religion. I do not regret — besides I had to do it ; 
 I felt I was going off my head. I should have gone 
 mad. I have been through agonies. I could not 
 think. Thought and pain and trouble were as one 
 in my brain. I heard voices. ... I had to do it. 
 And now a great calm has come. I feel much 
 better." 
 
 " You are a curious chap." 
 
 Then at the end of a long silence John said as if 
 he wished to change the conversation — 
 
 " Even though I did burn my pessimistic poem, 
 the wo.rld will not go without one. You are ^^riting 
 a poem on Schopenhauer's philosophy. It is hard to 
 associate pessimism with you." 
 
 " Only because )-ou take the ordinary view of the 
 tendenc}' of pessimistic teaching," said Mike. "If 
 you want a }'oung and laughing world, preach 
 Schopenhauer at every street corner ; if you want a 
 sober utilitarian world, preach Comte." 
 
 " Doesn't much matter what the world is as long 
 as it is not sober," chuckled Piatt, the paragraph- 
 ^\•riting youth at the bottom of the table. 
 
 " Hold your tongue !" cried Drake, and he lighted 
 another cigarette preparatory to fixing his whole 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 49 
 
 attention on the paradox that Mike was about to 
 enounce. 
 
 " The optimist beheves in the regeneration of the 
 race, in its ultimate perfectibility, the synthesis of 
 humanity, the providential idea, and the path of the 
 future ; he therefore puts on a shovel hat, cries out 
 against lust and depreciates prostitution." 
 
 "Oh, the brute!" chuckled the wizen youth, 
 "without prostitutes and public houses! what a 
 world to live in !" 
 
 " The optimist counsels manual labour for all. The 
 pessimist believes that forgetfulness and nothingness 
 is the whole of man. He says, ' I defy the wisest of 
 you to tell me why I am here, and being here, what 
 good is gained by my assisting to bring others here.' 
 The pessimist is therefore the gay Johnny, and the 
 optimist is the melancholy Johnny. The former drinks 
 champagne and takes his ' tart ' out to dinner, the lat- 
 ter says that life is not intended to be happy in — that 
 there is plenty of time to rest when you are dead." 
 
 John laughed loudly ; but a moment after, reas- 
 suming his look of admonition, he asked Mike to tell 
 him about his poem. 
 
 " The subject is astonishingly beautiful," said Mike ; 
 " I only speak of the subject ; no one, not even Victor 
 Hugo or Shelley, ever conceived a finer theme. But 
 they had execution, I have only the idea. I suppose 
 the world to have ended; but ended, how? Man 
 has at last recognized that life is in equal parts, 
 miseiy and abomination, and has resolved that it 
 shall cease. The tide of passion has again risen, and 
 lashed by repression to tenfold fury, the shores of 
 life have again been strewn with new victims ; but 
 knowledge — calm, will-less knowledge — hasgraduaHy 
 invaded all hearts , and that the restless, shifting sea 
 (which is passion) shrinks to its furthest limits. 
 
50 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 "There have been Messiahs, there have been per- 
 secutions, but the Word has been preached uninter- 
 mittently. Crowds have gathered to Hsten to the 
 wild-eyed prophets. You see them on- the desert 
 promontories, preaching that human life must cease ; 
 they call it a disgraceful episode in the life of one of 
 the meanest of tJtie planets — you see them hunted and 
 tortured as were their ancestors, the Christians of the 
 reign of Diocletian. You see them entering cottage 
 doors and making converts in humble homes. The 
 world, grown tired of vain misery, accepts oblivion. 
 
 " The rage and the seething of the sea is the image 
 I select to represent the struggle for life. The 
 dawn is my image for the diffusion and triumph of 
 sufficient reason. In a couple of hundred lines I 
 have set my scene, and I begin. It is in the plains 
 of Normandy ; of countless millions only two friends 
 remain. One of them is dying. As the stars recede 
 he stretches his hand to his companion, breathes 
 once more, looking him in the face, joyous in the 
 attainment of final rest. A hole is scraped, and the 
 last burial is achieved. Then the man, a young beau- 
 tiful man with the pallor of long vigils and spiritual 
 combat upon his face, arises. 
 
 " The scene echoes strangely the asceticism that 
 produced it. Rose-garden and vineyard are gone ; 
 there are no fields, nor hedgerows, nor gables seen 
 picturesquely on a sky, human with smoke mildly 
 ascending. A broken wall that a great elm tears and 
 rends, startles the silence ; apple-orchards spread no 
 flowery snow, and the familiar thrushes have deserted 
 the moss-grown trees, in other times their trees : and 
 the virgin forest ceases only to make bleak place for 
 marish plains with lonely pools and stagnating 
 streams, where perchance a heron rises on blue and 
 heavy wings. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 51 
 
 " All the beautiful colours the world had worn 
 when she was man's mistress are gone, and now, as 
 if mourning for her lover and lord, she is clad only 
 in sombre raiment. Since her lord departed she 
 bears but scanty fruit, and since her lover left her, 
 she that was glad has grown morose ; her joy seems 
 to have died with his ; and the feeling of gloom is 
 heightened, when at the sound of the man's foot- 
 steps a pack of wild dogs escape from a ruin, where 
 they have been sleeping, and wake the forest with 
 lugubrious yelps and barks. About the dismantled 
 porches no single rose — the survival of roses planted 
 by some fair woman's hand — remain to tell that man 
 was once there — worked there for his daily bread, 
 seeking a goodness and truth in life '-hich was not 
 his lot to attain. 
 
 " There are few open spaces, and the man has to 
 follow the tracks of animals. Sometimes he comes 
 upon a herd of horses feeding in a glade ; they turn 
 and look upon him in a round-eyed surprise, and he 
 sees them galloping on the hilsides, their manes and 
 tails floating in the wind. 
 
 " Paris is covered with brushwood, and trees and 
 wood from the shore have torn away the bridges, of 
 which only a few fragments remain. Dim and deso- 
 late are those marshes now in the twilight shedding. 
 
 "The river swirls through multitudinous ruins, 
 lighted by a crescent moon ; clouds hurry and gather 
 and bear away the day. The man stands like a saint 
 of old, who, on the last verge of the desert, turns 
 and smiles upon the world he conquered. 
 
 " The great night collects and advances in shadow ; 
 and wandering vapour, taking fire in the darkness, 
 rolls, tumbling over and over like fiery serpents 
 through loneliness and reeds. 
 
 " But in the eternal sunshine of the South flowers 
 
52 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 have not become extinct ; winds have carried seeds 
 hither and thither, and the earth has waxed lovely, 
 and the calm of the spiritual evenings of the Adriatic 
 descend upon eternal perfume and the songs of birds. 
 Symbol of pain or joy there is none, and the august 
 silence is undisturbed by tears. From rotting hang- 
 ings in Venice rats run, and that idle wave of palace- 
 stairs laps in listless leisure the fallen glories of 
 Veronese. As it is with painters so it is with poets, 
 and wolf-cubs tear the pages of the last Divine 
 Comedy in the world. Rome is his great agony, her 
 shameful history falls before his eyes like a painted 
 curtain. All the inner nature of life is revealed to 
 him, and he sees into the heart of things as did Christ 
 in the Garden of Gethsemane — Christ, that most 
 perfect symbol of the denial of the will to live; and, 
 like Christ, he cries that the world may pass from 
 him. 
 
 " But in resignation, hatred and horror vanish, and 
 he muses again on the more than human redemp- 
 tion, the great atonement that man has made for his 
 shameful life's history ; and standing amid the orange 
 and almond trees, amid a profusion of bloom that the 
 world seems to have brought for thank-offering, amid 
 an apparent and glorious victory of inanimate nature, 
 he falls down in worship of his race that had freely 
 surrendered all, knowing it to be nothing, and in sur- 
 render had gained all. 
 
 "In that moment of intense consciousness a cry 
 breaks the stillness, and searching among the marbles 
 he finds a dying woman. Gathering some fruit, he 
 gives her to eat, and they walk together, she con- 
 sidering him as saviour and lord, he wrapped in the 
 contemplation of the end. They are the end, and all 
 paling fascination, which is the world, is passing 
 from them, and they are.passing from it. And the 
 
MIKE FLETCMER. 53 
 
 splendour of gold and red ascends and spreads — crown 
 and raiment of a world that has regained its primal 
 beauty. 
 
 " ' We are alone. The woman says the world is 
 ours ; we are as king and queen, and greater than any 
 king or queen.' 
 
 " Her dark olive skin changes about the neck like 
 a fruit near to ripen, and the large arms, curving 
 deeply, fall from the shoulder in superb indolences of 
 movement, and the hair, varying from burnt up black 
 to blue, curls like a fleece adown the shoulders. She 
 is large and strong, a fitting mother of man, supple 
 in the joints as the young panther that has just 
 bounded into the thickets ; and her rich almond eyes, 
 dark, and moon-like in their depth of mystery, are 
 fixed on him. Then he awakes to the danger of the 
 enchantment ; but she pleads that they, the last of 
 mankind, may remain watching over each other till 
 the end ; and seeing his eyes flash, her heart rejoices. 
 And out of the glare of the moon they passed 
 b;neath the sycamores. And listening to the fierce 
 tiuii of the nightingales in the dusky daylight there, 
 temptation hisses like a serpent ; and the woman 
 listens, and drawing herself about the man, she 
 says — ■ 
 
 " ' The world is ours ; let us make it ours for ever ; 
 let us give birth to a new race more great and beau- 
 tiful than that which is dead. Love me, for I am 
 love ; all the dead beauties of the race are incarnate 
 in me. I am the type and epitome of all. Was the 
 Venus we saw yesterday among the myrtles more 
 lovely than I ? ' 
 
 " But he casts her from him, asking in despair (for 
 he loves her) if they are to renew the miseiy and 
 abomination which it required all the courage and all 
 the wisdom of all the ages to subdue ? He calls 
 
54 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 names from love's most fearful chronicle — Cleopatra, 
 Faustina, Borgia. A little while and man's shameful 
 life will no longer disturb the silence of the heavens. 
 But no perception of life's shame touches the heart 
 of the woman. ' I am love,' she cries again. 'Take 
 me, and make me the mother of men. In me is 
 incarnate all the love songs of the world. I am 
 Beatrice ; I am Juliet. I shall be all love to you — 
 Fair Rosamond and Queen Eleanor. I am the rose! 
 I am the nightingale ! ' 
 
 " She follows him in all depths of the forests where- 
 ever he may go. In the white morning he finds her 
 kneeling by him, and in blue and rose evening he 
 sees her whiteness crouching in the brake. He has 
 fled to a last retreat in the hills where he thought she 
 could not follow, and after a long day of travel lies 
 down. But she comes upon him in his first sleep, and 
 with amorous arms uplifted, and hair shed to the 
 knee, throws herself upon him. It is in the soft and 
 sensual scent of the honeysuckle. The bright lips 
 strive, and for an instant his soul turns sick with 
 famine for the face ; but only for an instant, and in a 
 supreme revulsion of feeling he beseeches her, crying 
 that the world may not end as it began, in blood. 
 But she heeds him not, and to save the generations 
 he dashes her on the rocks. 
 
 " Man began in bloodshed, in bloodshed he has 
 ended. 
 
 " Standing against the last tinge of purple, he 
 gazes for a last time upon the magnificence of a 
 virgin world, seeing the tawny forms of lions in the 
 shadows, watching them drinking at the stream." 
 
 " Adam and Eve at the end of the world," said 
 Drake. "A very pretty subject; but I distinctly 
 object to an Eve with black hair. Eve and golden 
 hair have ever been considered inseparable things." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 55 
 
 " That's true," said Piatt ; " the moment my missis 
 went wrong her hair turned yellow." 
 
 Mike joined in the jocularity, but at the first pause 
 he asked Escott what he thought of his poem. 
 
 " I have only one fault to find. Does not the 
 denouement seem too violent ? Would it not be 
 better if the man were to succeed in escaping from 
 her, and then vexed with scruples to return and find 
 her. dead? What splendid lamentations over the 
 body of the last woman ! — and as the man wanders 
 beneath the waxing and waning moon he hears 
 nature lamenting the last woman. Mountains, rocks, 
 forests, speak to him only of her." 
 
 "Yes, that wo aid do . . . But no — what am I saying? 
 Such a conclusion would be in exact contradiction to 
 the philosophy of my poem. For it is man's natural 
 and inveterate stupidity (Schopenhauer calls it Will), 
 that forces man to live and continue his species. 
 Reason is the opposing force. As time goes on 
 reason becomes more and more complete, until at 
 last it turns upon the will and denies it, like the 
 scorpion, which, if surrounded by a ring of fire, will 
 turn and sting itself to death. Were the man to 
 escape, and returning find the woman dead, it would 
 not be reason but accident which put an end to this 
 ridiculous world." 
 
 Seeing that attention was withdrawn from him, 
 Drake filled his pockets with cigarettes, split a soda 
 with Piatt, and seized upon the entrance of half-a- 
 dozen young men as an excuse for ceasing to write 
 paragraphs. Although it had only struck six they 
 were all in evening dress. They were under thirty, 
 and in them elegance and dissipation were equally 
 evident. Lord Muchross, a clean-shaven Johnnie, 
 walked at the head of the gang, assuming by virtue 
 of his greater volubility a sort of headship. Dicky, 
 
56 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 the driver, a stout commoner, spoke of drink ; and a 
 languid blond, Lord Snowdown, leaned against the 
 chimney-piece displaying a thin figure. The others 
 took seats and laughed whenever Lord Muchross 
 spoke. 
 
 " Here we are, old chappie, just in time to drink 
 to the health of the number. Ha, ha, ha! What 
 damned libel have you in this week? Ha, ha!" 
 
 " Awful bad head, a heavy day yesterday," said 
 Dicky — '■ drunk blind." 
 
 " Had to put him in a wheelbarrow, wheeled him 
 into a greengrocer's shop, put a carrot in his mouth, 
 and rang the bell," shouted Muchross. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha!" shouted the others. 
 
 " Had a rippin' day all the same, didn't we, old 
 Dicky? Went up the river in Snowdown's launch. 
 Had lunch by Tag's Island, went as far as Datchet. 
 There we met Dicky; he tooted us round by Staines. 
 There we got in a fresh team, galloped all the way 
 to Houndslow. Laura brought her sister. Kitty was 
 with us. Made us die with a story she told us of a 
 fellow she was spoony on. Had to put him under 
 the bed . . . Ghastly joke, dear boy ; the other fellow 
 remained till two o'clock next day." 
 
 Amid roars of laughter Dicky's voice was heard— 
 
 " She calls him Love's martyr; he nearl}- died of 
 bronchitis, and became a priest. Kitty swears she'll 
 go to confession to him one of these days." 
 
 " By Jove, if she does I 11 publish it in the 
 Pilgrim." 
 
 " Too late this week," Mike said to Frank. 
 
 " We got to town by half-past six, w ent round to 
 the Cri. to have a sherry-and-bitters, dined at the 
 Royal, went on to the Pav., and on with all the girls 
 in hansoms, four in eacli, to Snowdown's." 
 
 " See me dance the polka, dear bo}'," cried the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 57 
 
 languid lord, awaking suddenly from his indolence, 
 and as he pranced across the room most of his drink 
 went over Drake's neck ; and amid oaths and 
 laughter Escott besought of the revellers to retire. 
 
 " We are still four columns short, we must get on." 
 And for an hour and a half the scratching of the 
 pens was only interrupted by the striking of a match 
 and an occasional damn. At six they adjourned to 
 the office. They walked along the Strand swinging 
 their sticks, full of consciousness of a day's work 
 done. Drake and Piatt, who had avenged some 
 private wrongs in their paragraphs, were disturbed 
 byiihe fear of libel ; Harding gnawed the end of his 
 moustache, and reconsidered his attack on a con- 
 temporary writer, pointing his gibes afresh. 
 
 They trooped up-stairs, the door was thrown open. 
 It was a small office, and at the end of the partitioned 
 space a clerk sat in front of a ledger on a high stool, 
 his face against the window. Lounging on the 
 counter, turning over the leaves of back numbers, 
 they discussed the advertisements. They stood up 
 when Lady Helen entered.' She had come to speak 
 to Frank about a poem, and she only paused in her 
 rapid visit to shake hands with Harding, and she 
 asked Mike if his poems would be published that 
 season. 
 
 The contributors to the Pilgrim dined together on 
 Wednesday, and spent four shillings a head in an 
 old English tavern, where unlimited joint and vege- 
 tables could be obtained for half-a-crown. The old- 
 fashioned boxes into which the guests edged them- 
 selves had not been removed, and about the mahogany 
 bar, placed in the passage in front of the proprietress's 
 parlour, two dingy barmaids served actors from the 
 
 ' See A Modern Lover. 
 
58 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 adjoining theatre with whisky-and-water. The con- 
 tributors to the Pilgrim had selected a box, and were , 
 clamouring for food. Smacking his lips, the head- 
 waiter, an antiquity who cashed cheques and told 
 stories about Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray,stopped 
 in front of this table. 
 
 " Roast beef, very nice — a nice cut, sir; saddle of 
 mutton just up." 
 
 All decided for saddle of mutton. 
 " Saddle of mutton, number three." 
 Greasy and white the carver came, and as if the 
 meat were a delight the carver sliced it out. Some 
 one remarked this. 
 
 "That is nothing," said Thompson; you should 
 hear Hopkins grunting as he cuts the venison on 
 Tuesdays and Fridays, and how he sucks his lips as 
 he ladles out the gravy. We only enjoy a slice 
 or two, whereas his pleasure ends only with the 
 haunch." 
 
 The evening newspapers were caught up, glanced 
 at, and abused as worthless rags, and the editors 
 covered with lively ridicule. 
 
 The conversation turned on Boulogne, where Mike 
 had loved man)' solicitors' wives, and then on the 
 impurity of the society girl and the prurient purity 
 of her creation — the " English" novel. 
 
 "I believe that it is so," said Harding; " and in 
 her immorality we find the reason for all this be- 
 wildering outcry against the slightest licence in 
 literature. Strange that in a manifestly impure age 
 there should be a national tendency towards chaste 
 literature. I am not sure that a moral literature 
 does not of necessity imply much laxity in practical 
 morality. We seek in art what we do not find in 
 ourselves, and it would be true to nature to repre- 
 sent an unfortunate woman delighting in reading 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 59 
 
 of such purity as her own life daily insulted and 
 contradicted ; and the novel is the rag in which this 
 leperage coquettes before the mirror of its hypocrisy, 
 rehearsing the deception it would practise on future 
 time." 
 
 " You must consider the influence of impure litera- 
 ture upon young people," said John. 
 
 " No, no; the influence of a book is nothing; it is 
 life that influences and corrupts. I sent my story 
 of a drunken woman to Randall, and the next time I 
 heard from him he wrote to say he had married his 
 mistress, and he knew she was a drunkard." 
 
 " It is easy to prove that bad books don't do any 
 harm ; if they did, by the same rule good books would 
 do good, and the world would have been converted 
 long ago," said Frank. 
 
 Harding thought how he might best appropriate 
 the epigram, and when the influence of the liberty 
 lately acquired bygirls had been discussed — the right 
 to go out shopping in the morning, to sit out dances 
 on dark stairs ; in a word, the decadence and over- 
 throw of the chaperon, the conversation again turned 
 on art. 
 
 " It is very difficult," said Harding, " to be great 
 as the old masters were great. A man is great when 
 every one is great. In the great ages if you were 
 not great you did not exist at all, but in these days 
 everything conspires to support the weak." 
 • Out of deference to John, who had worn for some 
 time a very solid look of disapproval, Mike ceased 
 to discourse on half hours passed on staircases, and 
 in summer-houses when the gardener had gone to 
 dinner, and he spoke about naturalistic novels and 
 an exhibition of pastels. 
 
 " As time goes on, poetry, history, philosophy, will 
 so multiply that the day will come when the learned 
 
6o MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 will not even know the names of their predecessors. 
 There is nothing that will not increase out of all 
 reckoning except the naturalistic novel. A man may 
 write twenty volumes of poetry, history, and philoso- 
 phy. But the naturalistic novel is the essence of a 
 phase of life that the writer has lived in and assimi- 
 lated. If you take into consideration the difficulty of 
 observing twice, of the time an experience takes to 
 ripen in you, you will easily understand h priori that 
 the man will never be born who will write three." 
 
 Coffee and cigars were ordered, and Harding 
 extolled the charm and grace of pastels. 
 
 Thompson said — " I keep pastels for my hours of 
 idleness — cowardly hours, when I have no heart to 
 struggle \\ith nature, and may but smile and kiss my 
 hand to her at a distance. For dreaming I know 
 nothing like pastel ; it is the painter's opium pipe. . . . 
 Latour was the greatest pastellist of the eighteenth 
 century, and he never attempted more than a drawing 
 heightened with colour. But how suggestive, how 
 elegant, how well-bred !" 
 
 Then in reply to some flattery on the personality 
 of his art, Thompson said, " It is strange, for I assure 
 you no art was ever less spontaneous than mine. 
 What I do is the result of reflection and study of the 
 great masters ; of inspiration, spontaneity, tempera- 
 ment — temperament is the \\'ord — I know nothing. 
 When I hear people talk about temperament, it 
 always seems to me like the strong man in the fair, 
 who straddles his legs, and asks some one to step 
 upon the palm of his hand." 
 
 Drake joined in the discussion, and the chatter that 
 came from this enormous man was as small as his 
 head, \\'hich sat like a pin's-head above his shoulders. 
 Piatt drifted from the obscene into the incomprehen- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 6 1 
 
 sible. The room was fast emptying, and the waiter 
 loitered, waiting to be paid. 
 
 "We must be getting off," said Mike, "it is nearly 
 eleven o'clock, and we have still the best part of the 
 paper to read through." 
 
 " Don't be in such a damned hurry," said Frank, 
 authoritatively. 
 
 Harding bade them good-night at the door, and 
 the editors walked down Fleet Street. To pass up 
 a rickety court to the printer's, or to go through the 
 stage-door to the stage, produced similar sensations 
 in Mike. The white-washed wall, the glare of the 
 raw gas, the low monotonous voice of the reading- 
 boy, like one studying a part, or perhaps like the 
 murmur of the distant audience ; the boy coming in 
 asking for "copy" or proof, like the call-boy, with his 
 "curtain's going up, gentlemen." Is there not analogy 
 between the preparation of the paper that will be 
 before the public in the morning, and the preparation 
 of the play that will be before its eyes in the evening ? 
 
 From the glass closet where they waited for the 
 " pages," they could see the compositors bending over 
 the forms. The light lay upon a red beard, a freckled 
 neck, the crimson of the volutes of an ear. 
 
 In the glass closet there were three wooden chairs, 
 a table, and an ink-stand; on the shelf by the door a 
 few books — the London Directory, an English Diction- 
 ary, a French Dictionary — the titles of the remaining 
 books did not catch the eye. As they waited, 
 for no " pages" would be ready for them for some 
 time, Mike glanced at stray numbers of two trade 
 journals. It seemed to him strange that the same 
 compositors who set up these papers should set up 
 the Pilgrim. 
 
 Presently the " pages" began to come in, but long 
 delays intervened, and it transpired that some of the 
 
62 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " copy" was not yet in type. Frank grew weary, and 
 he complained of headache, and asked Mike to see 
 the paper through for him. Mike thought Frank 
 selfish, but there was no help for it. He could not 
 refuse, but must wait in the paraffin-like smell of the 
 ink, listening to the droning voice of the reading-boy. 
 If he could only get the proof of his poem he could 
 kill time by correcting it ; but it could not be 
 obtained. Two hours passed, and he still sat watch- 
 ing the red beard of a compositor, and the crimson 
 volutes of an ear. At last the printer's devil, his 
 short sleeves rolled up, brought in a couple of 
 pages. Mike read, following the lines with his pen, 
 correcting the literals, and he cursed when the " devil " 
 told him that ten more lines of copy were wanting 
 to complete page nine. What should he write? 
 
 About two o'clock, holding her ball-skirts out of 
 the dirt, a lady entered. 
 
 "How do you do, Emily?" said Mike. "Just 
 fancy seeing )ou here, and at this hour!" He was 
 glad of the interruption ; but his pleasure was dashed 
 by the fear that she would ask him to come home 
 with her. 
 
 " Oh, I have had such a pleasant party ; So-and-so 
 sang at Lad}' Southey's. Oh, I have enjoyed myself! 
 I knew I should find )'ou here ; but I am interrupting. 
 I will go." She put her arm round his neck. He 
 looked at her diamonds, and congratulated himself 
 that she was a lad}-. 
 
 " I am afraid I am interrupting you," she said 
 again. 
 
 " Oh no, you aren't, I shall be done in half-an-hour ; 
 I have only got a few more pages to read through, 
 Escott went away, selfish brute that he is, and has 
 left me to do all the work." 
 
 She sat by his side contentedly reading what he 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 63 
 
 had written. At half-past two all the pages were 
 passed for press, and they descended the spiral iron 
 staircase, through the grease and vinegar smell of the 
 ink, in view of heads and arms of a hundred com- 
 positors, in hearing of the drowsy murmur of the 
 reading-boy. Her brougham was at the door. As 
 she stepped in Mike screwed up his courage and said 
 good-bye. 
 
 " Won't you come ?" she said, with disappointment 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " No, not to-night. I have been slaving at that 
 paper for the last four hours. Thanks ; not to-night. 
 Good-bye ; I'll see you next week." 
 
 The brougham rolled away, and Mike walked home. 
 The hands of the clocks were stretching towards 
 three, and only a few drink-disfigured creatures of 
 thirty-five or forty lingered ; so horrible were they 
 that he did not answer their salutations. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mike was in his bath when Frank entered. 
 
 " What, not dressed yet ?" 
 
 " All very well for you to talk. You left me at 
 eleven to get the paper out as best I could. I did 
 not get away from the printer's before half-past two." 
 
 " I'm very sorry, but you've no idea how ill I felt. 
 I really couldn't have stayed on. I heard you come 
 in. You weren't alone." 
 
 The room was pleasant with the Eau de Lubin, 
 and Mike's beautiful figure appealed to Frank's 
 artistic sense ; and he noticed it in relation to the 
 twisted oak columns of the bed. The body, it was 
 
64 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 smooth and white as marble ; and the pectoral muscles 
 were especially beautiful when he leaned forward to 
 wipe a lifted leg. He turned, and the back narrowed 
 like a leaf, and expanded in shapes as subtle. He 
 was really a superb animal as he stepped out of his 
 bath. 
 
 " I wish to heavens you'd dress. Leave off mess- 
 ing yourself about. I want breakfast. Lizzie's wait- 
 ing. What are you putting on those clothes for? 
 Where are you going?" 
 
 " I am going to see Lily Young. She wrote to 
 me this morning saying she had her mother's per- 
 mission to ask me to come." 
 
 " She won't like }-ou any better for all that scent 
 and washing." 
 
 " Which of these neckties do )'ou like ?" 
 
 " I don't know. . I wish you'd be quick. Come 
 on !" 
 
 As he fixed his tie with a pearl pin he whistled the 
 ' Wedding March.' Catching Frank's ej'eshe laughed 
 and sang at the top of his voice as he went down the 
 passage. 
 
 Lizzie was reading in one of the arm-chairs that 
 stood by the high chimney-piece tall with tiles and 
 blue vases. The stiffness and glare of the red cloth 
 in which the room was furnished, contrasted with the 
 soft colour of the tapestry which covered one wall. 
 The round table shone with silver, and an agreeable 
 smell of coffee and sausages pervaded the room. 
 Lizzie looked up astonished ; but without giving her 
 time to ask questions, Mike seized her and ru.shed 
 her up and down. 
 
 "Let me go! let me go!" she exclaimed. "Are 
 you mad ?" 
 
 Frank caught up his fiddle. At last Lizzie wrenched 
 herself from Mike. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 65 
 
 "What do you mean? . . . Such nonsense!" 
 
 Laughing, Mike placed her in a chair, and un- 
 covering a dish, said^ 
 
 "What shall I give you this happy day?" 
 
 "What do you mean? I don't like being pulled 
 about." 
 
 " You know what tune that is? That's the ' Wed- 
 ding March.'" 
 
 "Who's going to be married? Not you." 
 
 " I don't know so much about that. At all events 
 I am in love. The sensation is delicious — like an ice, 
 or a glass of Chartreuse. Real love — all the others 
 were coarse passions — I feel it here, the genuine 
 article. You would not believe that I could fall in 
 love." 
 
 "Listen to me," said Lizzie. "You wouldn't talk 
 like that if you were in love." 
 
 " I always talk ; it relieves me. You have no idea 
 how nice she is ; so frail, so white — a white blonde, a 
 Seraphita. But you haven't read Balzac; you do not 
 know those white women of the north. ' Plus blanclie 
 que la blanche her mine' etc. So pure is she that I 
 cannot think of kissing her without sensations of 
 sacrilege. My lips are not pure enough for hers. I 
 would I were chaste. I never was chaste." 
 
 Mike laughed and chattered of everything. Words 
 came from him like flour from a mill. 
 
 The Pilgrim was published on Wednesday. Wed- 
 nesday was the day, therefore, for walking in the 
 Park ; for lunching out ; for driving in hansoms. 
 Like a fish on the crest of a wave he surveyed 
 London — multitudinous London, circulating about 
 him ; and he smiled with pleasure when he caught 
 sight of trees spreading their summer green upon the 
 curling whiteness of the clouds. He loved the Park. 
 The Park had always been his friend ; it had given 
 
66 AriKE FLETCHER. 
 
 him society when no door was open to him ; it had 
 been the inspiration of all his ambitions ; it was the 
 Park that had first showed him ladies and gentlemen 
 in all the gaud and charm of town leisure. There he 
 had seen for the first time the panorama of slanting 
 sunshades, patent leather shoes, horses cantering in 
 the dusty sunlight, or proudly grouped, the riders 
 flicking the flies away with gold-headed whips. He 
 loved the androgynous attire of the horsewomen — 
 collars, silk hats, and cravats. The Park appealed to 
 him intensely and strangely as nothing else did. He 
 loved the Park for the great pasture it afforded to his 
 vanity. It was in the Park he saw the fashionable 
 procuress driving — she who would not allow him to 
 pay even for champagne in her house; it was in the 
 Park he met the little actress who looked so beseech- 
 ingly in his face ; it was in the Park he met fashionable 
 ladies who asked him to dinner and took him to the 
 theatre ; it was in the Park he had found life and 
 fortune, and, saturated with happiness, with health, 
 tingling with consciousness of his happiness, Mike 
 passed among the various crowd, \\hich in its listless- 
 ness seemed to balance and air itself like a maiiy- 
 petalled flower. But much as the crowd amused 
 and pleased him, he was more amused and pleased 
 with the present vision of his own personality, 
 «hich in a long train of images and stories passed 
 within him. He loved to dream of himself; in 
 dreams he entered his soul like a temple, seeing him- 
 self in various environment, and acting in manifold 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Here am I — a poor boy from the bogs of Ireland — 
 poor people (the reflection was an unpleasant one, 
 and he escaped from it) ; at all events a poor bo)- 
 without money or friends. I have made myself what 
 I am. . . I get the best of everything — women. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 67 
 
 eating, clothes; I live in beautiful rooms surrounded 
 with pretty things. True, they are not mine, but what 
 does that matter ? — I haven't the bother of looking 
 after them. ... If 1 could only get rid of that 
 cursed accent, but I haven't much ; Escott has nearly 
 as much, and he was brought up at an English school, 
 How pleasant it is to have money! Heigho ! How 
 pleasant it is to have money ! Six pounds a week 
 from the paper, and I could make easily another four 
 if I choose. Sometimes I don't get any presents ; 
 women seem as if they were going to chuck it up, 
 and then they send all things — money, jewelry, and 
 comestables. I am sure it was Ida who sent that 
 hundred pounds. What should I do if it ever 
 came out ? But there's nothing to come out. I 
 believe I am suspected, but nothing can be proved 
 against me. 
 
 "Why do they love me? I always treat them badly. 
 Often I don't even pretend to love them, but it 
 makes no difference. Pious women, wicked women, 
 stupid women, clever women, high-class women, low- 
 class women, it is all the same — all love me. That 
 little girl I picked up in the Strand liked me before 
 she had been talking to me five minutes. And 
 what sudden fancies ! I come into a room, and every 
 feminine eye fills with sudden appetite. I wonder 
 what it is. My nose is broken, and my chin sticks 
 out like a handle. And men like me just as much as 
 women do. It is inexplicable. True, I never say 
 disagreeable things ; and it is so natural to me to 
 wheedle. I twist myself about them like a twining 
 plant about a window. Women forgive me everything, 
 and are glad to see me after years. But they are never 
 wildly jealous. Perhaps I have never been really 
 loved. . . . I don't know though — Lady Seely loved 
 me. There was an old lady at Margate, sixty if She 
 
68 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 was a day (of course there was nothing improper), 
 and she worshipped me. How nicely she used to 
 smile when she said, ' Come round here that I may 
 look at you !' — and her husband was quite as bad ; 
 he'd run all over the place after me. So-and-so was 
 quite offended because I didn't rush to see him ; he'd 
 put me up for six months. . . Servants hate Frank ; 
 for me they'd do anything. I never was in a lodging- 
 house in my life that the slavey didn't fall in love 
 with me. People dislike me ; I speak to them for 
 five minutes, and henceforth they run after me. I 
 make friends everywhere. 
 
 ." Those Americans wanted me to come and stay 
 six months with them in New York. How she did 
 press me to come ! . . . The Brookes, they want me 
 to come and stay in the country with them ; they'd 
 give me horses to ride, guns to shoot, and I'd get the 
 girls besides. They looked rather greedily at me just 
 now. How jealous poor old Emily is of them ! She 
 says, ' I'd go to the end of the earth for them' — and 
 would not raise a little finger for her. Dear old Emily, 
 she wasn't a bit cross the other night when I wouldn't 
 go home with her. I must go and see her. She says 
 she loved me — really loved me ! . . . She used to lie 
 and dream of pulling me out of burning houses. I 
 wonder wh}- I am liked ! How intangible, and yet 
 how real ! What a wonderful character I would make 
 in a novel !" 
 
 At that moment he saw Mrs. Byril in the crowd; 
 but notwithstanding his kind thoughts of her, he 
 prayed she might pass without seeing him. Perceiving 
 Lady Helen walking with her husband and Harding, 
 he followed her slim figure with his eyes, remembering 
 what Seymour's good looks had brought him, for he 
 envied all love, desiring to be himself all that women 
 desire. Then his thoughts wandered. The decoration 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 69 
 
 of the Park absorbed him — -the nobility of a group 
 of horses, the attractiveness of some dresses ; and 
 amid all . this elegance and parade he dreamed of 
 tragedy — of some queen blowing her brains out for 
 him — and he saw the fashionable dress and the blood 
 oozing from the temple, trickling slowly through the 
 sand. Then Lords Muchrossand Snowdown passed, 
 and they passed without acknowledging him ! 
 
 " Cads, cads, damn them !" His face changed ex- 
 pression. " I may rise to any height, queens may fall 
 down and worship me, but I may never undo my 
 birth. Not to have been born a gentleman! That is to 
 say, of a long line — a family with a history. Not to be 
 able to whisper, ' I may lose everything, all troubles 
 may be mine, but the fact remains that I was born 
 a gentleman I ' Those two men who cut me are lords. 
 What a delight in one's life to have a name all to 
 one's self !" And then Mike lost himself in a maze of 
 little dreams. A gleam of mail ; escutcheons and 
 castles; a hawk flew from fingers fair; a lady clasped 
 her hands when the lances shivered in the tourney ; 
 and Mike was the hero that persisted in the course 
 of this shifting little dream. 
 
 The Brookes — Sally and Maggie — stopped to speak 
 to him, and he went to lunch with them. His interest 
 in all they did and said was unbounded, and that he 
 might not be able to reproach himself with waste of 
 time, he contrived by hint and allusion to lay the 
 foundation for a future intrigue with one of the 
 girls. 
 
 Lily Young, however, had never been forgotten ; 
 she had been as constantly present in his mind as 
 this sense of the sunshine and his own happy con- 
 dition. She had been parcel of and one with these; 
 but now, as he drove to see her, he separated her 
 
•JO MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 from the morning phenomena of his Hfe, and began 
 to think definitely of her. 
 
 Smiling, he called himself a brute, and regretted 
 his failure. But in her presence his cynicism was 
 evanescent. She sat on a little sofa, covered with 
 an Indian shawl ; behind her was a great bronze, the 
 celebrated gift of a celebrated Rajah to her mother. 
 Mrs. Young had been on a tour in the East with her 
 husband, and ever since her house had been frequent- 
 ed by decrepit old gentlemen interested in Arabi, 
 and other matters which they spoke of as Eastern 
 questions. Lily wore a gray dress, and once as she 
 crossed them he saw her slim legs. 
 
 Lily looked at Mike under her eyes as she passed 
 across the room to get him some tea, and they talked 
 a little while. Then some three or four great and very 
 elderly historians entered, and she had to leave him ; 
 and feeling he could not prolong his visit he went, 
 conscious of sensations of purity and some desire 
 of goodness, if not for itself, for the grace that good- 
 ness brings. He paid many visits in this house, but 
 conversations with learned Buddhists seemed the 
 only result ; a tctc-ix-t^te with Lily seemed impossible. 
 To his surprise he never met her in society, and his 
 heart beat fast when one evening he heard she was 
 expected ; and for the first time forgetful of the 
 multitude, and nervous as a school-boy in search of 
 his first love, he sought her in the crowd. He feared 
 to remain with her, and it seemed to him he had 
 accomplished much in asking her to come down to 
 supper. When talking to others his thoughts were 
 with her, and his eyes followed her. An inquisitive 
 woman noted his agitation, and suspecting the cause 
 said, "I see, I see, and I think something may come 
 of it." Even when Lily left he did not recover his 
 ordinary humour, and about two in the morning, in 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 7 1 
 
 sullen weariness and disappointment, he offered to 
 drive Lady Helen home. 
 
 Should he make love to her? He had often wished 
 to. Here was an opportunity. 
 
 " You did not see that I was looking at you to- 
 night; you did not guess what I was thinking of." 
 
 " Yes, I did ; you were looking at and thinking of 
 my arms." 
 
 Should he pass his arm round her? Lady Helen 
 knew Lily, and might tell; he did not dare it, and 
 instead, spoke of her contributions to the paper. Then 
 the conversation branched into a description of the 
 Wednesday night festivities in Temple Gardens — the 
 shouting and cheering of the lords, the comic vocalists, 
 the inimitable Arthur, the extraordinary Bessie. He 
 told, with fits of laughterjof Muchross's stum.p speeches, 
 and how he had once got on the supper-table and 
 sat down in the very centre, regardless of plates and 
 dishes. Mike and Lady Helen nearly died of laughter 
 when he related how on one occasion Muchross and 
 Snowdown, both crying drunk, had called in a couple 
 of sweeps. " You see," he said, " the look of amaze- 
 ment on their faces, and the black 'uns were forced 
 into two chairs, and were waited upon by the lords, 
 who tucked their napkins under their arms." 
 
 "Oh don't, oh don't!" said Lady Helen, leaning 
 back exhausted. 
 
 But Mike went on, though he was hardly able to 
 speak, and told how Muchross and Snowdown had 
 .danced the can-can, kicking at the chandelier from 
 time to time, the sweeps keeping time with their im- 
 plements on the sideboard ; the revel finishing up 
 with a wresthng match, Muchross taking the big 
 sweep, and Snowdown the little one. 
 
 " You should have seen them rolling over under the 
 
72 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 dining-room table ; I shall never forget Snowdown's 
 shirt." 
 
 " 1 should like to see one of these entertainments. 
 Do you ever have a ladies' night? If you do, and 
 the ladies are not supposed to wrestle with the laun- 
 dresses in the early light, I should like to come." 
 
 " Oh, yes, do come ; Frank will be delighted. I'll 
 see that things are kept within bounds." The con- 
 versation fell, and he regretted he must forego this 
 very excellent opportunity to make love to her. 
 
 Next day, changed in his humour, but still think- 
 ing of Lily, he went to see Mrs. Byril, and he stopped 
 a few days with her. He -was always strict in his 
 own room, and if Emily sought him in the morning 
 he reprimanded her. 
 
 She was one of those women who, having much 
 heart, must affect more ; a ^\■eak intelligent woman, 
 honest and loyal — one who could not live without a 
 lover. And with her arms about his neck, she listened 
 to his amours, and learnt his poetry by heart. Mike 
 was her folly, and she would never have thought of 
 another if, as she said, he had only behaved decently 
 to her. "I am sorry, darling, I told you anything 
 about it, but when I got your beastly letter I wrote 
 to him. Tell me you'll come and stay with me next 
 month, and I'll put him off. ... I hate this new 
 girl ; 1 am jealous because she may influence you, but 
 for the others — the Brookes and their friends — the 
 half-hours spent in summer-houses when the gardener 
 is at dinner, I care not one jot." So she spoke as she 
 lay upon his knees in the black satin arm-chair in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 But her presence at breakfast — that invasion of the 
 morning hours — was irritating; he hated the request 
 to be in to lunch, and the duty of spending the 
 evening in her drawing-room, instead of in club or 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 73 
 
 bar-room. He desired freedom to spend each minute 
 as the caprice of the moment prompted. Were he 
 a rich man he would not have Hved with Frank ; to Hve 
 \\ ith a man was unpleasant ; to live with a woman was 
 intolerable. In the morning he must be alone to dream 
 of a book or poem ; in the afternoons, about four, he 
 was glad to sestheticize with Harding or Thompson, 
 or abandon himself to the charm of John's aspirations. 
 John and he were often seen walking together, 
 and they delighted in the Temple. The Temple is 
 escapement from the omniscient domesticity which is 
 so natural to England ; and both were impression- 
 able to its morning animation — the young men hurry- 
 ing through the courts and cloisters, the picturesque- 
 ness of a wig and gown passing up a flight of steps. 
 It seemed that the old hall, the buttresses and towers, 
 the queer tunnels leading from court to court, turned 
 the edge of the commonplace of life. Nor did the 
 Temple ever lose for them its quaint and primitive air, 
 and as they strolled about the cloisters talking of art 
 or literature, they experienced a deliglit that cannot 
 be quite put into words ; and were strangely glad as 
 they opened the iron gates, and looked on all the 
 many brick entanglements with the tall trees rising, 
 spreading the delicate youth of leaves upon the weary 
 red of the tiles and the dim tones of the dear walls. 
 
 " A gentel Manciple there was of the Temple 
 Of whom achatours mighten take ensample 
 For to ben wise in bying of vitaille." 
 
 The gentle shade of hnden trees, the drip of the 
 fountain, the monumented corner where Goldsmith 
 rests, awake even in the most casual and prosaic a 
 fleeting touch of romance. And the wide steps with 
 balustrades sweeping down in many turnings to the 
 gardens, cause vagrant and hurrying steps to pause, 
 
74 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 and wander about the library and through the gardens, 
 which lead with such charm of way to the open spaces 
 of the King's Bench walk. 
 
 There, there is another dining-hall and another 
 library. The clock is ringing out the hour, and the 
 place is filled with young men in office clothes, 
 hurrying on various business with papers in their 
 hands ; and such young male life is one of the charms 
 of the Temple ; and the absence of women is refresh- 
 ment to the eye wearied of their numbers in the 
 streets. The Temple is an island in the London sea. 
 Immediately you pass the great doorway, studded 
 with great nails, you pass out of the garishness of the 
 merely modern day, unhallowed by any associations, 
 into a calmer and benigner day, over which floats 
 some shadow of the great past. The old staircases 
 lighted by strange lanterns, the river of lingering 
 current, bearing in its winding so much of London 
 into one enchanted view. The church built by the 
 Templars more than seven hundred years ago, now 
 stands in the centre of the inn all surrounded, on one 
 side yellowing smoke-dried cloisters, on another side 
 various closes, feebly striving in their architecture 
 not to seem too shamefully out of keeping with its 
 beauty. There it stands in all the beauty of its 
 pointed arches and triple lancet windows, as when it 
 was consecrated by the patriarch of Jerusalem in the 
 year 1 185. 
 
 But in 1307 a great ecclesiastical tribunal was held 
 in London, and it was proved that an unfortunate 
 knight, \\\\o had refused to spit upon the cross, was 
 haled from the dining-hall and drowned in a well, and 
 testimony of the secret rites that were held there, and 
 in which a certain black idol was worshipped, was 
 forthcoming. The Grand Master was burnt at the 
 stake, the knights were thrown into prison, and their 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 75 
 
 property was confiscated. Then the forfeited estate 
 of the Temple, presenting ready access by water, at 
 once struck the advocates of the Court of Common 
 Pleas at Westminster, and the students who were 
 candidates for the privilege of pleading therein, as a 
 most desirable retreat, and interest was made with 
 the Earl of Lancaster, the king's first cousin, who 
 had claimed the forfeited property of the monks by 
 escheat, as the immediate lord of the fee, for a lodging 
 in the Temple, and they first gained a footing there 
 as his lessees. 
 
 Above all, the church with its round tower-like roof 
 was very dear to Mike and John, and they often 
 spoke of the splendid spectacl.e of the religious 
 warriors marching in procession, their white tunics 
 with red crosses, their black and white banner called 
 Beauseant. It is seen on the circular panels of the . 
 vaulting of the side aisles, and on either side the 
 letters BEAUSEANT. There stands the church of 
 the proud Templars, a round tower-like church, fitting 
 symbol of those soldier monks, at the west end of a 
 square church, the square church engrafted upon the 
 circular so as to form one beautiful fabric. The 
 young men lingered around the timeworn porch, 
 lovely with foliated columns, strange with figures in 
 prayer, and figures holding scrolls. And often without 
 formulating their intentions in words they entered 
 the church. Beneath the groined ribs of the circular 
 tower lie the mail-clad efifigies of the knights, and 
 through beautiful gracefulness of grouped pillars the 
 painted panes shed bright glow upon the tessellated 
 pavement. The young men passed beneath the 
 pointed arches and waited, their eyes raised to the 
 celestial blueness of the thirteenth century window, 
 and then in silence stole back whither the knights 
 sleep so grimly, with hands clasped on their breasts 
 and their long swords. 
 
76 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 And seeing himself in those times, clad in armour, 
 a knight templar walking in procession in that very 
 church, John recited a verse of Tennyson's Sir 
 Galahad — 
 
 " Sometimes on lonely mountain meres 
 1 find a magic bark ; 
 I leap on board ; no helmsman steers : 
 I float till all is dark. 
 
 " A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the holy Grail ; 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 
 " Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides tlie glory slides. 
 
 And star-like mingles with the stars." 
 
 " Oh ! very beautiful. ' On sleeping wings they 
 sail.' Say it again." 
 
 John repeated the stanza, his eyes fixed upon the 
 knight. 
 
 Mike said — ■ 
 
 " How different to-day the girls of the neighbour- 
 hood, their prayer-books and ifmbrellas! Yet I don't 
 think the anachronism displeases me." 
 
 "You say that to provoke me; you cannot think 
 that all the dirty little milliners' girls of the neigh- 
 bourhood are more dignified than these Templars 
 marching in procession and taking their places with 
 iron clangour in the choir." 
 
 " So far as that is concerned," said Mike, who loved 
 to " draw" John, " the little girls of the neighbourhood 
 in all probability wash themselves a great deal oftener 
 than the Templars ever did. And have you forgotten 
 the accusations that were brought against them be- 
 fore the ecclesiastical tribunal assembled in London? 
 What about the black idol with shining eyes and 
 gilded head ?" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 77 
 
 " Their vices were at least less revolting than the 
 disgustful meanness of to-day ; besides, nothing is 
 really known about the reasons for the suppression 
 of the Templars. Men who forswear women are 
 open to all contumely. Oh ! the world is wondrous, 
 just wondrous well satisfied with its domestic ideals." 
 
 The conversation came to a pause, and then Mike 
 spoke of Lily Young, and extolled her subtle beauty 
 and intelligence. 
 
 " I never liked any one as I do her. I am ashamed 
 of myself when I think of her purity." 
 
 " The purity of . . . Had she been pure she 
 would have remained in her convent." 
 
 " If you had heard her speak of her temptations . . ." 
 
 " I do not want to liear her temptations. But it 
 was you who tempted her to leave her convent. I 
 cannot but think that you should marry her. There 
 is nothing for you but marriage. You must change 
 your life. Think of the constant sin you are living in." 
 
 " But I don't believe in sin." 
 
 With a gesture that declared a non-admission of 
 such a state of soul, John hesitated, and then he 
 said — 
 
 " The beastliness of it I" 
 
 " We have to live," said Mike, " since nature has 
 so willed it, but I fully realize the knighthness of 
 your revolt against the principle of life." 
 
 John continued his admonitions, and Mike an 
 amused and appreciative listener. 
 
 " At all events, I wish you would promise not to 
 indulge in improper conversation when I am present. 
 It is dependent upon me to beg of you to oblige me 
 in this. It will add greatly to your dignity to refrain ; 
 but that is your concern ; I am thinking now only of 
 myself. Will you promise me this ?" 
 
 " Yes, and more ; I will promise not to indulge in 
 
78 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 such conversation, even when you are not p*-esent. 
 It is, as you say, lowering. ... I agree with you. 
 I will strive to mend my ways." 
 
 And Mike was sincere ; he was determined to be- 
 come worthy of Lily. And now the best hours of his 
 life — hours strangely tense and strangely personal — 
 were passed in that Kensington drawing-room. She 
 was to him like the light of a shrine ; he might kneel 
 and adore from afar, but he might not approach. The 
 goddess had come to him like themoon toEndymion. 
 He knew nothing, not even if he were welcome. Each 
 visit was the same as the preceding. A sweet but ex- 
 asperating changelessness reigned in tiiat drawing- 
 room — that pretty drawing-room where mother and 
 daughter sat in sweet naturalness, removed from the 
 grossness and meanness of life as he knew it. Neither 
 illicit whispering nor affectation of reserve, only the 
 charm of strict behaviour; unreal 'and strange \\as 
 the refinement, material and mental, in which they 
 lived. And for a time the charm sufficed ; desire 
 was at rest. But she had been to see him, however 
 at variance such a visit, such event seemed with her 
 present demeanour. And she must come again ! 
 
 In increasing restlessness he conned all the narrow 
 chances of meeting her, of speaking to her alone. 
 But no accident \aried the even tenor of their lives, 
 the calm lake-like impassibility of their relations, and 
 in last resort lie urged Frank to give a dance or 
 an At Home. And how ardently he pleaded, one 
 afternoon, sitting face to face with mother and 
 daughter. Inwardly agitated, but with outward calm, 
 he impressed upon them many reasons for their 
 being of the party. The charm of the Temple, the 
 river, and glitter of light, the novel experience of 
 bachelors' quarters. . . . They promised to come. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 79 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mike leaned forward to tie his white cravat. He 
 was slight, and white and black, and he thought of 
 Lily, of the exquisite pleasure of seeing her and lead- 
 ing her away. And he was pleased and surprised to 
 find that his thoughts of her were pure. 
 
 The principal contributors to the Pilgrim had 
 been invited, and a selection had been made from 
 the fast and fashionable gang — those who could be 
 trusted to become neither drunk nor disorderly. It 
 had been decided, but not without misgivings, to ask 
 Muchross and Snowdown. 
 
 The doors were open, servants could be seen passing 
 with glasses and bottles. Frank, who had finished 
 dressing, called from the drawing-room and begged 
 Mike to hasten ; for the housemaid was waiting to 
 arrange his room, for it had been decided that this 
 room should serve as a lounge where dancers might 
 sit between the waltzes. 
 
 " She can come in now," he shouted. He folded 
 the curtains of his strange bed ; he lighted a silver 
 lamp, re-arranged his palms, and smiled, thinking of 
 the astonished questions when he invited young ladies 
 to be seated among the numerous cushions. And 
 Mike determined he would say that he considered his 
 bed-room far too sacred to admit of any of the base 
 wants of life being performed there. 
 
 It was well-dressed Bohemia, with many markings 
 and varied with contrasting shades. The air was as 
 sugar about the doorway with the scent of gardenias ; 
 young lords shrank from the weather-stained cloth 
 of doubtful journalists, and a lady in long puce 
 
8o MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Cashmere provoked a smile. Frank received his 
 guests with laughter and epigram. 
 
 The emancipation of women is marked by the 
 decline of the chaperon, and it was not clear under 
 whose protection the young girls had come. Beneath 
 double rows of ruche-rose feet passed, and the soft 
 glow of lamps shaded with large leaves of pale glass 
 bathed the women's flesh in endless half tints ; the 
 reflected light of copper shades flushed the blond 
 hair on Lady Helen's neck to auroral fervencies. 
 
 In one group a fat man with white hair and faded 
 blue eyes talked to Mrs. Bentham and Lewis Seymour. 
 A visit to the Haymarket Theatre being arranged, 
 he said — • 
 
 " May I hope to be permitted to form one of the 
 party ?" 
 
 Harding overheard the remark. He said, " It is 
 difficult to'believe, but I assure you that that Mr. 
 Senbrook was one of the greatest Don Juans that 
 ever lived." 
 
 " We have in this room Don Juan in youth, middle 
 age, and old age — Mike Fletcher, Lewis Seymour, 
 and Mr. Senbrook." 
 
 " Did Seymour, that fellow with the wide hips, ever 
 have success with women? How fat he has grown !" 
 
 "Rather;' don't you know his story? He came up 
 to London with a few pounds. When we knew him 
 first he was starving in Lambeth. You remember, 
 Thompson, the day he stood us a lunch ? He had 
 just taken a decorative panel to a picture-dealer's, 
 for which he had received a few pounds, and he told 
 us how he had met a lady (there's the lady, the 
 woman with the white hair, Mrs. Bentham) in the 
 picture-dealer's shop. She fell in love with him, and 
 
 ' See A Modern Lover. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 8 1 
 
 took him down to her country house to decorate it. 
 She sent him to Paris to study, and it was said em- 
 ployed a dealer for years to buy his pictures." 
 
 " And he dropped her for Lady Helen?" 
 
 " Not exactly. Lady Helen dragged him away 
 from her. He never seized or dropped anything." 
 
 " Then what explanation do you give of his suc- 
 cess.'" said a young barrister. 
 
 " His manner was always gentle and insinuating. 
 Ladies found him pretty to look upon, and very 
 soothing. Mike is just the same ; but of course 
 Seymour never had any of Mike's brilliancy or en- 
 thusiasm." 
 
 " Do you know anything of the old gentleman — 
 Senbrook's his name ?" 
 
 " I have heard that those watery eyes of his were 
 once of entrancing violet hue, and I believe he was 
 wildly enthusiastic in his love. His life has been 
 closely connected with mine." 
 
 " I didn't know you knew him." 
 
 " I do not know him. Yet he poisoned my happiest 
 years ; he is the upas tree in whose shade I slept. 
 When I was in Paris I loved a lady ; and I used to 
 make sacrifices for this lady, who was, needless to 
 say, not worthy of them ; but she had loved Sen- 
 brook in her earliest youth, and it appears when a 
 woman has once loved Senbrook, she can love none 
 other. You wouldn't think it, to look at him now, but 
 I assure you it is so. France is filled with the women 
 he once loved. The provincial towns are dotted with 
 them. I know eight — eight exist to my personal 
 knowledge. Sometimes a couple live together, united 
 by the indissoluble fetter of a Senbrook betrayal. 
 They know their lives are broken, and they are 
 content that their lives should be broken. They 
 have loved Senbrook, therefore there is nothing to 
 
82 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 do but retire to France. You may think I am joking, 
 but I'm not. It is comic, but that is no reason why 
 it shouldn't be true. And these ladies neither forget 
 nor upbraid ; and they will attack you like tigers if 
 you dare say a word against him. This creation of 
 faith is the certain sign of Don Juan ! No matter 
 how cruelly the real Don Juan behaves, the women 
 he has deceived are ready to welcome him. After 
 years they meet him in all forgetfulness of wrong. 
 Examine history, and you will find that the love 
 inspired by the real Don Juan ends only with death. 
 Nor am I sure that the women attach much impor- 
 tance to his infidelities ; they accept them, his in- 
 fidelities being a consequential necessity of his being, 
 the eons and the attributes of his godhead. Don 
 Juan inspires no jealousy ; Don Juan stabbed by an 
 infuriated mistress is a psychological impossibility." 
 
 " I have heard that Seymour used to drive Lady 
 Helen crazy with jealousy." 
 
 " Don Juan disappears at the church-door. He 
 was her husband. The most unfaithful wife is wildly 
 jealous of her husband." 
 
 A sudden silence fell, and a young girl was borne 
 out fainting. 
 
 " Nothing more common than for young girls to 
 faint when he is present. Go," said Harding, " and 
 you will hear her calling his name." Then, picking 
 up the thread of the paradox, he continued — " But 
 you can't have Don Juan in this century, our civiliz- 
 ation has wiped him out ; not the vice of which he is 
 representative — that is eternal — but the spectacle of 
 adventure of which he is the hero. No more fascin- 
 ating idea. Had the age admitted of Don Juan, I 
 should have written out his soul long ago. I love 
 the idea. With duelling and hose picturesqueness 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 83 
 
 has gone out of life. The mantle and the rapier are 
 essential ; and angry words . . ." 
 
 " Are angry words picturesque ?" 
 
 " Angry words mean angry attitudes ; and they 
 are picturesque." 
 
 The young men smiled at the fascinating eloquence, 
 and feeling an appreciative audience about him, 
 Harding continued — 
 
 " See Mike Fletcher, know him, understand him, 
 and imagine what he would have been in the 
 eighteenth century, the glory of adventure he would 
 have gathered. His life to-day is a mean parody 
 upon an easily realizable might-have-been. So vital 
 is the idea in him that his life to-day is the reflection 
 of a life that burned in another age too ardently to 
 die with death. In another age Mike would have 
 outdone Casanova. Casanova ! — what a magnificent 
 Casanova he would have been! Casanova is to me 
 the most fascinating of characters. He was every- 
 thing — a frequenter of taverns and palaces, a necro- 
 mancer. His audacity and unscrupulousness, his 
 comedies, his immortal memoirs ! What was that 
 delightful witty remark he made to some stupid 
 husband who lay on the ground, complaining that 
 Casanova hadn't fought faii-ly ? You remember ? it 
 was in an avenue of chestnut trees, approaching a 
 town. Ha! I have forgotten. Mike has all that this 
 man had — love of adventure, daring,courage,strength, 
 beauty, skill. For Mike would have made a unique 
 swordsman. Have you ever seen him ride ? Have 
 you ever seen him shoot ? I have seen him knock a 
 dozen pigeons over in succession. Have you ever seen 
 him play billiards? He made a break of a hundred 
 two years ago. Have you ever seen him pla5''tennis? 
 He is the best man we have in the Temple. And 
 a poet! Have you ever heard him tell of the poem 
 
84 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 he is writing? The most splendid subject. He says 
 that neither Goethe nor Hugo ever thought of a 
 better." 
 
 "You may include self-esteem in your list of his 
 qualities." 
 
 " A platitude ! Self-esteem is synonymous with 
 genius. Still, I do not suppose he would in any 
 circumstances have been a great poet ; but there is 
 enough of the poet about him to enhance and com- 
 plete his Don Juan genius." 
 
 " You would have to mend his broken nose before 
 you could cite him as a model Don Juan." 
 
 " On the contrary, by breaking his nose chance 
 emphasized nature's intention ; for a broken nose is 
 the element of strangeness so essential in modern 
 beauty, or shall I say modern attractiveness ? But 
 see that slim figure in hose, sword on thigh, wrapped 
 in rich mantle, arriving on horseback with Leporello! 
 Imagine the castle balcony, and the pale sky, green 
 and rose, pensive as her dream, languid as her atti- 
 tude. Then again, the grand staircase with courtiers 
 bowing solemnly; or maybe the wave lapping the 
 marble, the gondola shooting through the shadow! 
 What encounters, what assignations, what disappear- 
 ances, what sudden returningsl So strong is the 
 love idea in him, that it has s'uscitated all that is 
 inherent and essential in the character. It sent him 
 to Boulogne so that he might fight a duel ; and the 
 other day a nun left her convent for him. Curious 
 atavism, curious recrudescence of a dead idea of man! 
 Say is it his fault if his pleasures are limited to clan- 
 destine visits ; his fame to a summons to appear in a 
 divorce case ; his danger to that most pitiful of 
 modern ignominies — five shillings a week? . . . Bah! 
 this age has much to answer for." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 85 
 
 "But Casanova was a marvellous necromancer, 
 an extraordinary gambler." 
 
 " I know no more enthusiastic gambler than Mike. 
 Have you ever seen him play whist ? At Boulogne 
 he cleaned them all out at baccarat." 
 
 " And lost heavily next day, and left without 
 paying." 
 
 " The facts of the case have not been satisfactorily 
 established. Have you seen him do tricks with 
 cards ? He used to be very fond of card tricks ; and, 
 by Jove ! now I remember, there was a time when 
 ladies came to consult him. He had two pieces of 
 paper folded up in the same way. He gave one to 
 the lady to write her question on ; she placed it in a 
 cleft stick and burnt it in a lamp ; but the stick was 
 cleft at both ends, and Mike managed it so that she 
 burnt the blank sheet, while he read what she had 
 written. Very trivial ; inferior of course to Casanova's 
 immense cabalistic frauds, but it bears out my con- 
 tention . . . Have you ever read the Memoirs ? What 
 a prodigious book ! Do you remember when the 
 Duchesse de Chartres comes to consult the cabale 
 in the little apartment in the Palais Royal as to the 
 best means of getting rid of the pimples on her face ? . . . 
 and that scene (so exactly like something Wycherley 
 might have written) when he meets the rich farmer's 
 daughter travelling about with her old uncle, the 
 priest ?" 
 
 Mike was talking to Alice Barton, who was 
 chaperoning Lily. Though she knew nothing of his 
 character she had drawn back instinctively, but her 
 strictness gradually crumbled and sank in his persua- 
 siveness, and when he rose to go out of the room 
 with Lily, she was astonished that she had pleasure 
 in his society. 
 
 Lily was more beautiful than usual, the heat and 
 
86 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 the pleasure of seeing her admirer having flushed her 
 cheeks. He was penetrated with her sweetness, and 
 the hand laid on his arm thrilled him. Where should 
 he take her? Unfortunately the staircase was in 
 stone ; servants were busy in the drawing-room. 
 
 " How beautifully Mr. Escott plays the violin !" 
 
 The melodious strain reeked through the doorways 
 filling the passage. 
 
 " That is Stradella's ' Chanson d'Eglise.' He al- 
 ways plays it ; I'm sick of it." 
 
 " Yes, but I'm not. Do not let us go far, I should 
 like to listen." 
 
 " I thought you would have preferred to talk with 
 me." 
 
 Her manner did not encourage him to repeat his 
 words, and he waited, uncertain what he should say 
 or do. When the piece was over, he said — 
 
 " We had to turn my bedroom into a retiring- 
 room. I'm afraid we shall not be alone." 
 
 "That does not matter; my mother does not 
 approve of young girls sitting out dances." 
 
 " But your mother isn't here." 
 
 " I should not think of doing anything I knew she 
 did not wish me to do." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
 of Muchross with several lords, and he was with 
 difficulty dissuaded from an attempt to swarm up 
 the columns of the wonderful bed. The room 
 was full of young girls and barristers gathered from 
 the- various courts. Some had stopped before the 
 great Christ. A girl had touched the suspended 
 silver lamp and spoken of "dim religious light"; but 
 by no word or look did Lily admit that she had been 
 there before, and Mike felt it would be useless to 
 remind her that she had. She was the same as she 
 was every Wednesday in her mother's drawing-room. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 87 
 
 And the party had been given solely with a view of 
 withdrawing her from its influence. What was he 
 to say to this girl ? Was he to allow all that had 
 passed between them to slip ? Never had he felt so ill 
 at ease. At last, fixing his eyes upon her, he said — 
 
 " Let us cease this trifling. Perhaps you do not 
 know how painful it is to me. Tell me, will you 
 come and see me? Do not let us waste time. I 
 never see you alone now." 
 
 " I could not think of coming to see you ; it would 
 not be right." 
 
 " But you did come once." 
 
 " That was because I wanted to see where you 
 lived. Now that I know, there would be no reason 
 for coming again.". 
 
 " You have not forgiven me. If you knew how I 
 regret my conduct ! Try and understand that it was 
 for love of j^ou. I was so fearful of losing you. I 
 have lost you ; I know it !" 
 
 He cursed himself for the irresolution he had 
 shown. Had he made her his mistress she would 
 now be hanging about his neck. 
 
 " I forgive you. But I wish you would not speak 
 of love in connection with your conduct ; when you 
 do, all my liking for you dies." 
 
 "How cruel! Then I shall never kiss you again. 
 Was my kiss so disagreeable? Do you hate to kiss 
 me?" 
 
 " I don't know that I do, but it is not right. If I 
 were married to you it would be different." 
 
 The conversation fell. Then realizing that he was 
 compromising his chances, he said — 
 
 " How can I marry you ? I haven't a cent in the 
 world." 
 
 " I am not sure I would marry you if you had 
 every cent in the world." 
 
88 MIKE FLETCHEK. 
 
 Mike looked at her in despair. She was adorably 
 frail and adorably pale. 
 
 " This is very cruel of you." Words seemed very 
 weak, and he feared that in the restlessness and pain 
 of his love he had looked at her foolishly. So he 
 almost welcomed Lady Helen's intrusion upon their 
 tHe-h-tite. 
 
 "And this is the way you come for your dance, 
 Mr. Fletcher, is it ?" 
 
 " Have they begun dancing? I did not know it. 
 I beg your pardon." 
 
 " And I too am engaged for this dance. I promised 
 it to Mr. Escott," said Lily. 
 
 " Let me take you back." 
 
 He gave her his arm, assuring himself that if she 
 didn't care for him there were hundreds who did. 
 Lady Helen was one of the handsomest women in 
 London, and he fancied she was thinking of him. And 
 when he returned he stood at the door watching her as 
 she leaned over the mantelpiece reading a letter. She 
 did not put it away at once, but continued readingand 
 playing with the letter as one might with something 
 conclusive and important. She took no precaution 
 against his seeing it, and he noticed that it was in a 
 man's handwriting, and began Ala chere amie. The 
 room was now empty, and the clatter of knives and 
 forks drowned the strains of a waltz. 
 
 " You seemed to be very much occupied with that 
 young person. She is very pretty. I advise you to 
 take care." 
 
 " I don't want to marry. I shall never marry. 
 Did you think I was in love with Miss Young?" 
 
 " Well, it looked rather like it." 
 
 " No ; I swear you are mistaken. I say, if you 
 don't care about dancing we'll sit down and talk. 
 So you thought I was in love with Miss Young? 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 89 
 
 How could I be in love with her while ypu are in 
 the room ? You know, you must have seen, that I 
 have only eyes for you. The last time I was in Paris 
 I went to see you in the Louvre." | 
 
 "You say I am like Jean Gougon's statue." 
 
 " I think so, so far as a pair of stays allows me to 
 judge." 
 
 Lady Helen laughed, but there was no pleasure in 
 her laugh ; it was a hard, bitter laugh. 
 
 " If only you knew how indifferent I am ! What 
 does it matter whether I am like the statue or not ? 
 I am indifferent to everything." 
 
 " But I admire you because jjou are like the statue." 
 
 " What does it matter to me whether you admire 
 me or not? I don't care." 
 
 He had not asked her for the dance ; she had 
 sought him of her free will. What did it mean ? 
 
 " Why should I care ? What is it to me whether 
 you like me or whether you hate me ? I know very 
 well that three months after my death every one will 
 have ceased to think of me ; three months hence it 
 will be the same as if I had never lived at all." 
 
 " You are well off ; you have talent and beauty. 
 What more do you want ?" 
 
 " The world cannot give rile happiness. You find 
 happiness in your own heart, not in worldly posses- 
 sions. . . I am a pessimist. I recognize that life is a 
 miserable thing — not only a miserable thing, but a 
 useless thing. We can do no good ; there is no good 
 to be done ; and life has no advantage except that we 
 can put it off when we will. Schopenhauer is wrong 
 when he asserts that suicide is no solution of the evil ; 
 so far as the individual is concerned suicide is a per- 
 fect solution, and were the race to cease to-morrow, 
 nature would instantly choose another type and force 
 it into consciousness. Until this earth resolves itself 
 
go MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 to ice or cinder, matter will never cease to know 
 itself." 
 
 " My dear," said Lewis Seymour, who entered the 
 room at that moment, " I am feeling very tired ; I 
 think I shall go home, but do not mind me. I will 
 take a hansom — you can have your brougham. You 
 will not mind coming home alone?" 
 
 " No, I shall not mind. But do you take the 
 brougham. It will be better so. It will save the 
 horse from cold ; I'll come back in a hansom." 
 
 Mike noticed a look of relief or of pleasure on her 
 face, he could not distinguish which. He pressed the 
 conversation on wives,, husbands, and lovers, striving 
 to lead her into some confession. At last she said — 
 
 " I have had a lover for the last four years." 
 
 "Really!" said Mike. He hoped his face did not 
 betray his great surprise. This was the first time he 
 had ever heard a lady admit she had had a lover. 
 
 " We do not often meet ; he doesn't live in England. 
 I have not seen him for more than six months." 
 
 " Do you think he is faithful to you all that time?" 
 
 " What does it matter whether he is or not ? When 
 we meet we love each other just the same." 
 
 '' I have never known a woman like you. You are 
 the only one that has ever interested me. If you had 
 been my mistress or my wife you would have been 
 happier; you would have worked, and in work, not 
 in pleasure, we may cheat life. You would- have 
 written your books, I should have written mine." 
 
 " I don't want you to think I am whining about 
 my lot. I know what the value of life is; I'm not 
 deceived, that is all." 
 
 " You are unhappy because your present life affords 
 no outlet for your talent. Ah ! had you had to fight 
 the battle! How happy it would have made me to 
 fight life with you ! I wonder you never thought of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 9 1 
 
 leaving your husband, and throwing yourself into the 
 battle of work." 
 
 " Supposing I wasn't able to make my living. To 
 give up my home would be running too great a 
 risk." 
 
 " How common all are when you begin to know 
 them," thought Mike. 
 
 They spoke of the books they had read. She told 
 him of Le Journal d' Amiel, explaining the charm that 
 that lamentable record of a narrow, weak mind, whose 
 power lay in an intense consciousness of its own 
 failure, had for her. She spoke savagely, tearing out 
 her soul, and flinging it as it were in Mike's face, 
 frightening him not a little. 
 
 " I wish I had known Amiel ; I think I could have 
 loved him." 
 
 " Did he never write anything but this diary?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but nothing of any worth. The diary 
 was not written for publication. A friend of his 
 found it among his papers, and from a huge mass 
 extricated two volumes." Then speaking in praise 
 of the pessimism of the Russian novels, she said — 
 " There is no pleasure in life — at least none for me ; 
 the only thing that sustains me is curiosity." 
 
 " I don't speak of love, but have you no affection 
 for your friends? — you like me, for instance." 
 
 "I am interested in you — you rouse my curiosity; 
 but when I know you, I shall pass you by just like 
 another." 
 
 " You are frank, to say the least of it. But like 
 all other women, I suppose you like pleasure, and I 
 adore you ; I really do. 1 have never seen any one 
 like you. You are superb to-night ; let me kiss you." 
 He took her in his arms. 
 
 " No, no ; loose me. You do not love me, I do 
 not love you ; this is merely vice." 
 
92 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 He pleaded she was mistaken. They spoke of 
 indifferent things, and soon after went in to supper. 
 
 "What a beautiful piece of tapestry!" said Lady 
 Helen. 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? But how strange!" he said, stopping 
 in the doorway. " See how exquisitely real is the 
 unreal — that is to say, how full of idea, how sugges- 
 tive ! Those blue trees and green skies, those nymphs 
 like unswathed mummies, colourless but for the red 
 worsted of their lips, — that one leaning on her bow, 
 pointing to the stag that the hunters are pursuing 
 through a mysterious yellow forest, — are to my mind 
 infinitely more real than the women bending over 
 their plates. At this moment the real is mean and 
 trivial, the ideal is full of evocation." 
 
 " The real and the ideal ; why distinguish as people 
 usually distinguish between the words? The real is 
 but the .shadow of the ideal, the ideal but the shadow 
 of the real." 
 
 The table was in disorder of cut pineapple, scat- 
 tered dishes, and drooping flowers. Muchross, 
 Snowdown, Dicky the driver, and others were 
 grouped about the end of the table, and a waiter 
 who styled them " most amusing gentlemen," sup- 
 plied fresh bottles of champagne. Muchrosshadmade 
 several speeches, and now jumping on a chair, he dis- 
 coursed on the tapestry, drawing outrageous paral- 
 lels, and talking unexpected nonsense. The castle 
 he identified as the cottage where he and Jenny had 
 spent the summer ; the bleary-eyed old peacock was 
 the chicken he had dosed with cayenne pepper, hop- 
 ing to cure its rheumatism ; the pool with the white 
 threads for sunlight was the water-butt into which 
 Tom had fallen from the tiles — " those are the hairs 
 out of his own old tail." The nymphs were Laura, 
 Maggie, Emily, &c. Mike a.sked Lady Helen to 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 93 
 
 come into the dancing-room, but she did not appear 
 to hear, and her laughter encouraged Muchross to 
 further excesses. The riot had reached its height, 
 and dancers were beginning to come from the draw- 
 ing-room to ask what it was all about. 
 
 " All about !" shouted Muchross ; " I don't care any- 
 more about nymphs — I only care about getting drunk 
 and singing. ' What cheer, 'Ria ! ' " 
 
 " Don't you care for dancing?" said Lady Helen, 
 with tears running down her cheeks 
 
 " Ra-ther ; see me dance the polka, dear girl." And 
 they went banging through the dancers. Snowdown 
 and Dicky shouted approval. 
 
 " What cheer, 'Ria ! 
 
 'Ria's on the job. 
 What cheer, 'Ria ! 
 
 Speculate a bob. 
 'Ria is a toff, and she is immensikoff — 
 And we all shouted, 
 What cheer, 'Ria!" . 
 
 Amid the uproar Lady Helen danced with Lily 
 Young. Insidious fragilities of eighteen were laid 
 upon the plenitudes of thirty ! Pure pink and cream- 
 pink floated on the wind of the waltz, fading out of 
 colour in shadowy corners, now gliding into the glare 
 of burnished copper, to the quick appeal of the 
 ' Estudiantina.' A life that had ceased to dream 
 smiled upon one which had begun to dream. Sad 
 eyes of Summer, that may flame with no desire again, 
 looked into the eyes of Spring, where fancies collect 
 like white flowers in the wave of a clear fountain. 
 
 Mike and Frank turned shoulder against shoulder 
 across the room, four legs following in intricate unison 
 to the opulent rhythm of the ' Blue Danube' ; and 
 when beneath ruche-rose feet died away in little ex- 
 hausted steps, the men sprang from each other, and 
 
94 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 the rhythm of sex was restored — Mike with Lily, and 
 Frank with Helen, yielding hearts, hands, and feet in 
 the garden enchantment of Straus' waltz. 
 
 The smell of burnt-out and quenched candle-ends 
 pervaded the apartment, and slips of gray light ap- 
 peared between the curtains. The day, alas ! had 
 come upon them. Frank yawned ; and pale with 
 weariness he longed that his guests might leave him. 
 Chairs had been brought out on the balcony. Much- 
 ross and his friends had adjourned from the supper- 
 room, bringing champagne and an hysterical lady 
 with them. Snowdown and Piatt were with difficulty 
 dissuaded from attempting acrobatic feats on the 
 parapet ; and the city faded from deep purple into a 
 vast grayness. Strange was the little party ensconced 
 in the stone balcony high above the monotone of the 
 river. 
 
 Hardirfg and Thompson, for pity of Frank, had 
 spoken of leaving, but the lords and the lady were 
 obdurate. Her husband had left in despair, leaving 
 Muchross to bring her home safely to Notting Hill. 
 As the day broke even the " bluest" stories failed to 
 raise a laugh. At last some left, then the lords left; 
 ten minutes after Mike, Frank, Harding, and Thomp- 
 son w ere alone. 
 
 " Those infernal fellows wouldn't go, and now I'm 
 I. t a bit sleepy." 
 
 " I am," said Thompson. " Come on, Harding; you 
 are going my way." 
 
 " Going your way ! " 
 
 " Yes ; you can go through the Park. The walk 
 will do you good." 
 
 " I should like a walk," said Escott, " I'm not a bit 
 sleepy now." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 95 
 
 "Come on then ; walk with me as far as Hyde Park 
 Corner." 
 
 " And come home alone ! Not if I know it— I'll 
 go if Mike will come." 
 
 " I'll go," said Mike. " You'll come with us, 
 Harding?" 
 
 " It is out of my way, but if you are all going. . . . 
 Where's John Norton?" 
 
 " He left about an hour ago." 
 
 " Let's wake him up." 
 
 As they passed up the Temple towards the Strand 
 entrance, they turned into Pump Court, intending to 
 shout. But John's window was open, and he stood, 
 his head out, taking the air. 
 
 " What ! — not gone to bed yet ?" 
 
 " No ; I have bad indigestion, and cannot sleep." 
 
 " We are going to walk as far as Hyde Park Corner 
 with Thompson. Just the thing for you ; you'll walk 
 off your indigestion." 
 
 "All right. Wait a moment; I'll put my coat 
 on. . . . 
 
 " I never pass a set of street-sweepers without 
 buttoning up," said Harding, as they went out of 
 the Temple into the Strand. " The glazed shoes I 
 don't mind, but the tie is too painfully significant." 
 
 " The old signs of City," said Thompson, as a 
 begging woman rose from a door-step, and stretched 
 forth a miserable arm and hand. 
 
 About the closed wine-shops and oyster-bars of 
 the Haymarket a shadow of the dissipation of the 
 night seemed still to linger ; and a curious bent fig- 
 ure passed picking with a spiked stick cigar-ends out 
 of the gutter; significant it was, and so too was the 
 starving dog which the man drove from a bone. 
 The city was mean and squalid in the morning, and 
 conveyed a sense of derision and reproach— the 
 
96 MIKE FLETCHEh. 
 
 sweep-carriage-road of Regent Street ; the Royal 
 Academy, pretentious, aristocratic ; the Green Park 
 still presenting some of the graces of a preceding 
 century. There were but three cabs on the rank. 
 The market-carts rolled along long Piccadilly, the 
 great dray-horses shuffling, raising little clouds of 
 dust in the barren street, the men dozing amid the 
 vegetables. 
 
 They were now at Hyde Park Corner. Thompson 
 spoke of the improvements — the breaking up of the 
 town into open spaces; but he doubted if anything 
 would be gained by these imitations of Paris. His 
 discourse was, however, interrupted by a porter from 
 the Alexandra Hotel asking to be directed to a cer- 
 tain street. He had been sent to fetch a doctor im- 
 mediately — a lady just come from an evening party 
 had committed suicide. 
 
 " What was she like?" Harding asked. 
 
 " A tall woman." 
 
 " Dark or fair?" 
 
 He couldn't say, but thought she was something 
 between the two. Prompted by a strange curiosity, 
 feeling, they knew not why, but still feeling that it 
 might be some one from Temple Gardens, they went 
 to the hotel, and obtained a description of the sui- 
 cide from the head-porter. The lady was very tall, 
 with beautiful golden hair. For a description of her 
 dress the housemaid was called. 
 
 " I hope," said Mike, " she won't say she was 
 dressed in cream-pink, trimmed with olive ribbons." 
 She did. Then Harding told the porter he was 
 afraid the lady was Lady Helen Seymour, a friend of 
 theirs, whom they had seen that night in a party 
 given in Temple Gardens by this gentleman, M". 
 Frank Escott. They were conducted up the desert 
 staircase of the hotel, for the lift did not begin 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 97 
 
 working till seven o'clock. The door stood ajar, and 
 servants were in charge. On the left was a large bed, 
 with dark-green curtains, and in the middle of the 
 room a round table. There were two windows. The 
 toilette-table stood between bed and window, and in 
 the bland twilight of closed Venetian blinds a hand- 
 some fire flared loudly, throwing changing shadows 
 upon the ceiling, and a deep, glowing light upon the ■ 
 red panels of the wardrobe. So the room fixed itself 
 for ever on their minds. They noted the crude colour 
 of the Brussels carpet, and even the oilcloth around 
 the toilette-table was remembered. They saw that 
 the round table was covered with a red tablecloth, 
 and that writing materials were there, a pair of stays, 
 a pair of tan gloves, and some withering flowers. 
 They saw the ball-dress that Lady Helen had worn 
 thrown over the arm-chair; the silk stockings, the 
 satin shoes — and a gleam of sunlight that found its 
 way between the blinds fell upon a piece of white 
 petticoat. Lady Helen lay in the bed, thrown back 
 low down on the pillow, the chin raised high, em- 
 phasizing a line of strained white throat. She lay 
 in shadow and firelight, her cheek touched by the 
 light. Around her eyes the shadows gathered, and 
 as a landscape retains for an hour some impression 
 of the day which is gone, so a softened and hallowed 
 trace of life lingered upon her. 
 
 Then the facts of the case were told. She had 
 driven up to the hotel in a hansom. She had asked 
 if No. 57 was occupied, and on being told it was not, 
 said she would take it ; mentioning at the same time 
 that she had missed her train, and would not return 
 home till late in the afternoon. She had told the 
 housemaid to light a fire, and had then dismissed 
 her. Nothing more was known ; but as the porter 
 explained, it was clear she had gone to bed so as to 
 make sure of shooting herself through the heart. 
 
gS MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " The pistol is still in her hand ; we never disturb 
 anything till after the doctor has completed his ex- 
 amination." 
 
 Each felt the chill of steel against the naked side, 
 and seeing the pair of stays on the table, they calcu- 
 lated its resisting force. 
 
 Harding mused on the ghastly ingenuity, withal so 
 strangely reasonable. Thompson felt he would give 
 his very life to make a sketch. Mike wondered what 
 her lover was like. Frank was overwhelmed in sen- 
 timental sorrow. John's soul was full of strife and 
 suffering. He had sacrificed his poems, and had yet 
 ventured in revels which had led to such results ! 
 Then as they went down-stairs, Harding gave the 
 porter Lewis Seymour's name and address, and said 
 he should be sent for at once. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " I don't say we have never had a suicide here 
 before, sir," said the porter in reply to Harding as 
 they descended the steps of the hotel ; " but I don't 
 see how we are to help it. Whenever the upper 
 classes want to do away with themselves they choose 
 one of the big hotels — the Grosvenor, the Langham, 
 or ourselves. Indeed they say more has done the 
 trick in the Langham than 'ere, I suppose because it 
 is more central ; but you can't get behind the mo- 
 tives of such people. They never think of the 
 trouble and the harm they do us ; they only think of 
 themselves." 
 
 London was now awake ; the streets were a-clatter 
 with cabs ; the pick of the navvy resounded ; night 
 loiterers were disappearing and giving place to hur- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 99 
 
 rying early risers. In the resonant morning the 
 young men walked together to the Corner. There 
 they stopped to bid each other good-bye. John' 
 called a cab, and returned home in intense mental 
 agitation. 
 
 " It really is terrible," said Mike. " It isn't like 
 life at all, but some shocking nightmare. What could 
 have induced her to do it?" 
 
 " That we shall probably never know," said 
 Thompson ; " and she seemed brimming over with 
 life and fun. How she did dance ! . . ." 
 
 " That was nerves. I had a long talk with her, and 
 I assure you she quite frightened me. She spoke 
 about the weariness of living ; — no, not as we talk of 
 it, philosophically ; there was a special accent of 
 truth in what she said. You remember the porter 
 mentioned that she asked if No. 57 was occupied. I 
 believe that is the room where she used to meet her 
 lover. I believe they had had a quarrel, and she 
 went there intent on reconciliation, and finding him 
 gone determined to kill herself. She told me she 
 had had a lover for the last four years. I don't know 
 why she told me — it was the first time I ever heard 
 a lady admit she had had a lover ; but she was in an 
 awful state of nerve excitement, and I think hardly 
 knew what she was saying. She took the letter out 
 of her bosom and read it slowly. I couldn't help 
 seeing it was in a man's handwriting ; it began, ' Ma 
 chere amie.' I heard her tell her husband to take the 
 brougham ; that she would come home in a cab. 
 However, if my supposition is correct, I hope she 
 burnt the letter." 
 
 " Perhaps that's what she lit the fire for. Did you 
 notice if the writing materials had been used ?" 
 
 " No, I didn't notice," said Mike. " And all so 
 elaborately planned ! Just fancy — shooting herself in 
 
100 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 a nice warm bed! She was determined to do it ef- 
 fectually. And she must have had the revolver in 
 her pocket the whole time. I remember now, I had 
 gone out of the room for a moment, and when I 
 came back she was leaning over the chimney-piece, 
 looking at something." 
 
 " I have often thought," said Harding, " that sui- 
 cide is the culminating point of a state of mind long 
 preparing. I think that the mind of the modern 
 suicide is generally filled, saturated with the idea. I 
 believe that he or she has been given for a long time 
 preceding the act to considering, sometimes face- 
 tiously, sometimes sentimentally, the advantages of 
 oblivion. For a long time an infiltration of desire 
 of oblivion, and acute realization of the folly of living 
 precedes suicide, and, when the mind is thoroughly 
 prepared, a slight shock or interruption in the course 
 of life produces it, just as an odorous wind, a sight 
 of the sea, results in the poem which has been col- 
 lecting in the mind." 
 
 "I think you might have the good feeling to for- 
 bear," said Frank ; " the present is hardly, I think, 
 a time for epigrams or philosophy. I wonder how 
 you can talk so. . . ." 
 
 " I think Frank is quite right. What right have 
 we to analyze her motives?" 
 
 " Her motives were simple enough ; sad enough 
 too, in all conscience. Why make her ridiculous by 
 forcing her heart into the groove of your philosophy? 
 The poor woman was miserably deceived ; abomina- 
 bly deceived. You do not know what anguish of 
 mind she suffered." 
 
 " There is nothing to show that she went to the 
 Alexandra to meet a lover be}'ond the fact of a state- 
 ment made to Mike in a moment of acute nervous 
 excitement. We have no reason to think that she 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 10 1 
 
 ever had a lover. I never heard her name men- 
 tioned in any such way. Did you, Escott ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard that you were her lover." 
 
 " I assure you I never was; we have not even been 
 on good terms for a long time past." 
 
 " You said just now that the act was generally 
 preceded by a state of feeling long preparing. It 
 was you who taught her to read Schopenhauer." 
 
 " I am not going to listen to nonsense at this hour 
 of the morning. I never take nonsense on an empty 
 stomach. Come, Thompson, you are going my way." 
 
 Mike and Frank walked home together. The 
 clocks had struck six, and the milkmen were calling 
 their ware ; soon the shop-shutters would be coming 
 down, and in this first flush of the day's enterprise, 
 a last belated vegetable-cart jolted towards the 
 market. Mike's thoughts flitted from the man who 
 lay a-top taking his ease, his cap pulled over his 
 eyes, to the scene that was now taking place in 
 the twilight bedroom. What would Seymour say? 
 Would he throw himself on his knees? Frank spoke 
 from time to time ; his thoughts growled like a sav- 
 age dog, and his words bit at his friend. For Mike 
 had incautiously given an account in particular de- 
 tail of his t^te-a-tite with Lady Helen. 
 
 " Then you are in a measure answerable for her 
 death." 
 
 "You said just now that Harding was answerable ; 
 we can't both be blameworthy." 
 
 Frank did not reply. He brooded in silence, los- 
 ing all perception of the truth in a stupid and harsh 
 hatred of those whom he termed the villains that 
 ruined women. When they reached Leicester 
 Square, to escape from the obsession of the suicide, 
 Mike said — 
 
 " I do not think that I told you that I have 
 
I02 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 sketched out a trilogy on the life of Christ. The 
 first play John, the second Christ, the third Pder. 
 Of course I introduce Christ into the third play. 
 You know the legend. When Peter is flying from 
 Rome to escape crucifixion, he meets Christ carry- 
 ing His cross." 
 
 " Damn your trilogy — who cares. You have be- 
 haved abominably. I want you to understand that 
 I cannot— that I do not hold with your practice of 
 making love to every woman you meet. In the 
 first place it is beastly, in the second it is not gentle- 
 manly. Look at the result !" 
 
 " But I assure you I am in no wise to blame in 
 this affair. I never was her lover." 
 
 '' But you made love to her." 
 
 " No, I didn't ; we talked of love, that was all. I 
 could see she was excited, and hardly knew what she 
 was saying. You are most unjust. I think it quite 
 as horrible as you do; it preys upon my mind, and 
 if I talk of other things it is because I would save 
 myself the pain of thinking of it. Can't you under- 
 stand that ?" 
 
 The conversation fell, and Mike thrust both hands 
 into the pockets of his overcoat. 
 
 At the end of a long silence, Frank said — 
 
 "We must have an article on this — or, I don't 
 know — I think I should like a poem. Could you 
 write a poem on her death ?" 
 
 " I think so. A prose poem. I was penetrated 
 with the modern picturesqueness of the room — the 
 Venetian blinds." 
 
 " If that's the way you are going to treat it, I 
 would sooner not have it — the face in the glass, a lot 
 of repetitions of words, sentences beginning with 
 ' And,' then a mention of shoes and silk stockings. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. IO3 
 
 If you can't write feelingly about her, you had better 
 not write at all." 
 
 " I don't see that a string of colloquialisms con- 
 stitutes feelings," said Mike. 
 
 Mike kept his temper; he did not intend to allow 
 it to imperil his residence in Temple Gardens, or his 
 position in the newspaper ; but he couldn't control 
 his vanity, and ostentatiously threw Lady Helen's 
 handkerchief upon the table, and admitted to having 
 picked it up in the hotel. 
 
 "What am I to do with it? I suppose I must 
 keep it as a relic," he added with a laugh, as he 
 opened his wardrobe. 
 
 There were there ladies' shoes, scarves, and chem- 
 ises ; there were there sachets and pincushions ; tlicre 
 were there garters, necklaces, cotillion favours, and a 
 tea-gown. 
 
 Again Frank boiled over with indignation, and 
 having vented his sense of rectitude, he left the room 
 without even bidding his friend good-night or good- 
 morning. The next day he spent the entire afternoon 
 with Lizzie, for Lady Helen's suicide had set his 
 nature in active ferment. 
 
 In the story of every soul there are times of dis- 
 solution and reconstruction in which only the generic 
 forms are preserved. A new force had been in- 
 troduced, and it was disintegrating that mass of social 
 fibre which is modern man, and the decomposition 
 teemed with ideas of duty, virtue, and love. He inter- 
 rupted Lizzie's chit-chat constantly with reflections 
 concerning the necessity of religious belief in \\'omen. 
 
 About seven they went to eat in a restaurant close 
 by. It was an old Italian chop-house that had been 
 enlarged and modernized, but the original marble 
 tables where customers ate chops and steaks at low 
 prices were retained in a remote and distant corner. 
 
I04 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Lizzie proposed to sit there. They were just seated 
 when a golden-haired girl of theatrical mien entered. 
 
 "That's Lottie Rilly," exclaimed Lizzie. Then 
 lowering her voice she whispered quickly, "She was 
 in love with Mike once ; he was the fellow she left 
 her 'ome for. She's on the stage now, and gets four 
 pounds a week. I haven't seen her for the last couple 
 of years. Lottie, come and sit down here." 
 
 The girl turned hastily. "What, Lizzie, old pal, 
 I have not seen you for ages." 
 
 " Not for more than two years. Let me introduce 
 you to my friend, Mr. Escott — Miss Lottie Rilly of 
 the Strand Theatre." 
 
 "Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir ; the 
 editor of the Pilgrim, I presume ?" 
 
 Frank smiled with pleasure, and the waiter inter- 
 posed with the bill of fare. Lottie ordered a plate 
 of roast beef, and leaned across the table to talk to 
 her friend. 
 
 " Have you seen Mike lately?" asked Lizzie. 
 
 " Swine !" she answered, tossing her head. " No; 
 and don't want to. You know how he treated me. 
 He left me three months after my baby was 
 born." 
 
 " Have you had a baby?" 
 
 " What, didn't you know that ? It is seven months 
 old ; 'tis a boy, that's one good job. And he hasn't 
 paid me one penny piece. I have been up to Barber 
 and Barber's, but they advised me to do nothing. 
 They said that he owed them money, and that they 
 couldn't get what he owed them — a poor look-out for 
 me. They said that if I cared to summons him for 
 the support of the child, that the magistrate would 
 grant me an order at once." 
 
 "And why don't you?" said Frank; you don't 
 like the cxposd m the newspapers." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 105 
 
 " That's it." 
 
 " Do you care for him still?" 
 
 " I don't know whether I do, or don't. I shall 
 never love another man, I know that. I saw him in 
 front about a month ago. He was in the stalls, and 
 he fixed his eyes upon me; I didn't take the least 
 notice, he was so cross. He came behind after the 
 first act. He said, ' How old you are looking!' I 
 said, ' What do you mean ? ' I was very nicely made 
 up too, and he said, ' Under the eyes.' I said, ' What 
 do you mean?' and he said, 'You are all wrinkles.' 
 I said, 'What do you mean?' and he went down- 
 stairs. . . . Swine!" 
 
 " He isn't good-looking," said Frank, reflectively, 
 — a broken nose, a chin thrust forward, and a mop of 
 brown curls twisted over his forehead. Give me a 
 pencil, and I'll do his caricature." 
 
 " Every one says the same thing. The girls in the 
 theatre all say, ' What in the world do you see in 
 him ? ' I tell them that if he chose — if he were to 
 make up to them a bit, they'd go after him just the 
 same as I did. There's a little girl in the chorus, and 
 she trots about after him ; she can't help it. There 
 are times when I don't care for him. What riles me 
 is to see other women messing him about." 
 
 " I suppose it is some sort of magnetism, electro- 
 biology, and he can't help exercising it any more 
 than you women can resist it. Tell me, how did he 
 leave you ?" 
 
 " Without a word or a penny. One night he didn't 
 come home, and I sat up for him, and I don't know 
 how many nights after. I used to doze off and 
 awake up with a start, thinking I heard his footstep 
 on the landing. I went down to Waterloo Bridge 
 to drown myself. I don't know why I didn't ; I 
 
Io6 hriKE FLETCHER. 
 
 almost wish I had, although I .have got on pretty well 
 since, and get a pretty tidy weekly screw." 
 
 " What do you get?" 
 
 " Three ten. Mine's a singing part. Waiter, some 
 cheese and celery." 
 
 "What a blackguard he is; I'll never speak to 
 him again ; he shall edit my paper no more. To- 
 night I'll give him the dirty kick-out." 
 
 Mike remained the topic of conversation until 
 Lottie said — 
 
 "Good Lord, I must be 'getting' — it is past seven 
 o'clock." 
 
 Frank paid her modest bill, and still discussing 
 Mike, they walked to the stage-door. Quick with 
 desire to possess Lizzie wholly beyond recall, and 
 obfuscated with notions concerning the necessity of 
 placing women in surroundings in harmony with 
 their natural goodness, Frank walked by his mistress's 
 side- At the end of a long silence, she said — 
 
 " That's the way you'll desert me one of these 
 days. All men are brutes." 
 
 " No, darling, they are not. If you'll act fairly by 
 me, I will by you — I'll never desert you." 
 
 Lizzie did not answer. 
 
 " You don't think me a brute like that fellow 
 Fletcher, do yor ?" 
 
 " I don't think there's much difference between 
 any of you." 
 
 Frank ground his teeth, and at that moment he 
 only desired one thing — to prove to Lizzie that men 
 were not all vile and worthless. They had turned 
 into the Temple ; the old places seemed dozing in 
 the murmuring quietude of the evening. Mike was 
 coming up the pathway, his dress distinct in the deli- 
 cate gray light, his light-gray overcoat hanging over 
 his arm. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 10/ 
 
 " What a toff he is !" said Lizzie. His appearance 
 and what it symbolized — an evening in a boudoir or 
 at the gaming table — jarred on Frank, suggesting as 
 it did a difference in condition from that of the 
 wretched girl he had abandoned ; and as Mike prided 
 himself that scandalous stories never followed upon 
 his loves, the unearthing of this mean and ob- 
 scure liaison annoyed him exceedingly. Above all, 
 the accusation of paternity was disagreeable; but 
 determined to avoid a quarrel, he was about to pass 
 by, when Frank noticed Lady Helen's pocket-hand- 
 kerchief sticking out of his pocket. 
 
 "You blackguard," he said, "you are taking that 
 handkerchief to a gambling-hell." 
 
 Then realizing that the game was up, he turned 
 and would have struck his friend had not Lizzie 
 interposed. She threw herself between the men, 
 and called a policeman, and the quarrel ended in 
 Mike's dismissal from the staff of the Pilgrim. 
 
 Frank had therefore to sit up writing, till one 
 o'clock, for the whole task of bringing out the paper 
 was thrown upon him. Lizzie sat by him sewing. 
 Noticing how pale and tired he looked, she got up, 
 and putting her arm about his neck, said — 
 
 " Poor old man, you are tired ; you had better 
 come to bed." 
 
 He took her in his arms affectionately, and talked 
 to her. 
 
 " If you were always as kind and as nice as you 
 are to-night ... I could love you." 
 
 " I thought you did love me." 
 
 " So I do ; you will never know how much." They 
 were close together, and the pure darkness seemed 
 to separate them from all worldly influences. 
 
 " If you would be a good girl, and think only of 
 him who loves you very dearly." 
 
I08 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Ah, if I only had met you first !" 
 
 " It would have made no difference, you'd have 
 only been saying this to some one else." 
 
 " Oh, no ; if you had known me before I went 
 wrong." 
 
 "Was he the first?" 
 
 " Yes ; I would have been an honest little girl, 
 trying to make you comfortable." 
 
 Throwing himself on his back, Frank argued pro- 
 saically : 
 
 "Then you mean to say you really care about me 
 more than any one else ?" 
 
 She assured him that she did ; and again and again 
 the temptations of women were discussed. He could 
 not sleep, and stretched at length on his back, he 
 held Lizzie's hand. 
 
 She was in a communicative humour, and told him 
 the story of the waiter, whom she described as being 
 " a fellow like Mike, who made love to every woman." 
 She told him of three or four other fellows, whose 
 rooms she used to go to. They made her drink ; she 
 didn't like the beastly stuff ; and then she didn't know 
 what she did. There were stories of the landlady in 
 whose house she lodged, and the woman who lived 
 upstairs. She had two fellows ; one she called Squeak- 
 er — she didn't care for him ; and another called Harry, 
 and she did care for him ; but the landlady's daughter 
 called him a , because he seldom gave her any- 
 thing, and always had a bath in the morning. 
 
 " How can a girl be respectable under such circum- 
 stances ?" Lizzie asked, pathetically. " The landlady 
 used to tell me to go out and get my living !" 
 
 " Yes ; but I never let you want. You never wrote 
 to me for money that I didn't send it." 
 
 " Yes; I know you did, but sometimes I thinkshe 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. IO9 
 
 stopped the letters. Besides, a girl cannot be respect- 
 able if she isn't married. Where's the use ?" 
 
 He strove to think, and failing to think, he 
 said — 
 
 " If you really mean what you say, I will marry 
 you." He heard each word; then a sob sounded in 
 the dark, and turning impulsively he took Lizzie in 
 his arms. 
 
 " No, no," she cried, " it would never do at all. 
 Your family — what would they say ? They would not 
 receive me." 
 
 " What do I care for my family ? What has my 
 family ever done for me ?" 
 
 For an hour they argued, Lizzie refusing, declaring 
 it was useless, insisting that she would then belong 
 to no set; Frank assuring her that hand-in-hand and 
 heart-to-heart they would together, with united 
 strength and love, win a place for themselves in the 
 world. They dozed in each other's arms. 
 
 Rousing himself, Frank said — 
 
 " Kiss me once more, little wifie ; good-night, little 
 wife . . ." 
 
 " Good-night, dear." 
 
 " Call me little husband ; I shan't go to sleep until 
 you do." 
 
 " Good-night, little husband." 
 . " Say Httle hussy." 
 
 "Good-night, little hussy." 
 
 Next morning, however, found Lizzie violently op- 
 posed to all idea of marriage. She said he didn't 
 mean it ; he said he did mean it, and he caught up 
 a bible and swore he was speaking the truth. He 
 put his back against the door, and declared she should 
 not leave until she had promised him — until she gave 
 him her solemn oath that she would become his wife. 
 He was not going to see her go to the dogs — no, not 
 
no MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 if he could help it ; then she lost her temper and tried 
 to push past him. He restrained her, urging again 
 and again, and with theatrical emphasis, that he 
 thought it right, and would do his duty. Then they 
 argued, they kissed, and argued again. 
 
 That night he walked up and down the pavement 
 in front of her door ; but the servant.girl caught sight 
 of him through the kitchen-window and the area-rail- 
 ings, and ran up-stairs to warn Miss Baker, who was 
 taking tea with two girl friends. 
 
 " He is a-walking up and down, Miss, 'is great-coat 
 flying behind him." 
 
 Lizzie slapped his face when he burst into her 
 room ; and scenes of recrimination, love, and rage 
 were transferred to and fro between Temple Gardens 
 and Winchester Street. Her girl friends advised her 
 to marry, and the landlady when appealed to said, 
 " What could you want better than a fine gentleman 
 like that ?" 
 
 Frank was conscious of nothing but her, and every 
 vision of Mount Rorke that had risen in his mind 
 he had unhesitatingly swept away. All prospects 
 were engulfed in his desire ; he saw nothing but the 
 white face, which like a star led and allured him. 
 
 One morning the marriage was settled, and like a 
 knight going to the crusade, Frank set forth to find 
 out when it could be. They must be married at 
 once ; therefore a religious marriage was not to be 
 thought of. Lizzie might again change her mind ; 
 and a registrar's of^ce fixed itself in his thought. 
 
 It was a hot day in July when he set forth on his 
 quest. He addressed the policeman at the corner, 
 and was given the name of the street and the num- 
 ber. He hurried through the heat, irritated by the 
 sluggishness of the passers-by, and at last found him- 
 self in front of a red building. The windows were 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. Ill 
 
 full of such general announcements as — Working 
 Men's Feace Preservation, Limited Liability Com- 
 pany, New Zealand, etc. The marriage ofifice looked 
 like a miniature bank ; there were desks, and a brass 
 railing a foot high preserved the inviolability of the 
 documents. A fat man with watery eyes rose from 
 the leather arm-chair in which he had been dozing, 
 and Frank intimated his desire to be married as soon 
 as possible ; that afternoon if it could be managed. 
 It took the weak-eyed clerk some little time to order 
 and grasp the many various notions which Frank 
 urged upon him ; but he eventually roused a little 
 (Frank had begun to shout at him), and explained 
 that no marriage could take place after two o'clock, 
 and later on it transpired that due notice would 
 have to be given. 
 
 Very much disappointed, Frank asked him to in- 
 scribe his name. The clerk opened a book, and then 
 it suddenly cropped up that this was the registry 
 office, not for Pimlico, but for Kensington. 
 
 "Great Scott!'' exclaimed Frank, "and where is 
 the registry ofifice for Pimlico in Kensington ?" 
 
 "That I cannot tell you ; it may be anywhere ; you 
 will have to find out." 
 
 " How am I to find out, damn it ?'.' 
 
 "I really can't tell you, but I must beg of you to 
 remember where you are, sir, and to moderate your 
 language," said the clerk, with some faint show of 
 hieratic dignity. "And now, ma'am, what can I do 
 for you?" he said, turning to a woman who smelt of 
 the kitchen, and whose black dress was bursting in 
 front. 
 
 Frank was furious ; he appealed again to the casual 
 policeman, who, although reluctantly admitting he 
 could give him no information, sympathized with him 
 in his diatribe against the stupidities of the authori- 
 
112 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 ties. The policeman had himself been married by 
 the registrar, and some time was lost in vain remi- 
 niscences ; he at last suggested that inquiry could 
 be made at a neighbouring church. 
 
 Frank hurried away, and had a long talk with a 
 charwoman whom he discovered in the desert of the 
 chairs. She thought the office was situated some- 
 where in a region unknown to Frank, which she 
 called St. George-of-the-Fields ; her daughter, who 
 had been shamefully deserted, had been married 
 there. The parson, she thought, would know, and 
 she gave him his address. 
 
 The heat was intolerable. There were few people 
 in the streets. The perspiration collected under his 
 hat, and his feet ached so in his patent leather shoes 
 that he was tempted to walk after the water-cart and 
 bathe them in the sparkling shower. Several hansoms 
 passed, but they were engaged. Nor was the parson 
 at home. The maidservant sniggered, but having 
 some sympathy with what she discovered was his 
 mission, summoned the housekeeper, who eyed him 
 askance, and directed him to Bloomsbury ; and after 
 a descent into a grocer's shop, and an adventure 
 which ended in an angry altercation in a servants' 
 registry office, he was driven to a large building which 
 adjoined the parish infirmary and workhouse. 
 
 Even there he was forced to make inquiries, so 
 numerous and various were the ofifices. At last an 
 old man in gray clothes declared himself the regis- 
 trar's attendant, and offered to show him the way; 
 but seeing himself now within range of his desire, he 
 distanced the old chap up the four flights of stairs, 
 and arrived wholly out of breath before the brass 
 railing which guarded the hymeneal documents. A 
 clerk equally slow of intellect as the first, and even 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. II3 
 
 more somnolent, approached and leaned over the 
 counter. 
 
 FeeHng now quite familiar with a registrar's office, 
 Frank explained his business successfully. The fat 
 clerk, whose red nose had sprouted into many knobs, 
 balanced himself leisurely, evidently giving little heed 
 to what was said ; but the broadness of the brogue 
 saved Frank from losing his temper. 
 
 " What part of Oireland do ye come from ? Is it 
 Tipperary ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "I thought so; Cashel, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Yes; do you come from there?" 
 
 "To be sure I do. I knev you when you were a 
 boy ; and is his lordship in good health ?" 
 
 Frank replied that Lord Mount Rorke was in ex- 
 cellent health, and feeling himself obliged to be civil, 
 he asked the clerk his name, and how long it was 
 since he had been in Ireland. 
 
 " Well, this is odd," the clerk began, and tlien in 
 an irritating undertone Mr. Scanlon proceeded to tell 
 how he and four others were driving through Portar- 
 lington to take the train to Dublin, when one of them, 
 Michael Carey he thought it was, proposed to stop 
 the car and have some refreshment at the Royal 
 Hotel. 
 
 Frank tried several times to return to the question 
 of the licence, but the imperturbable clerk was not 
 to be checked. 
 
 " I was just telling you," he interposed. 
 
 " It seemed hard luck that he should find a native 
 of Cashel in the Pimlico registrar's office. He had 
 intended so keep his marriage a secret, as did Willy 
 Brookes, and for a moment the new danger thrilled 
 him. It wa^ intolerable to have to put up with this 
 
114 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 creature's idle loquacity, but not wishing to offend 
 him he endured it a little longer. 
 
 When the clerk paused in his narrative of the four 
 gentlemen who had stopped the car to have some 
 refreshment, he made a resolute stand against any 
 fresh developments of the story, and succeeded in 
 extracting some particulars concerning the marriage 
 laws. And within the next few days all formalities 
 were completed, and Frank's marriage fixed for the 
 end of the week — for Friday, at a quarter to eleven. 
 He^lept lightly that night, was out of bed before 
 eight, and mistaking the time, arrived at the ofifice a 
 few minutes before ten. He met the old man in gray 
 clothes in the passage, and this time he was not to 
 be evaded. 
 
 " Are you the gentleman who's come to be mar- 
 ried by special licence, sir?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Neither Mr. Southey — that is the Registrar — nor 
 Mr. Freeman — that's the Assistant-Registrar — has 
 yet arrived, sir." 
 
 " It is ver)' extraordinary they should be late. Do 
 they never keep their appointments?" 
 
 " They rarely arrives before ten, sir." 
 
 " Before ten ! What time is it now ?" 
 
 "Only just ten. I am the regular attendant. I'll 
 see yer through it ; no necessity to hagitate yerself. 
 It will be done quietly in a private room — a very 
 nice room too, fourteen feet by ten high — them's 
 the regulations; all the chairs covered with leather; 
 a very nice comfortable room. Would yer like to see 
 the room? Would yer like to sit down there and 
 wait? There's a party to be married before you. 
 But they won't mind you. He's a butcher by trade." 
 
 " And what is she?" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 15 
 
 " I think she's a tailoress ; they lives close by here, 
 they do." 
 
 "And who are you, and where do you live?" 
 
 " I'm the regular attendant ; I lives close by here." 
 
 " Where close by ?" 
 
 "In the work'us; they gives me this work to do." 
 
 " Oh, you are a pauper, then ?" 
 
 "Yease; but I works here; I'm the regular attendant. 
 No need to be afraid, sir; it's all done in a private 
 room; no one will see you. This way, sir; this way." 
 
 The sinister aspect of things never appealed to 
 Frank, and he was vastly amused at the idea of the 
 pauper Mercury, and had begun to turn the subject 
 over, seeing how he could use it for a queer story 
 for the Pilgrim. But time soon grew horribly long, 
 and to kill it he volunteered to act as witness to the 
 butcher's marriage, one being wanted. The effects 
 of a jovial night, fortified by some matutinal potations, 
 were still visible in the small black eyes of the rubicund 
 butcher — a huge man, apparently of cheery disposi- 
 tion ; he swung to and fro before the shiny oak table 
 as might one of his own carcasses. His bride, a small- 
 featured woman, wrapped in a plaid shawl, evidently 
 fearing that his state, if perceived by the Registrar, 
 might cause a postponement of her wishes, strove to 
 shield him. His pal and a stout girl, with the air of 
 the coffee-shop about her, exchanged winks and grins, 
 and at the critical moment, when the Registrar was 
 about to read the declaration, the pal slipped behind 
 some friends and, catching the bridegroom by the 
 collar, whispered, " Now then, old man, pull yourself 
 together." The Registrar looked up, but his spectacles 
 did not appear to help him ; the Assistant-Registrar, 
 a tall, languid young man, who wore a carnation in 
 his button-hole, yawned and called for order. The 
 room was lighted by a skylight, and the light fell 
 
Il6 MIKE PLETCHER. 
 
 diffused on the hands and faces; and alternately and 
 in combination the whiskied breath and the carna- 
 tion's scent assailed the nostrils. Suddenly the silence 
 was broken by the Registrar, who began to read the 
 declarations. " I hereby declare that I, James Hicks, 
 know of no impediment whereby I may not be joined 
 in matrimony with Matilde, Matilde — is it Matilde 
 or Matilda?" 
 
 " I calls her Tilly when I am a-cuddling of her; 
 when she riles me, and gets my dander up, I says, 
 ' Tilder, come here!'" and the butcher raised his 
 voice till it seemed like an ox's bellow. 
 
 " I really must beg," exclaimed the Registrar, " that 
 the sanctity of — the gravity of this ceremony is not 
 disturbed by any foolish frivolity. You must re- 
 member. . ." But at that moment the glassy look 
 of the butcher's eyes reached the old gentleman's 
 vision, and a heavy hiccup fell upon his eais. " I 
 really think, Mr. Freeman, that that gentleman, one 
 of the contracting parties I mean, is not in a fit state 
 — is in a state bordering on inebriation. Will you 
 tell me if this is so ?" 
 
 " I didn't notice it before," said Mr. Freeman, 
 stifling a yawn, " but now you mention it, I really 
 think he is a little drunk, and hardly in a fit . . ." 
 
 " I ne — ver was more jolly, jolly dog in my life 
 ( hiccup) — when you gentlemen have made it (hiccup) 
 all squ — square between me and my Tilly" (a violent 
 hiccup), catching her round the waist, he hugged her 
 so violently that Matilda could not forbear a scream, 
 " I fancy I shall be, just be a trifle more jolly still. . . 
 If any of you ge — gen'men would care to join us — 
 most appy, Tilly and me." 
 
 Lizzie, who had discovered a relation or two — a 
 disreputable father and a nondescript brother — now 
 appeared on the threshold. Her presence reminded 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. l\f 
 
 Frank of his responsibility, so forthwith he proceeded 
 to bully the Registrar and allude menacingly to his 
 newspaper. 
 
 "I'm sure, sir, I am very sorry you should have 
 witnessed such a scene. Never, really, in the whole 
 course of my life . . ." 
 
 " There is positively no excuse for allowing such 
 people . . ." 
 
 " I will not go on with the marriage," roared the 
 Registrar; "really, Mr. Freeman, you ought to have 
 seen. You know how shortsighted I am. I will not 
 proceed with this marriage." 
 
 " Oh, please, sir, Mr. Registrar, don't say that," 
 exclaimed Matilda. " If you don't go on now, he'll 
 never marry me ; I'll never be able to bring 'im to 
 the scratch again. Indeed, sir, 'e's not so drunk as he 
 looks. 'Tis mostly the effect of the morning hair 
 upon him." 
 
 " I shall not proceed with the marriage," said the 
 Registrar, sternly. " I have never seen anything 
 more disgraceful in my life. You come here to enter 
 into a most solemn, I may say a sacred, contract, 
 and you are not able to answer to your names ; it is 
 disgraceful." 
 
 " Indeed I am, sir ; my name is Matilda, that's 
 the English of it, but my poor mother kept com- 
 pany with a Frenchman, and he would have me 
 chri-stened Matilde ; but it is all the same, it is the 
 same name, indeed it is, sir. Do marry us ; I shan't 
 be able to get him to the scratch again. For the 
 last five years . . ." 
 
 " Potter, Potter, show these people out ; how dare 
 you admit people who were in a state of inebriation ?" 
 
 " I didn't 'ear what you said, sir." 
 
 " Show these people out, and if you ever do it again, 
 you'll have to remain in the workhouse." 
 
Il8 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " This way, ladies and gentlemen, this way. I'm 
 the regular attendant." 
 
 " Come along,Tilly dear, you'll have to wait another 
 night afore we are churched. Come, Tilly; do you 
 hear me? Come, Tilda." 
 
 Frightened as she was, the words " another night" 
 suggested an idea to poor Matilde, and turning with 
 supplicating eyes to the Registrar, she implored that 
 they might make an appointment for the morrow. 
 After some demur the Registrar consented, and she 
 went away tearful, but in hope that she would be 
 able to bring him on the morrow, as he put it, "fit 
 to the post." This matter having been settled, the 
 Registrar turned to Frank. Never in the course of 
 his experience had the like occurred. He was ex- 
 tremely sorry that he (Mr. Escott) had been present. 
 True, they were not situated in a fashionable neigh- 
 bourhood, the people were ignorant, and it was often 
 difficult to get them to sign their names correctly; 
 but he was bound to admit that they were orderly, 
 and seemed to realize, he would say, the seriousness 
 of the transaction. 
 
 " It is," said the Registrar, " our object to maintain 
 the strictly legal character of the ceremony— the con- 
 tract, I should say — and to avoid any affectation of 
 ritual whatsoever. I regret that you, sir, a repre- 
 sentative of the press . . ." 
 
 " The nephew and heir to Lord Mount Rorke," 
 suggested the clerk. 
 
 The Registrar bowed, and murmured that he did 
 not know he had that honour. Then he spoke for 
 some time of the moral good the registry offices had 
 effected among the working classes ; how they had 
 allowed the poor — for instance, the person who has 
 been known for years in the neighbourhood as Mrs. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. II9 
 
 Thompson, to legalize her cohabitation without 
 scandal. 
 
 But Frank thought only of his wife, when he should 
 clasp her hand, saying, " Dearest wife !" He had 
 brought his dramatic and musical critics with him. 
 The dramatic critic — a genial soul, well known to the 
 shop-girls in Oxford Street, without social prejudices 
 — was deep in conversation with the father and 
 brother of the bride ; the musical critic, a mild-faced 
 man, adjusted his spectacles, and awaking from his 
 dream reminded them of an afternoon concert that 
 began unusually early, and that his presence there 
 was indispensable. When the declarations were over, 
 Frank asked when he .should put the ring on. 
 
 " Some like to use the ring, some don't ; it isn't 
 necessary ; all the best people of course do," said 
 the Assistant-Registrar, who had not yawned once 
 since he had heard that Frank's uncle was Lord 
 Mount Rorke. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for the information, 
 but I should like to have my question answered — 
 When am I to put on the ring?" 
 
 The dramatic critic tittered, and Frank authorita- 
 tively expostulated. But the Registrar interposed, 
 saying — 
 
 " It is usual to put the ring on when the bride has 
 answered to the declarations." 
 
 " Now all of ye can kiss the bride," exclaimed the 
 clerk from Cashel. 
 
 Frank was indignant ; the Registrar explained that 
 the kissing of the bride was an old custom still 
 retained among the lower classes, but Frank was not 
 to be mollified, and the unhappy clerk was ordered 
 to leave the room. 
 
 The wedding party drove to the Temple, where 
 champagne was awaiting them ; and when health and 
 
120 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 happiness had been drunk the critics left and the 
 party became a family one. 
 
 Mike was in his bedroom ; he was too indolent to 
 move out of Escott's rooms, and by avoiding him he 
 hoped to avert expulsion and angry altercations. 
 The night he spent in gambling, the evening in 
 dining ; and some hours of each afternoon were 
 devoted to the composition of his trilogy. Now he 
 lay in his arm-chair smoking cigarettes, drinking 
 lemonade, and thinking. He was especially attracted 
 by the picture he hoped to paint in the first play of 
 John and Jesus ; and from time to time his mind 
 filled with a picture of Herod's daughter. Closing 
 his eyes slightly he saw her breasts, scarce hidden 
 beneath jewels, and precious scarves floated from her 
 waist as she advanced in a vaulted hall of pale blue 
 architecture, slender fluted columns, and pointed 
 arches. He sipped his lemonade, enjoying his soft, 
 changing, and vague dream. But now he heard 
 voices in the next room, and listening attentively 
 he could distinguish the conversation. 
 
 "The drivelling idiot!" thought Mike. " So he's 
 gone and married her — that slut of a barmaid ! 
 Mount Rorke will never forgive him. I wouldn't be 
 surprised if he married again. The idiot ! 
 
 The reprobate father declared he had not hoped to 
 see such a day, so let bygones be bygones, that -was his 
 feeling. She had always been a good daughter; they 
 had had differences of opinion, but let bygones be 
 bygones. He had lived to see his daughter married 
 to a gentleman, if ever there \\as one; and his only 
 desire was that God might spare him to see her Lady 
 Mount Rorke. Why should she not be Lady Mount 
 Rorke ? She was as pretty a girl as there was in 
 London, and a good girl too ; and now that she was 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 121 
 
 married to a gentleman, he hoped they would both 
 remember to let bygones be bygones. 
 
 " And he'll have to live with her for," thought 
 Mike, " the next thirty years, watching her growing 
 fat, old, and foolish. And that father ! — won't he 
 give trouble ! What a pigstye the fellow has made 
 of his life 1" 
 
 Lizzie asked her father not to cry. Then came a 
 slight altercation between Lizzie and her husband, 
 in which it was passionately debated if Harry, the 
 brother, was fitted to succeed Mike on the paper. 
 
 " Great Scott ! how the fellow has done for him- 
 self ! A nice sort of paper they'll bring out." 
 
 A cloud passed over Mike's face when he thought 
 it would probably be this young gentleman who 
 would continue his articles. — Lions of the Season. 
 
 " You have quarrelled with Mike," said Lizzie, 
 " and you say you aren't going to make.it up again. 
 You'll want some one, and Harry writes very nicely 
 indeed. When he was at school his master always 
 praised his writing. When he is in love he writes off 
 page after page. I should like you to see the letters 
 he wrote to . . ." 
 
 " Now, Liz, I really — I wish you wouldn't . . ." 
 
 " I am sure he would soon get into it." 
 
 " Quite so, quite so ; I hope he will ; I'm sure 
 Harry will get into it — and the way to get into it is 
 for him to send me some paragraphs. I will look 
 over his 'copy,' making the alterations I think neces- 
 sary. But for the moment, until he has learned 
 the trick of writing paragraphs he would be of no 
 use to me in the office. I should never get the 
 paper out. I must haVe an experienced writer by 
 me." 
 
 Then he dropped his voice, and Mike heard nothing 
 till Frank said — 
 
122 MIKE F LETCH EH. 
 
 " That cad Fletcher is still here ; we don't speak, of 
 course ; we passed each other on the staircase the 
 other night. If he doesn't clear out soon I'll have to 
 turn him out. You know who he is — a farmer's son, 
 and used to live in a little house about a mile from 
 Mount Rorke Castle, on the side of the road." 
 
 Mike thrilled with rage and hatred. 
 
 " You brute ! you fool ! you husband of a bar-girl ! 
 — you'll never be Lord Mount Rorke ! He that 
 came from the palace shall go to the garret ; he that 
 came from the little house on the roadside shall go 
 to the castle, you brute !" 
 
 And Mike vowed that he would conquer sloth and 
 lasciviousness, and outrageously triumph in the gaudy, 
 foolish world, and insult his rival with riches and 
 even honour. Then he heard Lizzie reproach Frank 
 for refusing her first request, and the fooHsh fellow's 
 expostulations suscitated feelings in Mike of intense 
 satisfaction. He smiled triumphantly when he heard 
 the old man's talents as accountant referred to. 
 
 " Father never told you about his failure," said 
 Lizzie. Then the story with all its knots was labo- 
 riously unravelled. 
 
 " But," said the old man, " my books were declared 
 to be perfect ; I was complimented on my books ; I 
 was proud of them books." 
 
 " The brother as sub-editor, the father as book- 
 keeper, the sister as wife — it would be difficult to 
 imagine anything more complete. I'm sorry for the 
 paper, though ; — and my series, what a hash they'll 
 make of it !" Taking the room in a glance, and real- 
 izing the others and every piece of furniture and 
 every picture, he thought — " I give him a year, and 
 then these rooms will be for sale. I shall get them ; 
 but I must clear out." 
 
 He had won four hundred pounds within the last 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 23 
 
 week, and this and his share in a play which was do- 
 ing fairly well in the provinces, had run up his bal- 
 ance at the bank higher than it had ever stood — to 
 nearly a thousand pounds. 
 
 As he considered his good fortune, a sudden desire 
 of change of scene suddenly sprang upon him, and in 
 full revulsion of feeling his mind turned from the 
 long hours in the yellow glare of lamp-light, the star- 
 ing faces, the heaps of gold and notes, and the cards 
 flying silently around the empty space of green baize ; 
 from the long hours spent correcting and manipulat- 
 ing sentences ; from the heat and turmoil and dirt 
 of London ; from Frank Escott and his family ; from 
 stinking, steamy restaurants ; from the high flights 
 of stairs, and the prostitution of the Temple. And 
 like butterflies above two flowers, his thoughts hov- 
 ered in uncertain desire between the sanctity of a 
 honeymoon with Lily Young in a fair enchanted 
 pavilion on a terrace by the sea, near, but not too 
 near, white villas, a place as fairylike as a town 
 etched by Whistler, and some months of pensive and 
 abstracted life, full to overflowing with the joy and 
 eagerness of incessant cerebration ; spent in a quiet 
 country-side, full of field-paths, and hedge-rows, and 
 shadowy woodland lanes — rich with red gables, sur- 
 prises of woodbine and great sunflowers — where he 
 would walk meditatively in the sunsetting, seeing the 
 village lads and lassies pass, interested in their 
 homely life, and so resting his brain after the day's 
 labour ; then in his study he would find the candles 
 already lighted, the kettle singing, his books and his 
 manuscripts ready for three excellent hours ; upon 
 his face the night would breathe the rustling of 
 leaves and the rich odour of the stocks and tall 
 lilies, until he closed the window at midnight, after 
 
124 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 casting one long sad and regretful look upon the 
 gold mysteries of the heavens. 
 
 So his reverie ran, interrupted by the conversation 
 in the- next room. He heard his name mentioned 
 frequently. The situation was embarrassing, for he 
 could not open a door without being heard. At last 
 he tramped boldly out, slamming the doors after him, 
 leaving a note for Frank on the table in the passage. 
 It ran as follows — " I am leaving town in a few days. 
 I shall remove my things probably on Monday. Much 
 obliged to you for your hospitality ; and now, good- 
 bye." " That will look," he thought, " as if I had not 
 overheard his remarks. How glad I shall be to get 
 away ! Oh, for new scenes, new faces ! How pleas- 
 ant it is to have money ! Heigh ho ! how pleas- 
 ant it is to have money! Whither shall I go? 
 Whither ? To Italy, and write my poem ? To Paris or 
 Norway ? I feel as if I should never care to see this 
 filthy Temple again." Even the old dining-hall, 
 with its flights of steps and balustrades ; but he 
 stayed to watch the long flight of the pigeons as 
 they came on straightened \\ ings from the gables. 
 " What familiar birds they are ! Nothing is so like 
 a woman as a pigeon ; perhaps that's the reason 
 Norton does not like them. Norton ! I haven't seen 
 him for ages — since . . ." He turned into Pump 
 Court. The doors were wide open ; and there was 
 luggage and some packing-cases on the landing. 
 The floor-matting was rolled, and the screen which 
 protected from draughts the high canonical chair in 
 which Norton read and \vrote was overthrown. John 
 was packing his portmanteau, and on either side of 
 him there was a Buddha and Indian warrior which 
 [le had lately purchased. 
 
 " What, leaving? Giving up your rooms?' 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 25 
 
 "Yes; I'm going down to Sussex. I do not think 
 it is worth while keeping these rooms on." 
 
 Mike expressed his regret. No one understood 
 John as Mike did. Herein lay the strength of Mike's 
 nature ; he won himself through all reserve, and soon 
 John was telling him his state of soul : that he felt it 
 would not be right for him to countenance with his 
 presence any longer the atheism and immorality of 
 the Temple. Lady Helen's death had come for a 
 warning. "After the burning of my poems, after 
 having sacrificed so much, it was indeed a pitiful 
 thing to find myself one of that shocking revel which 
 had culminated in the death of that woman." 
 
 " There he goes again," thought Mike, " running 
 after his conscience like a dog after his tail — a per- 
 forming dog, too ; one that likes an audience." And 
 to stimulate the mental antics in which he was so 
 much interested, he said, " Do you believe she is in 
 hell ?" 
 
 " I refrain from judging her. She may have re- 
 pented in the moment of death. God is her judge. 
 But I shall never forget that morning ; and I feel 
 that my presence at your party imposes on me some 
 measure of responsibility. As for you, Mike, I 
 really think you ought to consider her fate as an 
 omen. It was you . . ." 
 
 " For goodness sake, don't. It was Frank who 
 invented the notion that she suicided herself because 
 I had been flirting with her. I never heard of any- 
 thing so ridiculous. I protest. You know the ab- 
 surdly sentimental view he takes. It is grossly unfair." 
 
 Knowing well how to interest John, Mike defended 
 himself passionately, as if he were really concerned to 
 place his soul in a true light ; and twenty minutes 
 were agreeably spent in sampling, classifying, and 
 judging of motives. Then the conversation turned 
 
126 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 on the morality of women, and Mike judiciously 
 selected some instances from his stock of experiences 
 whereby John might judge of their animalism. Like 
 us all, John loved to talk sensuality ; but it was im- 
 perative that the discussion should be carried forward 
 with gravity and reserve. Seated in his high canon- 
 ical chair, wrapped in his dressing-gown, John would 
 bend forward listening, as if from the Bench or the 
 pulpit, awaking to a more intense interest when some 
 more than usually bitter vial of satire was emptied 
 upon the fair sex. He had once amused Harding 
 very much by his admonishment of a Palais Royal 
 farce. 
 
 " It was not," he said, "so much the questionable- 
 ness of the play ; what shocked me most was the 
 horrible levity of the audience, the laughter with 
 which every indecent allusion was greeted." 
 
 The conversation had fallen, and Mike said — 
 
 " So you are going away? Well, we shall all miss 
 you very much. But you don't intend to bury your- 
 self in the country; you'll come up to town some- 
 times." 
 
 " I feel I must not stay here ; the place has grown 
 unbearable." A look of horror passed over John's 
 face. ■' Hall has the rooms opposite. His life is a 
 disgrace; he hurries through his writing, and rushes 
 out to brat up the Strand, as he puts it, for shop- 
 girls. I could not live here any longer." 
 
 Mike could not but laugh a little ; and offended, 
 John rose and continued the packing of his Indian 
 i^ods. Allusion was made to Byzantine art; and 
 Mike told the story of Frank's marriage ; and John 
 laughed prodigiously at the account he gave of the 
 conversation overheard. Regarding the quarrel John 
 was undecided. He found himself forced to admit 
 that Mike's conduct deserved rebuke; but at the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 27 
 
 same time, Frank's sentimental views were wholly 
 distasteful to him. Then in reply to a question as to 
 where he was going, Mike said he didn't know. He 
 was invited to come and stay at Thornby Place. 
 
 " It is half-past three now. Do you think you 
 could get your things packed in time to catch the 
 six o'clock?" 
 
 " I think so. I can instruct Southwood ; she will 
 forward the rest of my things." 
 
 " Then be off at once ; I have a lot to do. Hall is 
 going to take my furniture off my hands. I have 
 made rather a good bargain with him." 
 
 Nothing could suit Mike better. He had never 
 stayed in a country house; and now as he hurried 
 down the Temple, remembrances of Mount Rorke 
 Castle rose in his mind — the parade of dresses on the 
 summer lawns, and the picturesqueness of the shoot- 
 ing parties about the long, withering woods. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 For some minutes longer the men lay resting in 
 the heather, their eyes drinking the colour and varied 
 lights and lines of the vast horizon. The downs 
 rose like cliffs, and the dead level of the weald was 
 freckled with brick towns ; every hedgerow was visi- 
 ble as the markings on a chess-board ; the distant 
 lands were merged in blue vapour, and the windmill 
 on its little hill seemed like a bit out of a young 
 lady's sketch-book. 
 
 " How charming it is here ! — how delightful ! How 
 sorrow seems to vanish, or to hang far away in one's 
 Hfe like a little cloud ! It is only in moments of con- 
 
128 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 templation like this when our wretched individuality 
 is lost in the benedictive influences of nature that true 
 happiness is found. Ah ! the wonderful philosophy 
 of the East, the wisdom of the ancient races! Chris- 
 tianity is but a vulgarization of Buddhism, an adap- 
 tation, an arrangement for family consumption." 
 
 They were not a mile away from where John had 
 seen Kitty for a last time. Now the mere recollection 
 of her jarred his joy in the evening, for he had long 
 siiice begun to understand that his love of her had 
 been a kind of accident, even as her death a strange 
 unaccountable divergation of his true nature. He 
 had grown ashamed of his passion, and he now 
 thought that instead of yielding, that like Parsifal, 
 he should have looked down and seen a cross in the 
 sword's hilt, and the temptation should have passed. 
 That cruel death, never explained, so mysterious and 
 so involved in horror! In what measure was he to 
 blame ? In what light was he to view this strange 
 death as a symbol, as a sign ? And if she had not 
 been killed ? If he had married her? To escape from 
 these assaults of conscience he buried his mind in his 
 books and writings, not in his history of Christian 
 Latin. His history of those writers appeared to him 
 sterile, and he congratulated himself that he had 
 outgrown love of such paradoxes . 
 
 Solemn, and with the great curves of palms, the 
 sky arched above them, and all the coombes' filled 
 with all the mystery of evening shadow, and all about 
 the downs lay the sea — a rim of sea illimitable. 
 
 At the end of a long silence Mike spoke of his 
 poem. 
 
 " You must have written a good deal of it by this 
 time." 
 
 " No, I have written very little," and then yielding 
 to his desire to astonish, confessed he was working at 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 29 
 
 a trilogy on the life of Christ, and had already 
 decided the main lines and incidents of the three 
 plays. His idea was the disintegration of the legend, 
 which had united under a godhead certain socialistic 
 aspirations then prevalent in Judaea. In his first 
 play, John, he introduces two reformers, one of whom 
 is assassinated by John ; the second perishes in a 
 street broil, leaving the field free for the triumph of • 
 Jesus of Nazareth. In the second play, Jesus, he tells 
 the_ love story of Jesus and the Magdalene. She 
 throws over her protector, one of the Rabbi, and 
 refuses her admirer, Judas, for Jesus. The Rabbi 
 plots to destroy Jesus, and employs Judas. In the 
 third play, Peter, he pictures the struggle of the new 
 idea in pagan Rome, and it ends in Peter flying from 
 Rome to escape crucifixion ; but outside the city he 
 sees Christ carrying His cross, and Christ says He is 
 going to be crucified a second time, whereupon Peter 
 . returns to Rome. 
 
 As they descended the rough chalk road into the 
 weald, John said, " I have sacrificed much for my 
 religion. I think, therefore, I have a right to say 
 that it is hard that my house should be selected for 
 the manufacture of blasphemous tf^f '""t,s-". 
 
 Knowing that argument would pr(3(S:H_ ^,^h,9thing, 
 Mike allayed John's heaving conscience with promises 
 not to write another line of the trilogy, and to devote 
 himself entirely to his poem. At the end of a long 
 silence, John said — 
 
 " Now the very name of Scohpenhauer revolts me. 
 I accept nothing of his ideas. From that ridiculous 
 pessimism I have drifted very far indeed. Pessimism 
 ,is impossible. To live we must have an ideal, and 
 pessimism offers none. So far it is inferior even to 
 positivism." 
 
 " Pessimism offers no ideal ! It offers the highest — 
 
130 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 not to create life is the only good ; the creation of 
 life is the only evil; all else which man in his 
 bestial stupidity calls good and evil is ephemeral 
 and illusionary." 
 
 " Schopenhauer's arguments against suicide are not 
 valid, that you admit, therefore it is impossible for 
 the pessimist to justify his continued existence." 
 
 " Pardon me, the diffusion of the principle of 
 sufficient reason can alone end this world, and we 
 are justified in living in order that by example^nd 
 precept we may dissuade others from the creation 
 of life. The incomparable stupidity of life teaches 
 us to love our parents — divine philosophy teaches us 
 to forgive them." 
 
 That evening Mike played numerous games of 
 backgammon with Mrs. Norton ; talked till two in 
 the morning to John of literature, and deplored the 
 burning of the poems, and besought him to write 
 them again, and to submit them, if needs be, to a 
 bishop. He worked hard to obliterate the effect of 
 his foolish confidences ; for he was very happy in this 
 large country house, full of unexpected impressions 
 for him. On the ^^•ide staircases he stopped, tense 
 with scTi^at^;^', of space, order, and ample life. He 
 was impi...sed by the timely meals, conducted by 
 well-trained servants ; and he found it pleasant to 
 pass from the house into the richh- planted garden, 
 and to see the coachman washing his carriage, the 
 groom scraping out the horse's hoofs, the horse 
 tied to the high wall, the cowman stumping about 
 the rick-yard — indeed all the homely work always 
 ill progress. 
 
 Sometimes he did not come down to lunch, and 
 continued his work till late in the afternoon. At 
 five he had tea in the drawing-room with Mrs. Nor- 
 ton, and afterwards went out to gather flowers in the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. \%\ 
 
 garden with her, or he walked around the house 
 with John, Hstening to his plans for the architectural 
 reformation of his residence. 
 
 Mike had now been a month at Thornby Place. 
 He was enchanted with this countryside, and seeing 
 it lent itself to his pleasure — in other words, that it 
 was necessary to his state of mind — he strove, and 
 with insidious inveiglements, to win it, to cajole it, to 
 make it part and parcel of himself. But its people 
 were reserved. Instinctively Mike attacked the line 
 and the point of least resistance, and the point of 
 least resistance lay about three miles distant. A 
 young squire — a young man of large property and 
 an unimpeachable position in the county — liyed there 
 in a handsome house with his three sisters. His 
 life consisted in rabbit-shooting and riding out 
 every morning to see his sheep upon the downs. 
 He was the rare man who does not desire himself 
 other than he is. But content, though an unmixed 
 blessing to its possessor, is not an attractive quality, 
 and Mr. Dallas stood sorely in need of a friend. He 
 loved his sisters, but to spend every evening in their 
 society was monotonous, and he felt, and they felt still 
 more keenly, that a nice young man would create an 
 interest that at present was wanting in country life. 
 Mike had heard of this young squire and his sisters, 
 and had long desired to meet him. But they had 
 paid their yearly visit to Thornby Place, and he 
 could not persuade John to go to Holly Park. 
 
 One day riding on the downs, Mike inquired the 
 way to Henfield of a young man who passed him 
 riding a bay horse. The question was answered 
 curtly — so curtly that Mike thought the stranger 
 could not be led into conversation. In this he was 
 mistaken, and at the end of half a mile felt he had 
 succeeded in interesting his companion. As they 
 
132 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 descended into the weald, Mike told him he was 
 stopping at Thornby Place, and the young squire 
 told him he was Mr. Dallas. When about to part, 
 Mike asked to be directed to the nearest inn, com- 
 plaining that he was dying of thirst, for he wished 
 to give Mr. Dallas an excuse for asking him to his 
 house. Mr. Dallas availed himself of the excuse ; 
 and Mike prayed that he might find the ladies 
 at home. They were in the drawing-room. The 
 piano was played, and amid tea and muffins, tennis 
 was discussed, and allusion was made to man's incon- 
 stancy. 
 
 Mike left no uncertainty regarding his various 
 qualities : he liked hunting as much as shooting, and 
 having regard for the season of the year, he laid 
 special stress upon his love for, and his prowess in, 
 the game of tennis. A week later he received an 
 invitation to tennis. Henceforth he rode over fre- 
 quently to Holly Park. He was sometimes asked to 
 stay the night, and an impression was gaining ground 
 there that life was pleasanter with him than without 
 him. 
 
 When he was not there the squire missed the 
 morning ride and the game of billiards in the 
 evening, and the companion to whom he could speak 
 of his sheep and his Iambs. Mike listened to the 
 little troubles of each sister in the back garden, never 
 failing to evince the profoundest sympathy. He was 
 surprised to find that he enjoyed these conversations 
 just as much as a metaphysical disquisition with 
 John Norton. " I am not pretending," he often said 
 to himself ; " it is quite true ; " and then he added 
 philosophically, " were I not interested in them I 
 should not succeed in interesting them." 
 
 The brother, the sisters, the servants, even the lap- 
 dog shared in the pleasure. The maidservants liked 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 133 
 
 to meet his tall figure in the passages ; the young 
 ladies loved to look into his tender eyes when they 
 came in from their walk and found him in the 
 drawing-room. To touch Mike's skin was to touch 
 his soul, and even the Yorkshire terrier was sensible 
 of its gentleness, and soon preferred to doze under 
 his hand than in any other place. He* came into 
 Dallas' room in the morning when he was taking his 
 bath ; he hung around the young ladies' rooms, 
 speaking when the doors ware ajar ; then when the 
 doors were open, they fled and wrapped themselves 
 in dressing-gowns, and when they knew him better 
 walked. about with the bodies of their dresses off, 
 speaking to him the while. He felt his power; and 
 by insidious intimations,, by looks, words, projects 
 . for pleasure, presents, practical jokes, books, and 
 talks about books, he proceeded joj^ously in his cor- 
 ruption of the entire household. 
 
 Naturally Mike rode his host's horses, and he 
 borrowed his spurs, breeches, boots, and hunting- 
 whip. And when he began to realize what an ex- 
 cellent pretext hunting is for making friends, and 
 staying in their houses, he bought a couple of horses, 
 which he kept at Holly Park free of cost. He had 
 long since put aside his poem and his trilogy, and 
 riow thought of nothing but shooting and riding. 
 He could throw his energies into anything, wer^' it 
 writing a poem or playing chuck-farthing. 
 
 The first meet of the hounds was at Thornby Place, 
 and in the vain hope of marrying her son, Mrs. Norton 
 had invited the young girls of the entire countryside. 
 Lady Edith Downsdale was especially included in 
 her de.signs; but John instantly vetoed her hopes by 
 asking Mike to take Lady Edith into lunch. She 
 stood holding her habit ; and feeling the necessity of 
 
134 MIKE FLETCHER. ' ' 
 
 being brilliant, iVIike said, pointing to the hounds 
 and horses — 
 
 " How strange it is that that is of no interest to the 
 artist ! It is only parade ; whereas a bit of lane with 
 a wind-blown hedge is a human emotion, and that is 
 always interesting." 
 
 Soon after a fox was found in the plantation that 
 rimmed the lawn, and seeing that Lady Edith was 
 watching him, Mike risked a fall over some high 
 wattles; and this was the only notice he took of her 
 until late in the afternoon. All hope of hunting was 
 ended. A fox had been " chopped " in cover, another 
 had been miserably coursed and killed in a back 
 garden. So he strove to make himself agreeable, 
 riding with her along the hillsides, watching the 
 huntsman trying each patch of gorse in the coombes. 
 She seemed to him splendid and charming, and he 
 wondered if he could love her — marry her,' and never 
 grow weary of her. But when the hounds found in 
 a large wood beneath the hills, and streamed across 
 the meadows, he forgot her, and making his horse go 
 in and out he fought for a start. A hundred and 
 fifty were cantering down a steep muddy lane ; a 
 horseman who had come across the field strove to 
 open a strong farm-gate. " It is locked," he roared, 
 "jump." The lane was steep and greasy, the gate 
 was four feet and a half. Mike rode at it. The ani- 
 mal dropped his hind legs, Mike heard the gate rat- 
 tle, and a little ejaculatory cry come from those he 
 left behind. It was a close shave. Turning in his 
 saddle he saw the immense crowd pressing about the 
 gate, which could not be opened, and he knew very 
 well that he would have the hounds to himself for 
 many a mile. 
 
 He raced alone across the misty pasture lands, full 
 of winter \\ater and lingering leaf ; the lofty downs 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 135 
 
 like sea cliffs, appearing through great white masses 
 of curling vapour. And all the episodes of that day- 
 — the great ox fences which his horse flew, going like 
 a bird from field to field-; the awkward stile, the vari- 
 ous brooks, — that one overgrown with scrub which 
 his horse had refused. And when* the day was done, 
 as he rode through the gathering night, inquiring 
 out the way down many a deep and flooded lane, 
 happiness sang within him, and like a pure animal 
 he enjoyed the sensation of life, and he intoxicated 
 on the thoughts of the friends that would have been 
 his, the women and the numberless pleasures and ad- 
 ventures he could have engaged in, were he not 
 obliged to earn money, or were not led away from 
 them " by his accursed literary tastes." 
 
 Should he marry one of the sisters ? Ridiculous ! 
 But what was there to do ? To-day he was thirty ; 
 in ten years he would be a middle-aged man ; and, 
 alas! for he felt in him manifold resources, sufficient 
 were he to live for five hundred years. Must ho 
 marry Agnes? He would if she were a peeress in 
 her own right ! Or should he win a peerage for him- 
 self by some great poem, or by some great political 
 treachery? No, no ; he wanted nothing better than 
 to live always strong and joyous in this corner of fair 
 England ; and to be always loved by girls, and to be 
 always talked of by them about their tea-tables. Oh, 
 for a cup of tea and a slice of warm buttered 
 toast ! 
 
 A good hour's ride yawned between him and Holly 
 Park, but by crossing the downs it might be reduced 
 to three-quarters of an hour. He hesitated, fearing 
 he might miss his way in the fog, but the tea-table 
 lured him. He resolved to attempt it, and forced his 
 horse up a slightly indicated path, which he hoped 
 would led him to a certain barn. High above him 
 
136 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 a horseman, faint as the shadow of a bird, made his 
 way cantering briskly. Mike strove to overtake him, 
 but suddenly missed him : behind him the pathway 
 was disappearing. 
 
 Fearing he might have to pass a night on the 
 downs, he turned • his horse's head ; but the animal 
 was obdurate, and a moment after he was lost. He 
 said, "Great Scott! where am I? Where did this 
 ploughed field come from ? I must be near the dyke." 
 Then thinking that he recognized the headland, he 
 rode in a different direction, but was stopped by a 
 paling and a chalk-pit, and, riding round it, he 
 guessed the chalk-pit must be fifty feet deep. Strange 
 white patches, fabulous hillocks, and distortions of 
 ground loomed through the white darkness ; and a 
 valley opened on his right so steep that he was afraid 
 to descend into it. Every minute was an hour, every 
 mile was five. 
 
 " There's nothing for it but to lie under a furze- 
 bush." With two pocket-handkerchiefs he tied his 
 horse's fore-legs close together, and sat down and lit 
 a cigar. The furze-patch was quite hollow under- 
 neath and almost dry. 
 
 " It is nearly full moon," he said ; " were it not for 
 that it would be pitch dark. Good Lord ! thirteen 
 hours of this; I wish I had never been born." 
 
 He had not, however, finished his first cigar before 
 a horse's head and shoulders pushed through the 
 mist. Mike sprang to his feet. 
 
 "Can you tell me the way off these infernal 
 downs?" he cried. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Lady 
 Edith." 
 
 " Oh, is that you, Mr. Fletcher ? I have lost my 
 way and my groom too. I am awfully frightened ; 
 I missed him of a sudden in the fog. What shall 
 I do? Can you tell mc the waj'?" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1*7 
 
 "Indeed I cannot; if I knew the way I should not 
 be sitting under this furze-bush." 
 
 " What shall we do ? I must get home." 
 
 "It is very terrible, Lady Edith, but I'm afraid 
 you will not be able to get home till the fog lifts." 
 
 "But I must get home. I must! I must! What 
 will they think? They'll be sending out to look for 
 me. Won't you come with me, Mr. Fletcher, and 
 help me to find the way?" 
 
 " I will, of course, do anything you like ; but I warn 
 you. Lady Edith, that riding about these downs in 
 a fog is most dangerous; I as nearly as possible went 
 over a chalk-pit fifty feet deep." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I must get home ; I cannot 
 stay here all night ; it is ridiculous." 
 
 They talked so for a few minutes. Then amid 
 many protestations Lady Edith was induced to 
 dismount. He forced her to drink, and to continue 
 sipping from his hunting-flask, which was fortunately 
 full of brandy; and when she said she was no longer 
 cold, he put his arm about her, and they talked of 
 theii sensations on first seeing each other.. 
 
 Three small stones, two embedded in the ground; 
 the third, a large flint, lay close where the grass 
 began, and the form of a bush was faint on the heavy 
 white blanket in which the world was wrapped. A 
 rabbit. crept through the furze and frightened them ; 
 and they heard the horses browsing. 
 
 Mike declared he could say when she had begun 
 to like him. 
 
 " You remember you were standing by the side- 
 board holding your habit over your boots ; I brought 
 you a glass of champagne, and you looked at me. - ." 
 
 She told him of her troubles since she had left 
 school. He related the story of his own precarious 
 fortunes ; and as they lay dreaming of each other, the 
 sound of horse's hoofs came through the darkness. 
 
1^ MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Oh, do cry out, perhaps they will be able to tell 
 us the way." 
 
 " Do you want to leave me ""' 
 
 " No, no, but I must get home ; what will father 
 think ?" 
 
 Mike shouted, and' his shout was answered. 
 
 " Where are you ? ' asked the unknown. 
 
 " Here," said Mike. 
 
 " Where is here?" 
 
 " By the furze-bush." 
 
 " Where is the furze-bush?" 
 
 It was difficult to explain, and the voice grew 
 fainter. Then it seemed to come from a different 
 side. 
 
 Mike shouted again and again, and at last a 
 horseman loomed like a nightmare out of the -dark. 
 It was Parker, Lady Edith's groom. 
 
 " Oh, Parker, how did you miss me? I have been 
 awfully frightened ; I don't know what I should have 
 done if I had not met Mr. Fletcher." 
 ^ " I was coming round that barn, my lady; you set 
 off at a trot, my lady, and a cloud of fog came be- 
 tween us." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but do you know the way home ?" 
 
 " I think, my lad}', we are near the dyke ; but I 
 wouldn't be certain." 
 
 " I nearly as possible rode into a chalk-pit," said 
 Mike. " Unpleasant as it is, I think we had better 
 remain where we are until it clears." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, we cannot remain here ; we might 
 walk and lead the horses." 
 
 " Very well, you get on your horse ; I'll lead." 
 
 " No, no," she whispered, " give me your arm, and 
 I'll walk." 
 
 They walked in the bitter, hopeless dark, stum- 
 bling over the rough ground, the groom following 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. I39 
 
 with the horses. But soon Lady Edith stopped, and 
 leaning heavily on Mike, said — 
 
 " I can go no further ; I wish I were dead !" 
 
 " Dead ! No, no," he whispered ; " live for my 
 sake, darling." , 
 
 At that moment the gable of a barn appeared like 
 an apparition. The cattle which were lying in the 
 yard started from under the horses' feet, and stood 
 staring in round-eyed surprise. The barn was half- 
 full of hay, and in the dry pungent odour Mike and 
 Lady Edith rested an hour. Sometimes a bullock 
 filled the doorway with ungainly form and steaming 
 nostrils ; sometimes the lips of the lovers met. In 
 about half-an-hour the 'groom returned with the 
 news that the fog was lifting, and discovering a 
 cart-track, they followed it over the hills for many 
 a mile. 
 
 "There is Horton Borstal," cried Parker, as they 
 entered a deep cutting overgrown with bushes. " I 
 know my way now, my lady; we are seven miles 
 from home." 
 
 When he bade Lady Edith good-bye, Mike's mind 
 thrilled with a sense of singular satisfaction. Here 
 was an adventure which seemed to him quite perfect ; 
 it had been preceded by no wearisome preliminaries, 
 and he was not likely ever to see her again. 
 
 Weeks and months passed, and the simple-minded 
 country folk with whom he had taken up his abode 
 seemed more thoroughly devoted to him ; the anchor 
 of their belief seemed now deeply grounded, and in 
 the peaceful bay of their affection his bark floated, 
 safe from ship-wrecking current or storm. There 
 was neither subterfuge nor duplicity in Mike ; he was 
 always singularly candid on the subject of his sins 
 and general worthlessness, and he was never more 
 natural in worcl and deed than at Holly Park. If 
 
HO MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 its inmates had been reasonable they would- have 
 cast him forth ; but reason enters hardly at all in 
 the practical conduct of human life, and our loves 
 and friendships owe to it either origin or modifica- 
 tion. 
 
 It was a house of copious meals and sleep. Mike 
 stirred these sluggish livers, and they accepted him 
 as a digestive ; and they amused him, and he only 
 dreamed vaguely of leaving them until he found his 
 balance at the bank had fallen very low. Then 
 he packed up his portmanteau and left them, and 
 when he walked down the Strand he had forgotten 
 them and all country pursuits, and wanted to talk 
 of journalism ; and he would have welcomed the 
 obscurest paragraphist. Suddenly he s^>v Frank; 
 and turning from a golden-haired actress who was 
 smiling upon him he said — 
 
 " How do you do?" The men shook hands, and 
 stood constrainedly talking for a few minutes ; then 
 Mike suggested lunch, and they turned into Lubini's. 
 The proprietor, a dapper little man, more like a rich 
 man's valet than a waiter, whose fat fingers sparkled 
 with rings, sat sipping sherry and reading the racing 
 intelligence to a lord who offered to toss him for 
 half-crowns. 
 
 "Now then, Lubi," cried the lord, " which is it? 
 Come on ; just this once." 
 
 Lubi demurred. " You toss too well for me ; last 
 night you did win seven times running — damn!" 
 
 "Come on, Lubi ; here it is flat on the table." 
 
 Mike longed to pull his money out of his pocket, 
 but he had not been on terms with Lubi since he had 
 called him a Marchand de Soupe, an insult which 
 Lubi had not been able to forgive, and it was the 
 restaurateur's women folk who welcomed him back 
 to town after his long absence. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. I4I 
 
 "What an air of dissipation, Iiilarity, and drink 
 there is about the place !" said Mike. " Look !" and 
 his eyes rested on two gross men — music-halt singers — 
 who sat with their agent, sipping Chartreuse. " Three 
 years ago," he said, '■ they were crying artichokes in 
 the street, and the slum is still upon their faces." 
 
 No one else was in the long gallery save the 
 waiters, who dozed far away in the mean twilight of 
 the glass-roofing. 
 
 " How jolly it is," said Mike, " to order your own 
 dinner! Let's have some oysters— three dozen. We'll 
 have a Chateaubriand — what do you say ? And an 
 omelette souffl6e — what do you think? And a 
 bottle of champagne. Waiter, bring me the wine- 
 list." 
 
 Frank had spoken to Mike because he felt lonely ; 
 the world had turned a harsh face on him. Lord 
 Mount Rorke had married, and the paper was losing 
 its circulation. 
 
 "And how is the paper going?" 
 
 " Pretty well ; just the same as usual. Do you ever 
 see it ? What do you think of my articles?" 
 
 " Your continuation of my series. Lions of the 
 Season ? Very good ; I only saw one or two. I have 
 been living in the country, and have hardly seen a 
 paper for the last year and a half. You can't imagine 
 the life I have been leading. Nice kind people 'tis 
 true ; I love them, but they never open a book. That 
 is all very nice for a time— for three months, for six, 
 for a year— but after that you feel a sense of alienation 
 stealing over you." 
 
 Mike saw that Frank had only met with failure ; 
 so he was tempted to brandish his successes. He 
 gave a humorous description of his friends — how he 
 had picked them up ; how they had supplied him 
 with horses to ride and guns to shoot with. 
 
142 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " And what about the young ladies? Were they 
 included in the hospitality ?" 
 
 " They included themselves. How delicious love 
 in a country house is ! — and how different from other 
 love it is, to follow a girl dressed for dinner into the 
 drawing-room or library, and to take her by the waist, 
 to feel a head leaning towards you and a mouth clos- 
 ing upon yours! Above all, when the room is in 
 darkness — better still in the firelight — the light of the 
 fire on her neck. . . . How good these oysters are! 
 Have some more champagne." 
 
 Then, in a sudden silence, a music-hall gent was 
 heard to say that some one was a splendid woman, 
 ' beautifully developed. 
 
 " Now then, Lubi, old man, I toss you for a 
 sovereign," cried a lord, who looked like a sandwich- 
 man in his ample driving-coat. 
 
 "You no more toss with me, I have done with 
 you ; you too sharp for me." 
 
 " What ! are you going to cut me? Are you going 
 to warn me off your restaurant ?" 
 
 Roars of laughter followed, and the lions of song 
 gazed in admiration on the lord. 
 
 "I maybe hard up," cried the lord; "but I'm 
 damned if I ever look hard up ; do I, Lubi ?" 
 
 " Since \ov\ turn up head when you like, why 
 should you look hard up?" 
 
 " You want us to believe you are a ' mug,' Lubi, 
 that's about it, but it won't do. 'Mugs 'are rare 
 nowada)'s. I don't know where to go and look for 
 them. ... I say, Lubi," and he whispered some- 
 thing in the restaurateur's ear, " if you know of any 
 knocking about, bring them down to my place; you 
 shall stand in." 
 
 "Damn me! You take me for a pump, do you? 
 You get out !" 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 143 
 
 The genial lord roared the more, and assured Lubi 
 he meant " mugs," and offered to toss him for a 
 sovereign. 
 
 " How jolly this is!" said Mike. " I'm dying for a 
 gamble ; I feel as if I could play as I never played 
 before. I have all the cards in my mind's eye. By 
 George ! I wish I could get hold of a ' mug,' I'd 
 fleece him to the tune of five hundred before he knew 
 where he was. But look at that woman ! She's not 
 bad." 
 
 " A great coarse creature like that ! I never could 
 understand you. . . . Have you heard of Lily 
 Young lately ?" 
 Mike's face fell. 
 
 " No," he said, " I have not. She is the only 
 woman I ever loved. I would sooner see her than 
 the green cloth. I really believe I love that girl. 
 Somehow I cannot forget her." 
 
 " Well, come and see her to-day. Take your eyes 
 off that disgusting harlot." 
 
 " No, not to-day," he replied, without removing 
 his eyes. Five minutes after he said, " Very well, I 
 will go. I must see her." 
 
 The waiter was called, the bill paid, a hansom 
 hailed, and they were rolling westward. In the 
 pleasure of this little expedition, Mike's rankling 
 animosity was almost forgotten. He said — 
 
 " I love this drive west : I love to see London 
 opening up, as it were, before the wheels of the 
 hansom — Trafalgar Square, the Clubs, Pall Mall, St. 
 James' Street, Piccadilly, the descent, and then the 
 gracious ascent beneath the trees. You see how I 
 anticipate it all." 
 
 " Do you remember that morning when Lady 
 Helen committed suicide ? What did you think of 
 my article ?" 
 
144 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I didn't see it. I should have Hked to have 
 written about it ; but you said that I wouldn't write 
 feelingly." 
 
 Mrs. Young hardly rose from her sofa ; but she 
 welcomed them in plaintive accents. Lily showed 
 less astonishment and pleasure at seeing him than 
 Mike expected. She was talking to a lady, who was 
 subsequently discovered to be the wife of a strange 
 fat man, who, in his character of Orientalist, squatted 
 upon the lowest seat in the room and wore a velvet 
 turban on his head, a voluminous overcoat circulating 
 about him. 
 
 " As I said to Lady Hazeldean last night — I hope 
 Mr. Gladstone did not hear me, he was talking to 
 Lady Engleton Dixon about divorce, I really hope 
 he did not hear me — but I really couldn't help saying 
 that I thought it would be better if he believed less 
 in the divorce of nations, even if I may not add that 
 he might with advantage believe more in the divorce 
 of persons not suited to each other." 
 
 When the conversation turned on Arabi, which it 
 never failed to do in this house, the perfume-burners 
 that had been presented to her and Mr. Young on 
 their triumphal tour were pointed out. 
 
 "I telegraphed to Dilke," said Sir Joseph, " 'You 
 must not hang th.it man.' " And when Mrs. Young 
 accused him of not sufficient interest in Africa, he 
 said — " My dear Mrs. Young, I am interested in 
 Africa! You forget what I have done for Africa; 
 how I have laboured for Africa. I shall not believe 
 in the synthesis of humanity, nor will it be complete 
 till we get the black notes." 
 
 " Mr. Young and Lord Granville used to have 
 such long discussions about Buddhism, and it always 
 used to end in Mr. Young sending a copy of your 
 book to Lord Granville." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 45 
 
 " A very great distinction for me — a very great 
 distinction for me," murmured Buddha ; and allow- 
 ing Mrs. Young to relieve him of his tea-cup, he 
 said — " And now, Mrs. Young, I want to ask for 
 your support and co-operation in a little scheme — 
 a little scheme which I have been nourishing like a 
 rose in my bosom for some years." 
 
 Sir Joseph raised his voice ; and it was not until 
 he had imposed silence on his wife that he consented 
 to unfold his little scheme. 
 
 Then the fat man explained that in a certain 
 province in Cylone (a name of six syllables) there 
 was a temple, and this temple had belonged in the 
 sixth century to a tribe of Buddhists (a name of 
 seven syllables), and this temple had in the eighth 
 century been taken from the Buddhists by a tribe of 
 Brahmins (a name of eight syllables). 
 
 " And not being Mr. Gladstone," said Sir Joseph, 
 " I do not propose to depossess the Brahmins with- 
 out compensation. I am merely desirous that the 
 Brahmins should be bought out by the Indian Gov- 
 ernment at a cost of a hundred and fifty or two 
 hundred thousand. If this were done the number 
 of pilgrims to this holy shrine would be doubled, and 
 the best results would follow." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Jellaby, where art thou?" thought 
 Mike, and he boldly took advantage of the elaborate 
 preparations that were being made for Sir Joseph to 
 write his name on a fan, to move round the table 
 and take a seat by Lily. 
 
 But Frank's patience was exhausted, and he rose 
 to leave. 
 
 " People wonder at the genius of Shakespeare ! I 
 must say the stupidity of the ordinary man surprises 
 me far more," said Mike. 
 
 "I'm a poor man to-day," said Frank, "but I 
 
146 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 would give £2% to have had Dickens with us — fancy 
 walking up Piccadilly with him afterwards !" 
 
 " Now I must go," he said. " Lizzie is waiting 
 for -me. I'll see you to-morrow," he cried, and 
 drove away. 
 
 " Just fancy having to look after her, having to 
 attend to her wants, having to leave a friend and 
 return home to dine with her in a small room! How 
 devilish pleasant it is to be free ! — to say, ' Where 
 shall I dine ? ' and to be able to answer, ' Anywhere.' 
 But it is too early to dine, and too late to play 
 whist. Damn it ! I don't know what to do with my- 
 self." 
 
 Mike watched the elegantly-dressed men who 
 passed hurriedly to their clubs, or drove west to 
 dinner-parties. Red clouds and dark clouds collected 
 and rolled overhead, and in a chill wintry breeze the 
 leaves of the tall trees shivered, fell, and were blown 
 along the pavement with sharp harsh sound. Lon- 
 don shrouded like a widow in long crape. 
 
 " What is there to do? Five o'clock! After that 
 lunch I cannot dine before eight — three hours! 
 Whom shall I go and see?" 
 
 A vision of women passed through his mind, but 
 he turned from them all, and he said — 
 
 "I will go and see her." 
 
 He had met Miss Dudley in Brighton, in a house 
 where he had been asked to tea. She was a small, 
 elderly spinster with sharp features and gray curls. 
 She had expected him to address to her a few com- 
 mon-place remarks for politeness' sake, and then to 
 leave her for some attractive girl. But he had showed 
 no wish to leave her, and when they met again he 
 walked by her bath-chair the entire length of the 
 Cliff. Miss Dudley was a cripple. She had fallen 
 from some rocks when a child playing on the beach, 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 147 
 
 and had injured herself irremediably. She lived with 
 her maid in a small lodging, and being often confined 
 to her room- for days, nearly every visitor was wel- 
 come. Mike liked this pallid and forgotten little 
 woman. He found in her a strange sweetness — a 
 wistfulness. There was poetry in her loneliness and 
 her ruined health. Strength, health, and beauty had 
 been crushed by a chance fall. But the accident 
 had not affected the mind, unless perhaps it had 
 raised it into more intense sympathy with life. And 
 in all his various passions and neglected correspon- 
 dence he never forgot for long to answer her letters, 
 nor to allow a month to pass without seeing her. 
 And now he bought for her a great packet of roses 
 and a novel; and with some misgiving he chose 
 Zola's Page d Amour. 
 
 " I think this is all right. She'll be delighted with 
 it, if she'll read it." 
 
 She would have read anything he gave, and seen 
 no harm since it came from him. The ailing caged 
 bird cannot but rapture in the thrilling of the wild 
 bird that comes to it with the freedom of the sky 
 and fields in its wings and song. She listened to all 
 his stories, even to his stories of pigeon-shooting. 
 She knew not how to reproach him. Her eyes fixed 
 upon him, her gentle hand laid on the rail of her 
 chair, she listened while he told her of the friends he 
 had made, and his life in the country; its seascape 
 and downlands, the furze where he had shot the rab- 
 bits, the lane where he had jumped the gate. Her 
 pleasures had passed in thought — his in action ; the 
 world was for him — this room for her. 
 
 There is the long chair in which she lies nearly 
 always; there is the cushion on which the tired head 
 is leaned, a small beautifully-shaped head, and the 
 sharp features are distinct on the dark velvet, for the 
 
148 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 lamp is on the mantelpiece, and the light falls full on 
 the profile. The curtains are drawn, and the eyes 
 animate with gratitude when Mike enters with his 
 roses, and after asking kindly questions he takes a 
 vase, and filling it with water, places the flowers 
 therein, and sets it on the table beside her. There is 
 her fire — (few indeed are the days in summer when 
 she is without it) — the singing kettle suggests the 
 homely tea, and the saucepan on the hearth the invalid. 
 There is her bookcase, set with poetry and religion, 
 and in one corner ar6 the yellow-backed French novels 
 that Mike has given her. They are the touches the 
 most conclusive of reality in her life ; and she often 
 smiled, thinking how her friends will strive to explain 
 how they came into her life when she was gone. 
 
 " How good of you to come and see me ! Tell me 
 about yourself, what you have been doing. I want 
 to hear you talk." 
 
 " Well, I've brought you this book; it is a lovely 
 book — you can read it — I think you can read it, 
 otherwise I should not have given it to you." 
 
 He remained with her till seven, talking to her 
 about hunting, shooting, literature, and card-playing. 
 
 " Now I must go," he said, glancing at the clock. 
 
 " Oh, so soon," exclaimed Miss Dudley, waking 
 from her dream ; " must you go ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid I must; I haven't dined yet." 
 
 " And what are you going to do after dinner? 
 You are going to play cards." 
 
 " How did you guess that?" 
 
 " I can't say," she said, laughing, " I think I can 
 often guess your thoughts." 
 
 And during the long drive to Piccadilly, and as he 
 eat his sole and drank his Pomard, he dreamed of 
 the hands he should hold, and of the risks he should 
 run when the cards were bad. His brain glowed with 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. I49 
 
 subtle combinations and surprises, and he longed to 
 measure his strength against redoubtable antagonists. 
 The two great whist players, Longley and Lovegrove, 
 were there. He always felt jealous of Lovegrove's 
 play. Lovegrove played an admirable game, always 
 making the most of his cards. But there was none 
 of that dash, and almost miraculous flashes of imagin- 
 ation and decision which characterized Mike, and 
 Mike felt that if he had the money on, and with 
 Longley for a partner, he could play as he had never 
 played before ; and ignoring a young man whom he 
 might have rooked at ecart6, and avoiding a rich old 
 gentleman who loved his game of piquet, and on 
 whom Mike was used to rely in the old days for 
 his Sunday dinner (he used to say the old gentleman 
 gave the best dinners in London ; they always ran 
 into a tenner), he sat down at the whist-table. His 
 partner played wretchedly, and though he had Long- 
 ley and Lovegrove against him, he could not refrain 
 from betting ten pounds on every rubber. He played 
 till the club closed, he played till he had reduced his 
 balance at the bank to nineteen pounds. 
 
 Haunted by the five of clubs, which he should have 
 and did not play on one occasion, he walked till he 
 came to the Haymarket. Then he stopped. What 
 could he do ? All the life of idleness and luxury 
 which he had so long enjoyed faded like a dream, and 
 the spectre of cheap lodgings and daily journalism 
 rose painfully distinct. He pitied the street-sweepers, 
 and wondered if it were possible for him to slip down 
 into the gutter. " When I have paid my hotel bill, 
 I shan't have a tenner." He thought of Mrs. Byril, 
 but the idea did not please him, and he remembered 
 Frank had told him he had a cottage on the river. 
 He would go there. He might put up for a night 
 or two at Hall's. 
 
 " I will start a series of articles to-morrow. What 
 
150 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 shall it be ?" An unfortunate still stood at the corner 
 of the street. " ' Letters to a Light o' Love ! ' Frank 
 must advance me something upon them. . . Those 
 stupid women ! if they were not so witless they could 
 rise to any height. If I had only been a woman! . . 
 If I had been a woman I should have liked to have 
 been Ninon de Lenclos." 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 When Mike had paid his hotel bill, very few 
 pounds were left for the card-room, and judging it 
 was not an hour in which he might tempt fortune, 
 he " rooked " a young man remorselessly. Having 
 thus replenished his pockets he turned to the whist- 
 table for amusement. Luck was against him ; he 
 played, defying luck, and left the club owing eighty 
 pounds, five of which he had borrowed from Longley. 
 
 Next morning as he dozed, he wondered if he had 
 played the ten of diamonds instead of the seven of 
 clubs, if it would have materially altered his fortune; 
 and from cards his thoughts wandered, till they took 
 root in the articles he was to write for the Pilgrim. 
 He was in Hall's spare bed-room — a large, square 
 room, empty of all furniture except a camp bedstead. 
 His portmanteau lay wide open in the middle of the 
 floor, and a gaunt fireplace yawned amid some yellow 
 marbles. 
 
 " ' Darling, like a rose you hold the whole world 
 between your lips, and you shed its leaves in little 
 kisses.' That will do for the opening sentences." 
 Then as words slipped from him he considered the 
 component parts of his subject. 
 
 " The first letter is of course introductory, and I 
 
MIk'E FLETCHER. Ijl 
 
 must establish certain facts, truths whicli have become 
 distorted and falsified, or lost sight of. Addressing 
 an ideal courtesan, I say, ' You must understand that 
 the opening sentence of this letter does not include 
 any part of the old reproach which has been levelled 
 against you since man began to love you, and that was 
 when he ceased to be an ape and became man. 
 
 " ' If you were ever sphinx-like and bloodthirsty, 
 which I very much doubt, you have changed flesh 
 and skin, even the marrow of your bones. In these 
 modern days you are a kind-hearted little woman 
 who, to pursue an ancient metaphor, sheds the 
 world rosewise in little kisses; but if you did not so 
 shed it, the world would shed itself in tears. Your 
 smiles and laughter are the last lights that play 
 around the white hairs of an aged duke ; your win- 
 some tendernesses are the dreams of a young man 
 who writes " pars" about you on Friday, and dines 
 with you on Sunday; you are an ideal in many 
 lives which without you would certainly be ideal-less.' 
 Deuced good that ; I wish I had a pencil to make a 
 note ; but I shall remember it. Then will come my 
 historical paragraph. I shall show that it is only by 
 confounding courtesans with queens, and love with 
 ambition, that any sort of case can be made out 
 against the former. Third paragraph — ' Courtesans 
 are a factor in the great problem of the circulation of 
 wealth, etc' It will be said that the money thus 
 spent is unproductive. . . So much the better ! For 
 if it were given to the poor it would merely enable 
 them to bring more children into the world, thereby 
 increasing immensely the general misery of the race. 
 Schopenhauer will not be left out in the cold after 
 all. Quote Lecky, — ' The courtesan is the guardian 
 angel of our hearths and homes, the protector of our 
 wives and sisters.' " 
 
152 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Will you have a bath this morning, sir ?" cried the 
 laundress, through the door. 
 
 " Yes, and get me a chop for breakfast." 
 
 " I shall tell her (the courtesan, not the laundress) 
 how she may organize the various forces latent in her, 
 and culminate in a power which shall contain in 
 essence the united responsibilities of church, music-ball, 
 and picture gallery." Mike turned over on his back 
 and roared with laughter. " Frank will be delighted. 
 It will make the fortune of the paper. Then I shall 
 attack my subject in detail. Dress, house, education, 
 friends, female and male. Then the money question. 
 She must make a provision for the future. Charming 
 chapter there is to be written on the old age of the 
 courtesan — charities — ostentatious charities — charita- 
 ble bazaars, reception into the Roman Catholic faith." 
 
 "Shall I bring in your hot water, sir?" screamed 
 the laundress. 
 
 " Yes, yes Shall my courtesan go on the 
 
 stage? No, she shall be a pure courtesan, she shall 
 remain unsullied of any labour. She might appear 
 once on the boards ; — no, no, she must remain a pure 
 courtesan. Charming subject ! It will make a book. 
 Charming opportunity for ^\•it, satire, fancy. I shall 
 write the introductory letter after breakfast." 
 
 Frank was in shoaling water, and could not pay 
 his contributors; but Mike could get blood out of a 
 turnip, and Frank advanced him ten pounds on the 
 proposed articles. Frank counted on these articles 
 to whip up the circulation, and Mike promised to let 
 him have four w ithin the ^\•cek, and left the cottage 
 at Henley, where Frank was living, full of dreams of 
 work. And every morning before he got out of bed 
 he considered and reconsidered his subject, finding 
 always more than one idea, and many a witty fancy; 
 and every day after breakfast the work undone hung 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 153 
 
 like a sword between Hall and him as they sat 
 talking of their friends, of art, of women, of things 
 that did not interest them. They hung around each 
 other, loth yet desirous to part ; they followed each 
 other through the three rooms, buttoning their braces 
 and shirt collars. And when conversation had worn 
 itself out, Mike accepted any pretext to descend into 
 the court. He had to fetch ink or cigarettes. 
 
 But he was always detained, if not by friends, by 
 the beauty of the gardens or the river. Never did 
 the old dining-hall and the staircases, balustraded 
 — on whose gray stone a leaf, the first of many, 
 rustles — seem more intense and pregnant with that 
 mystic mournfulness which is the Thames, and 
 which is London. The dull sphinx-like water rolling 
 through the multitude of bricks, seemed to mark 
 on this wistful autumn day a more melancholy en- 
 chantment, and looking out on the great waste of 
 brick delicately blended with smoke and mist, and 
 seeing the hay-boats sailing picturesquely, and the 
 tugs making for Blackfriars, long lines of coal-barges 
 in their wake, laden so deep that the water slopped 
 over the gunwales, he thought of the spring morning 
 when he had waited there for Lily. How she per- 
 sisted in his mind ! Why had he not asked her to 
 marry him instead of striving to make her his 
 mistress ? She was too sweet to be cast off like the 
 others ; she would have accepted him if he had asked 
 her. He had sacrificed marriage for self, and what 
 had self given him ? 
 
 Mike was surprised at these thoughts, and pleased, 
 for they proved a certain residue of goodness in him ; 
 at all events, called into his consideration a side of 
 his nature which he was not wearisomely familiar 
 with. Then he dismissed these thoughts as he might 
 have the letter of a determined creditor. He could 
 
1 54 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 still bid them go. And having easily rid himself 
 of them, he noticed the porters in their whit; aprons, 
 and the flight of pigeons, the sacred birds of the 
 Temple, coming down from the roofs. And he loved 
 now more than ever Fleet Street, and the various 
 offices where he might idle, and the various luncheon- 
 bars to which he might adjourn with one of the staff, 
 perhaps with the editor of one of the newspapers. 
 The October sunlight was warm and soft, greeting 
 his face agreeably as he lounged, stopping before 
 every shop in which there were books or prints. 
 Ludgate Circus was always a favourite with him, 
 partly because he loved St. Paul's, partly because 
 women assembled there; and now in the mist, deli- 
 cate and pure, rose above the town the lovely dome. 
 
 " None but the barbarians of the Thames," thought 
 Mike, " none other would have allowed that most 
 shameful bridge." 
 
 Mike hated Simpson's. He could not abide the 
 stolid city folk, who devour fifty saddles of mutton 
 in an evening. He liked better the Cock Tavern, 
 quiet, snug, and intimate. Wedged with a couple of 
 chums in a comfortable corner, he shouted — 
 
 " Henry, get me a chop and a pint of bitter." 
 
 There he was sure to meet a young barrister ready 
 to talk to him, and they returned together, swinging 
 their sticks, happy in their bachelordom, proud of 
 the old inns and courts. Often they stayed to look 
 on the church, the church of the Knight Templars, 
 those terrible and mysterious knights who, with 
 crossed legs for sign of mission, and with long swords 
 and kite-shaped shields, lie upon the pavement of 
 the church. 
 
 One wet night a deep cloying darkness had wiped 
 out every architectural outline ; the doors of the 
 church were ajar, and the pathetic stories of the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. ISS 
 
 windows became dreamily alive. The young men 
 entered, seeing the painted arches and clustered 
 columns; and in the pomp of the pipes, and in 
 shadow starred by the candles, the lone organist sat 
 playing a fugue by Bach. 
 
 " It is," said Mike, " like turning the pages of some 
 precious missal, adorned with gold thread and be- 
 dazzled with rare jewels. It is like a poem by Edgar 
 Allan Poe." Quelled, and in strange awe they lis- 
 tened, and when the music ceased, unable at once to 
 return to the simple prose of their chambers, they 
 lingered, commenting on the mock taste of the 
 architecture of the dining-hall, and laughing at the 
 inflated inscription over the doorway. 
 
 " It is worse," said Mike, " than the Middle Temple 
 Hall — far worse ; but I like this old colonnade, there 
 is something so suggestive in this old inscription in 
 bad Latin. 
 
 ' Vetustissima Templariorum porticu 
 Igne consumptS, an 1679 
 Nova hoc sumptibus medii 
 Templie tructa an 1681 
 Gulielmo Whiteloche arm 
 Thesauor.' " 
 
 Once or twice a week Hall dined at the Cock for 
 the purpose of meeting his friends, whom he invited 
 after dinner to his rooms to smoke and drink- till 
 midnight. His welcome was so cordial that all were 
 glad to come. The hospitality was that which is 
 met in all chambers in the Temple. Coffee was 
 made with difficulty, delay, and uncertain result ; a 
 bottle of port was sometimes produced ; of whiskey 
 and water there was always plenty. Every one 
 brought his own tobacco; and in decrepit chairs 
 beneath dangerously-laden bookcases some six or 
 seven barristers enjoyed themselves in conversation, 
 smoke, and drink. Mike recognized on entering 
 
156 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 how characteristically Temple was this society, how 
 different from the heterogeneous visitors of Temple 
 Gardens in the heyday of Frank's fortune. 
 
 James Norris was a small, thin man, dark and with 
 regular features, clean shaven like a priest or an actor, 
 vaguely resembling both, inclining towards the hier- 
 atic rather than to the histrionic type. He dressed 
 always in black, and the closely buttoned jacket re- 
 vealed the sparenessof his body. He was met often 
 in the evening, going to dine at the Cock ; but was 
 rarely seen walking about the Temple in the day-time. 
 It was impossible to meet any one more suasive and 
 agreeable ; his suavity was penetrating as his small 
 dark eyes. He lived in Elm Court, and his rooms 
 impressed you with a sense of cleanliness and comfort. 
 The furniture was all in solid mahogany ; there were 
 no knick-knacks or any lightness, and almost the only 
 aesthetic intentions were a few sober engravings — 
 portraits of men in wigs and breast-plates. He took 
 pleasure in these and also in some first editions, 
 containing the original plates, which, when you knew 
 him well, he produced from the bookcase and 
 descanted on their value and rarity. 
 
 Mr. Norris had always an excellent cigar to offer 
 you, and he pressed you to taste of his old port, and 
 his Chartreuse ; there was whiskey for you too, if you 
 cared to take it, and allusion was made to its age. 
 But it was neither an influence nor a characteristic 
 of his rooms; the port wine was. If there was fruit 
 on the sideboard, there was also pounded sugar; and 
 it is such detail as the pounded sugar that announces 
 an inveterate bachelorhood. Some men are born 
 bachelors. And when a man is born a bachelor, 
 the signs unmistakable are hardly apparent at thirty : 
 it is not until the fortieth year is approached that 
 the fateful markings become recognizable. James 
 Norris was forty-two and was therefore a full-fledged 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 157 
 
 bachelor. He_ was a bachelor in the complete 
 equipment of his chambers. He was bachelor in his 
 arm-chair and his stock of wine ; his hospitality was 
 that of a bachelor, for a man who feels instinctively 
 that he will never own a "house and home," con- 
 structs the materiality of his life in chambers upon 
 a fuller basis than the man who feels instinctively 
 that he will, sooner or later, exchange the perch-like 
 existence of his chambers for the nest-like complete- 
 ness of a home in South Kensington. 
 
 James Norris was of an excellent county family 
 in Essex. He had a brother in the army, a brother 
 in the Civil Service, and a brother in the Diplomatic 
 Service. He has also a brother who composes 
 somewhat unsuccessful waltz tunes, who borrows 
 money, and James thinks that his brother causes 
 him some anxiety of mind. The eldest brother, John 
 Norris, lives at the family place, Halton Grange, 
 where he stays when he goes on the Eastern circuit. 
 James is far too securely a gentleman to speak much 
 of Halton Grange ; nevertheless, the flavour of landed 
 estate transpires in the course of conversation with 
 him. He returns from circuit, having finished "up 
 with a partridge drive, etc. 
 
 James Norris was a sensualist. His sensuality 
 was recognizable in the close set eyes and in the 
 sharp prominent chin (he resembled vaguely the 
 portrait of Baudelaire in Les Fleurs du Mai) ; he 
 never spoke of his amours, but occasionally he would 
 drop an observation, especially if he were talking to 
 Mike Fletcher, that afforded a sudden glimpse of a 
 soul touched if not tainted with erotism. But James 
 Norris was. above all things prudent, and knew how 
 to keep vice well in hand. 
 
 Like another, he had had his love story, or that 
 which in the life of such a man might pass for a 
 
158 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 love story. He had flirted a great deal when he 
 was thirty, with a married woman. She had not 
 troubled, she had only slightly eddied, stirred with 
 a few ripples the placidity of a placid stream of life. 
 In hours of lassitude it pleased him to strive to think 
 that she had ruined his life. Man is ever ready to 
 think that his failure comes from without rather than 
 from within. He wrote to her "every week a long 
 letter, and spent a large part of the long vacation in 
 her house in Yorkshire, telling her that he had never 
 loved any one but her. 
 
 James Norris was an able lawyer, and he was an 
 able lawyer for three reasons. First, because he was 
 a clear-headed man of the world, who had not allowed 
 his intelligence to rust ; — it formed part of the routine 
 of his life to read some pages of a standard author 
 before going to bed; he studied all the notorious 
 articles that appeared in the reviews, attempting 
 the assimilation of the ideas which seemed to him 
 best in our time. Secondly, he was industrious, and 
 if he led an independent life, dining frequently in a 
 tavern instead of touting for briefs in society, and so 
 harmed himself, such misadventure was counter- 
 balanced by his industry and his prudence. Thirdly, 
 his sweetness and geniality made him a favourite 
 with the bench. He had much insight into human 
 nature, he studied it, and could detect almost at 
 once the two leading spirits on a jury; and he was 
 always aware of the idiosyncrasies of the judge he 
 was pleading before, and knew how to respect and 
 to flatter them. 
 
 Charles Stokes was the oldest man who frequented 
 Hall's chambers, and his venerable appearance was 
 an anomaly in a company formed principally of men 
 under forty. In truth, Charles Stokes was not more 
 than forty-six or seven, but he explained that living 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 159 
 
 everywhere, and doing everything, had aged him be- 
 yond his years. In mind, however, he was the young- 
 est there, and his manner was often distressingly 
 juvenile. He wore old clothes which looked as if 
 they had not been brushed for some weeks, and his 
 linen was of dubious cleanliness, and about his rum- 
 pled collar there floated a half-tied black necktie. 
 Mike, who hated all things that reminded him of the 
 casualness of this human frame, never was at ease in 
 his presence, and his eye turned in disgust from 
 sight of the poor old gentleman's trembling and ossi- 
 fied fingers. His beard was long and almost white ; 
 he snuffed, and smoked a clay pipe, and sat in the 
 arm-chair which stood in the corner beneath the 
 screen which John Norton had left to Hall. 
 
 He was always addressed as Mr. Stokes ; Hall kept 
 him well supplied with whiskey-and-water. He was 
 listened to on account of his age — that is to say, on 
 account of his apparent age, and on account of his 
 gentleness. Harding had described him as one who 
 talked learned nonsense in sweetly-measured intona- 
 tions. But although Harding ridiculed him, he often 
 led him into conversation, listening with obvious' in- 
 terest, for Mr. Stokes had drifted through many 
 modes and manners of life, and had in so doing ac- 
 quired some vague knowledge. 
 
 He had written a book on the ancient religions of 
 India, which he called the Cradleland of Arts and 
 Creeds, and Harding, ever on the alert to pick a brain, 
 however poor it might be, enticed him into discussion 
 in which frequent allusion was made to Vishnu and 
 Siva. 
 
 Yes, drifted is the word that best expresses Mr. 
 Stokes' passage through life— he had drifted. He 
 was one of the many millions who live without a fixed 
 intention, without even knowing what they desire ; 
 
l6o MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 and he had drifted because in him strength and 
 weakness stood at equipoise ; no defect was heavy 
 enough for anchor, nor was there any quality large 
 enough for sufficient sail ; he had drifted from country 
 to country, from profession to profession, whither 
 winds and waves might bear him. 
 
 " Of course I'm a failure," was a phrase that Mr. 
 Stokes repeated with a mild, gentle humour, without 
 any trace of bitterness. He spoke of himself with 
 the naive candour of a docile school-boy, who has 
 taken up several subjects for examination and been 
 ploughed in them all. For Mr. Stokes had been to 
 Oxford, and left it without taking a degree. Then 
 he had gone into the army and had proved himself 
 a thoroughly inefficient soldier, and more than any 
 man before or after, had succeeded in rousing the ire 
 of both adjutant and colonel. It was impossible to 
 teach him an\' drill; what he was taught to-day he 
 forgot to-morrow ; when the general came down to 
 inspect, the confusion he created in the barrack- 
 yard had proved so complex, that for a second it had 
 taxed the knowledge of the drill-sergeant to get the 
 men straight again. 
 
 Mr. Stokes was late at all times and all occasions; 
 he was late for drill, he was late for mess, he was late 
 for church ; and when sent for he was always found 
 in his room, either learning a part or writing a play. 
 His one passion was theatricals ; and wherever the 
 regiment was stationed, he very soon discovered those 
 who were disposed to get up a performance of a farce. 
 
 When he left the army he joined the Indian bar, 
 and there he applied himself in his own absent-minded 
 fashion to the study of Sanscrit, neglecting Hindu- 
 stani, which would have been of use to him in his 
 profession. Through India, China, and America he 
 had drifted. In New York he had edited a news- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. l6l 
 
 paper; in San Francisco he had lectured, and he 
 returned home with an English nobleman who had 
 engaged him as private _secretary. 
 
 When he passed out of the nobleman's service he 
 took chambers in the Temple, and devoted his 
 abundant leisure to writing his memoirs, and the 
 pleasantest part of his life began. The Temple 
 suited him perfectly, its Bohemian ism was congenial ■ 
 to him, the library was convenient, and as no man 
 likes to wholly cut himself adrift from his profession, 
 the vicinity of the law courts, and a modicum of 
 legal conversation in the evening sufificed to maintain 
 in his absent-minded head the illusion that he was 
 practising at the bar. His chambers were bare and 
 dreary, unadorned with spoils from India or China. 
 Mr. Stokes retained nothing; he had passed through 
 life hke a bird ; he did not possess a copy even 
 of his Cradleland of Arts and Creeds. He had 
 gathered nothing, but had lost much, especially his 
 relations. He had lost all except a small property 
 in Kent ; he appeared to be quite alone in the world. 
 
 Mr. Stokes talked rarely of his love affairs, and his 
 allusions were so partial that nothing exact could 
 be determined about him. It was, however, noticed 
 that he wore a gold bracelet indissolubly fastened 
 upon his right wrist, and it was supposed that an 
 Indian princess had given him this, and that a 
 goldsmith had soldered it upon him in her presence, 
 as she lay on her death-bed. It was noticed that 
 a young girl came to see him at intervals, sometimes 
 alone, sometimes accompanied by her aunt. Mr. 
 Stokes made no secret of this young person, and he 
 spoke of her as his adopted daughter. Mr. Stokes 
 dined at a theatrical club. AH men liked him ; he 
 was genial and harmless. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Silk was the son of a London clergy- 
 
1 62 MIKE 'FLETCHER. 
 
 man. He was a tall, spare young man, who was 
 often met about the Temple, striding towards his 
 offices or the library. He was comically careful not 
 to say anything that might offend, and nervously 
 concerned to retreat from all persons and things 
 which did not seem to him to offer possibilities of 
 future help. His assumed geniality and good-fellow- 
 ship hung about him awkwardly, like the clothes of 
 a broad-chested, thick-thighed man would about 
 miserable limbs. For some time Silk had been 
 seriously thinking of cutting himself adrift from all 
 acquaintanceship with Hall. He had, until now, 
 borne with his acquaintanceship because Hall was 
 connected with a society journal that wrote peril- 
 ously near the law of libel ; several times the paper 
 had been threatened with actions, but had somehow; 
 much to Silk's chagrin, managed to escape. All the 
 actionable paragraphs had been discussed with Silk; 
 on each occasion Hall had come down to his office 
 for advice, and he felt sure that he would be employed 
 in the case when it did come off. But unfortunately 
 it showed no signs of accomplishment. Silk read the 
 paper every week for the paragraph that was to 
 bring him fame ; he would have given almost any- 
 thing to be employed " in a good advertising case." 
 But he had noticed that instead of becoming more 
 aggressive and personal, that week by week the news- 
 paper was moderating its tone. In the last issue 
 several paragraphs had caught his eye, which could 
 not be described otherwise than as complimentary; 
 there were also several new pages of advertisements; 
 and these robbed him of all hope of an action. He 
 counted the pages, " twelve pages of advertisements 
 — nothing further of a questionable character will go 
 into that paper," thought he, and forthwith fell to 
 considering Hall's invitation to " come in that evening, 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 163 
 
 if he had nothing better to do." He had decided 
 that he would not go, but at the last moment had 
 gone, and now, as he sat drinking whiskey-and-water, 
 he glanced round the company, thinking it might 
 injure him if it became known that he spent his 
 evenings there, he inwardly resolved he would never 
 again be seen in Hall's rooms. 
 
 Silk had been called to the bar about seven years. 
 The first years he considered he had wasted, but 
 during the last four he applied himself to his pro- 
 fession. He had determined " to make a success of 
 life," that was how he put it to himself. He had, 
 during the last four years, done a good deal of 
 " devilling"; he had attended at the Old Bailey watch- 
 ing for " soups" with untiring patience. But lately, 
 ■ within the last couple of years, he had made up his 
 mind that waiting for " soups" at the Old Bailey 
 was not the way to fame or fortune. His first idea 
 of a path out 01 his present circumstances was through 
 Hall and the newspaper ; but he had lately bethought 
 himself of an easier and wider way, one more fruitful 
 of chances and beset with prizes. This broad and 
 easy road to success which he had lately begun to see, 
 wound through his father's drawing-room. London 
 clergymen have, as a rule, large salaries and abundant 
 leisure, and young Silk determined to turn his father's 
 leisure to account. The Reverend Silk required no 
 pressing. " Show me what line to take, and I will 
 take it," said he ; and young Silk, knowing well the 
 various firms of solicitors that were dispensing such 
 briefs as he could take, instructed his father when 
 and where he should exercise his tea-table agree- 
 abilities, and forthwith the reverend gentleman com- 
 menced his social wrigglings. There were teas and 
 dinners, and calls, and lying without end. Over the 
 wine young Silk cajoled the senior member of the 
 
1 64 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 firnn, and in the drawing-room, sitting by the wife, 
 he alluded to his father's philanthropic duties, which 
 he relieved with such sniggering and pruriency as 
 he though the occasion demanded. 
 
 About six months ago, Mr. Joseph Silk had 
 accidentally learnt, in the treasurer's offices, that 
 the second floor in No. 5, Paper Buildings was un- 
 occupied. He had thought of changing his chambers, 
 but a second floor in Paper Buildings was beyond his 
 means. But two or three days after, as he was walking 
 from his area in King's Bench Walk to the library, 
 he suddenly remembered that the celebrated advocate, 
 Sir Arthur Haldane, lived on the first floor in Paper 
 Buildings. Now at his father's house, or in one of the 
 houses his father frequented, he might meet Sir 
 Arthur; indeed, a meeting could easily be arranged. 
 Here Mr. Silk's sallow face almost flushed with a little 
 colour, and his heart beat as his little scheme pressed 
 upon his mind. Dreading an obstacle, he feared to 
 allow the thought to formulate ; but after a moment 
 he let it slip, and it said — " Now if I were to take 
 the second floor, I should often meet Sir Arthur on 
 the doorstep and staircase. What an immense 
 advantage it would be to me when Stoggard and 
 Higgins learnt that I was on terms of friendship with 
 Sir Arthur. I know as a positive fact that Stoggard 
 and Higgins would give anything to get Sir Arthur 
 for some of their work. . . But the rent is very heavy 
 in Paper Buildings. I must speak to father about it." 
 
 A few weeks after, Mr. Joseph transferred his 
 furniture to No. 2, Paper Buildings ; and not long 
 after he had the pleasure of meeting him at dinner. 
 
 Mr. Silk's love affairs were neither numerous nor 
 interesting. He had spent little of his time with 
 women, and little of his money upon women, and his 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 165 
 
 amativeness had led him into no wilder exploit than 
 the seduction of his laundress's daughter, by whom he 
 had had a child. Indeed, it had once been whispered 
 that the mother, with the child in her arms, had 
 knocked at King's Bench Walk and had insisted on 
 being admitted. Having not the slightest knowledge 
 or perception of female nature, he had extricated him- 
 self with difficulty from the scandal by which' he was 
 menaced, and was severely mulcted before the girl 
 was induced to leave London. About every three 
 months she wrote to him, and these letters were 
 read with horror and burnt in trembling haste ; for 
 Mr. Joseph Silk was now meditating for matrimonial 
 and legal purposes one of the daughters of one of 
 ■ the solicitors he had met in Paper Buildings, and 
 being an exceedingly nervous, ignorant, and unsym- 
 pathetic man in all that did not concern his profes- 
 sion, was vastly disturbed at every echo of his 
 indiscretion. 
 
 Harding, in reply to a question as to what he 
 thought of him. Silk, said — 
 
 "What do I think of Silk? Cotton back" . . . 
 and every one laughed, feeling the intrinsic truth 
 of the judgment. 
 
 Mr. George Cooper was Mr. Joseph Silk's friend. 
 Cooper consulted Silk on every point. Whenever he 
 saw a light in Silk's chambers he thrilled a little with 
 anticipation of the pleasant hour before him, and 
 they sat together discussing the abilities of various 
 eminent judges and barristers. Silk told humorous 
 anecdotes of the judges ; Cooper was exercised con- 
 cerning their morality, and enlarged anxiously on 
 the responsibility of placing a man on the Bench 
 without having full knowledge of his private life. 
 Silk listened, puffing at his pipe, and to avoid com- 
 mitting himself to an opinion, asked Cooper to have 
 another glass of port. Before they parted allusion 
 
1 66 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 was made to the law book that Cooper was writing — 
 Cooper was always bringing out new editions of other 
 people's books, and continually exposed the bad law 
 they wrote in his conversation. He had waited his 
 turn like another for " soups" at the Bailey, and like 
 another had grown weary of waiting; besides the 
 meditative cast of his mind enticed him towards 
 chamber practice and away from public pleading 
 before judge and jury. Silk sought " a big advertis- 
 ing case" ; he desired the excitement of court, and, 
 though he never refused any work, he dreaded the 
 lonely hours necessary for the perfect drawing up of 
 a long indictment. Cooper was very much impressed 
 with Silk's abilities ; he thought him too hard and 
 mechanical, not sufficiently interested in the science 
 of morals ; but these defects of character were forgot- 
 ten in his homage to his friend's worldly shrewdne.ss. 
 For Cooper was unendowed -with worldly shrewdness, 
 and, like all dreamers, was attracted by a mind which 
 controlled while he might only attempt to under- 
 stand ; and Cooper's aspirations towards an ideal 
 tickled Silk's mind as it prepared its snares. Cooper 
 often invited Silk to dine with him at the National 
 Liberal Club ; Silk sometimes asked Cooper to dine 
 with him at the Union. Silk and Cooper were con- 
 sidered alike, and there were many points in which 
 their appearances coincided. Cooper was the shorter 
 man of the two, but both were tall, thin, narrow, and 
 sallow-complexioned ; both were essentially clean, 
 respectable, and middle-class. 
 
 Cooper was the son of a Low Church bishop who 
 had gained his mitre by tempefance oratory, and 
 what his Grace was in the cathedral. Cooper was in 
 the suburban drawing-rooms, where radical politics 
 and the woman's cause were discussed. When he 
 had a brief he brought it to the library to show it; 
 he almost li\'ed in the library. He arrived the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 6/ 
 
 moment it was opened, and brought a packet of 
 sandwiches so as not to waste time going out to 
 lunch. His chambers were furnished without taste, 
 but the works of Comte and Spencer showed that he 
 had attempted to think ; and the works of several 
 socialistic writers showed that he had attempted to 
 solve the problem of human want. On the table 
 were several novels by Balzac, which conversation 
 with Harding had led him to purchase and to read. 
 He likewise possessed a few volumes of modern 
 poetry, but he freely confessed that he preferred 
 Pope, Dryden, and Johnson ; and it was impossible 
 to bring him to understand that De Quincey was more 
 subtle and suggestive than the author of London. 
 
 Generally our souls are made of one conspicuous 
 modern mental aspect ; but below this aspect we are 
 woven and coloured by the spirit of some preceding 
 century, our chance inheritance, and Cooper was a 
 sort of product of the pedantry of Johnson and the 
 utilitarian mysticism of Comte. Perhaps the idea 
 nearest to Cooper's heart was " the woman's cause." 
 The misery and ignominy of human life had affected 
 him, and he dreamed of the world's regeneration 
 through women ; and though well aware that Comte 
 and Spencer advocate the application of experience 
 in all our many mental embarrassments, he failed to 
 reconsider his beliefs in female virtue, although fre- 
 quently pressed to do so by Mike. Some personal 
 animosity had grown out of their desire to convince 
 each other. Cooper had once even meditated Mike's 
 conversion, and Mike never missed an opportunity 
 of telhng some story which he deemed destructive of 
 Cooper's faith. His faith was to him what a micro- 
 scope is to a scient'ist, and it enabled him to dis- 
 cover the finest characteristics in the souls of bar 
 girls, chorus girls, and prostitutes ; and even when 
 
1 68 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 he fell, and they fell, his belief in their virtue and 
 the nobility of their womanly instincts remained 
 unshaken. 
 
 Mike had just finished a most racy story con- 
 cerning his first introduction to a certain countess. 
 Cooper had listened in silence, but when Mike turned 
 at the end of his tale and asked him what he thought 
 of his conduct, Cooper rose from his chair. 
 
 " I think you behaved like a blackguard." 
 
 In a moment Mike was aware that he had put 
 himself in the wrong — that story about the countess 
 could not be told except to his destruction in any 
 language except his own, and that he must therefore 
 forbear to strike Cooper and swallow the insult. 
 
 " You ass, get out ; I can't quarrel with you on 
 such a subject." 
 
 The embarrassment was increased by Cooper 
 calling to Silk and asking if he were coming with 
 him. The prudent Silk felt that to stay was to signify 
 his approval of Mike's conduct in the case of the 
 indiscreet countess. To leave with Cooper was to- 
 write himself down a prig, expose himself to the 
 sarcasm of several past masters in the art of gibing, 
 and to make in addition several powerful eneinies. 
 But the instinct not to compromise himself in any 
 issue did not desert him, and rushing after Cooper he 
 attempted the peace-maker. He knew the attempt 
 would mean no more than some hustling in the door- 
 way, and some ineffectual protestation, and he re- 
 turned a few minutes after to join in the ridicule 
 heaped upon the unfortunate Cooper and to inwardly 
 vow that this was his last evening in Bohemia. 
 
 By the piano, smoking a clay pipe, there sat a 
 large, rough, strong man. His beard was bristly and 
 flame-colored, his face was crimson and pimply ; 
 lion-like locks hung in profusion about the collar of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 69 
 
 his shabby jacket. His linen was torn, and thin ; 
 crumpled was the necktie, and nearly untied, and 
 the trousers were worn and frayed, and the boots 
 heavy. He Iboked as if he could have carried a 
 trunk excellently well, but as that thought struck 
 you your eyes fell upon his hands which were the 
 long, feminine-shaped hands generally found in those 
 of naturally artistic temperament, nearly always in 
 those who practice two or more of the arts. Sands 
 affected all the arts. Enumerate : He played snatches 
 of Bach on the violin, on the piano, and on the 
 organ ; he composed fragments for all those three in- 
 struments. He painted little landscapes after (a long 
 way after) the manner of Corot, of whom he could 
 talk until the small hours in the morning if an oc- 
 casional drink arid cigar were forthcoming. He 
 modelled little statuettes in wax, cupids and nymphs, 
 and he designed covers for books. He could do all 
 these things a little, and not stupidly, although ineffi- 
 ciently. He had been a volunteer, and therefore wrote 
 on military subjects, and had on certain occasions 
 been permitted to criticize our naval defences 
 and point out the vices and shortcomings in our 
 military system in the leading evening papers. He 
 generally was seen with one under his arm going to- 
 wards Charing Cross or Fleet Street. He never 
 strayed further west than Charing Cross, unless he 
 was going to a " picture show," and there was no 
 reason why he should pass Ludgate Circus, for 
 further east there were neither newspapers nor 
 restaurants. He was quite without vanity and there- 
 fore without ambition, Buddha was never more so, 
 not even after attaining the Nirvana. A picture 
 show in Bond Street, a half-crown dinner at 
 Simpson's, or the Rainbow, coffee and cigars after, 
 was all that he desired ; give him that, and he was a 
 
170 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 pleasanf companion who would remain with you 
 until you turned him out, or in charity, for he was 
 often homeless, allowed him to sleep on your sofa. 
 
 Sands was not a member of the Temple, but Hall's 
 rooms were ever a refuge to the weary — there they 
 might rest, and there was there ever for them a drink 
 and a mouthful of food. And there Sands had met 
 the decayed barrister who held the rooms opposite ; 
 which, although he had long ceased to occupy, and 
 had no use for, he still wished to own, if he could do 
 so without expense ; this might be done by letting 
 rooms, and reserving one for himself. 
 
 The unwary barrister, believing in the solvency of 
 whomever he met at Hall's, entrusted his chambers 
 to Sands, without demanding the rent in advance. 
 A roof to sleep under had been the chief difficulty 
 in Sands' life. He thought not at all of a change of 
 clothes, and clean linen troubled him only slightly. 
 Now almost every want seemed provided for. Coals 
 he could get from Hall, also occasional half-crowns; 
 these sufficed to pay for his breakfast,; a dinner he 
 could generally "cadge," and if he failed to do so, he 
 had long ago learnt to go without. It was hard 
 not to admire his gentleness, his patience and for- 
 bearance. If you refused to lend him money he 
 showed no faintest trace of anger. Hall's friends 
 were therefore delighted that the chambers opposite 
 were let on conditions so favourable to Sands ; they 
 anticipated with roars of laughter the scene that 
 would happen at the close of the year, and looked 
 forward to seeing, at least during the-interim, their 
 friend in clean clothes, and reading " his copy" in 
 the best journals. But the luxury of having a fixed 
 place to sleep in, stimulated, not industry, but vicious 
 kziness of the most ineradicable kind. Henceforth 
 Sands abandoned all effort to help himself. Un- 
 
, MI ICE FLETCHER. I/I 
 
 combed, unwashed, in dirty clothes he lay in an 
 arm-chair through all the morning, rising from time 
 to time to mess some paint into the appearance 
 of some incoherent landscape, or to rasp out some 
 bars of Beethoven on his violin. 
 
 " Never did I imagine any one so idle ; he is fairly 
 putrid with idleness," said Hall after a short visit. 
 " Would you believe it, he has only ninepence for sole 
 shield between him and starvation. The editor of the 
 Moon has just telegraphed for the notice he should 
 have written of the Academy, and the brute is just 
 sending a ' wire ' — ■' nothing possible this week.' Did 
 any one ever hear of such a thing? To-night he 
 won't dine and he could write the notice in an hour." 
 
 Besides having contributed to almost every paper 
 in London, from the Times downwards. Sands had 
 held positions as editor and sub-editor of numerous 
 journals. But he had lost each one in turn, and was 
 beginning to understand that he was fated to die of 
 poverty, and was beginning to grow tired of the useless 
 struggle. No one was better organized to earn his liv- 
 ing than Peter Sands, and no one failed more lament- 
 ably. Had fortune provided him with a dinner at 
 Simpson's, a cigar and a cup of coffee, he would have 
 lived as successfully as another. But our civilization 
 is hard upon those who are only conversationalists, it 
 does not seem to have taken them into account in its 
 scheme, and, in truth, Peter could not do much more 
 than to cestheticise agreeably. 
 
 Paul L'Estrange admitted freely that he was not 
 fitted for a lawyer ; but even before he explained that 
 he considered himself one of those beings who had 
 slipped into a hole that did not fit them, it was prob- 
 able that you had already begun to consider the cir- 
 cumstances that had brought him to choose the law as 
 aprofession; for his vague intelligence "where nothing 
 
172 MIKK FLETCHER. 
 
 was and all things seemed," lay mirrored in his mild 
 eyes like a landscape in a pool. Over such a partial 
 and a meditative mind as L'Estrange's, the Temple 
 may exercise a destructive fascination ; and since the 
 first day, when a boy he had walked through the 
 closes gathering round the church, and had heard 
 of the knights, had seen the old dining-hall with 
 its many inscriptions, going back even to 1400, he 
 had never ceased to dream of the Temple — that relic 
 of the past, saved with all its traditions out of the ruin 
 of time ; and the memory of his cousin's chambers, 
 and the association and mutuality of the life of the 
 Temple, the picturesqueness of the wigs and gowns 
 passing, and the uncommonness of it all had taken 
 root and grown, overshadowing other ideals, and when 
 the time came for him to choose a profession, no 
 choice was open to him but the law, for the law 
 resided in the Temple.' 
 
 Soon after his father died, the family property was 
 sold and the family scattered ; some went to Australia, 
 some to Canada ; but L'Estrange had inherited a 
 hundred a year from a grandaunt, and he lived 
 on that, and what he made by writing in the news- 
 papers, for of course no one had thought of entrusting 
 him with a brief ; and what he made by journalism 
 varied from a hundred and fifty to two hundred and 
 fifty a year. Whenever a new scare arose he was 
 busy among blue-books in the library. 
 
 L'Estrange loved to dine at the Cock Tavern with a 
 party of men from the inn and to invite them to his 
 chambers to take coffee afterwards. And when the)- 
 had retired, and only one remained he would say, 
 " What a nice fellow so-and-so is ; you do meet a 
 nice lot of fellows in the Temple, don't you?" It 
 seemed almost sufficient that a man should belong 
 to the Temple for L'Estrange to find him admirable. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 173 
 
 The dinners in hallwere especiallydelightf ul. Between 
 the courses he looked in admiration on the portraits 
 and old oak carvings, and the armorial bearings, and 
 would tell how one bencher had been debarred fronri 
 election as treasurer because he had, on three occa- 
 sions, attended dinner without partaking of any food. 
 Such an insult to the kitchen could not be forgiven. 
 L'Estrange was full of such stories, and he relished 
 their historical flavour as a gourmet an unusually 
 successful piece of cooking. He regarded the Temple 
 and its associations with love. 
 
 When he had friends to dinner in his rooms the 
 dinner was always brought from the hall ; he ordered 
 it himself in the large spacious kitchen, which he 
 duly admired, and prying about amid the various 
 meats, he chose with care, and when told that what 
 he desired could not be obtained that day, he con- 
 tinued his search notwithstanding. He related that 
 on one occasion he discovered a greengage pie, after 
 many assurances that there was no such thing in the 
 kitchen. If he was with a friend he laid his hand 
 on his shoulder and pointing out an inscription, he 
 said, " Now one thing I notice about the Temple is, 
 that never is an occasion missed of putting up an in- 
 scription ; and note the legal character of the inscrip- 
 tions, how carefully it is explained, that, for instance,- 
 the cloisters, although they are for the use of the 
 Inner as well as the Middle Temple, yet it was the 
 Middle Temple that paid to have them put up, and 
 therefore owns the property." L'Estrange always 
 .spoke of the gardens as " our gardens," of the church 
 as " our church." He was an authority on all that 
 related to the Temple, and he delighted in a friend 
 in whom he might confide ; and to walk about the 
 courts with Hall or Sands, stopping now and then to 
 note some curious piece of sculpture or date, and 
 
1/4 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 forthwith to relate an anecdote that brought back 
 some of the fragrance and colour of old time, and 
 to tell how he intended to work such curious facts 
 into the book he was writing on the Temple, was 
 the essence and the soul of this dreamy man's little 
 Hfe. 
 
 Saturday night is the night of dalliance in the 
 Temple, and not unfrequently on Sunday morning, 
 leaving a lady love, L' Estrange would go to church 
 — top hat, umbrella, and prayer-book — and having a 
 sense of humour, he was amused by the incongruity. 
 
 '• I have left the accursed thing behind me," he 
 once said to Mr. Collier, and by such facetiousness 
 had seriously annoyed the immense and most staid 
 Mr. Collier. 
 
 A gaunt, hollow-eyed man was he, worn to a thread 
 by diabetes ; and to keep the disease in check, strictly 
 dieted. His appearance was so suggestive of illness 
 that whenever he was present the conversation always 
 turned on what he might eat and what he must 
 refrain from touching. A large, gray-skinned man, 
 handsome, somewhat like a figure of Melancholy cut 
 out of a block of limestone. Since he had left 
 Oxford, where he had taken a double first, he had 
 failed at the bar, in literature, in love. It was said 
 •that he had once written an absurd letter asking 
 a lady, who hoped to marry a duke, to go to South 
 America with him. This letter had been his only 
 adventure. 
 
 He was like a bookcase, a store of silent learning, 
 with this difference, from the bookcase much may be 
 extracted, from Mr. Edmund Collier nothing. Of 
 a dry well, a London fog, an abandoned quarry, the 
 desert of Sahara, the North Pole, did Mr. Collier 
 remind you ; of all dull and lugubrious things he 
 seemed the type. Nature had not afflicted him with 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 175 
 
 passions nor any original thought, he therefore lived 
 an exemplary existence, his mind fortified with com- 
 mon-place opinions, doctrines, and general views. 
 
 " I wonder if he is alive," Mike had once said. 
 
 " H^, h^, tout au plus," Harding had replied, sar- 
 donically. 
 
 Collier was now learning Sanscrit and writing an 
 article for the Quarterly. L' Estrange used, as he 
 said, " to dig at him," and after many exhausting 
 efforts brought up interesting facts to the effect that, 
 he had just finished his treatise on the Greek par- 
 ticiple, and was about to launch a volume of verses 
 mainly addressed to children. 
 
 ColHer had once possessed considerable property, 
 but he had invested some in a newspaper of which 
 he was editor, and he had squandered much in vague 
 speculation. From the account he gave of his losses 
 it was difficult to decide whether he had been moved 
 by mercenary or charitable temptations. Now only 
 the merest competence remained. He lived in a 
 small garret where no sohcitor had penetrated, study- 
 ing uninteresting literatures, dimly interested in all 
 that the world did not care for. He lived in the 
 gloom of present failure, embittered by the memory 
 of past successes, wearied with long illness,and there- 
 fore constrained to live Uke a hermit, never appear- 
 ing anywhere except in Hall's rooms. 
 
 Even Mr. Horace Baird, the recluse of the Temple, 
 was sometimes met in Hall's chambers. When he 
 lifted his hat, the white locks growing amid the black,, 
 magnificent masses of hair caught the eye, and set the 
 mind thinking on the brevity of youth, or wondering 
 what ill-fortune had thus done the work of time. A 
 passing glance told you that he was unsuccessful in 
 his profession and unfortunate in his life, and if you 
 spoke to him, an affected gaiety of manner confirmed 
 
1/6 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 the truth of the visual expression. Near him sat 
 the patriarchal barrister who had travelled: in the 
 colonies, had had political appointments, and in vague 
 hopes of further political appointments professed 
 advanced views, which he endeavoured to redeem 
 with flavourless humour. There were also the two 
 young men who shared chambers and took in pupils. 
 Fine tales their laundress told of the state of their 
 sitting-room in the morning, the furniture thrown 
 about, the tablecloth drenched in whiskey, the basin 
 on the floor in case of accidents. There was the 
 young man whose hobby was dress and chorus girls. 
 There was the young man whose hobby was pet 
 birds ; he talked about the beautiful South American 
 bird he had just bought, and he asked you to come 
 and see it taking its bath in the morning. Several 
 persons were writing law books, such as Chitty on 
 Contracts. 
 
 The Temple, like a fatherland, never loses its 
 influence over its children. He who has lived in the 
 Temple will return to the Temple. All things are 
 surrendered for the Temple. All distances are 
 traversed to reach the Temple. The Temple is never 
 forgotten. The briefless barrister, who left in despair 
 and became Attorney-General of New South Wales, 
 grows homesick, surrenders his position, and returns. 
 The young squire wearies in his beautiful country 
 house, and his heart is fixed in the dingy chambers, 
 which he cannot relinquish, and for which wealth 
 .cannot compensate him. Even the poor clerks do 
 not forget the Temple, and on Saturday afternoons 
 they prowl about their old offices, and often give 
 up lucrative employments. They are drawn by the 
 Temple as by a magnet, and must live again in the 
 shadow of the old inns. The laundresses' daughters 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 177 
 
 pass into wealthy domesticities, but sooner or later 
 they return to drudge again in the Temple. 
 
 " How awfully jolly ; I do enjoy an evening like 
 this," said Mike, when the guests had departed. 
 
 At that moment a faint footstep was heard on 
 the landing; Hall rushed to see who was, there, 
 and returned with two women. They explained 
 that they wanted a drink. Mike pressed them to 
 make themselves at home, and Hall opened another 
 bottle. 
 
 " How comfortable you bachelors are here by 
 yourselves," said one. 
 
 " I should think we are just ; no fear of either of 
 us being such fools as to break up our home by 
 getting married," replied Mike. 
 
 Sometimes Mike and Hall returned early from the 
 restaurant, and wrote from eight to eleven ; then 
 went out for a cup of coffee and a prowl, or to beat 
 up the Strand for women. They stayed out smoking 
 and talking at the corners till the streets were empty. 
 Sometimes they sent a couple of harlots to rouse a 
 learned old gentleman who lived in Brick Court, and 
 with bated breath listened from the floor beneath to 
 the dialogue above. 
 
 But to continue this life, which he enjoyed so 
 intensely that he had even lost his desire to gamble, 
 Mike was forced to borrow. Knowing how such 
 things are bruited about, Mike preferred to go to a 
 woman than to any of his men friends. , Mrs. Byril 
 lent him twenty pounds, wherefore he thought it 
 necessary to lecture Hall for one whole evening on 
 the immorality of ever accepting money from women ; 
 and he remained for weeks in an idleness, smoking 
 and drinking in restaurants and bar-rooms, deaf to 
 Frank's many pleadings for " copy." At last he 
 roused a little, and feeling he could do nothing in 
 
178 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 London, proposed to come and stay with Frank in 
 his cottage at Marlow, and there write the letters. 
 
 It was a bright October afternoon', Frank had gone 
 to the station, and Lizzie, to appease the baby, had 
 unbuttoned her dress. The little servant-girl who as- 
 sisted with the house-work was busy in the kitchen ; 
 for the fatted calf had been killed — that is to say, a 
 pair of soles, a steak, and a partridge were in course 
 of preparation. Lizzie thought of the partridge. 
 She had omitted soup from the dinner so that she 
 might herself see to the fish ; the steak, unless some- 
 thing quite unforeseen occurred, Annie would be able 
 to manage, but the partridge ! Lizzie determined she 
 would find an excuse for leaving the room ; Frank 
 would not like it, but anything would be better than 
 that the bird should appear in a raw or cindery con- 
 dition, which would certainly be the case if she did 
 not see to it. The jam-pudding was boiling and would 
 be taken out of the pot at a fixed time. And with 
 baby upon her breast, she watched Sally scrape and 
 clean the fish and beat the steak ; then, hearing the 
 front door open, she buttoned her dress, put baby in 
 his cot, and went to meet her visitor. Mike said he 
 had never seen her looking so well ; but in truth he 
 thought she had grown fat and coarse ; and in half 
 an hour he had realized all the detail of their misfor- 
 tune. He guessed that she had helped to cook the 
 dinner, that the wine had come from the public-house, 
 that they had given up their room to him, and were 
 sleeping in some small cupboard-like place at the end 
 of the passage. 
 
 Of the many various unpleasantnesses of married 
 life which had crowded into his consciousness since 
 he had been in the cottage, this impressed him the 
 most. He went to sleep thinking of it, and when he 
 sat down to write next morning (a little study had 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 79 
 
 been arranged for him), it was the first thought that 
 stirred in him. 
 
 " How fearfully unpleasant ! — and after having been 
 married for nearly two years! I could not do it. If 
 I'were married— even if I were to marry Lily, I 
 should insist on having separate rooms. Even with 
 separate rooms marriage is intolerable. How much 
 better to see her sometimes, sigh for her from afar, 
 and so preserve one's ideal. Married ! One day I 
 should be sure to surprise her washing herself; and I 
 know of no more degrading spectacle than that of a 
 woman washing herself over a basin. Degas painted 
 it once. I'd give anything to have that picture." 
 
 But he could not identify Lily as forming part of 
 that picture; his imagination did not help him, and 
 he could only see her staid and gracious, outside all 
 the gross materialism of life. He felt that Lily 
 would never lose her dignity and loveliness, which in 
 her were one, and in his mind she ever stood like a 
 fair statue out of reach of the mud and the Contumely 
 of the common street; and ashamed, an unsuccessful 
 iconoclast, he could not do otherwise than kneel and 
 adore her. 
 
 And when at the end of a week he received an in- 
 vitation to a ball where he thought she would be, 
 he could only obey, and go with tremulous heart. 
 She was engaged in a quadrille that passed to and 
 fro beneath blue tapestiy curtains, and he noticed 
 the spray of lilies of the valley in her bodice, so 
 emblematic did they seem of her. Beneath the 
 blue curtain she stood talking to her partner after, 
 the dance; and he did not go to speak to her, 
 but remained looking. They only danced to- 
 gether twice ; and that evening was realized by 
 him in a strangely intense and durable perception 
 of faint , scent and fluent rhythm. The sense of 
 
l80 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 her motion, of her frailness, lingered in his soul ever 
 afterwards. And he remembered ever afterwards the 
 moments he spent with her in a distant corner — the 
 palm, the gold of the screen, the movement of her 
 white skirt as she sat down. All was, as it were, bit- 
 ten upon his soul — exquisite etchings ! Even the 
 pauses in the conversation were remembered ; pauses 
 full of mute affection ; pauses full of thought unex- 
 pressed, falling in sharp chasms of silence. In such 
 hours and in such pauses is the essence of our lives, 
 the rest is adjunct and decoration. He watched, 
 fearing each man that looked through the doorways 
 might claim her for the next dance. His thought 
 swept through his soul edgeways. Did he love her? 
 Would he love her always ? And he was conscious 
 of- the contrast his speech presented, to the tu- 
 mult that raged and shrieked- within him. Yet he 
 couldn't speak the word, and he cursed his little 
 cowardice. 
 
 The ball came and went — a little year with its four 
 seasons; and when in the hall he stood by her, help- 
 ing her with her cloak (silk and gray fur, folding the 
 delicate line of the neck), and became aware that 
 even those last moments did not hold the word his 
 soul was whispering, he cursed his cowardice, and, 
 weary of himself, he turned down the dark street, 
 feeling that he had lost his life. 
 
 " Now all is ended," he thought, " I'm like a convict 
 who attempted escape and has been brought back 
 and yoked again in the sweaty and manacled gang; 
 and I must continue in and bear with this life of gross 
 sensuality and dirty journalism, • which I have borne 
 and yet must bear' — ^a wearisome repetition of what 
 has been done and re-don.e a thousand times, 'till 
 death-like sleep shall steal on me,' and I may hear 
 some horrible lodging-house keeper ' breathe o'er my 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. l8l 
 
 dying brain a last monotony.' And in various degra- 
 dations my intellect will suffer, will decay ; but with 
 her refining and elevating influence, I might be a 
 great writer. It is certain that the kernel of Art is 
 aspiration for higher things ; at all events, I should 
 have led a cleanly life. If I were married to her I 
 could not write this book. It .certainly is a disgrace- 
 ful book ; and yet it amuses me." 
 
 His thoughts paused, then an idea came, and with 
 his pen he pursued it and the quickly rising flight 
 which followed for a couple of hours. 
 
 " ^ hy should I not write and ask her to marry 
 me?" He smiled at the thought, but the thought 
 was stronger than he, and he went to bed thinking 
 of her, and he rose thinking of her ; and the desire to 
 write and tell her that he loved her and wanted her 
 for wife persisted ; he shook it off a dozen times, but 
 it grew more and more poignant, until it settled on 
 his heart, a lancinating pain which neither work nor 
 pleasure could remove. Daily he grew feebler, los- 
 ing at each effort some power of resistance, and one 
 day he took up the pen to write the irrevocable. 
 Rut the reality of the ink and paper frightened him. 
 " Will you be my wife ?" seemed to him silly. Even 
 in this crisis self-esteem lay uppermost in his mind ; 
 and he wrote many letters before he felt certain he 
 had guard-'d himself against ridicule. At last he folded 
 up a sheet upon which he had written — 'Dearest Lily, 
 you are the only woman I may love, will you allow me 
 to love you forever?" He put this into an envelope 
 and directed it; nothing remained but to post it. The 
 clock told him he could catch the post if he started 
 away at once, but he drew back, frightened at the re- 
 ality of the post-ofifice, and decided to sleep over his 
 letter. 
 
 The night was full of Lily — fair, chaste, dreams, 
 whence he rose as from a bath clothed in the samite 
 
t82 mike FLETCnER. . 
 
 of" pure delight. While dressing he felt sure that 
 marriage — at least marriage with Lily must be but 
 the realization of such dreams, and that it would be 
 folly not to post his letter. Still, it might be as well 
 to hear the opinion of one who had taken the im- 
 portant step, and after breakfast he drew Frank into 
 conversation about Lizzie. 
 
 " I am quite happy," he said. " Lizzie is a good 
 wife, and I love her better to-day than the day I 
 married her ; but the price I paid for her was too 
 high. 'Mount Rorke has behaved shamefully, and so 
 has everybody but you. I never see any of the old 
 lot now. Snowdown came once to dine about a year 
 ago, but I never go anywhere where Lizzie is not 
 asked. Mount Rorke has only written once since 
 my marriage, and then it was to say he never wished 
 to see me again. The next I heard was the an- 
 nouncement of his marriage." 
 
 " So he has married again," said Mike, looking at 
 Frank, and then he thought — " So you who came 
 from the top shall go to the bottom ! Shall he who 
 came from the bottom go to the top ?" 
 
 " I have not heard yet of a child. I have tried to 
 find out if one is expected ; but what does it mat- 
 ter ? — Mount Rorke wouldn't give me a penny piece 
 to save me from starvation, and I should have time 
 to starve a good many times before he goes off the 
 hooks. I don't mind telling you I'm about as hard 
 up as a man possibly can be. I owe three quarters' 
 rent for my rooms in Temple Gardens, nearly two 
 hundred pounds. The Inn is pressing me, and I 
 can't get three hundred for my furniture, and I'm 
 sure I paid more than fifteen hundred for what there 
 is there." 
 
 " Why don't you sell a share in the paper?" 
 
 " I have sold a small part of it, a very small part 
 of it, a fifth, and there is a fellow called Thigh — 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 83 
 
 you know the fellow, he has edited every stupid 
 weekly that has appeared and disappeared for the 
 last ten years — ;well, he has got hold of a mug, and 
 by all accounts a real mug, one of the right sort, a 
 Mr. Beacham Brown. Mr. Brown wants a paper 
 and has commissioned Thigh to buy him one. Thigh 
 wants me to sell a half share in the Pilgrim for a 
 thousand, but I shall have to give Thigh back four 
 hundred ; and I shall— that is to say, I shall if I 
 agree to Thigh's terms — become assistant editor at a 
 salary of six pounds a week ; two pounds a week of 
 which I shall have to hand over to Thigh, who comes 
 in as editor at a salary of ten pounds a week. All 
 the staff will be engaged on similar conditions. Thigh 
 is 'working ' Beacham Brown beautifully — he won't 
 have a sixpence to bless himself with when Thigh 
 has done with him." 
 
 "And are you going to accept Thigh's terms?' 
 " Not if I can possibly help it. If your articles 
 send up the circulation and my new advertising 
 agent can do the West End tradesmen for a few 
 more advertisements, I shall stand off and wait for 
 better terms. My new advertising agent is a won- 
 der, the finest in Christendom. The other day a 
 Bond Street jeweller who advertises with us came 
 into my ofifice. He said, ' Sir, I have come to ask 
 you if you circulate thirty thousand copies a week.' 
 'Well,' I said, ' perhaps not quite.' 'Then, sir,' he 
 replied, 'you will please return me my money ; I 
 gave your agent my advertisement upon his implicit 
 assurance that you circulated thirty thousand a 
 week.' I said there must be some mistake ; Mr. 
 Tomlinson happens to be in the office, if you'll allow 
 me I'll ask him to step down-stair's. I touched the 
 bell, and told the boy to ask Mr. Tomlinson to step 
 into the office. ' Mr. Tomlinson,' I said, ' Mr. Page 
 says that he gave you his advertisement on your 
 
1 84 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 implicit assurance that we circulated thirty thou- 
 sand copies weekly. Did you tell him that ? ' Quite 
 unabashed, Tomlinson answered, ' I told Mr. Page 
 that we had more than thirty thousand readers a 
 week. We send to ten line regiments and five cav- 
 alry regiments — each regiment consists of, let us say, 
 eight hundred. We send to every club in London, 
 and each club has on an average a thousand mem- 
 bers. Why, sir,' exclaimed Tomlinson, turning 
 angrily on the jeweller, ' I might have said that we 
 had a hundred thousand readers and I should have 
 still been under the mark ! ' The jeweller paid for 
 his advertisement and went away crestfallen. Such 
 a man as Tomlinson is the very bone and muscle of 
 a society journal." 
 
 " And the nerves too," said Mike. 
 
 " Better than the contributors who want to write 
 about the relation between art and morals." 
 
 The young men laughed mightily. 
 
 " And what will you do," said Mike, " if you don't 
 settle with Thigh?" 
 
 " Perhaps my man will be able to pick up another 
 advertisement or two ; perhaps your articles may 
 send up the circulation. One thing is certain, things 
 can't go on as they are ; at this rate I shall not be 
 able to carry thfe paper on another six montlis." 
 
 The conversation fell, and Mike remembered the 
 letter in his side pocket ; it lay just over his heart. 
 P'rank's monetary difficulties had affected his matri- 
 monial aspirations. " For if the paper 'burst's up ' 
 how shall I live, much less support a wife? Live! 
 I shall always be able to live, but to support a wife 
 is quite another matter. Perhaps Lily has some 
 money. If she had five hundred a year I would 
 marry her. But I don't know if she has a penny. 
 She must have some, a few thousands — enough to 
 pay the first expenses. To get a house and get into 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 85 
 
 the house would cost a thousand." A cloud passed 
 over his face:. The householder, the payer of rates 
 and taxes which the thought evoked, jarred and 
 caricatured the ideal, the ideal Mike Fletcher, which 
 in more or less consistent form was always present 
 in his mind. He who had always received, would 
 have to make presents. The engagement ring would 
 cost five-and-twenty pounds, and where was he to 
 get.the money? That he would have to buy at once ; 
 and his entire fortune did not for the moment 
 amount to ten pounds. Her money, if she had any, 
 would pay for the honeymoon ; and it was only right 
 that a woman should pay for her honeymoon. They 
 would go to Italy. She was Italy ! At least she 
 was his idea. of Italy. Italy! he had never been 
 there; he had always intended to keep Italy for his 
 wedding tour. He was virgin of Italy. So much 
 virginity he had at all events kept for his wife. She 
 was the emblem and symbol of Italy. 
 
 Venice rose into his eyes. He is in a gondola 
 with her-; the water is dark with architrave and pil- 
 lar; and a half moon floats in a boundless sky. But 
 remembering that this is the Venice of a hundred 
 " chromos," his imagination filled the well-known 
 water way ; with sunlight and maskers, creating the 
 carnival upon the Grand Canal. Laughing and 
 mocking Loves; young nobles in blue hose, sword 
 on thigh, as in Shakespeare's plays ; young brides in 
 tumultuous satin, with collars of translucent pearls ; 
 garlands reflected in the water; scarves thrown about 
 the ample bosoms of patrician matrons. Then the 
 brides, the nobles, the pearls, the loves, and the 
 matrons disappear in a shower of confetti. Wearying 
 of Venice he strove to see Florence, " the city of 
 lilies ;" but the phrase only suggested flower-sellers. 
 He intoxicated upon his love, she who to him was 
 now Italy. He imagined confidences, sudden sights 
 
1 86 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 of her face more exquisite than the Botticelli women 
 in the echoing picture galleries, more enigmatic than 
 the eyes of a Leonardo ; and in these days of desiie, 
 he lived through the torinent of impersonal love, 
 drawn for the first time out of himself. All beautiful 
 scenes of love from books, pictures, and life floated 
 in his mind. He especially remembered a sight of 
 lovers which he had once caught on an hotel staircase. 
 A young couple, evidently just returned from the 
 theatre, had entered their room ; the woman was 
 young, tall and aristocratic ; she was dressed in some 
 soft material, probably a dress of cream-coloured lace 
 in numberless flounces ; he remembered that her hair 
 was abundant and shadowed her face. The effect of 
 firelight played over the hangings of the bed ; she 
 stood by the bed and raised the fur cloak from her 
 shoulders. The man was tall and thin, and the light 
 caught the points of the short sharp beard. The scene 
 had bitten itself into Mike's mind, and it reappeared 
 at intervals perfect as a print, for he sometimes en- 
 vied the calm and healthfulness of honourable love. 
 
 " Great Scott! twelve o'clock !" Smiling, conscious 
 of the incongruity he set to work, and in about three 
 hours had finished a long letter, in which he usefully 
 advised " light o' loves" on the advantages of foreign 
 travel. 
 
 " I wonder," he thought, " how I can write in such 
 a strain while I'm in love with her. What beastliness ! 
 I hate the whole thing. I desire a new life; I have 
 tried vice long enough and am weary of it ; I'm not 
 happy, and if I were to gain the whole world it would 
 be dust and ashes without her. Then why not take 
 that step which would bring her to me?" He faced 
 his cowardice angrily, and resolved to post the letter. 
 But he stopped before he had walked fifty yards, 
 for his doubts followed him, buzzing and stinging 
 like bees. Striving to rid himself of them, and. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 87 
 
 weary of considering his own embarrassed condition, 
 he listened gladly to Lizzie, who deplored Mount 
 Rorke's cruelty and her husband's continuous ill luck. 
 
 '' I told him his family would never receive me ; 
 I didn't want to marry him ; for days I couldn't make 
 up my mind ; he can't say I persuaded him into it." 
 
 "But you "are happy now; don't you like being 
 married?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I should be happy enough if things only 
 went better with us. He is so terribly unlucky. No 
 one works harder than Frank ; he often sits up till 
 three o'clock in the morning writing. He tries every- 
 thing, but nothing seems to succeed with him. 
 There's this paper. I don't believe he has ever had 
 a penny out of it. Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, do you 
 think it will ever succeed ?" 
 
 " Newspapers generally fail for want of a concerted 
 plan of appeal to a certain section of society kept 
 steadily in view ; they are nearly always vague and 
 undetermined ; but I believe when four clever pens 
 are brought together, and write continuously, and 
 with set purpose and idea, that they can, that they 
 must and invariably do create a property worth at 
 least twenty thousand pounds." 
 
 " Frank has gone to the station to meet Thigh. 
 I distrust that man dreadfully ; I hope he won't rob 
 my poor husband. Frank told me to get a couple of 
 pheasants for dinner. Which way are you going? 
 To the post-office? Do you want a stamp?" 
 
 " No, thank you, my letter is stamped." He held 
 the letter in the box unable to loose his fingers, 
 embarrassed in the consideration whether marriage 
 would permit him to develop his artistic nature as 
 he intended. Lizzie was looking at him, and it was 
 with difficulty that he concealed from her the fact 
 that he had not dropped his letter in the box. 
 
 When they returned to the cottage they found 
 
1 88 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Thigh and Frank were turning over the pages of the 
 last number of the Pilgrim. 
 
 "Just let's go through the paper," said Frank. 
 " One, two, three — twelve columns of paragraphs ! 
 and I'll bet that in every one of those columns there 
 is a piece of news artistic, political, c social, which 
 no other paper has got. Here are three articles, one 
 written by our friend here, one by me, and one by a 
 man whose name I am not at liberty to mention ; 
 but I may tell you he has written some well-known 
 books, and is a constant contributor to the Fort- 
 nightly ; here is a column of gossip from Paris ex- 
 cellently well done ; here is a short story . . . What 
 do you think the paper wants?" 
 
 Thigh was a very small and very neatly-dressed 
 man. His manner was quiet and reserved, and he 
 caressed a large fair moustache with his left hand, 
 on which a diamond ring sparkled. 
 
 " I think it wants smartening up all round," he 
 said. "You want to make it smarter; people will 
 have things bright nowadays." 
 
 " Bright !" said Frank, " I don't know where you 
 are going for brightness nowadays. Just look at the 
 other papers — here is the Club — did you ever see 
 such a rag? Here is the Spy — I don't think you 
 could tell if you were reading a number of last year 
 or this week if you didn't look at the date! I've 
 given them up for news. I look to see if they have 
 got a new advertisement ; if they have, I send Tom- 
 linson and see if I can get one too." 
 
 Thigh made some judicious observations, and the 
 conversation was continued during dinner. Frank 
 and Mike vying with each other to show their defer- 
 ence to Thigh's literary opinions — Lizzie eager to 
 know what he thought of her dinner. 
 
 Thigh said the turbot was excellent, that the cut- 
 lets were very nice, that the birds were splendid ; 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 89 
 
 the jam pudding was voted delicious. And they 
 leaned back in their chairs, their eyes filled with the 
 torpor of digestion. Frank brought out a bottle of 
 old port, the last of a large supply which he had had 
 from Mount Rorke's wine merchant. The pleasure 
 of the wine was in their stomachs, and under its influ- 
 ence they talked of Tennyson, Leonardo da Vinci, 
 Corot, and the Ingoldsby Legends. Th6 servant had 
 brought in the lamp, cigars were lighted, the clock 
 struck nine. As yet not a word had been spoken of 
 the business, and seeing that Mike was deep in con- 
 versation with Lizzie, Frank moved his chair towards 
 Thigh, and said — 
 
 " Well, what about buying half of the paper ?" 
 
 " I'm quite ready to buy half the paper on the 
 conditions I've already offered you." 
 
 " But they won't do. If I have to go smash, I 
 may as well go smash for a large sum as a small one. 
 To clear myself of debts I must have five hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 " Well, you'll get six hundred ; you'll receive a 
 thousand and you'll give me back four hundred." 
 
 " Yes, but I did not tell you that I have sold a 
 small share in the paper to an old school-fellow of 
 mine. When I have paid him I shall have only 
 two hundred, and that won't be of the slightest use 
 to me." 
 
 " Oh, you have sold part of the paper already, 
 have you? How do you know your friend will con- 
 sent to be bought out? That complicates matters." 
 
 " My friend only did it to oblige me ; he is only 
 too -anxious to be bought out. He is in a fearful 
 funk lest he should be compromised in a libel action." 
 
 " Oh, then I think it can be managed.- Were I 
 in your place I should try and get rid of him for 
 nothing. I can't offer you better terms ; it wouldn't 
 pay me to do so ; I might as well start a new paper." 
 
I go MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 '■ Yes, but tell me how can I get rid of him for 
 nothing?" 
 
 Thigh looked at Frank inquiringly, and apparently 
 satisfied he drew his chair nearer, stroked his mous- 
 tache, and said, speaking under his breath — 
 
 " Have you collected what money is owing to the 
 paper lately? Have you many outstanding debts?" 
 
 " We' have got some." 
 
 " Well, don't collect any money that is owing, 
 but make out a long statement of the paper's liabili- 
 ties; don't say a word about the outstanding debts, 
 and tell your friend that he is responsible as part 
 owner of the paper for this money. When you have 
 sufficiently frightened him, suggest that he should 
 sign over his share to you, you being a man of straw 
 whom it would be useless to proceed against. Or 
 you might get your printer to press you for money — " 
 
 " That won't be difficult." 
 
 " Offer him a bill, and then mix the two accounts 
 up together in it." 
 
 At this moment Mike was speaking to Lizzie of 
 love.- She told him there was no real happiness ex- 
 cept in married life, assured him that though they 
 might be beggars to-day, she would not give up her 
 husband for all the wealth of the three kingdoms. 
 
 Very anxious to inquire out the truth about married 
 life, Mike pressed Lizzie upon several points ; the 
 old ache awoke about his heart, and again he resolved 
 to regenerate his life, and love Lily and none but 
 her. He looked round the room, considering how 
 he could get away. Frank was talking business. He 
 would not disturb him. No doubt Thigh was con- 
 cocting some swindle, but he (Mike) knew nothing 
 of business ; he had a knack of turning the king at 
 ecart6, but was nowhere once bills and the cooking 
 of accounts were introduced. Should he post the 
 letter? That was the question, and it plaj'ed in his 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. I9I 
 
 ears like an electric bell. Here was the letter ; he 
 could feel it through his coat, lying over his heart, 
 and there it had lain since he had written it. 
 
 Frank and Thigh continued talking; Lizzie went 
 to the baby, and Mike walked into the night, and 
 looked at the stars. He walked along the white high 
 road — to him a road of dreams, towards the white 
 town — ^to him a town of chimeras, and leaning over 
 the moon-lit river, shaking himself free from the hal- 
 lucination within and without him, he said — 
 
 " On one hand I shall belong to one woman. Her 
 house shall be my house, her friends shall be my 
 friends ; the others, the beautiful, fascinating others, 
 will cease to dream of me, I shall no longer be their 
 ideal. On the other hand I shall gain the nicest 
 woman, and surely it must be right to take, though 
 it be for life, the nicest woman in the world. She 
 will supply what is wanting in my character ; together 
 we shall attain a goal ; alone I shall attain none. In 
 twenty years I shall be a foolish old bachelor whom 
 no one cares for. I have stated both cases — on which 
 side does the balance turn?" 
 
 The balance still stood at equipoise; a formless 
 moon soared through a white cloud wrack, and broken 
 gold lay in the rising tide. The sonorous steps of 
 the policeman on the bridge startled him, and obeying 
 the impulse of the moment, he gave the officer the 
 letter, asking him to post it. He waited for some 
 minutes, as if stupefied, pursuing the consequences 
 of his act even into distant years. No, he would 
 not send the letter just yet. But the officer had dis- 
 appeared in some bye streets, and followed by the 
 spirits of future loves, Mike ran till he reached the 
 post-office, where he waited in nervous apprehension. 
 Presently steps were heard in the stillness, and get- 
 ting between him and the terrible slot Mike deter- 
 mined to fight for his letter if it were refused him. 
 
192 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I met you just now on the bridge and asked you 
 to post a letter; give it back to me, if you please. 
 I've changed my mind." 
 
 The officer looked at him narrowly, but he took 
 the proffered shilling, and returned the letter. 
 
 " That was the narrowest squeak I've had yet," 
 thought Mike. 
 
 When he returned to the cottage he found Frank 
 and Thigh still together. 
 
 " Mr. Beacham Brown," said Thigh, "is now half- 
 proprietor of the Pilgrim. The papers are signed. 
 I came down quite prepared. I believe in settling 
 things right off. When Mrs. Escott comes in, we 
 will drink to the new Pilgrim, or if you like it better, 
 to the old Pilgrim, who starts afresh with a new staff 
 and scrip, and a well filled scrip too," he added, 
 laughing vacuously. 
 
 "I hope," said Mike, "that HoUoway is not the 
 shrine he is journeying towards." 
 
 " I hope your book won't bring us there." 
 
 "Why, I didn't know you were going to con- 
 tinue — " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Thigh ; " that is'to say if we can 
 come to an arrangement about the purchase," and 
 Thigh lapsed into a stony silence, as was his practice 
 when conducting a bargain. 
 
 " By God !" Mike thought, " I wish we were 
 playing at 6cart6 or poker. I'm no good at busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Well," he said at last, "what terms do you pro- 
 pose to offer me ?" 
 
 Thigh woke up. 
 
 " I never bargain," he said. " I'll give you Beach- 
 am Brown's cheque for a hundred and fifty if you 
 will give me a receipt for three hundred," and he 
 looked inquiry out of his small, pale blue eyes, and 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 93 
 
 Mike noticed the diamond ring on the hand that ca- 
 ressed his moustache. 
 
 " No." said Mike, " that isn't fair. You don't write 
 a line of the book. There is not even the excuse of 
 commission, for the book is now appearing." 
 
 " Escott would not have paid you anything like 
 that amount. I think I'm treating you very liber- 
 ally. Indeed I don't mind telling you that I should 
 not offer you anything like such terms if Beacham 
 Brown were not anxious to have the book ; he read 
 your last article in the train, and came back raving 
 about it." 
 
 Bright pleasure passed across Mike's fate ; he 
 thought Thigh had slipped in the avowal, and he 
 girt himself for resolute resistance and cautious 
 attack. But Thigh was the superior strategist. 
 Mike was led from the subject, and imperceptibly 
 encouraged to speak of other things, and without 
 interruption he span paradoxes and scattered jokes 
 for ten minutes. Then the conversation dropped, 
 and annoyed, Mike fixed his eyes on Thigh, who sat 
 in unmovable silence. 
 
 " Well," said Mike, " what do you intend to do?" 
 
 " About what ?" said Thigh, with a half-waking 
 stare. 
 
 " About this book of mine. You know very well 
 that if I take it to another shop you'll find it difficult 
 to get anything like as good a serial. I know pretty 
 well what talent is walking about Fleet Street." 
 
 Thigh said nothing, only raised his eyes as if 
 Mike's words were full of suggestion, and again 
 beguiled, Mike rambled into various criticisms of 
 contemporary journalism. Friends were laughed at, 
 and the papers they edited were stigmatized as rags 
 that lived upon the ingenuity of the lies of advertis- 
 ing agents. When the conversation again dropped, 
 
194 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Thigh showed no inclination of returning to the 
 book, but, as before, sat in stony silence, and out of 
 temper with himself, Mike had to ask him again 
 what the terms were. 
 
 " I cannot offer you better terms than I have 
 already done." 
 
 " Very well ; I'll take one hundred and fifty for 
 the serial rights." 
 
 " No, for the entire rights." 
 
 " No, I'll be damned, I don't care what happens!" 
 
 Then Frank joined in the discussion. Every one 
 withdrew the offer he had made, and all possibility 
 of agreement seemed at an end. Somehow it was 
 suggested that Thigh should toss Mike whether he 
 should pay him two hundred or a hundred and fifty. 
 The men exchanged questioning looks, and at that 
 moment Lizzie entered with a pack of cards, and 
 Thigh said — 
 
 " I'll play you at 6cart6 — the best out of seven 
 games." 
 
 Mike realized at once the situation, and he hoped 
 Frank would not betray him. He saw that Thigh 
 had been drinking. "God has given him into my 
 hands," he thought ; and it was agreed that they 
 should play the best out of seven games for twenty- 
 five pounds, and that the loser should have the right 
 to call for a return match. Mike knew nothing of 
 his opponent's play, but he did not for a moment 
 suspect him of superior .skill. Such a thing could 
 hardly be, and he decided he would allow him to 
 win the first games, watching carefully the while, so 
 that he might study his combinations and plans, and 
 learn in what measure he might pack and " bridge" 
 the cards. There is much in a shuffle, and already 
 Mike believed him to be no more than an ordinary 
 club player, capable of winning a few sovereigns from 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 95 
 
 a young man fresh from the university ; and although 
 the cards Mitce held did not warrant such a course, 
 he played without proposing, and when he lost the 
 trick he scanned his opponent's face, and seeing it 
 brighten, he knew the ruse had succeeded. But luck 
 seemed to run inexplicably against him, and he was 
 defeated. In the return match he met with similar 
 luck, and rose from the table, having lost fifty 
 pounds. Mike wrote a second I O U for twenty- 
 five pounds, to be paid out of the hundred and fifty 
 pounds to which he had agreed in writing to accept 
 for the book before sitting down to play. Then 
 he protested vehemently against his luck, and so 
 well did he act his part, that even if Thigh had not 
 drunk another glass of whiskey-and-water he would 
 not have perceived that Mike was simulating an 
 excitement which he did not feel. 
 
 " I'll play you for a hundred pounds — the best out 
 of seven games; damn the cards! I can beat you 
 no matter how they run !" 
 
 "Very well, I don't mind, anything to oblige a 
 friend." 
 
 Lizzie besought Mike not to play again, and she 
 nearly upset the apple-cart by angrily telling Thigh 
 she did not wish her house to be turned into a 
 gambling-hell. Thigh rose from the table, but Frank 
 apologized for his wife, and begged of him to sit 
 down. The incident was not without a good effect, 
 for it removed Thigh's suspicions, if he had any, and 
 convinced him that he was " in for a real good thing." 
 He laid on the table a cheque, signed Beacham 
 Brown, for a hundred pounds; Mike produced his 
 nearly completed manuscript. Thigh looked over 
 the MS , judging its length. 
 
 " It is all here ?" 
 
 " No, there's one chapter to come ; that's good 
 enough for you." 
 
19^ MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Oh yes, it will do. You'll have to finish it, for 
 you'll want to write for the paper." 
 
 This time the cards were perfectly packed, and 
 Mike turned the king. 
 
 "Cards?" 
 
 " No, play." 
 
 Frank and Lizzie leaned breathless over the table, 
 their faces white in the light of the unshaded lamp. 
 Mike won the whole five tricks. But luck was dead 
 against him, and in a few minutes the score stood at 
 three games all. Then outrageously, for there was 
 no help for it, as he never would have dared if his 
 opponent had been quite sober, he packed and 
 bridged the cards. He turned the king. 
 
 "Cards?" 
 
 " No, play." 
 
 Mike won the fourth game, and put Mr, Beacham 
 Brown's cheque in his pocket. 
 
 '' I'll play you again," said Thigh. 
 
 Mike accepted, and before eleven o'clock Thigh 
 had paid three hundred pounds for the manuscript 
 and lost all his available spare cash. He glanced 
 narrowly at Mike, paused as he put on his hat and 
 coat, and Frank wished Lizzie would leave the room, 
 feeling sure that violent words were inevitable. But 
 at that moment Mike's shoulders and knuckles seemed 
 more than usually prominent, and Mr; Beacham 
 Brown's agent slunk away into the darkness. 
 
 " You did turn the king pretty often," said Frank, 
 when the door closed. " I'm glad there was no row." 
 
 " Row I I'd have broken his dirty neck. Not con- 
 tent with swindling poor Beacham Brown, he tries it 
 on with the contributors. I wish I had been able to 
 get him to go on. I would willingly have fleeced 
 him of every penny he has in the world." 
 
 Lizzie bade them good-night, and the servant 
 brought in a letter for Mike, a letter which she ex- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 1 97 
 
 plained had been incorrectly addressed, and had just 
 come from the hotel. Frank took up a newspaper 
 which Thigh had left on the table. He turned it 
 over, glancing hastily through it. Then something- 
 caught his eye, and the expression of his face 
 changed. And what caused him pain could be no 
 more than a few words, for the paper fell instantly 
 from his hands and he sat quite still, staring into 
 space. But neither the sound of the paper falling, 
 nor yet the frozen rigidity of his attitude drew Mike's 
 thoughts from the letter he was reading. He glanced 
 hastily through it, then he read it attentively, linger- 
 ing over every word. He seemed to suck sweetness 
 out of every one ; it was the deep, sensual absorption 
 of a fly in a pot of treacle. His eyes were dim with 
 pleasure long drawn out ; they saw nothing, and it 
 was some moments before the pallor and pain of 
 Frank's face dispelled the melliferous Edens in which 
 his soul moved. 
 
 " What is the matter, old chap? Are you ill?" 
 
 Frank did not answer. 
 
 " Are you ill ? Shall I get you a drink ?" 
 
 " No, no," he said- "1 assure you it is nothing; 
 no, it is nothing." He struggled for a moment for 
 shame's sake to keep his secret, but it was more than 
 he could bear. "Ah!" he said, "it is all over; I'm 
 done for — read." 
 
 He stooped to pick up the paper. Mike took the 
 paper from him and read — 
 
 " Thursday — Lady Mount Rorke, of a son." 
 
 Whilst one man hears his doom pronounced, an- 
 other sees a golden fortune fallen in his hand, and 
 the letter Mike had just read was from a firm of 
 solicitors, informing him that Lady Seeley had left 
 him her entire fortune, three thousand a year in 
 various securities, and a property in Berkshire ; 
 house, pictures, plate — in a word, everything she 
 
igS MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 possessed. The bitterness of his friend's ill-fortune 
 contrasting with the sweetness of his own good for- 
 tune, struck his heart, and he said, with genuine 
 sorrow in his voice — 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry, old chap;" 
 
 " There's no use being sorry for me, I'm done 
 for ; I shall never be Lord Mount Rorke now. That 
 child, that wife, are paupers ; that castle, that park, 
 that river, all — everything that I was led to believe 
 would be mine one day, has passed from me irre- 
 vocably. It is terribly cruel — it seems too cruel to 
 be true ; all those old places — you know them — all 
 has passed from me. I never believed Mount Rorke 
 would have an heir, he is nearly seventy ; it is too 
 cruel." 
 
 Tears swam in his eyes, and covering his face in 
 his hands he burst into a storm of heavy sobbing. 
 
 Mike was sincere, but there is something not wholly 
 disagreeable to us in hearing of the misfortunes even 
 of our best friends, and Mike felt the old thought 
 forced into his mind that he who had come from the 
 top had gone to the bottom, and that he who came 
 from the bottom was going — had gone to the top. 
 Taking care, however, that none of the triumph 
 ebullient within him should rise into his voice, he 
 said — 
 
 " I am really sorry for you, Frank. You mustn't 
 despair ; perhaps the child won't live, and perhaps 
 the paper will succeed. It must succeed. It shall 
 succeed." 
 
 " Succeed ! nothing succeeds with me. I and my 
 wife and child are beggars on the face of the earth. 
 It matters little to me whether the paper succeeds or 
 fails. Thigh has got pretty nearly all of it. When 
 my debts are paid I shall not have enough to set 
 myself up in rooms." 
 
 At the end of a painful silence, Mike said — 
 
MtKE FLETCHER. 1 99 
 
 " We've had our quarrels, but you've been a 
 damned good friend to me ; it is my turn now to 
 stand to you. To begin with, here is the three 
 hundred that I won from Thi^h. I don't want it. 
 I assure you I don't. Then there are your rooms 
 in Temple Gardens, I'll take them off your hands. 
 I'll pay all the arrears of rent, and give you the price 
 you paid for your furniture." 
 
 "What damned nonsense! how can you do that ? 
 Take three hundred pounds. from you — the price of 
 your book. You have nothing else in the world !" 
 
 " Yes, I have ; it is all right, old chap ; you can have 
 the money. The fact is," he said, " Lady Seelcy has 
 left me her whole fortune ; the letter I just received 
 is from the solicitors. They say three thousand a 
 year in various securities, and a property in Berk- 
 shire. So you see I can afford to be generous. I 
 shall feel much hurt if you don't accept. Indeed, it 
 is the least I can do ; I owe it to you." 
 
 The men looked at each other, their eyes luminous 
 with intense and quickening emotions. Fortune had 
 been so derisive that Mike feared Frank would break 
 into foolish anger, and that only a quarrel and worse 
 hatred might result from his offer of assistance. 
 
 " It was in my box you met her ; I remember the 
 night quite well. You were with Harding.'" The 
 men exchanged an inquiring look. " She wanted 
 me to go home and have supper with her ; she was 
 in love with me then ; I might have been her lover. 
 But I refused, and I went into the bar and spoke to 
 Lizzie ; when she went off on duty I went and sat 
 with you and Harding. Not long after I saw you at 
 Reading, in the hotel overlooking the river. I was 
 with Lizzie."" 
 
 ' See Spring Days. ' See Spring Days, 
 
200 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " You can't accuse me of having cut you out. You 
 could have got her, and — " 
 
 "I didn't want her; I was in love with Lizzie, 
 and I am still. And strange as it may appear to 
 you, I regret nothing, at least nothing that concerns 
 Lizzie." 
 
 Mike wondered if this were true. His fingers 
 fidgetted with the cheques. "Won't you take 
 them?" 
 
 Frank took them. It was impossible to continue 
 the conversation. Frank made a remark, and the 
 young men bade each other good-night. 
 
 As Mike went up the staircase to his room, his 
 exultation swelled, and in one of those hallucinations 
 of the brain consequent upon nerve excitement, and 
 in which we are conscious of our insanity, he won- 
 dered the trivial fabric of the cottage did not fall, and 
 his soul seemed to pierce the depth and mystery im- 
 prisoned in the stars. He undressed slowly, looking 
 at himself in the glass, pausing when he drew off his 
 waistcoat, unbuttoning his braces with deliberation. 
 
 " I can make nothing of it ; there never was any 
 one like me. ... I could do anything, I might have 
 been Napoleon or CjEsar." 
 
 As he folded his coat he put his hand into the 
 breast pocket and produced the unposted letter. 
 
 " That letter will drive me mad ! Shall I burn it? 
 What do I want with a wife? I've plenty of money 
 now." 
 
 He held the letter to the flame of the candle. But 
 he could not burn it. 
 
 " This is too damned idiotic!" he thought, as he 
 laid it on the table and prepared to get into bed ; 
 " I'm not going to carry that letter about all my life. 
 I must either post it or destroy it." 
 
 Then the darkness became as if charged with a 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 20I 
 
 personality sweet and intense; it seemed to emanate 
 from the letter which lay on the table, and to ma- 
 terialize strangely and inexplicably. It was the 
 fragrance of brown hair, and the light of youthful 
 eyes; and in this perfume, and this light, he realized 
 her entire person ; every delicate defect of thinness. 
 She hung over him in all her girlishness, and he 
 clasped her waist with his hands. 
 
 " How sweet she is! There is none like her." 
 Then wearying of the strained delight he remem- 
 bered Belthorpe Park, now his. Trees and gardens 
 waved in his mind ; downs and river lands floated, 
 and he half imagined Lily there smiling upon them ; 
 and when he turned to the wall, resolute in his search 
 for sleep, the perfume he knew her by, the savour of 
 the skin, where the first faint curls begin, haunted 
 in his hallucinations, and intruded beneath the bed- 
 clothes. One dream was so exquisite in its tender- 
 ness, so illusive was the enchanted image that lay 
 upon his brain, that fearing to lose it, he strove to fix 
 his dream with words, but no word pictured her eyes, 
 or the ineffable love they expressed, and yet the 
 sensation of both was for the moment quite real in 
 his mind. They were sitting in a little shady room ; 
 she was his wife, and she hung over him, sitting on 
 his knee. Her eyes were especially distinct and beau- 
 tiful, and her arms — those thin arms which he knew 
 so well — and that waist were clothed in a puritanic 
 frock of some blue material. His happiness thrilled 
 him, and he lay staring into the darkness till the 
 darkness withered, and the lines of the room appeared 
 — the wardrobe, the washing-stand, and then the 
 letter. He rose from his bed. In all-pervading gray- 
 ness the world lay; not a whiff of smoke ascended, 
 not a bird had yet begun, and the river, like a sheet 
 of zinc, swirled between its low banks. 
 
202 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 "God! it is worse than the moonlight!" thought 
 Mike, and went back to bed. But he could not rest, 
 and when he went again to the window there was a 
 faint flush in the sky's cheek; and then a bar of rose 
 pierced the heavy ridge of clouds that hung above 
 the woodland. 
 
 " An omen ! I will post her letter in the sun-rise." 
 And conscious 6f the folly, but unable to subdue that 
 de.sire of romance so inveterate in him, he considered 
 how he might leave the house. He remembered, and 
 with pleasure, that he could not pass down the stair- 
 case without disturbing the dog, and he thought of 
 the prolonged barking that would begin the moment 
 he touched the chain on the front door. He would 
 have to get out of the window ; but the window was 
 twenty feet from the ground. "A rope! I have no 
 rope. How absurd!" he thought, and, rejoicing in 
 the absurdity, he drew a sheet from the bed and made 
 it fast. Going to Lily through a A\'indow seemed to 
 relieve marriage of some of its shame. 
 
 "Life wouldn't be complete without her. Yes, 
 that's just it ; that sums it up completely; curious I 
 did not think of that before. It would have saved 
 such a lot. Yes, life would not be complete without 
 her. The problem is solved," and he dropped the 
 letter as easily as if it had been a note asking for 
 seats in the theatre. " I'm married," he said. "Good 
 heavens ! how strange it seems. I shall have to give 
 her a ring, and buy furniture. I had forgotten ! . . . . 
 No difficulty about that now. We shall go to my 
 place in Berkshire." 
 
 He could not go back to bed, and he walked down 
 to the river, his fine figure swinging beautifully dis- 
 tinct in his light clothing. The dawn wind thrilled 
 in his chest, for he had only a light coat over the tas- 
 selled silk night-shirt ; and the dew drenched his feet 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 203 
 
 as he swung along the pathway to the river. The 
 old willow was full of small birds ; they sat ruffling 
 their feathers, and when Mike sprang into the boat 
 they flew through the gray light, taking refuge in 
 some osier beds. And as he looked down stream he 
 saw the night clouds dispersing in the wind. He 
 pulled, making the boat shoot through the water for 
 about a mile, then touched by the beauty of the 
 landscape, paused to view it. Cattle lay in the long, 
 moist meadows, harmonizing in their semi-uncon- 
 sciousness with the large gray earth ; mist hung in 
 the sedges, floated evanescent upon the surface of 
 the water, within reach of his oars, floated and went 
 out in the sunshine. But on the verge of an oak 
 wood, amid tangled and tawny masses of fern and 
 grass, a hound stopped and looked up. Then the 
 huntsman appeared galloping along the upland, and 
 turning in the saddle, he blew a joyful blast. 
 
 Mike sat still, his heart close shut, the beauty of 
 the scene in its quick and core. Then yielding utterly 
 he drove the boat ashore, and calling to the nearest, 
 to one who had stopped and was tightening his 
 horse's girths, he offered to buy his horse. A hundred 
 pounds was asked. " It is not worth it," he thought ; 
 " but I must spend my four thousand a year." The 
 desire to do what others think of doing but don't do 
 was always active in Mike. He gave his name and 
 address ; and, fearing to miss dealing on such advan- 
 tageous terms, the owner consented to allow Mike to 
 try the horse then and there. But the hounds had 
 got on the scent of a fox. The horn was heard in 
 the seared wood, again in the crimson morning, and 
 the hounds streamed across the meadows. 
 
 " I must try him over some fences. Take my boat 
 and row up to Ash Cottage ; I'll meet you there." 
 
 " I'll do nothing of the sort !" roared the man in 
 top boots. 
 
204 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Then walk across the fields," cried Mike ; and 
 he rode at the hedge and rail, coming down heavily,- 
 but before the owner could reach him he had mounted 
 and was away. 
 
 Some hours later, as he approached the cottage, 
 he saw Frank and a man in top boots engaged in 
 deep converse. 
 
 " Get off my horse instantly !" exclaimed the 
 latter. 
 
 " The horse is mine," said Mike, who unfortunately 
 could not control his laughter. 
 
 " Your horse ! Certainly not ! Get off my horse, 
 or I'll pull you off." 
 
 Mike jumped off. 
 
 " Since you will have it so, I'll not dispute with 
 you. There is your horse ; not a bad sort of animal 
 — capital sport." 
 
 " Now pay me my hundred pounds !" said the 
 owner, between his clenched teeth. 
 
 " You said just now that you hadn't sold me the 
 horse. There is your horse, and here is the name of 
 my solicitors, if you want to go to law with me." 
 
 " Law with you ! I'll give you law !" and letting 
 go the horse, that immediately began to browse, he 
 rushed at Mike, his whip in the air. 
 
 Mike fought, his long legs wide apart, his long 
 arms going like lightning, straight from the shoulder, 
 scattering blood over necktie and collar ; and pre- 
 sently the man withdrew, cursing Mike for an Irish 
 horse-stealer. 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing !" said Frank. 
 " You got on his horse and rode away, leaving him 
 standing on the outside of the cover." 
 
 " Yes," shouted Mike, delighted with his exploit; 
 " I felt I must go after the hounds." 
 
 "Yes, but to go away with the man's horse!" 
 
 " My dear fellow, why not ? Those are the things 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 20$ 
 
 that Other fellows think of doing but don't do. An 
 excitement like that is worth anything." 
 
 While waiting for Lily's answer, Mike finished the 
 last chapter of his book, and handed the manuscript 
 to Frank. Between the sentences he had speculated 
 on the state of soul his letter would produce in her, 
 and had imagined various answers. " Darling, how 
 good of you ! I did not know you loved me so well." 
 She would write, " Your letter surprised me, but then 
 you always surprise me. I can promise you nothing; 
 but you may come and see me next Thursday." She 
 would write at once, of that there could be no doubt ; 
 such letters were always answered at once. He 
 watched the postman and the clock ; every double 
 knock made tumult in his heart ; and in his stimulated 
 perceptions he saw the well-remembered writing as 
 if it lay under his eyes. And the many communica- 
 tions he received during those days whetted the edge 
 of his thirst, and aggravated the fever that floated in 
 his brain. 
 
 And towards the end of the week, at the end of a 
 long night of suffering, he went to London. And for 
 the first time, forgetful of himself, without a thought 
 of the light he would. appear in, he told the cabman 
 where to drive. His heart failed him when he heard 
 that Miss Young had been ordered abroad by the 
 doctor. And as he walked away a morbid sense 
 instilled in him that Lily would never be his bride. 
 Fear for her life persisted, and corrupted all his joy. 
 He could not listen to Lady Seeley's solicitors, and 
 he could not meditate upon the new life which Helen 
 had given him. He had inherited sixty thousand 
 pounds in various securities, yielding three thousand 
 a year ; the estate in Berkshire brought in fifteen 
 hundred a year ; and a sum of twelve hundred 
 pounds lay in the bank for immediate uses. 
 
206 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Dear, sweet Helen — she was the best of the lot- 
 none were as sweet as she. Well, after all, it isn't 
 so strange when one thinks of it — she hadn't a rela- 
 tion in the world. I must see her grave. I'll put a 
 beautiful marble tomb over her; and when I'm in 
 Berkshire I'll go there every day with flowers." 
 
 Xhen a shocking thought appeared in his mind. 
 Accustomed to analyze all sentiments, he asked his 
 soul if he would give up all she had given him to 
 have her back in life ; and he took courage and joy 
 when the answer came that he would. And delighted 
 at finding himself capable of such goodness, he 
 walked in a happier mood. His mind hung all day 
 between these two \vomcn — while he paid the rent 
 that was owing there in Temple Gardens ; while he 
 valued the furniture and fixtures. He valued them 
 casually, and in a liberal spirit, and wrote to Frank 
 offering him seven hundred pounds for the place as 
 it stood.. " It is not worth it," he thought, "but I'd 
 like to put the poor fellow on his legs." 
 
 Where should he dine? He wanted distraction, 
 and unable to think of any better relief, he turned 
 into Lubi's for a merry dinner. The little gilt gallery 
 was in disorder, Sally Slater having spent the after- 
 noon there. Her marc]uis was with her; her many 
 admirers clustered about the cigarette-strewn table, 
 anxious to lose no A\ord of her strange conversation. 
 One drunkard insisted on telling anecdotes about the 
 duke, and asking the marquis to drink with him. 
 
 " I tell you I remember the circumstances perfectly 
 — the duke wore a gray overcoat," said drunkard 
 No. I. 
 
 " Get out ! I tell you to get out !" cried drunkard 
 No. 2. " Brave Battlemoor, I say ; long live Battle- 
 moor ! Have a drinK ? — I want Battlemoor to drink 
 with me." 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 30/ 
 
 " For God's sake have a drink with him," said Sally, 
 •' and then perhaps he'll take another box for my 
 benefit." 
 
 "What, another?" 
 
 " Only a guinea one this time ; there's the ticket — 
 fork out. And now I must be off." 
 
 The shout echoed with the porter's whistle, and half 
 a dozen cabs came racing for these'excellent customers. 
 
 To the Trocadero they went. Mike, Sally, Marquis 
 and the drunkards lingered in the bar behind the 
 auditorium, and brandies-and-sodas were supplied to 
 them over a sloppy mahogany counter. A woman 
 screamed on the stage in green silk, and between the 
 heads of those standing in the entrance to the stalls, 
 her open mouth and an arm in black swede were seen 
 occasionally. 
 
 Tired of drunkenness and slang Mike went into 
 the stalls. The boxes were bright with courtesans ; 
 the young men whispered invitations to drink, and the 
 chairman, puffing at a huge cigar, used his little 
 hammer and announced " Miss Sally Slater will 
 appear next." Battlemoor roare'd approval, and then 
 in a short skirt and black stockings Sally rushed to 
 the footlights and took her audience, as it were, by 
 the throat. 
 
 " Oh, you men, what would you do without us ? 
 You kiss us, you cuddle and play, 
 You win our hearts away. 
 Oh, you men, there's something so nice about us." 
 
 The. "Oh, you men," was given with a shake of 
 the fist and the waggle of the bustle, in which there 
 was genius, and Mike could not but applaud. Sud- 
 denly he became conscious that a pair of opera 
 glasses were bracketed upon him. Looking up he 
 saw Kitty Carew sitting with a young nobleman, and 
 
208 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 he saw the white Hne of her teeth, for she was 
 laughing. She waved him to come to her. 
 
 " You dear old sweet," she said, " where have you 
 been all this time? Come, kiss me at once." And 
 she bent her head towards him. 
 
 '' And now Newtimber, good-bye; I want to be with 
 Mike. But you'll not forget me, you'll come and see 
 me one of these days?" And she spoke sowinningly 
 that the boy hardly perceived that he was dismi:.sed. 
 Mike and Kitty exchanged an inquiring look. 
 
 " Ah! do )'ou remember,"she said, "when I was at the 
 Avenue, and you used to come behind ? . . . You 
 remember the dear old marquis? When I was ill he 
 used to come and read to me. He used to say I was 
 the only friend he had. The dear marquis — and he is 
 gone now. I went to his grave yesterday, and I strewed 
 the tomb with chiysanthemums, and every spring he 
 has the first lilac of my garden." 
 
 " And who is your lover ?" 
 
 " I assure you I haven't got one. Harding was the 
 last, but he is becoming a bore ; he philosophizes. I 
 dare say he's very clever, but people don't kiss each 
 other because the}- are clever. I don't think I ever was 
 in love. . . But tell me, how do'you think I am looking? 
 Does this dress suit me? Do I look any older?" 
 
 Mike vowed he had never seen her so charming. 
 
 "Very well, if you think so, I'll tell you what 
 we'll do. As soon as Coburn has sung his song, 
 we go ; my brougham is waiting . . . You'll come 
 home and ha\'e supper with me." 
 
 A remembrance of Lily came over him, .but in 
 quick battle he crushed it out of mind and murmured, 
 " That'll be very nice ; you know I always wanted 
 to love you." 
 
 At that moment they were interrupted by cheers 
 and yells. Muchross Imd just entered at the head of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 2O9 
 
 his gang ; his lieutenants, Snowdown and Dicky the 
 driver, stood beside him. They stood under the 
 gallery bowing to the courtesans in the boxes, and 
 singing — 
 
 " Two lovely black eyes. 
 Oh ! what a surprise, 
 Two lovely black eyes." 
 
 " I wish we could avoid those fellows," said Kitty ; 
 " they'll only bother me with questions. Come, let's 
 be off, they'll be up here in a moment." But they 
 were intercepted by Muchross and his friends in a 
 saloon where Sally and Battlemoor were drinking 
 with various singers waiting their turns. 
 
 "Where are you going? You aren't going off like 
 that ?" cried Muchross, catching her by her sleeve. 
 
 " Yes, I am ; I am going home." 
 
 " Let me see you home," whispered Dicky. 
 
 "Thanks, Mike is seeing me home." 
 
 " You are in love," cried Muchross, " I shan't leave 
 you." 
 
 "You are in drink, I'll leave you in charge if you 
 don't loose my sleeve." 
 
 " This joker," cried Sally, " will take a ticket if 
 something wins a Lincoln, and he doesn't know 
 which." She stood in the doorway, her arms a- 
 kimbo. " People are very busy here," she snarled, 
 when a woman tried to pass. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the ex-chorus girl. 
 
 " And a good thing too," said Sally. " You are one 
 of the busy ones, just got your salary for shoving, I 
 suppose." There was no competing with Sally's 
 tongue, and the girl passed without replying. 
 
 This queen of song was attired in a flowery gown 
 of pale green, and she wore a large hat lavishly 
 trimmed with wild flowers ; she moved slowly, con- 
 scious of her importance and fame. 
 
2IO MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 But at that moment a man in a check suit said, 
 doffing his cap, " Very pleased to see you here, Miss 
 Slater." 
 
 Sally looked him over. " Well, I can't help that." 
 
 " I was at your benefit. Mr. Jackson was there, 
 and he introduced me to you after the performance." 
 
 " No, I'm sure he didn't " 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Miss Slater. Don't you 
 remember when Peggy Praed got on the table and 
 made a speech ?" 
 
 " No, I don't ; you saw me on the stage and you 
 paid your money for that. What more do you want?" 
 
 " I assure you — " 
 
 " Well, that's all right, now's your chance to lend 
 me a fiver." 
 
 " I'll lend you a fiver or a tenner, if you like, Miss 
 Slater." 
 
 "You could not do it if you tried, and now the 
 roast pork's off." 
 
 The witticism was received with a roar from her 
 admirers, and satisfied with her victory, she said — 
 " And now, you girls, you come and have drinks with 
 me. What will you have, Kitty, what will you have? 
 give it a name." 
 
 Kitty protested, but was forced to sit down. The 
 courtesans joined the comic vocalists waiting to do 
 their " turns." Lord Muchross and Lord Snowdown 
 ordered magnums and soon the hall was almost de- 
 serted. A girl was, however, dancing prettily on the 
 stage, and Mike stood to watch her. Her hose were 
 black, and in limp pink silk skirts she kicked her 
 slim legs surprisingly to and fro. After each dance 
 she ran into the wings, reappearing in a fresh costume, 
 returning at length in wide sailor's trousers of blue 
 silk, her bosom partially covered in white cambric. 
 As the band played the first notes of the hornpipe, 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 211 
 
 she withdrew a few hair-pins and forthwith an 
 abundant darl<ness fell to her dancing knees, almost 
 to her tiny dancing feet, heavy as a wave, shadowy 
 as sleeping water. As some rich weed in the warm 
 sea pulsing, as some fair cloud in radiant atmosphere, 
 her hair floated, every parted tress an impalpable 
 film of gold in the crude limelight turned upon her ; 
 and when she danced towards the footlights, the 
 bright softness of the threads clung almost amorously 
 about her white wrists — faint cobwebs hanging from 
 white flowers were not more faint, fair and soft ; 
 wonderful was the hair of this dancing girl, suggest- 
 ing all fabled enchantments, all visions of delicate 
 perfume and -ill the poetry of evanescent colour. 
 
 She was followed by the joyous Peggy Praed 
 (sweet minx), the soul and voice of the small back 
 streets. Screwing up her winsome, comical face, 
 drawling a word here, accentuating a word there, 
 she evoked, in an illusive moment, the washing day, 
 the quarrel with the mother-in-law (who wanted to 
 sleep in the house), tea-time, and the trip to the sea- 
 side, with all its concomitant adventures amid bugs 
 and landladies. With an accent, with a gesture, she 
 recalled in a momenta phase of life, creating pictures 
 vivid as they were transitory, but endowing each with 
 the charm of the best and most highly finished works 
 of the Dutch masters. Lords, courtesans and fellow 
 artists crowded to listen, and profiting by the oppor- 
 tunity, Kitty touched Mike on the shoulder with her 
 fan. 
 
 "Now we had better go." 
 
 " I'm driving to-morrow. Come down to Brighton 
 with us," said Dicky the driver. " Shall I keep places 
 for you ?" 
 
 Rising, Kitty laid her hand upon his mouth to 
 silence him and whispered, " Yes ; we'll come, and 
 good night." 
 
212 _ MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 In the soft darkness of the brougham, gentlyswung 
 together, the passing gasHghts reveahng the blueness 
 of the cushions, a diamond stud flashing intermit- 
 tently, they lay, their souls sunk deep in the intimacy 
 of a companionship akin to that of a nest — they, the 
 inheritors of the pleasure of the night and the glad- 
 ness of the morrow. 
 
 Next morning Kitty had to adjure Mike to say no 
 more ; if he did she should go mad. Dressing was 
 delirium. Breakfast had to be skipped, and it was 
 only by bribing a cabman to gallop to Westminster 
 that they caught the coach. Even so they would 
 have missed it had not Mike sprung at risk of limb 
 from the hansom and sped on the toes of his patent 
 leather shoes down the street, his gray cover coat 
 flying. 
 
 " What a toff he is," thought Kitty, full of the pride 
 of her love. Bessie, whom dear Laura had successfully 
 chaperoned into well-kept estate, sat with Dicky on 
 the box ; Laura sat with Harding in the back seat ; 
 Muchross and Snowdown sat opposite them. The 
 middle of the coach was taken up by what Muchross 
 said were a couple of bar-girls and their mashers. 
 
 On rolled the coach over Westminster Bridge, 
 through Lambeth, in picturesqueness and power, a 
 sympathetic survival of aristocratic days. The aris- 
 tocracy and power so vital in the coach was soon 
 commanicated to those upon it. And now when Jem 
 Gregoiy, the celebrated whip, with one leg swinging 
 over the side, tootled, the passers-by seemed littler 
 than ever, the hansoms at the corner seemed smaller, 
 and the folk standing at their poor doors seemed 
 meaner. As they passed through those hungry streets 
 ragged urchins came alongside, throwing themselves 
 over and over, beseeching coppers from Muchross, 
 and he tlirew a few, urging them to further prostra- 
 tions. Tootle, Jim, tootle; whether they starve or 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 213 
 
 whether they feed, we have no thought. The clatter 
 of the hoofs of the bays resounds through those 
 poor back-rooms, full of human misery ; the notes 
 of our horn are perhaps sounding now in dying ears. 
 Tootle, Jim, tootle ; what care we for that pale mother 
 and her babe, or that toiling coster whose barrow is 
 too heavy for him. If there is to be revolution, it 
 will not be in our time ; we are the end of the world. 
 Laura is with us to-day, Bessie sits on the box, Kitty 
 is with our Don Juan ; we know there is gold in our 
 pockets, we see our courtesans by us, our gallant bays 
 are bearing us away to pleasure. Tootle, Jim, my 
 boy, tootle ; the great Muchross is shouting derision 
 at the poor perspiring cosier. " Pull up, you devil, 
 pull up," he cries, and shouts to the ragged urchins 
 and scatters halfpence that they may tumble once 
 more in the dirt. See the great Muchross, the clean 
 shaven face of the libertine priest, the small sardonic 
 eyes. Hurrah for the* great Muchross! Long may 
 he live, the singer of " What cheer, Ria ?" the type and 
 epitome of the white necktie and the brandy-and-soda. 
 
 Gaily trotted the four bays, and as Clapham was 
 approached brick tenements disappeared in Portland 
 stone and iron railings. A girl was seen swinging ; 
 the white flannels of tennis players passed to and 
 fro, and a lady stood by a tall vase watering red 
 geraniums. Harding told Mike that the shaven lawns 
 and the greenhouses explained the lives of tlie in- 
 habitants, and represented their ideas ; and Laura's 
 account of the money slie had betted was followed by 
 an anecdote concerning a long ramble in a wood, 
 with a man who had walked her about all day with- 
 out even so much as once asking her if she had a 
 moutii on her. 
 
 "Talking of mouths," said Mike, as they pulled up 
 to change horses, " we had to start without breakfast. 
 I wonder if one could get a biscuit and a glass of milk." 
 
214 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Glass of milk ! " screamed Muchross, " no milk 
 allowed on this coach." 
 
 " Well, I don't think I could drink a brandy-and- 
 soda at this'time in the morning." 
 
 " At what time could you drink one then ? Why, 
 it is nearly eleven o'clock ! What will you have, 
 Kitty? A brandy?" 
 
 " No, I think I'll take a glass of beer." 
 
 The beauty of the landscape passed unperceived. 
 But the road was full of pleasing reminiscences. As 
 they passed through Croydon dear old Laura pointed 
 out an hotel where she used to go every Sunday with 
 the dear Earl, and in the afternoons they played 
 cribbage in the sitting-room overlooking the street. 
 And some miles further on the sweetness of the past 
 burst unanimously from all when Dicky pointed out 
 with his whip the house where Bessie had gone for 
 her honeymoon, and where they all used to spend 
 from Saturday till Monday. -The incident of Bill 
 Longside's death was pathetically alluded to. He 
 had died of D. T. " Impossible," said Laura, ■" to 
 keep him from it. Milly, poor little woman, had 
 stuck to him almost to the last. He had had his 
 last drink there. Muchross and Dicky had carried 
 him out." 
 
 The day was filled with fair remembrances of 
 summer, and the earth was golden and red ; and the 
 sky was folded in lawny clouds, which the breeze was 
 lifting, revealing beautiful spaces of blue. All the 
 abundant hedgerows were red with the leaf of the 
 wild cherry, and the oak woods wore masses of sere 
 and russet leafage. Spreading beeches swept right 
 down to the road, shining in beautiful death ; once a 
 pheasant rose and flew through the polished trunks 
 towards the yellow underwood. Sprays trembled 
 on naked rods, ferns and grasses fell about the 
 gurgling watercourees, a motley undergrowth ; and 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 215 
 
 in the fields long teams were ploughing, the man 
 labouring at the plough, the boy with the horses ; 
 and their smock-frocks and galligaskins recalled an 
 ancient England which time has not touched, and 
 which lives in them. And the farm-houses of gables 
 and weary brick, sometimes well-dismantled and 
 showing the heavy beam, accentuated these visions 
 of past days. Yes, indeed, the brick villages, the 
 old gray farm-houses, and the wind-mill were very 
 beautiful in the endless yellow draperies which this 
 autumn country wore so romantically. One spot 
 lingered in Mike's memory, so representative did it 
 seem of that country. The road swept round a 
 beech wood that clothed a knoll, descending into the 
 open country by a tall redding hedge to a sudden 
 river, and cows were seen drinking and wading in the 
 shallows, and this last impression of the earth's 
 loveliness smote the poet's heart to joy which was 
 near to grief. 
 
 At Three Bridges they had lunch, in an old-fashioned 
 hotel called the George. Muchross cut the sirloin, 
 filling the plates so full of juicy meat that the ladies 
 protested. Snowdown paid for champagne, and in 
 conjunction with the wine, the indelicate stories 
 which he narrated made some small invasion upon 
 the reserve of the bar-girls ; for their admirers did 
 not dare forbid them the wine, and could not pre- 
 vent them from smiling. After lunch tlie gang was 
 photographed in the garden, and Muchross gave the 
 village flautist half a " quid," making him promise 
 to drink their healths till he was " blind." 
 
 " I never like to leave a place without having done 
 some good," he shouted, as he scrambled into his 
 seat. 
 
 This sentiqaent was applauded until the sensual 
 torpor of digestion intervened. The clamour of the 
 coach lapsed into a hush of voices. The women 
 
2l6 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 leaned back, drawing their rugs about their knees, 
 for it was turning chilly, arms were passed round 
 yielding waists, hands lay in digestive poses, and 
 eyes were bathed in deep animal indolences. 
 
 Conversation had almost ceased. The bar-girls 
 had not whispered one single word for more than an 
 hour; Muchross had not shouted for at least twenty 
 minutes ; the only interruption that had occurred 
 was an unexpected stopping of the coach, for the off- 
 leader was pulling Dicky so hard that he had to ask 
 Jem to take the ribbons, and now he snoozed in the 
 great whip's place, seriously incommoding Snowdown 
 with his great weight. Suddenly awaking to a sense 
 of his responsibility Muchross roared — 
 
 " What about the milk cans ?" 
 
 " You'd better be quick," answered Jem, " we shall 
 be there in five minutes." 
 
 One of the customs of the road was a half crown 
 lottery, the winning member to be decided by the 
 number of milk cans outside a certain farm-house. 
 
 " Ease off a bit, Jem,'' bawled Muchross. " Damn 
 you ! give us time to get the numbers out." 
 
 " It ain't my fault if you fall asleep." 
 
 " The last stage was five miles this side of Cuck- 
 field, you ought to know the road by this time. 
 How many are we?" 
 
 " Eight," shouted Dicky, blowing the blatant horn. 
 " You're on, Jem, aren't you ? Number two or three' 
 will get it ; at this time of the year milk is scarce. 
 Pass on the hat quick ; quick, you devil, pass it on. 
 What have you got, Kitty?" 
 
 "Just like my luck," cried Muchross, "I've got 
 eight." 
 
 "And I've seven," said Snowdown; "never have 
 I won yet. In the autumn I get sevens and eights, 
 in the summer ones and twos. Damn !" 
 
 " I've got five," said Kitty, " and Mike has got 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 2I7 
 
 two ; always the lucky one. A lady leaves him four 
 thousand a year and he comes down here and rooks 
 us. 
 
 The coach swept up a gentle ascent, and Much- 
 ross shouted — 
 
 "Two milk cans! Hand him over the quid and 
 chuck him out !" 
 
 The downs rose, barring the sky ; and they passed 
 along the dead level of the weald, leaving Henfield 
 on their right ; and when a great piece of Gothic 
 masonry appeared between some trees, Mike told 
 Kitty how it had been once John Norton's intention 
 to build a monastery. 
 
 " He would have founded a monastery had he lived 
 two centuries ago," said Harding ; " but this is an 
 age of concessions, and instead he puts up a few 
 gargoyles. Time modifies but does not eradicate, 
 and the modern King Cophetua marries not the 
 beggar, but the bar-maid." 
 
 The conversation fell in silence, full of conster- 
 nation ; and all wondered if the two ladies in front 
 had understood, and they were really bar-maids. Be 
 this as it may, they maintained their unalterable 
 reserve ; and with suppressed laughter, Mike per- 
 suaded Dicky, who had resumed the ribbons, to turn 
 into the lodge-gates. 
 
 " Who is this Johnny ?" shouted Muchross. " If he 
 won't stand a drink, we don't want none of his 
 blooming architecture." 
 
 "And I wouldn't touch a man with a large pole, 
 who didn't like women," said Laura. At which em- 
 phatic but naive expression of opinion, the whole 
 coach roared ; — even the bar-girls smiled. 
 
 "Architecture! It is a regular putty castle," said 
 Kitty, as they turned out of an avenue of elms and 
 came in view of the house. 
 
2l8 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Not a trace of the original Italian house remained. 
 The loggia had been replaced by a couple of Gothic 
 towers. Over the central hall he had placed a light 
 lantern roof, and the billiard-room had been converted 
 into a chapel. A cold and corpse-like sky was flying ; 
 the shadows falling filled the autumn path with sen- 
 sations of deep melancholy. But the painted legend 
 of St. George overthrowing the dragon, which John 
 had placed in commemoration of his victories over 
 himself, in the central hall, glowed full of colour and 
 story ; and in the melodious rrioan of the organ, and 
 in the resonant chord which closes the awful warning 
 of the Dies Irce, he realized the soul of his friend. 
 Castle, window, and friend were now one in his brain, 
 and seized with dim, undcfinable weariness.of his com- 
 panions, and an irritating longing to see John, Mike 
 said — 
 
 " I must go and see him." 
 
 "We can't wait here while you are paying visits; 
 who doesn't like getting drunk or singing, ' What 
 cheer, Ria?' Let's give him a song." Then the whole 
 coach roared ; even the bar-girls joined in. 
 
 "What cheer, Ria? 
 Ria'd on the job; 
 Wliat cheer, Ria.' 
 Speculate a bob." 
 
 As soon as he could make himself heard, Mike 
 said — 
 
 " You need not wait for me. We are only five 
 minutes from Brighton. I'll ride over in an hour's 
 time. Do you wait for me at the ' Ship,' Kitty." 
 
 " I don't think this at all nice of you." 
 
 Mike waved his hand ; and as he stood on the 
 steps of this Gothic mansion, listening to the chant, 
 watching the revellers disappearing in the gray and 
 yellow gloom of the park, he said— 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 219 
 
 " The man here is the one who has seized what is 
 best in life ; he alone has loved. I should have founded 
 with him a new religious order. I should walk with 
 him at the head of the choir. Bah ! life is too piti- 
 fully short. I should like to taste of every pleasure 
 — of every emotion ; and what have I tasted ? 
 Nothing. I have done nothing. I have wheedled a 
 few women who wanted to be wheedled, that is all." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "And how are you, old chap ? I am delighted to 
 see you." 
 
 " I'm equally glad to see you. You have made 
 alterations in the place ... I came down from 
 London with a lot of Johnnies and tarts — Kitty 
 Carew, Laura Stanley and her sister. I got Dicky 
 the driver to turn in here. You were playing the 
 Dies Irce. I never was more impressed in my life. 
 You should have seen the coach beneath the great 
 window ... St. George overcoming the Johnnies 
 . . . the tumult of the organ . . . and I couldn't 
 stand singing ' Two Lovely Black Eyes.' I sickened 
 of them — the whole thing — and I felt I must see 
 you." 
 
 "And are they outside?" 
 
 " No ; they have gone off." 
 
 Relieved of fear of intrusion, John laughed loudly, 
 and commented humorously on the spectacle of the 
 Brighton coach filled with revellers drawn up be- 
 neath his window. Then, to discuss the window — 
 the quality of the glass — he turned out the lamps ; 
 the hall filled with the legend, and their hearts full 
 of it, and delighting in the sensation of each other, 
 
220 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 they walked up and down the echoing hall. John 
 rennembered a certain fugue by Bach, and motion- 
 ing to the page to blow, he seated himself at the 
 key-board. The celestial shield and crest still re- 
 mained in little colour. Mike saw John's hands 
 moving over the keyboard, and his soul went out in 
 worship of that soul, divided from the world's pleas- 
 ure, self-sufficing, alone ; seeking God only in his 
 home of organ fugue and legended pane. He under- 
 stood the nobleness and purity which was now about 
 him — it seemed impossible to him to return to 
 Kitty. 
 
 Swift and complete reaction had come upon him, 
 and choked with the moral sulphur of the last 
 twenty-four hours, he craved the breath of purity. 
 He must talk of Plato's Republic, of Wagner's 
 operas, of Schopenhauer ; even Lily was not now so 
 imperative as these, and next day, after lunch, when 
 the question of his departure was alluded to, Mike 
 felt it was impossible to leave John ; but persecuted 
 with scruples of disloyalty to Kitty, he resisted his 
 friend's invitation to stay. He urged he had no 
 clothes. John offered to send the coachman into 
 Brighton for what he wanted. 
 
 " But perhaps you have no money," John said, in- 
 advertently, and a look of apprehension passed into 
 his face. 
 
 " Oh, I have plenty of money — 'tisn't that. I haven't 
 told you that a friend of mine, a lady, has left me 
 nearly five thousand a year. I don't think you ever 
 saw her — Lady Seeley." 
 
 John burst into uncontrollable laughter. "That 
 is the best thing I ever heard in all my life. I don't 
 think I ever heard anything that amused me more. 
 The grotesqueness of the whole thing." Seeing that 
 Mike vas anno}'ed he hastened to explain his mirth. 
 '• The incxplicableness of human action always amuses 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 221 
 
 me ; the inexplicable is romance, at least that is the 
 only way I can understand ronaance. When you 
 reduce life to a logical sequence you destroy all 
 poetry, and, I think, all reality. We do things con- 
 stantly, and no one can say why we do them. Fred- 
 erick the Great coming in, after reviewing his troops, 
 to play the flute, that to me is intensely romantic. 
 A lady, whom you probably treated exceedingly 
 badly, leaving you her pioperty, that too is, to me." 
 Admonished by his conscience, John's hilarity 
 clouded into a sort of semi-humorous gravity, and 
 he advised Mike on the necessity of reforming his life. 
 " I am very sorry, for there is no one whose society 
 is as attractive to me as yours; there is no one in 
 whom I find so man\' of my ideas, and yet there is 
 no one from whom I am so widely separated ; at 
 times you are sublime, and then you turn round and 
 roll in the nastiest dirt you can find.'" 
 
 Mike loved a lecture from John, and he exerted 
 himself to draw his friend into new confidences. 
 
 Looking at each other in admiration, they regretted 
 the other's weaknesses. Mike deplored John's con- 
 science, which had forced him to burn his poems ; 
 John deplored Mike's unsteady mind, which veered 
 and yielded to every passion. And in the hall they 
 talked of the great musician and the great king, or 
 John played the beautiful hymns of the Russian 
 Church, in whose pathetic charm he declared Chopin 
 had found his inspiration ; they spoke of the Grail 
 and the Romance of the Sivan, or, wandering into the 
 library, they read aloud the ever-fliowering eloquence 
 of De Quincey, the marmorial loveliness of Landor, 
 the nurselike tenderness of Tennyson. 
 
 Through all these ssstheticisms Lily Young shone, 
 her light waxing to fulness day by day. Mike had 
 written to Frank, beseeching him to forward any 
 
222 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 letters that might arrive. He expected an answer 
 from Lily within the week, and not until its close 
 did he begin to grow fearful. Then rapidly his fear 
 increased, and unable to bear with so much desire 
 in the presence of John Norton, he rushed to London, 
 and thence to Marlow. He railed against his own 
 weakness in going to Marlow, for if a letter had 
 arrived it would have been forwarded to him. 
 
 "Why deceive myself with false hopes? If the 
 letter had miscarried, it would have been returned 
 through the post-office. I wrote my address plain 
 enough." Then he railed against Lily. " The little 
 vixen ! She will show that letter ; .she will pass it 
 round ; perliaps at this moment she is laughing at 
 me ! What a fool I was to vvrite it ! However, all's 
 well that ends well, and I am not going to be mar- 
 ried—I have escaped after all." 
 
 The train jogged like his thoughts, and the land- 
 scape fled in fleeting visions like his dreams. He 
 laid his face in his hands, and could not disguise the 
 truth that he desired her above all things, for she 
 was the sweetest lie had seen. 
 
 " There are," he said, talking to Frank and Lizzie, 
 " two kinds of love — the first is a strictly personal 
 appetite, which merely seeks its own assuagement; 
 the second draws you out of yourself, and is far 
 more terrible. I have found both these loves, but in 
 different women." 
 
 " Did no Avoman ever inspire both loves in you?" 
 said Lizzie. 
 
 " I thought one woman had." 
 
 ■' Oh, tell us about her." 
 
 Mike changed the conversation, and he talked of 
 the newspaper until it v/as time to go to the station. 
 He was now certain that Lily had rejected him. His 
 grief soaked through him like a wet, dreary day. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 223 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, he seemed to brighten, but there 
 is often a deeper sadness in a smile than in a flood of 
 tears, and he was more than ever sad when he thought 
 of the Hfe he had desired, and had lost ; which he had 
 seen ahnost within his reach, and which had now dis- 
 appeared for ever. He had thought of this hfe as a 
 green isle, where there were flowers and a shrine. 
 Isle, flowers, and shrine had for ever vanished, and 
 nothing remained but the round monotony of the 
 desert ocean. Then throwing off his grief with a 
 laugh, he eagerly anticipated the impressions of the 
 visit he meditated to Belthorpe Park, and his soul 
 went out to meet this new adventure. He thought 
 of the embarrassment of the servants receiving their 
 new master; of the attitude of the country people 
 towards him; and deciding that he had better arrive 
 before dinner, just as if he were a visitor, he sent a 
 telegram saying that the groom was to meet him at 
 the station, and that dinner was to be prepared. 
 
 Lady Seeley's solicitors had told him that accord- 
 ing to her ladyship's will Belthorpe was to be kept 
 up exactly as it had been in her life-time, and the 
 servants had received notice that, in pursuance of 
 her ladyship's expressed wish, Mr. Fletcher would 
 make no changes, and that they were free to remain 
 on if they thought proper. Mike approved of this 
 arrangement — it saved him from a task of finding 
 new servants, a task which he would have bungled 
 sadly, and which he would have had to attempt, for 
 he had decided to enjoy all the pleasures of a country 
 place, and to act the country gentleman until he 
 wearied of the part. Life is but a farce, and the more 
 different parts you play in that farce the more you 
 enjoy. Here was a new farce — he the Bohemian, 
 going down to an old ancestral home to play the part 
 of the Squire of the parish. It could not but prove 
 rich in amusing situations, and he was determined to 
 
2 24 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 play it. What a sell it would be for Lil)', for perhaps 
 she had refused him because she thought he was poor. 
 Contemptuous thoughts about women rose in his 
 mind, but they died in thronging sensations of vanity 
 — he, at least, had not found A\omen mercenary. 
 Lily was the first ! Then putting thoughts of her 
 utterly aside, he surrendered himself to the happy 
 consideration of his own good fortune! "A new farce! 
 Yes; that was the \\ay to look upon it. I wonder 
 what the servants will think ! I wonder what they'll 
 think of me ! . . . Harrison, the butler, was with 
 her in Green Street. Her maid, Fairfield, was with 
 her when I saw her last — near!)- three years ago. 
 Fairfield knew I was her lover, and she has told the 
 others. But what does it matter? I don't care a 
 damn what they think. Besides servants are far more 
 jealous of our honour than we are ourselves; they'll 
 trump up some story about cousinship, or that I had 
 saved her ladyship's life — not a bad notion that last ; 
 I had better stick to it mj-self." 
 
 As he sought a plausible tale, his thoughts de- 
 tached themselves, and it struck him that the gentle- 
 man sitting opposite was his next door neighbour. 
 He imagined his visit ; the invitation to dine ; the 
 inevitable daughters in the drawing-room. How 
 would he be received by the country folks? 
 
 " That depends," he thought, " entirely on the 
 number of unmarried girls there are in the neigh- 
 bourhood. The morals and manners of an English 
 county are determined by its female population. If 
 the number of females is large, manners are familiar, 
 and morals are lax; if the number is small, manners 
 are reserved, and morals severe." 
 
 He was in a carriage with two unmistakably county 
 squires, and their conversation — certain references to 
 a moot of the hounds and a local bazaar — left no 
 doubt that they were his neighbours. Indeed, Lady 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 225 
 
 Seeley was once alluded to, and Mike was agitated 
 with violent desires to introduce himself as the owner 
 of Belthorpe Park. Several times he opened his lips, 
 but their talk suddenly turned into matters so foreign 
 that he abandoned the notion of revealing his iden- 
 tity, and five minutes after he congratulated himself 
 he had not done so. 
 
 The next station was Wantage Street ; and as he 
 looked to see that the guard had put out his port- 
 manteau, a smart footman approached and touching 
 his cockaded hat said, " Mr. Fletcher." Mike thrilled 
 with pride. His servant — his first servant. 
 
 " I've brought the dog-cart, sir ; I thought it would 
 be the quickest ; it will take us a good hour, the 
 roads are very heavy, sir." 
 
 Mike noticed the coronet worked in red upon the 
 yellow horse-cloth, for the lamps cast a bright glow 
 over the mare's quarters; and wishing to exhibit 
 himself in all his new fortune before his fellow-pa'^- 
 sengers, who were getting into a humbler convey- 
 ance, he took the reins from the groom ; and when 
 he turned into the wrong street, he cursed under his 
 breath, fancying all had noticed his misadventure. 
 When they were clear of the town, touching the mare 
 with the whip he said — 
 
 " Not a bad animal, this." 
 
 " Beautiful trotter, sir. Her ladyship bought her 
 only last spring; gave seventy guineas for her." 
 
 After a slight pause, Mike said, " Very sad, her 
 ladyship's death, and quite unexpected, I suppose. 
 She wasn't ill above a couple of days." 
 
 " Not what you might call ill, sir ; but her ladyship 
 had been ailing for a long time past. The doctors 
 ordered her abroad last winter, sir, but I don't think 
 it did her much good. She came back looking very 
 poorly." 
 
2 26 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " Now tell me which is the way? do I turn to the 
 right or left ?" 
 
 " To the right, sir." 
 
 " How far are v.c from Belthorpe Park now?" 
 
 " About three miles, sir." 
 
 " You were saying that her ladyship looked very 
 poorly for some time before she died. Tell me how 
 she looked. What do you think was the matter?" 
 
 " Well, sir, her ladyship seemed very much de- 
 pressed. 1 heard Miss Fairfield, her ladyship's maid, 
 say that she used to find her ladyship constantly in 
 tears ; her nerves seemed to have given way." 
 
 " I suppose I broke her heart," thought Mike ; 
 " but I'm. not to blame ; I couldn't go on loving ar,y 
 woman for ever, not if she were Venus herself." And 
 questioning the groom regarding the servants then 
 at Belthorpe, he learnt with certain satisfaction that 
 Fairfield had left immediately after her ladyship's 
 death. The groom had never heard of Harrison (he 
 had only been a year and a half in her ladyship's 
 service). 
 
 " This is Belthorpe Park, sir — these are the lodge 
 gates." 
 
 Mike was disappointed in the lodge. The park 
 he could not distinguish. Mist hung like a white 
 fleece. There were patches of ferns ; hawthorns 
 loomed suddenly into sight ; high trees raised their 
 bare branches to the brilliancy of the moon. 
 
 "Not half bad," thought Mike, "quite a gentle- 
 man's place." 
 
 " Rather rough land in parts — plenty of rabbits," 
 he remarked to the groom ; and he won the man's 
 sympathies by various questions concerning the best 
 method of getting hunters into condition. The rooks 
 talked gently in the branches of some elms, around 
 wnich the drive turned through rough undulatir.g 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 22/ 
 
 ground. Plantations became numerous ; tall, spire- 
 like firs appeared, their shadows floating through the 
 interspaces; and, amid straight walks and dwarf 
 yews, in the fulness of the moonlight, there shone a 
 white house, with large French windows and a tower 
 at the further end. A white peacock asleep on a 
 windowsill startled Mike, and he thought of the 
 ghost of his dead mistress. 
 
 Nor could he account for his trepidation as he 
 waited for the front door to open, and Hunt seemed 
 to him aggressively large and pompous, and he would 
 have preferred an assumption on the part of the 
 servant's part that he knew the relative positions of 
 the library and drawing-room. But Hunt was re- 
 solved on explanation, and as they went up-stairs lie 
 pointed out the room where Lady Seeley died, and 
 spoke of the late Earl. " You want the sack, and 
 you shall g ;t it, my friend," thought Mike, and he 
 glanced hurriedly at the beautiful pieces of furniture 
 about the branching staircase and the galleiy leading 
 into the various corridors. At dinner he ate ^\■ith- 
 'out noticing the choiceness of the cooking, and he 
 drank several glasses of champagne before he re- 
 marked the excellence of the w'ine. 
 
 "We have not many dozen left, sir ; I heard that 
 his lordship laid it down in '75." 
 
 Hunt watched him with cat-like patience and 
 hound-like sagacity, and seeing he had forgotten his 
 cigar-case, he instantly produced a box ; Mike helped 
 himself without daring to ask where the cigars came 
 from, nor did he comment on their fragrance. He 
 smoked in discomfort ; the presence of the servant 
 irritated him, and he walked into the library and shut 
 the door. The carved panelling, in the style of the 
 late Italian renaissance, was dark and shadowy, and 
 the eyes of the portraits looked upon the intruder. 
 Men in armour, holding scrolls; men in rich doub- 
 
228 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 lets, their hands on their swords ; women in elaborate 
 dresses of a hundred tucks, and hooped out pro- 
 digiously. He was especially struck by one, a lady 
 in green, who played \\ith long white hands on a 
 spinet. But the massive and numerous oak book- 
 cases, strictly wired "with strong brass wire, and the 
 tall oak fireplace, surmounted with a portrait of a 
 man in a red coat holding a letter, whetted the edge 
 of his depression, and Mike looked round with a 
 pain of loneliness upon his face. Speaking aloud for 
 relief, he said — 
 
 " No doubt it is all very fine, everything is up to 
 the mark, but there's no denj'ing that it is — well, 
 it is dull. Had I known it was going to be like this 
 I'd have brought somebody down with me— a nice 
 woman. Kitty would be delightful here. But no; 
 I would not bring her here for ten times the money 
 the place is worth ; to do so would be an insult on 
 Helen's memory. . . . Poor dear Helen ! I wish I 
 had seen her before she died ; and to think that she 
 has left me all — a beautiful house, plate, horses, car- 
 riages, wine ; nothing is wanting; everything I have 
 is hers, even this cigar." He threw the end of his 
 cigar into the fireplace. 
 
 " How strange, what an extraordinary transforma- 
 tion. And all this is mine, even her ancestors! How 
 angry that old fellow looks at me — me, the son of an 
 Irish peasant! Yes, my father was that — well, not 
 exactly that, he was a grazier. But why fear the facts, 
 he was a peasant ; and my mother was a French maid 
 — ^N'ell, a governess — well, a nursery governess, uiie 
 bonne ; she was dismissed from hersituation for carry- 
 ing on (it seems awful to speak of one's mother so; 
 but it is the fact) . . . Respect ! I love my mother well 
 enough, but I'm not going to delude myself because 
 I had a mother. Mother didn't like our cabin by 
 the roadside ; father treated her badlj- ; she ran awa}', 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 229 
 
 taking me with her. She was lucky enough to meet 
 with a rich manufacturer, who kept her fairly well 
 — I believe he used to allow her a thousand francs a 
 month — and I used to call him uncle. When rnother 
 died he sent me back to my father in Ireland. That's 
 my history. There's not much blue blood in me. . . 
 I beheve if one went back. . . Bah, if one went back ! 
 Why deceive myself? I was born a peasant, and I 
 know it. . . Yet no one looks more like a gentleman ; 
 reversion to some original ancestor, I suppose. Not 
 one of these earls looks more like a gentleman than 
 I. But I don't suppose my looks would in any 
 measure reconcile them to the fact of my possession 
 of their property. 
 
 " Ah, you old fools — periwigs, armour, and scrolls 
 — you old fools, you laboured only to make a gentle- 
 man of an Irish peasant. Yes, )ou laboured in 
 vain, my noble lords — you, old gentleman yonder, 
 30U with the telescope — an admiral, no doubt — )-ou 
 sailed the seas in vain ; and )ou over there, you 
 mediaeval-looking cuss, you carried your armour 
 through the battles of Cressy and Poictiers in \i\\\\ ; 
 and you, noble lady in the high bodice, you whose 
 fingers play with tlie flaxen curls of that boy — he 
 was the heir of this place two hundred years ago — 
 I say, you bore -him in vain, your labour was in 
 vain ; and you, old fogey that you are, you in the red 
 coat, you holding the letter in your gouty fingers, 
 a commercial-looking letter, you laboured in trade 
 to rehabihtate the falling fortunes of the family, and 
 I say you too laboured in vain. Without labour, 
 without ache, I possess the result of all your centuries 
 of labour. 
 
 " There, that sordid, wizen old lady, a miser to 
 judge by her appearance, she is eyeing me mali- 
 ciously now, but I say all her eyeing is in vain ; she 
 
230 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 pinched and scraped and starved herself for me. 
 Yes, I possess all your savings, and if you were fifty 
 years younger you would not begrudge them to 
 me." 
 
 Laughing at his folly, Mike said, " How close 
 together lie the sane and the insane ; any one who 
 had overheard me would have pronounced me mad 
 as a March hare, and yet fev/ are saner." He 
 walked twice across the room. " But I'm mad for 
 the moment, and I like to be mad. Have I not all 
 things — talent, wealth, love? I asked for life, and I 
 was given life. I have drunk the cup — no, not to 
 the dregs, there is plenty more wine in the cup for 
 me; the cup is full, I have not tasted it yet. Lily! 
 yes, I must get her ; a fool I have been ; my letter 
 miscarried, else she would have written. Refuse me! 
 who would refuse me? Yes, I was born to drink 
 the cup of life as few have drunk it ; I shall drink 
 it even like a Roman emperor . . . But they drank it 
 to madness and crime ! Yet even so ; I shall drink 
 of life even to crime. 
 
 " The peasant and the card-sharper shall go high, 
 this impetus shall carry me very high ; and Frank 
 Escott, that mean cad, shall go to the gutter; but 
 lie is already there, and I am here ! I knew it 
 would be so ; I felt my destiny, I felt it here — in 
 my brain. I felt it even \\hen he scorned me in 
 b(J3-hood days. I believe that in those days he ex- 
 pected me to touch my cap to him. But those 
 days are over, new days have begun. When to- 
 morrow's sun rises it will shine on what is mine, 
 down-land, meadow-land, park-land, and wood-land. 
 Strange is the joy of possession ; I did not know 
 of its existence. The stately house too is mine, and I 
 would see it. But that infernal servant, I suppose, is 
 in bed. I would not have him find me. I shall get 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 23 1 
 
 rid of him. I can hear him saying in his pantn-, 
 'He! I wouldn't give much for liim ; I found him 
 last night spying about, examining his fine things, for 
 all the world like a beggar to whom you had given an 
 old suit of clothes.' " 
 
 Mike took his bed-room candle, and having regard 
 for surprises on the part of the servants, he roamed 
 about the passai^es, looking at the Chippendale furni- 
 ture on the landings and the pictures and engravings 
 that lined the walls. Fearing bells, he did not attempt 
 to enter any of the rooms, and it was with some 
 difficulty that he found his way back to the library. 
 Throwing himself into the arm-chair he wondered if 
 he should grow accustomed to spend his evenings in 
 this loneliness. He thought of whom he should in- 
 vite there — Harding, Thompson, John Norton ; cer- 
 tainly he would ask John. He couldn't ask Frank 
 without his wife, and Lizzie would prejudice him in 
 the eyes of the county people. Then, as his thoughts 
 detached themselves, he exclaimed against the sepul- 
 chral solemnity of the library. The house was sound- 
 less. At the window he heard the soft moonlight- 
 dreaming of the rocks; and when he threw open the 
 window the white peacock roosting there flew aA\a\' 
 and paraded on the pale sward like a. Watteau lady. 
 
 Next morning, rousing in the indolence of a bed 
 hung with curtains of Indian pattern, Mike said to 
 the- footman who brought in his hot water — 
 
 " Tell the coachman that I shall go out riding after 
 breakfast." 
 
 "What horse will you ride, sir?" 
 
 " I don't know what hoTses you have in the 
 stable." 
 
 " Well, sir, you can ride either her ladyship's hunter 
 or the mare that brought you from the station in the 
 dog-cart." 
 
232 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 •' Very well. I'll ride her ladyship's hunter. (My 
 liunter, damn the fellow," he said, under his breath.) 
 " And tell the bailiff I shall want him ; let him come 
 round on his horse. I shall go over the farms with 
 him." 
 
 The morning was chill)-. He stood before the fire 
 while the butler brought in eggs, kidneys, devilled 
 legs of fowl, and coffee. The beauty of tlie coffee-pot 
 caught his eye, and he admired the plate that made 
 such rich effect on the old Chippendale sideboard. 
 The peacocks on the window-sills knocking with their 
 strong beaks for bread, pleased him ; they recalled 
 evenings passed with Helen ; she had often spoken 
 of her love for these birds. He went to the window 
 with bread for the peacocks and the landscape came 
 into his eyes: the clump of leafless trees on th-e left, 
 rugged and untidy with rooks' nests ; the hollow, 
 dipping plain, melancholy of aspect now, misty, gray 
 and brown beneath a lowering sky, dipping and then 
 rising in a long, wide shape, and ringing the sk)- \\\\\\ 
 a brown line. The terrace with its straight walks, 
 balustrades, urns,, and closely cropped )-ews was a 
 romantic note, severe, even harsh. 
 
 One da)', wandering from room to room, he found 
 jiimself in Helen's bed-room. " There is the bed she 
 died in, there is the wardrobe." Mike opened the 
 wardrobe. He turned the dresses o\'er, seeking for 
 those he knew ; but he had not seen her for three 
 years, and there were new dresses, and he had for- 
 gotten the old. Suddenly he came upon one of 
 soft, blue m.iterial, and he remembered she wore 
 that dress the first time she sat on his knees. Feel- 
 ing the need of an expressive action he buried his 
 face in the pale blue dress, seeking in its softness 
 and odour commemoration of her who la)' beneath 
 the pavement. How desolate was the room. He 
 
MIKE FLErCHER. 233 
 
 would not linger. This room must be forever closed, 
 left to the silence, the mildew, the dust, and the 
 moth. None must enter here but he, it must be 
 sacred from other feet. Once a }ear, on jier anni- 
 versary, he would come to mourn her, and not on 
 the anniversary of her death, but on that of their 
 first kiss. He had forgotten the exact day and 
 feared he had not preserved all her letters. Perhaps 
 she had preserved his. 
 
 Moved with such an idea he passed out of her bed- 
 room, and calling for Iiis keys, went into her boudoir 
 and opened her escritoire, and very soon he found his 
 letters ; almost the first he read, ran as follows — 
 
 •■ Mv DEAR Helen, 
 
 "1 am much obliged to you for your kind 
 invitation. I should like very much to come and 
 stay with you, if I may come as your friend. You 
 must not think from this that I have fallen in love 
 with someone else; I have not. I ha\c never seen 
 any one I shall love better than you ; I love you to- 
 day as well as ever I did ; my feelings ragarding }-ou 
 have changed in nothing, yet I cannot come as )our 
 lover. I am ashamed of myself, I hate myself, but 
 it is not my fault. 
 
 " I have been your lover for more than a year, and 
 I could not be any one's lover — no, not if she were 
 Venus herself — for a longer time. 
 
 " My heart is full of regret. I am losing the best 
 and sweetest mistress ever man had. No one is able 
 to appreciate your worth better than I. Try to under- 
 stand me ; do not throw this letter aside in a rage. You 
 are a clever woman ; you are, I know, capable of un- 
 derstanding it. And if you will understand, you will 
 not regret ; that I swear, for you will gain the best 
 and most loyal friend. I am as good a friend as I am 
 
234 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 a worthless lover. Try to understand, Helen, I am 
 not wholly to blame. 
 
 " I love you — I esteem you far more to-day than 
 I did when I first knew you. Do not let our love 
 end upon a miserable quarrel — the commonplace 
 quarrel of those who do not know how to love." 
 
 He turned the letter over. He was the letter ; that 
 letter was his shameful human nature, and worse, it 
 was the human nature of the whole wide world. On 
 the same point, or on some other point, every human 
 being was as base as he. Such baseness is the in- 
 alienable birth-stain of human life. His poem was 
 no pretty imagining, but the eternal, implacable 
 truth. It were better that hum.an life should cease. 
 Until this moment he had only half understood its 
 aw ful, its terrif)-ing truth. ... It were better that 
 man ceased to pollute the earth. His history is but 
 the record of crime ; his existence is but a disgrace- 
 ful episode in the life of one of the meanest of the 
 planets. 
 
 We cannot desire what wc possess, and so we pro- 
 gress from illusion to illusion. But "h hen we cease 
 to distinguish between ourself and others, when our 
 thoughts are no longer set on the consideration of 
 our own embarrassed condition, when we see into the 
 heart of things, which is one, then disappointment 
 and suffering cease to have any meaning, and we at- 
 tain that true serenity and peace which we sometimes 
 see reflected in a seraph's face by Raphael. 
 
 As Mike's thoughts floated in the boundless atmos- 
 phere of Schopenhauer's poem, of the denial of the 
 w ill to li\'c, he felt creeping upon him, like sleep upon 
 tired e)'elids, all the sweet and suasive fascination of 
 deatli. " How little," he thought, "does any man 
 know of any other man's soul. Who among my 
 friends would believe that I, in all my intense joys 
 
MIKE FLETCHER, 235 
 
 and desire of life, am perhaps, at heart, the saddest 
 man, and perhaps sigh for death more ardently, 
 and am tempted more than any other to cull the 
 dark fruit which hangs so temptingly over the wall 
 of the garden of life more ardently than any one." 
 
 A few days after, his neighbour. Lord Spennymoor, 
 called, and his visit was followed by an invitation to 
 dinner. The invitation was accepted. Mike was 
 on his best behaviour. During dinner he displayed 
 as much reserve as his nature allowed him to, but 
 afterwards, yielding to the solicitations of the women, 
 he abandoned himself, and when twelve o'clock 
 struck they were still gathered round him, listening 
 to him with rapt expression, as if in hearing of de- 
 lightful music. Awaking suddenly to a sense of the 
 hour and his indiscretion, he bade Lord Spenny- 
 moor, who had sat talking all night with his brother 
 in a far corner, good-night. 
 
 When the sound of the wheels of his trap died 
 away, when the ladies had retired, Lord Spennymoor 
 returned to the smoking-room, and at the end of a 
 long silence asked his brother, who sat smoking 
 opposite him, what he thought of Fletcher. 
 
 " He is one of those men who attract women, who 
 attract nine people out of ten. . . . Call it magnet- 
 ism, electro-biology, give it what name you will. 
 The natural sciences " 
 
 " Never mind the natural sciences. Do you think 
 that either of my girls — Victoria, for instance — was 
 attracted by him ? I don't believe for a moment his 
 story of having saved Lady Seeley from drowning in 
 Italy, but I'm bound to say he told it very well. 1 
 can see the girls sitting round him listening. Poor 
 Mrs. Dickens, her eyes were " 
 
 " I shan't ask her here again. . . . But tell me, do 
 you think he'll marry?" 
 
236 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " It would be very hard to say what will become of 
 him. He may suddenly weary of women and be- 
 come a woman-hater, or perhaps he may develop 
 into a sort of Baron Hulot. He spoke about his 
 writings — he may become ambitious and spend his 
 life writing epics . . . He may go mad! He seemed 
 interested in politics, he may go into Parliament; I 
 fancy he would do very well in Parliament. A sud- 
 den loathing of civilization may come upon him and 
 send him to Africa or the Arctic Regions. A man's 
 end is always infinitely more in accordance with his 
 true character than any conclusion we could invent. 
 No writer, even if he have genius, is so extravagantly 
 logical as nature." 
 
 During the winter months Mike was extensively oc- 
 cupied with the construction of the mausoleum in 
 red granite, which he was raising in memory of 
 Helen; and this interest remained paramount. He 
 took many journeys to London on its account, and 
 studied all the architecture on the subject, and with 
 great books on his knees, he sat in the library mak- 
 ing drawings or composing epitaphs and memorial 
 poems. 
 
 Belthorpe Park was often full of visitors, and when 
 walking with them on the terraces, his thoughts ran 
 on Mount Rorke Castle, his own success, and Frank's 
 failure ; and when he awoke in the sweet, luxurious 
 rooms, in the houses where he was staying, his brain 
 filled with febrile sensations of triumph, and fitful 
 belief that he was above any caprice of destiny. 
 
 It pleased him to write letters with Belthorpe Park 
 printed on the top of the first page, and he wrote 
 many for this reason. Quick with affectionate re- 
 membrances he thought of friends he had not thought 
 of fur years, and the sadnesses of these separations 
 touched him deeply ; and the mutability of things 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 237 
 
 moved him in his very entrails, and he thought that 
 perhaps no one had felt these things as he felt them. 
 He remembered the women who had passed out of 
 his life, and looking out on his English park, soaking 
 with rain and dim with mist, he remembered those 
 whom he had loved, and the peak whence he viewed 
 the desert district of his amours — Lily Young. She 
 haunted in his life. 
 
 He saw himself a knight in the tourney, and her 
 eyes fixed on him, while he calmed his fiery dexter 
 and tilted for her ; he saw her in the silk comfort of 
 the brougham, by his side, their bodies rocked 
 gently together ; he saw her in the South when read- 
 ing Mrs. Byril's descriptions of rocky coast and olive 
 fields. 
 
 The English park lay deep in snow, and the famil- 
 iar word roses then took magical significance, and 
 the imagined southern air was full of Lily. 
 
 " There's a sweet girl here, and Lm sure you would 
 like her; she is so slender, so blithe and winsome, 
 and so wayward. She has been sent abroad for her 
 health, and is forbidden to go out after sunset, but 
 will not obey. I am afraid she is dying of consump- 
 tion . . . She has taken a great fancy to me. There 
 is no one in our hotel but a few old maids, w ho dis- 
 cuss the peerage, and she runs after me to talk about 
 men. I fancy she must have carried on pretty well 
 with some one, for she loves talking about him, and 
 is full of mysterious allusions." 
 
 The romance of the sudden introduction of this 
 girl into the landscape took him by the throat. He 
 saw himself walking with this dying girl in the beauty 
 of blue mountains toppling into blue skies, and re- 
 flected in bluer seas ; he sat with her beneath the 
 palm trees ; palms spread their fan-like leaves upon 
 sky and sea, and in the rich green of their leaves 
 
238 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 oranges grew to deep, and lennons to paler, gold ; 
 and he dreamed that the knowledge that the object 
 of his love being transitory, would make his love 
 perfect and pure. Now in his solitude, with no ob- 
 ject to break it, this desire for love in death haunted 
 in his mind. It rose unbidden, like a melody, steal- 
 ing forth and surprising him in unexpected moments. 
 Often he asked himself why he did not pack up his 
 portmanteau and rush away ; and he was only de- 
 terred by the apparent senselessness of the thought. 
 " What sla\-es we are of habit ! W'h)' more stupid 
 to go than tiD remain ?" 
 
 Soon after, he received another letter from Mrs. 
 Byril. He glanced through it eagerly, for some 
 mention of the girl. Whatever there \vas of sweet- 
 ness and goodness in Mike's nature was reflected in 
 his eyes (soft violet eyes, in which tenderness dwelt), 
 whatever there was of evil was written in the lips and 
 chin (puckered lips and goat-like chin), the long neck 
 and tin)' head accentuating the resemblaace. 
 
 Now his being was concentrated in the eyes as a 
 landscape is sometimes in a piece of sk)'. He read : 
 " She told me that she had been once to see her 
 lover in the Temple." It was then Lil}'. He turned 
 to Airs. Byril's first letter, and saw Lil}' in every line 
 of the description. Should he go to her? Of course 
 . . . When ? Ax once ! Should it not prove to be 
 Lily ? . . . He did not care . . . He must go, and 
 in half an hour he touched the swiftl)' trotting mare 
 with the whip and glanced at his watch. ''I shall 
 just do it." The hedges passed behind, and the 
 wintr)' prospects were unfolded and folded away. 
 Rut as he approached the station a rumble and then 
 a rattle came out of the valley, and though he lashed 
 the mare into a gallop, he arrived only in time to 
 see a \'anishing cloud of steam. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 239 
 
 The next train did not reach London till long after 
 the mail had left Cliaring Cross. 
 
 It froze hard during the night, and next morning 
 his feet chilled in his thin shoes, as he walked to 
 and fro, seeking a carriage holding a conversational- 
 looking person. At Dover the wind was hard as the 
 ice-bound steps which he descended, and the sea rolled 
 in dolefully about the tall cliffs, melting far aivay 
 into the bleak grayness of the sky. But more doleful 
 than the bleak sea was sullen Picardy. Mike could 
 not sleep, and his eyes fed upon the bleak black of 
 swampy plains, utterly mournful, strangely different 
 from green and gladsome England. And two margins 
 of this doleful land remained impressed upon his 
 mind, the first, a low grange, discoloured, crouching 
 on the plain, and curtained by seven lamentable 
 poplars, and Mike thought of the human beings that 
 came from it, to see only a void landscape, and to 
 labour in bleak fields. He remembered also a marsh 
 with osier beds and pools of water ; and in the largest 
 of these there was a black and broken boat. Thin 
 sterile hills stretched their starved forms in the 
 distance, and in the raw wintry light this landscape 
 seemed like a page of the primitive world, and the 
 strange creature striving with an oar recalled our 
 ancestors. 
 
 Paris was steeped in great darkness and starlight, 
 and the cab made slow and painful way through the 
 frost-bound streets. The amble and the sliding of the 
 horse was exasperating, the drive unendurable with 
 uncertainty and cold, and Mike hammered his frozen 
 feet on the curving floor of the vehicle. Street suc- 
 ceeded street, all growing meaner as they neared the 
 Gare de Lyons. Fearing he should miss the express, 
 he called to the impassive driver to hasten the vehicle. 
 Three minutes remained to take his ticket and choose 
 
240 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 a carriage, and hoping for sleep and dreams of Lily, 
 he rolled himself up in a rug for which he had paid 
 sixty guineas, and fell asleep. 
 
 Ten hours after, he was roused by the guard, and 
 stretching his stiffened limbs, he looked out, and in 
 the vague morning saw towzled and dilapidated 
 travellers, slipping upon the thin ice that covered 
 the platform, striving to reach long, rough tables, 
 spread with coffee, fruit and wine. Mike drank some 
 coffee, and thinking of Mrs. BntjI's roses, wondered 
 when they should get into the sunshine. 
 
 As the train moved out of the platform the twilight 
 vanished into daylight, the sky flushed, and he saw 
 a scant land, ragged and torn with twisted plants, 
 cacti and others, gashed and red, and savage as a 
 negress's lips. So he saw the South through the 
 breath-misted windows. He lay back; he dozed a 
 little, and awoke an hour after to feel soft air upon 
 the face, and to see a bush laden with blossom literally 
 singing the spring. Thenceforth at every mile the 
 land grew into more frequent bloom. The gray-green 
 olive tree appeared, a crooked, twisted tree — habitual 
 phase of the red land — and between its foliage gray, 
 green brick facades, burnt and reburnt by the sun. 
 The roofs of the houses grew flatter and campanile, 
 and the domes rose, silvery or blue, in the dazzling 
 day. A mountain shepherd, furnished with water- 
 gourd, a seven-foot staff, and a gigantic pipe, lingered 
 in tlie country railway-station. This shepherd's skin 
 was like coffee, and he wore hair hanging far over his 
 shoulders, and his beard reached to his waist. 
 
 Nice! A town of cheap fashion, a town of glass 
 and stucco. Tire pungent odour of the eucah-ptus 
 trees, the light breeze stirred not the foliage, sheared 
 into mathematical lines. It was like yards of baize 
 dwindling in perspective ; and between the tall 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 24I 
 
 trunks great plate-glass windows gleamed^ filled with 
 Particle dc Londrcs. 
 
 He drove to the hotel from which Mrs. Byril had 
 written, and learnt that she had left yesterday and 
 that Mrs. and Miss Young were not staying there. 
 They had no such name on the books. Looking on 
 the sea and mountains he wondered himself what it 
 all meant. 
 
 Having bathed and changed his clothes, he sallied 
 forth in a cab to call at every hotel in the town, and 
 after three hours' fruitless search, returned in despair. 
 Never before had life seemed so sad ; never had fate 
 seemed so cruel — he had come a thousand miles to 
 regenerate his life^ and an accident, the accident of a 
 departure, hastened perhaps only by a day, had thrown 
 him back on the past ; he had imagined a beautiful 
 future made of love, goodness, and truth, and he found 
 himself thrown back upon the sterile shore of a past 
 of which he was weary, and of whose fruits he had 
 eaten even to satiety. After much effort he had made 
 sure that nothing mattered but Lily, neither wealth 
 nor liberty, nor even his genius. In surrendering all 
 he would have gained all — peace of mind, unending 
 love and goodness. Goodness! that which he had 
 never known, that which he now knew was worth more 
 than gratification of flesh and pride of spirit. 
 
 The. night was full of tumult and dreams— - 
 di-eams of palms, and seas, and endless love, and 
 in the morning he walked into the realities of his 
 imaginings. 
 
 Passing through an archway, he found himself in 
 the gaud of the flower-market. There a hundred 
 umbrellas, yellow, red, mauve and magenta, lemon 
 yellow, cadmium yellow, gold, a multi-coloured mass, 
 spread their extended bellies to a sky blue as the 
 blouses. 
 
242 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 The brown fingers of the peasant women are tying 
 and pressing all the miraculous bloom of the earth 
 into the fair fingers of Saxon girls — great packages 
 of roses, pink lilies, clematis, stephanotis, and hone}'- 
 suckle. A gentle breeze is blowing, rocking the 
 umbrellas, wafting the odour of the roses and honey- 
 suckle, bringing hither an odour of the lapping tide, 
 rocking the immense umbrellas. One huge and 
 ungainly sunshade creaks, swaying its preposterous 
 rotundity. Beneath it the brown woman slices her 
 pumpkin. Mike scanned every thin face for Lily, 
 and as he stood wedged against a flower-stand, a 
 girl passed him. She turned. It was Lily. 
 
 "Lily, is it possible? I was looking for you 
 everywhere." 
 
 " Looking for me ! When did you arrive in Nice? 
 How did you know I was here?" 
 
 " Mrs. Byril wrote. She described a girl, and I 
 knew from her description it must be you. And I 
 came on at once." 
 
 " You came on at once to find me?" 
 
 " Yes ; I love you more than ever. I can think 
 only of you ... But A\hen I arrived I found Mrs. 
 Byril had left, and I had no means of finding your 
 address." 
 
 "You foolish boy' you mean to say you rushed 
 away on the chance that I was the girl described in 
 Mrs. Byril's letter! . . . A thousand miles! and never 
 L-\cn waited to ask the name or the address! Well, 
 I .suppose I must believe that you are in love. But 
 }-ou have not heard . . . They say I'm dying. I have 
 only one lung left. Do you think I'm looking very 
 ill?" 
 
 " You are looking more lovely than ever. My love 
 shall give you health ; we shall go — where shall 
 we go? To Italy? You are my Italy. But I'm 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 243 
 
 forgetting — why did you not answer my letter ? It 
 was cruel of }-ou. Deceive me no more, play with 
 me no longer ; if you will not have me, say so, and I 
 will end myself, for I cannot live without you." 
 
 " But I do not understand, I haven't had an}' 
 letter ; what letter ?" 
 
 " I wrote asking }'ou to marry me." 
 
 They walked out of the flower market on to the 
 Promenade dcs Anglais, and Mike told her about his 
 letters, concealing nothing of his struggle. The sea 
 lay quite blue and still, lapping gently on the spare 
 beach ; the horizon floated on the sea, almost sub- 
 merged, and the mountains, every edge razor-like, 
 hard, and metallic, were veiled in a deep, transparent 
 blue ; and the villas, painted white, pink and green, 
 with open loggias and balconies completed the 
 operatic aspect. 
 
 " My mother will not hear of it ; she would sooner 
 see me dead than married to you." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " She knows you are an atheist for one thing." 
 
 " But she does not know that I have six thousand 
 a-year." 
 
 " Six thousand a-year! and who was the fairy that 
 threw such fortune into your lap ? I thought you 
 had nothing." 
 
 Vanity took him by the throat, but he wrenched 
 himself free, and answered evasively that a distant 
 cousin had left him a large sum of money, including 
 an estate in Berkshire. 
 
 " Well, I'm very glad for your sake, but it will not 
 influence mother's opinion of you." 
 
 "Then you will run away with me? Say you will." 
 
 " That is the best — for I'm not strong enough to 
 dispute with mother. I dare say it is very cowardly 
 of me, but I would avoid scenes ; I've had enough of 
 
244 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 them. . . . We'll go awaj- together, where shall we 
 go? To Italy?" 
 
 " Yes, to Italy — m}' Ital)?. And do you love me? 
 Hive you forgiven me my conduct the day when you 
 came to see me r" 
 
 " Yes, I love you ; I have forgiven. you." 
 
 " And when shall we go ?" 
 
 " When \-ou like. I should like to go over that 
 sra; I should like to go, Mike, with you, far away! 
 Where, Mike? — Heaven?" 
 
 " We should find Heaven dull ; but when shall we 
 go across that sea, or w hen shall we go from here — 
 now ?" 
 
 " Now !" 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " Because here are my people coming to meet me. 
 Now say nothing to my mother about marriage or 
 she will never leave my side. I'm more ill than you 
 think I am — I should have no strength to struggle 
 \\\t\\ her." 
 
 Not again that day did Mike succeed in speaking 
 alone with Lily, and the next day she and her mother 
 and Major Downside, her uncle, went to spend the 
 day with some friends who had a villa in the environs 
 of the town. The day after he met mother and 
 daughter out walking in the morning. In the after- 
 noon Lily was obliged to keep her room. Should 
 she die, should the irreparable happen ! Mike crushed 
 the instinct, that made him see a poeni in the death 
 of his beloved; and he determined to believe that 
 he should possess her, lo\'e her and only her ; he 
 saw himself a new Mike, a perfect and true husband- 
 lover. Never was man more A\-eary of vice, more 
 desirous of reformation. 
 
 He had studied the train service until he could 
 not pretend to himself there remained any crumb of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 245 
 
 excuse for further consideration of it. He wandered 
 about the corridors, a miserable man. On Sunday 
 she came down-stairs and drove to church with her 
 mother. Mike followed, and full of schemes for 
 flight, holding a note ready to slip into her hand, he 
 wondered if such pallor as hers were for this side of 
 life. In the note it was written that he would wait 
 all day for her in the sitting-room, and about five, 
 as he sat holding the tattered newspaper, his thoughts 
 far away in Naples, Algiers and Egypt, he heard a 
 voice calling — 
 
 " Mike ! Mike ! Mother is lying down ; I think we 
 can get away now, if there's a train before half-past 
 five." 
 
 Mike did not need to consult the time table. He 
 said, "At last, at last, darling, come! . . . Yes, there 
 is a train for the Italian frontier at a few minutes 
 past five. We shall have just time to catch it. 
 Come !" 
 
 But in the gardens they met the Major, who \\'ould 
 not hear of his niece being out after sunset and sent 
 her back. Mike overtook Lily on the staircase. 
 
 "I can endure this no longer," he said, "you must 
 come with me to-night when every one is in bed. 
 There is a train at two." 
 
 " I cannot ; I have to pass through my mother's 
 room. She would be sure to awake." 
 
 " Great Scott ! what shall we do ? My head is 
 whirhng. You must give your mother a sleeping 
 potion, will you ? She drinks something before she 
 goes to bed ?" 
 
 " Yes, but " 
 
 "There must be no buts. It is a case of life and 
 death. You do not want to die, as many girls die. 
 To many a girl marriage is life. I will get some- 
 thing quite harmless, and quite tasteless." 
 
 She waited for him in the sitting-room. He re- 
 
246 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 turned in a few minutes witli a small bottle, which 
 he pressed into her hand. " And now, au revoir ; 
 in a few hours you will be mine for ever." 
 
 After leaving her he dined ; after dinner went to a 
 gambling hell, where he lost a good deal of money 
 and would have lost more, had the necessity of keep- 
 ing at least i!^200 for his wedding tour not been so 
 imperative. He wandered about the streets talking 
 to and sometimes strolling about with the prosti- 
 tutes, listening to their lamentable stories — "any- 
 thing," he thought, "to distract my mind." He was 
 to mee\ Lily on the staircase at one o'clock, and now 
 it was half-past twelve, and giving the poor creature 
 whose chatter had beguiled the last half-hour a 
 louis, he returned hurriedly to his hotel. 
 
 The lift had ceased working, and he ascended the 
 great staircase, three steps at a time. On the second 
 floor he stopped to reconnoitre. The gardicn lay fast 
 asleep on a bench ; he could not do better than sit 
 on the stairs and wait ; if the man awoke he would 
 have to be bribed. Lily's num'oer was 45, a dozen 
 doors down the passage. At one o'clock \}az gardicn 
 awoke. Mike entered into conversation with him, 
 gave him a couple of francs, bade him good-night, 
 and went partly up the next flight of stairs. Listen- 
 ing for every sound, expecting every moment to hear 
 a door open, he waited till the clocks struck the half- 
 hour. Then he became as if insane, and he deemed 
 it would not be enough if she were to disappoint him 
 to set the hotel on fire and throw himself from the 
 roof. Something must happen, if he were to remain 
 sane, and determined to dare all, he decided he 
 would seek her in her room and bear her away. He 
 knew he would have to pass through Mrs. Young's 
 room. What should he do if she awoke, and taking 
 him for a robber, raised the alarm ? 
 
 Putting aside such surmises he turned the handle of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 247 
 
 her door as quietly as he could. The lock gave forth 
 hardly any sound, the door passed noiselessly over 
 the carpet. He hesitated, but only for a moment, 
 and drawing off his shoes he prepared to cross the 
 room. A night-light was burning, and it revealed 
 the fat outline of a huge body huddled in the bed- 
 clothes. He would have to pass close to Mrs. Young. 
 He glided by, passing swiftly towards the further 
 room, praying that the door would open without a 
 sound. It was ajar, and opened without a sound. 
 "What luck!" he thought, and a moment after he 
 stood in Lily's room. She lay upon the bed, as 
 if she had fallen there, dressed in a long travelling- 
 cloak, her hat crushed on one side. 
 
 " Lily, Lily !" he whispered, " 'tis I, awake ! speak, 
 tell me you are not dead." She moved a little 
 beneath his touch, then wetting a towel in the water- 
 jug he applied it to her forehead and lips, and slowly 
 she revived. 
 
 "Where are we?" she asked. " Mike, darling, are 
 we in Italy? ... I have been ill, have I not? They 
 say I'm going to die, but I'm not ; I'm going to live 
 for you, my darling." 
 
 Then she recovered recollection of what had hap- 
 pened, and whispered that she had failed to give her 
 mother the opiate, but had nevertheless determined 
 to keep her promise to him. She had dressed herself 
 and was just ready to go, but a sudden weakness 
 had come over her. She remembered staggeiing a 
 few steps and nothing more. 
 
 "But if you have not given your mother the 
 opiate, she may awake at any moment. Are you 
 strong enough, my darling, to come with me? 
 Come!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I'm strong enough . . . Give me some 
 more water, and kiss me, dear." 
 
248 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 The lovers wrapped themselves in each other's 
 arms. But hearing some one moving in the adjoining 
 room, the girl looked in horror and supplication in 
 Mike's eyes. Stooping, he disappeared beneath a 
 small table ; and drew his legs beneath the cloth. 
 The sounds in the next room continued, and he 
 recognized them as proceeding from some one 
 searching for clothes. Then Lily's door was opened 
 and Mrs. Young said — 
 
 " Lily, there is some one in your room ; I'm sure 
 Mr. Fletcher is here." 
 
 " Oh, mother, how can you say such a thing ; in- 
 deed he is not." 
 
 " He is; I am not mistaken. This is disgraceful; 
 he must be under that bed." 
 
 " Mother, \'ou can look." 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall fetch your 
 uncle." 
 
 When he heard Mrs. Young retreating with fast 
 steps, Mike emerged from his hiding. 
 
 " What shall I do '" 
 
 " You can't leave without being seen. Uncle sleeps 
 opposite." 
 
 " I'll hide in }-our mother's room ; and while they 
 are looking for me here, I will slip out." 
 
 "How clever you are, darling! Go there. Do 
 you hear, uncle is answering her? To-morrow we 
 shall find an opportunity to get away ; but now I 
 would not be found out ... I told mother you 
 weren't here. Go !" 
 
 The morrow brought no opportunity for flight. 
 Lily could not leave her room, and it was whispered 
 that the doctors despaired of her life. Then Mike 
 opened his heart to the Major, and the old soldier 
 promised him his cordial support ^vhen Lily was well. 
 Three days passed, and then, unable to bear the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 249 
 
 strain any longer, Mike fled to Monte Carlo. There 
 he lost and won a fortune. Hence Italy enticed him 
 and he went, knowing that he should never go there 
 with Lily. 
 
 But not in art nor in dissipation did he find escape 
 from her deciduous beauty, now divided from the 
 grave only by a breath, beautiful and divinely sorrow- 
 ful in its transit. 
 
 Some days passed, and then a letter from the 
 Major brought him back over-worn with anxiety, 
 wild with grief. He found her better. She had been 
 carried down from her room, and was lying on a 
 sofa by the open window. There were a few flowers 
 in her hamis, and when she offered them to Mike she 
 said with a kind of Heine-like humour — 
 
 "Take them, they will live almost as long as I 
 shall." 
 
 "Lily, you will get well, and we shall see Italy 
 together. I had to leave you — I should have gone 
 mad had I remained. The moment I heard I could 
 see you I returned. You will get well." 
 
 " No, no ; I'm here only for a few days — a few 
 weeks at most. I shall never go to Italy. I shall 
 never be your sweetheart. I'm one of God's virgins, 
 I belong to my saint, my first and real sweetheart. 
 You remember when I came to . see you in the 
 Temple Gardens, I told you about him then, didn't 
 I? Ah! happy, happy aspirations, better even than 
 you, my darling. And he is waiting for me ; his 
 Maries are about him, but I am his Mary, am I 
 not, dear?" 
 
 "You'll get well. The sun of Italy shall be our 
 heaven, thy lips shall give me immortality, thy love 
 shall give me God." 
 
 " Fine words, my sweetheart, fine words, but death 
 
2 50 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 waits not for love. . . Well, it's a pity to die without 
 having loved." 
 
 " It is worse to live without having loved, dearest — 
 dearest, you will live." 
 
 He never saw her again. Next day she was too 
 ill to come down, and henceforth she grew daily 
 weaker. Every day brought death visibly nearer, 
 and one day the Major came to Mike in the garden 
 and said — 
 
 " It is all over, my poor friend !" 
 
 Then came days of white flowers and wreaths and 
 bouquets and baskets of bloom, stephanotis, roses, 
 lilies, and every white blossom that blows ; and so 
 friends sought to cover and hide the darkness of the 
 grave. Mike remembered the disordered faces of 
 the girls in church; weeping, they threw themselves 
 on each other's shoulders ; and the mournful chant 
 was sung ; and the procession toiled up the long hill 
 to the cemetery above the town, and Lily was laid 
 there, to rest there for ever. There she lies, facing 
 Italy, which she never knew but in dream. The 
 wide country leading to Italy lies below her, the 
 peaks of the rocky coast, the blue sea, the blue- 
 green olives billowing like tides from hill to hill; 
 the white loi^gias gleaming in the sunlight. His 
 thoughts followed the flight of the blue mountain 
 passes that lead so enticingly to Italy, and as he 
 looked into the distance, dim and faint as the dream 
 that had gone, there rose in his mind an even fairer 
 land than Italy, the land of dream, where for every 
 one, e\en for Mike Fletcher, there grows some rose 
 or lily unattainable. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 25 I 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In the dreary drawing-room, amid the tattered 
 copies of the Graphic and Illustrated London News, 
 lie encountered the inevitable idle woman. They 
 engaged in conversation ; and he repeated the phrases 
 that belong inevitably to such occasons. 
 
 " How horrible all this is," he said to himself ; "this 
 is worse than peeping and botanizing on a mother's 
 grave." 
 
 He desired supreme grief, and grief fled from his 
 lure; and rhymes and images thronged his brain; 
 and the poem that oftenest rose in his mind, 
 seemingly complete in cadence and idea, was so 
 cruel, that Lily, looking out of heaven, seemed to 
 beg him to refrain. But though he erased the lines 
 on the paper, he could not erase them on his brain, 
 and baffled, he pondered over the phenomena of the 
 antagonism of desired aspirations and intellectual 
 instincts. He desired a poem full of the divine grace 
 of grief ; a poem beautiful, tender and pure, fresh and 
 wild as a dove crossing in the dawn from wood to 
 wood. He desired the picturesqueness of a young 
 man's grief for a dead girl, an Adonais going forth 
 into the glittering morning, and weeping for his love 
 that has passed out of the sun into the shadow. This 
 is what he wrote : 
 
 A UNE POTRINAiRZ. 
 
 We are alone ! listen, a little while, 
 And hear the reason why your weary smile 
 And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet 
 To me, and liow ray love is more complete 
 
252 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Than any love of any lover. They 
 
 Have only been attracted by the gray 
 
 Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim 
 
 And delicate form, or some such whimpering whim. 
 
 The simple pretexts of all lovers ; — I 
 
 For other reasons. Listen whilst I try 
 
 To say. I joy to see the sunset slope 
 
 Beyond the weak hours' hopeless horoscope, 
 
 Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm. 
 
 Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm. 
 
 In mildlv modulated phrases; thus 
 
 Your life shall fade like a voluptuous 
 
 Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die 
 
 Like some soft evening's sad serenity . . . 
 
 I would possess your dying hours ; indeed 
 
 My love is worthy of the gift, I plead 
 
 For them. 
 
 Although I never loved as yet, 
 Methinks that I might love you ; I would get 
 From out the knowledge that the time was brief. 
 That tenderness whose pity grows to grief. 
 My dream of love, and yea, it would have charms 
 Beyond all other passions, for the arms 
 Of death are stretched youvvard, and he claims 
 You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames 
 Its passion ; love perhaps it is not, yet 
 To see you fading like a violet, 
 Or some sweet thought away, would be a strange 
 And costly pleasure, far beyond the range 
 Of common man's emotion. Listen, I 
 Will choose a country spot where fields of rye 
 And wheat extend in waving yellow plains. 
 Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes. 
 To pass our honeymoon ; a cottage where 
 The porch and windows are festooned with fair 
 Green wreaths of eglantine, and look upon 
 A shady garden where we'll walk alone 
 In the autumn sunny evenings ; each will see 
 Our walks grow shorter, till at length to thee 
 The garden's length is far, and thou wilt rest 
 From time to time, leaning upon my breast 
 Thy languid lily face. Then later siilF, 
 Unto the sofa by the window-sill 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 253 
 
 Thy wasted body I shall carry, so 
 
 That thou mayst drink the last left lingering glow 
 
 Of even, when the air is filled with scent 
 
 Of blossoms ; and my spirits shall be rent 
 
 The while with many griefs. Like some blue day 
 
 That grows more lovely as it fades away. 
 
 Gaining that calm serenity and height 
 
 Of colour wanted, as the solemn night 
 
 Steals forward thou shalt sweetly fall asleep 
 
 Forever and for ever; I shall weep 
 
 A day and night large tears upon thy face, 
 
 Laying thee then beneath a rose-red place 
 
 Where I may muse and dedicate and dream 
 
 Volumes of poesy of thee ; and deem 
 
 It happiness to know that thou art far 
 
 From any base desires as that fair star 
 
 Set in the evening magnitude of heaven. 
 
 Death takes but little, yea, thy death has given 
 
 Me that deep peace and immaculate possession 
 
 Which man may never find in earthly passion. 
 
 The composition of the poem induced a period of 
 literary passion, during which he composed much 
 various matter, even part of his great poem, wliich 
 he would have completed had he not been struck 
 by an idea for a novel, and so imperiously, that he 
 wrote the book straight from end to end. It was sent 
 to a London publisher, and it raised some tumult of 
 criticism, none of which reached the author. When 
 it appeared he was far away, living in Arab tents, 
 seeking pleasure at other sources. For suddenl)', 
 when the strain of the composition of his book was 
 relaxed, civilization had grown hateful to him ; a 
 picture by Fromentin, and that painter's book, Un 
 et^ dans le Sahara, quickened the desire of primitive 
 life ; he sped away, and for nearly two years lived 
 on the last verge of civilization, sometimes passing 
 beyond it with the Bedouins into the' interior, on 
 slave-trading or rapacious expeditions. The fre- 
 quentation of these simple people calmed the fever 
 
254 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 of ennui, which had been consuming him. Nature 
 leads us to the remedy that the development of 
 reason inflicts on the animal — man. And for more 
 than a year Mike thought he had solved the problem 
 of life ; now he lived in peace — passion had ebbed 
 almost out of hearing, and in the plain satisfaction 
 of his instincts he found happiness. 
 
 With the wild chieftains, their lances at rest, 
 watching from behind a sandhill, he sometimes 
 thought that the joy he experienced was akin to that 
 which he had known in Sussex, \\hen his days were 
 spent in hunting and shooting; now, as then, he 
 found relief by surrendering himself to the hygienics 
 of the air and earth. But his second return to animal 
 nature had been more violent and radical; and it 
 pleased him to think that he could desire nothing 
 but the Arabs with whom he lived, and whose friend- 
 ship he had won. But qtii a bii boirc, and below 
 consciousness dead appetites were awakening, and 
 would soon be astir. 
 
 The tribe had ^\"andered to an encampment in 
 the vicinity of Morocco; and one day a missionary 
 and his wife came with a harmonium and tracts. 
 The scene, so evocative of the civilization from which 
 Mike had fled, drew him and held him in a power he 
 could not account for. He told the \\oman he had 
 adopted Arab life ; explaining that the barbaric soul 
 of some ancestor lived in him, and that he was 
 happy with these primitive people. He too was a mis- 
 sionary, and had come to save them from Christianity 
 and all its corollaries — silk hats, piano playing, news- 
 papers, and patent medicines. Ihe English woman 
 argued with him plaintively ; the husband pressed a 
 bundle of tracts upon him ; and this very English 
 couple hoped he would come and see them -when 
 he returned to town. Mike thanked them, insisting, 
 
MIKS FLETCHER. 255 
 
 however, that he would never leave his beloved desert, 
 or desert his friends. Next day, however, he forgot 
 to fall on his knees at noon, and outside the encamp- 
 ment stood looking in the direction whither the 
 missionaries had gone. A strange sadness seemed 
 to -have fallen upon him, he cared no more for 
 plans for slave-trading in the interior, or plunder in 
 the desert. The scent of the white woman's skin 
 and hair was in his nostrils; the nostalgia of the 
 pavement had found him, and he knew he must 
 leave the desert. One morning he was missed in the 
 Sahara, and a fortnight after he was seen in the 
 Strand, rushing towards Lubini's. 
 
 " My dear follow," he said, catching hold of a 
 friend's arm, " I've been living with the Arabs for 
 the last two years. Fancy, not to have seen a 
 'tart' or drunk a bottle of champagne for two 
 years! Come and dine with me. We'll go on after- 
 wards to the Troc'." 
 
 Mike looked round as if to assure himself that he 
 was back again dining at Lubi's. It was the same 
 little white-painted gallery, filled with courtesans, 
 music-hall singers, drunken lords, and sarcastic 
 journalists. He noticed, however, that he hardly 
 knew a single face, and was unacquainted with the 
 amours of any of the women. He inquired for his 
 friends. Muchross was not expected to live, Laura 
 was underground, and her sister was in America. 
 Joining in the general hilarity, he learnt that as 
 the singer declined the prize-fighter was going up 
 in popular estimation. A young and drunken lord 
 offered to introduce him '• to a very warm member." 
 
 He felt sure, however, that the Royal would stir 
 
 . in him the old enthusiasms, and his heart beat when 
 
 he saw in a box Kitty Carew, looking exactly the 
 
 same as the day he had left her; but she insisted 
 
256 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 on taking credit for recognizing him — so changed 
 was he. He felt somewhat provincial, and no woman 
 noticed him, and it was clear that Kitty was no 
 longer interested in him. The conversation lan- 
 guished, he did not understand the allusions, and he 
 was surprised and a little alarmed, indeed, to find 
 that he did not even desire their attention. 
 
 A few weeks afterwards he received an invitation 
 to a ball. It was from a woman of title, the address 
 was good, and he resolved to go. It was to one of 
 the Queen Anne houses with which Chelsea abounds, 
 and as he drove towards it he noted the little windows 
 aflame with light and colour in the blue summer 
 night. On the carved cramped staircases women 
 struck him as being more than usually interesting, 
 and the distinguished air of the company moved him 
 with pleasurable sensations. A thick creamy odour of 
 white flowers gratified the nostrils; the slender backs 
 of the girls, the shoulder blades squeezed together 
 by the stays, were full of delicate lines and tints. 
 Mike saw a tall blonde girl, slight as a reed, so blonde 
 that she was almost an albino, her figure in green 
 g^uze swaying. He saw a girl so brown that he 
 thought of palms and cocoa-nuts ; she passed him 
 smiling, all her girlish soul awake in the enchantment 
 of the dance. He said — 
 
 " No, 1 don't want to be introduced ; she'd only 
 bore me ; I know exactly all she would say." 
 
 Studying these, he thought vaguely of dancing 
 a quadrille, and was glad when the lady said she 
 never danced. With a view to astonish her, he 
 said — 
 
 " Since I became a student of Schopenhauer I 
 have given up waltzing. Now I never indulge in 
 anything but a square." 
 
 For a few moments his joke amused him, and he 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 2S7 
 
 regretted that John Norton, who would understand 
 its humour, was not there to laugh at it. Having 
 eaten supper he choose the deepest chair among the 
 clustered furniture of the drawing loom, and watched 
 in spleenic interest a woman of thirty flirting with a 
 young man. 
 
 The panelled skirt stretched stiffly over the knees, 
 the legs were crossed, one drawn slightly bacL Tlie - 
 young man sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa 
 nursing his silk foot. She looked at him over her 
 fan, inclining her blonde head in assent from time 
 to time. The young man was delicate — -a red blonde. 
 The wail, laden with heavy shelves, was covered 
 with an embossed paper of a deep gold hue. A piece 
 of silk, worked with rich flowers, concealed the 
 volumes in a light bookcase. A lamp, set on a tall 
 brass rod, stood behind the lady, flooding lier hair 
 with yellow light, and its silk shade was nearly the 
 same tint as the lady's hair. The costly furniture, 
 the lady and her lover, the one in black and white, 
 the other in creamy lace, the panelled skirt extended 
 over her knees, filled the room like a picture — an 
 enticing but somewhat vulgar picture of modern 
 refinement and taste. Mike watched them curiously. 
 
 " Five years ago," he thought, " I was young like 
 he is ; my soul thrilled as his is thrilling now." 
 
 Then, seeing a woman whom he knew pass the 
 door on her way to the ball-room, he asked her to 
 come and sit with him. He did so remembering 
 the tentative steps they had taken in flirtation three 
 years ago. So by way of transition, he said — 
 
 "The last time we met we spoke of the higher 
 education of women, and you said that nothing 
 sharpened the wits like promiscuous flirtation. En- 
 chanting that was, and it made poor Mrs., — Mrs. — I 
 really can't remember — a lady with earnest eyes — 
 look so embarrassed." 
 
258 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " I don't believe I ever said such a thing ; anyhow, 
 if I did, I've entirely changed my views." 
 
 " What a pity ! but — perhaps you have finished 
 your education ?" 
 
 "Yes, that's it; and now I must go up-stairs. I 
 am engaged for this dance." 
 
 " Clearly I'm out of it," thought Mike. " Not only 
 do people see me with new eyes, but I see them with 
 eyes that I cannot realize as mine." 
 
 The drawing-room was empty ; all had gone up- 
 stairs to dance, so, finding himself alone, he went 
 to a mirror to note the changes. At first he seemed 
 the same Mike Fletcher; but by degrees he recog- 
 nized, or thought he recognized, certain remote and 
 subtle differences. He thought that the tenderness 
 Vifhichused to reside in his eyes was evanescent or 
 gone. This tenderness had always been to him a 
 subject of surprise, and he had never been able to 
 satisfactorily explain its existence, knowing as he 
 knew how all tenderness was in contradiction to his 
 true character; at least, as he. understood himself. 
 This tenderness was now replaced by a lurking evil 
 look, and he remembered that he had noted such 
 evil look in certain old libertines. Certain lines about 
 the face had grown harder, the hollow freckled cheeks 
 seemed to have sunk a little, and the pump-handle 
 chin seemed to be defining itself, even to caricature 
 There was still a certain air of bravour, of truculence, 
 which attracted, and might still charm. He turned 
 from the mirror, went up-stairs and danced three or 
 four times. He remained until the last, and followed 
 by an increasing despair he muttered, as he got into 
 a hansom — 
 
 "If this is civilization I'd better go back to the 
 Arabs." 
 
 The solitude of his rooms chilled him in the roots 
 of his mind ; he looked around like a hunted animal. 
 
MIKE FLETCHER 259 
 
 He threw himself into an arm-chair. Like a pure fire 
 ennui burned in his heart. 
 
 " Oh, for rest! I'm weary of Hfe. Oh, to sHp back 
 into the unconscious, whence we came, and pass for 
 ever from, the fitful buzzing of the midges. To feel 
 that sharp, cruel, implacable externality of things 
 melt, vanish, and dissolve! 
 
 " The utter stupidity of life ! There never was 
 anything so stupid; I mean the whole thing— our 
 ideas of light and wrong, love and duty, etc. Great 
 Scott ! what folly. The strange part of it all is 
 man's inability to understand the folly of living. 
 When I said to that woman to-night that I believed 
 that the only evil is to bring children into the world, 
 she said, ' but then the world would come to an end.' 
 I said ' Do you not think it would be a good thing if 
 it did?' Her look of astonishment proved how un- 
 suspicious she is of the truth. The ordinary run of 
 mortals do not see into the heart of things, nor do 
 we, except in terribly lucid moments ; then, seeing 
 life truly, seeing it in its monstrous deformity, we cry 
 out like children in the night. 
 
 " Then why do we go to Death with terror-stricken 
 faces and reluctant feet? We should go to Death in 
 perfect confidence, like a bride to her husband, and 
 with eager and smiling eyes. But he who seeks Death 
 goes with wild eyes — upbraiding Life for having de- 
 ceived him, as if Lifeeverdid anything else? Hegoes 
 to Death as a last refuge. None go to Death in deep 
 calm and resignation, as a child goes to the kind and 
 thoughtful nurse in whose arms he will find beautiful 
 rest. 
 
 " It was in this very room I spoke to Lady Helen 
 for the last time. She understood very well indeed the 
 utter worthlessness of life. How beautiful was her 
 death ! That white still face, with darkness stealing 
 
26o MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 from the closed lids, a film of light shadow, symbol 
 of deeper shadow. The unseen but easily imagined 
 hand grasping the pistol, the unseen but imagined 
 red stain upon the soft texture of the chemise! I 
 might have loved her. She saw into the heart of 
 things, and like a reasonable being, which she was, 
 resolved to rid herself of the burden. We discussed 
 the whole question in the next room ; and I remember 
 I was surprised to find that she was in no wise 
 deceived by the casual fallacy of the fools who say 
 that the good times compensate for the bad. Ah ! 
 how little they understand ! Pleasure ! what is it 
 but the correlative of pain? Nothing short of man's 
 inconiparable stupidity could enable him to dis- 
 tinguish between success and failure. 
 
 But now I remember she did not die for any pro- 
 found belief in the worthlessness of life, but merely 
 on account of a vulgar love affair. That letter was 
 quite conclusive. It was written from the Alexandra 
 Hotel. It was a letter breaking it off (strange that 
 any one should care to break off with Lady Helen !); 
 she stopped to see him, in the hope of bringing about 
 a reconciliation. Quite a Bank Holiday sort of inci- 
 dent ! She did not deny life ; but only that particular 
 form in which life had come to her. Under such 
 circumstances suicide is unjustifiable. 
 
 "There! I'm breaking into what John Norton 
 would call my irrepressible levity. But there is little 
 gladness in me. Ennui hunts me like a hound, loos- 
 ing me for a time, but finding the scent again it fol- 
 lows — I struggle — escape — but the hour will come 
 when I shall escape no more. If Lily had not died, 
 if I had married her, I might have lived. In truth, 
 I'm not alive, I'm really dead, for I live without hope, 
 without belief, without desire. Ridiculous as a wife 
 and children are when you look at them from the 
 
MIKE PLETCHER. 26t 
 
 philosophical side, they are necessary if man is to live ; 
 if man dispenses with the family, he must embrace 
 the cloister ; John has done that, but now I know 
 that man may not live without wife, without child, 
 without God!" 
 
 Next day, after breakfast, he lay in- his arm-chair, 
 thinking of the few hours that lay between him and 
 the fall of night. He sought to tempt iiis jaded ap- 
 petite with many assorted dissipations, but he turned 
 from all in disgust, and gambling became his sole 
 distraction: Every evening about eleven he was seen 
 in Piccadilly, going towards Arlington Street, and 
 every morning about four the street-sweepers saw 
 him returning home along the Strand. Then, afraid 
 to go to bed, he sometimes took pen and paper and 
 attempted to write some lines of his long-projected 
 poem. But he found that all he had to say lie had 
 said in the sketch which he found among his papers. 
 The idea did not seem to him to want any further 
 amplification, and he sat wondering if lie could ever 
 have written three or four thousand lines on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 The casual eye and ear still recognized no difference 
 in him. There were days when he was as good-look- 
 ing as ever, and much of the old fascination remained ; 
 but to one who knew him well, as Harding did, there 
 was no doubt that his life had passed its meridian. 
 The day was no longer at poise, but was quietly sink- 
 ing ; and though the skies were full of light, the buoy- 
 ancy and blitheness that the hours bear in their 
 ascension were missing; lassitude and moodiness 
 were aboard. 
 
 More than ever did he seek women, urged by a 
 nervous erithism which he could not explain or con- 
 
263 MIKE FLETCHJiR. 
 
 trol. Married women and young girls came to him 
 from drawing-rooms, actresses from theatres, shop- 
 girls from the streets, and though seemingly all were 
 as unimportant and accidental as the cigarettes he 
 smoked, each was a drop in the ocean of the immense 
 ennui accumulating in his soul. The months passed, 
 disappearing in a sheer and measureless void, leaving 
 no faintest reflection or even memory, and his life 
 flowed in unbroken weariness and despair. There 
 was no taste in him for anything; he had eaten of 
 the fruit of knowledge, and « ith the evil rind in his 
 teeth, wandered an exile beyond the garden. Dark, 
 and desolate beyond speech was his world; dark and 
 empty of all save the eyes of the hound Ennui; and 
 by day and night it watched him, fixing him with 
 dull and unrelenting eyes. Sometimes these acute 
 strainings of his consciousness lasted only between 
 entering his chambers late at night and going to 
 bed; and fearful of the sleepless hours, every sensa- 
 tion exaggerated by the effect of the insomnia, he 
 sat in dreadful commune with the spectre of his life, 
 waiting for the apparition to leave him. 
 
 "And to think," he cried, turning his face to the 
 wall, "that it is this ego that gives existence to it all!" 
 
 One of the most terrible of these assaults of con- 
 sciousness came upon him on the winter immediately 
 on his return from London. He had gone to London 
 to see Miss Dudley, whom he had not seen since his 
 return from Africa — therefore for more than two 
 years. Only to her had he written from the desert; 
 his last letters, however, had remained unanswered 
 and for some time misgivings had been astir in his 
 heart. And it was with the view of ridding himself 
 of these that he had been to London. The familiar 
 air of the house seemed to him altered, the servant 
 was a new one ; she did not know the name, and 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 263 
 
 after some inquiries, she informed him that the lady 
 had died some six months past. All that was human 
 in him had expressed itself in this affection ; among 
 women Lily Young and Miss Dudley had alone 
 touched his heart ; there were friends scattered 
 through his life whom he had worshipped ; but his 
 friendships had nearly all been, though intense, 
 ephemeral and circumstantial ; nor had he thought 
 constantly and deeply of any but these two women. 
 So long as either lived, there was a haven of quiet 
 happiness and natural peace in which his shattered 
 spirit might rock at rest ; but now he was alone. 
 
 Others he saw with homes and family ties; all 
 seemed to have hopes and love to look to but he— 
 " I alone am alone ! The whole world is in love with 
 me, and I'm utterly alone." Alone as a wreck upon a 
 desert ocean, terrible in its calm as in its tempest. 
 Broken was the helm and sailless was the mast, and 
 he must drift till borne upon some ship-wrecking 
 reef! Had fate designed him to float over ever\' 
 rock? must he wait till the years let through the 
 waters of disease, and he foundered obscurely in the 
 immense loneliness he had so elaborately prepared ? 
 
 Overhead was cloud of storm, the ocean hija\ed, 
 quick lightnings flashed ; but no waves gathered, and 
 in heavy sulk a sense of doom lay upon him. Wealth 
 and health and talent were his; he had all, and in all 
 he found he had nothing ; — yes, one thing was his for 
 evermore, — Ennui. 
 
 Thoughts and visions rose into consciousness like 
 monsters coming through a gulf of dim seawatcr; 
 all delusion had fallen, and he saw the truth in all 
 its fearsome deformity. On awakening, the implacable 
 externality of things pressed upon his sight until he 
 felt he knew what the mad feel, and then it seemed 
 impossible to begin another day. With long rides, 
 
264 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 with physical fatigue, he strove to keep at bay the 
 despair-fiend which now had not left him hardly for 
 weeks. For long weeks the disease continued, almost 
 without an intermission ; he felt sure that death was 
 the only solution, and he considered the means for' 
 encompassing the end with a calm that startled him. 
 
 Nor was it until the spring months that he found any 
 subjects that might take him out of his melancholy, 
 and darken the too acute consciousness of the truth 
 of things which was forcing him on to madness or 
 suicide. One day it was suggested that he should 
 stand for Parliament. He eagerly seized the idea, 
 and his brain thronged immediately with visions of 
 political successes ; of the parliamentary triumphs he 
 would achieve. Bah ! he was an actor at heart, and 
 required the contagion of the multitude, and again 
 he looked out upon life with visionary eyes. Harsh 
 hours fell behind him, gay hours awaited him, held 
 hands to him. 
 
 Men wander far from the parent plot of earth ; 
 but a strange fatality leads them back, they know not 
 how. None had desired to separate from all associa- 
 tions of early life more than Mike, and he was at once 
 glad and sorry to find that the door through which he 
 was to en'ter Parliament was Cashel. He would have 
 liked better to represent an English town or county, 
 but he could taste in Cashel a triumph which he 
 could nowhere else in the world. To return trium- 
 phant to his native village is the secret of every 
 wanderer's desire, for there he can claim not only 
 their applause but their gratitude. 
 
 The politics he would have to adopt made him 
 
 wince, for he knew the platitudes they entailed ; 
 
 and in preference he thought of the paradoxes with 
 
 which he would stupefy the House, the daring and 
 
 . originality he would show in introducing subjects 
 
MIKR PLETCHER. 265 
 
 that, till then, no one had dared to touch upon. 
 With the politics of his party he had little intention 
 of concerning himself, for his projects were to make 
 for himself a reputation as an orator, and having 
 confirmed it to seek another constituency at the 
 close of the present Parliament. Such intention lay 
 dormant in the background of his mind, but he had 
 not seen many Irish Nationalists before he was ef- 
 fervescing with rhetoric suitable for the need of the 
 election, and he was sometimes puzzled to determine 
 whether he was false or true. 
 
 Driving through Dublin from the steamer, he met 
 Frank Escott. They shouted simultaneously to their 
 carmen to stop. 
 
 " Home to London. I've just come from Cashel. 
 I went to try to effect-some sort of reconciliation 
 with Mount Rorke ; but — and you, where are you 
 going?" 
 
 " I'm going to Cashel. I'm going to contest the 
 town in the Parnellite interest." 
 
 Each pair of eyes was riveted on the other. For 
 both men thought of the evening when Mike had 
 received the letter notifying that Lady Stieley had 
 left him five thousand a year, and Frank had read in 
 the evening paper that Lady Mount Rorke had 
 given birth to a son. Frank was, as usual, voluLio 
 and communicative. He dilated on the painfulness 
 of the salutations of the. people he had met on the 
 way going from the station to Mount Rorke ; and, 
 instead of walking straight in, as in old times, he had 
 to ask the servant to take his name. 
 
 " Burton, the old servant who had known me 
 since I was a boy, seemed terribly cut up, and he was 
 evidently very reluctant to speak the message. ' I'm 
 very sorry, Mr. Frank,' he said, ' but his lordship says 
 he is too unwell to see any one to-day, sir ; he is very 
 
266 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 sorry, but if you would write' ... If I would write, 
 think of it, I who was once his heir, and used the 
 place as if it were mine! Poor old Burton was quite 
 overcome. He tried to ask me to come into the 
 dining-room and have some lunch. If I f,o there 
 again I shall be asked into the servants' haJl. And 
 at that moment the nurse came, wheeling the baby 
 in the perambulator through the hall, going out for 
 an airing. I tried not to look, but couldn't restrain 
 my eyes, and the nurse stopped and said, ' Now then, 
 dear, give your hand to the gentleman, and tell him 
 your name.' The little thing looked up, its blue eyes 
 staring out of its sallow face, and it held out the little, 
 putty-like hand. Poor old Burton turned aside, he 
 couldn't stand it any longer, and walked into the 
 dining-room." 
 
 "And how did you get away?" asked Mike, who 
 saw his friend's misfortune in the light of an exquisite 
 chapter in a novel. " How sad the old place must 
 have seemed to you !" 
 
 " You are thinking how you could put it in a book 
 ^how brutal )ou are !" 
 
 " I assure you you are wrong. I can't help tiying 
 to realize )-our sensations, but that doesn't prevent 
 me from being very sorry for you, and I'm sure I 
 shall be very pleased to help you. Do you want 
 any money? Don't be shy about saj'ing yes. 1 
 haven't forgotten how you helped me." 
 
 " I really don't like to ask you, }ou've been very 
 good as it is. However, if you could spare me a 
 tenner?" 
 
 " Of course I can. Let's send these jarvies away, 
 and come into my hotel, and I'll write you a cheque." 
 
 The sum Frank asked for revealed to Mike ex- 
 actly the depth to which he had sunk since they 
 had last met. Small as it was, however, it seemed 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 267 
 
 to have had considerable effect in reviving Frank's 
 spirits, and he proceeded quite cheerfully into the 
 tale of his misfortune. Now it seemed to strike him 
 too in quite a hterary light, and he made philosophic 
 comments on "its various aspects, as he might on the 
 hero of a book which he was engaged on or contem- 
 plated writing. 
 
 " No," he said, " you were quite wrong in suppos- 
 ing that I waited to look back on the old places. I 
 got out of the park through a wood so as to avoid 
 the gate keeper. In moments of great despair we 
 don't lapse into pensive contemplation." . . . He 
 stopped to pull at the cigar Mike had given him, and 
 when he had got it well alight, he said, " It was 
 really most dramatic, it would make a splendid scene 
 in a play ; you might make him murder the baby." 
 
 Half an hour after Mike bade his friend good-bye, 
 glad to be rid of him. 
 
 " He's going back to that beastly wife who lives 
 in some dirty lodging. How lucky I was, after all, 
 not to marry." 
 
 Then, remembering the newspaper, and the use it 
 might be to him when in Parliament, he rushed after 
 Frank. When the Pilgrim was mentioned Frank's 
 face changed expression, and he seemed stirred with 
 dejper grief than when he related the story of his 
 disinheritance. He had no further connection with 
 the paper. Thigh had worked him out of it. 
 
 " I never really despaired," he said, " until I lost 
 my paper. Thigh has asked me to send him para- 
 graphs, but of course I'm not-going to do that." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, hang it, after being the editor of a paper, 
 you aren't going to send in paragraphs on approval. 
 It isn't good enough. When I go back to London 
 I shall try to get a sub-editorship." 
 
268 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 Mike pressed another tenner upon him, and return- 
 ing to the smoking-room, and throwing himself into 
 an arm-chair, he lapsed into dreams of the bands and 
 the banners that awaited him. When animal spirits 
 were ebullient in him, he regarded his election in the 
 light of a vulgar practical joke ; when the philosophic 
 mood was upon him he turned from all thought of it 
 as from the smell of a dirty kitchen coming through 
 a grating. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 During the first session Mike was hampered and 
 inconvenienced by the forms of the House ; in the 
 second, he began to weary of its routine. His wit 
 and paradox attracted some attention ; he made one 
 almost successful speech, many that stirred and ■ 
 stimulated the minds of celebrated listeners ; but for 
 all that he failed. His failure to redeem the expecta- 
 tions of his friends, produced in him much stress and 
 pain of mind, the more acute because he was fully 
 alive to the cause. He ascribed it rightly to certain 
 inherent flaws in his character. " The world believes 
 in those who believe in it. Such belief may prove a 
 lack of intelligence on the part of the believer, but it 
 secures him success, and success is after all the only 
 thing that compensates for the evil of life." 
 
 Always impressed by new ideas, rarely holding to 
 any impression long, finding all hollow and common 
 very soon, he had been taken with the importance of 
 the national assembly, but it had hardly passed into 
 its third session when all illusion had vanished, and 
 Mike ridiculed parliamentary ambitions in the various 
 chambers of the barristers he frequented. 
 
MIKE fletchek: 269 
 
 It was Maytime, and never did the Temple wear 
 a more gracious aspect. The river was full of hay- 
 boats, the gardens were green with summer hours. 
 Through the dim sky, above the conical roof of the 
 dear church, the pigeons fled in rapid quest, and in 
 Garden Court, beneath the plane trees, old folk 
 dozed, listening to the rippling tune of the fountain 
 and the shrilling of the sparrows. In King's Bench 
 Walk the waving branches were full of their little 
 brown bodies. Sparrows everywhere, flying from the 
 trees to. the eaves, hopping on the golden gravel, 
 beautifully carpeted with the rich shadows of the 
 trees — unabashed little birds, scarcely deigning to 
 move out of the path of the young men as they 
 passed to and fro from their offices to the library. 
 " That sweet, grave place where we weave our ropes 
 of sand," so Mike used to speak of it. 
 
 Theprimnessof thebooks.thelittlegalleriesguarded 
 by brass railing'^, here and there a reading-desk, the 
 sweet silence of the place, the young men reading at 
 the polished oak tables, the colour of the oak and the 
 folios, the rich Turkey carpets, lent to the library 
 that happy air of separation from the brutalities 
 of life which is almost sanctity. These, the familiar 
 aspects of the Temple, moved him with all their old 
 enchantments ; he lingered in the warm summer 
 mornings when all the Temple was astir, gossiping 
 with the students, or leaning upon the balustrades in 
 pensive contemplation of the fleet river. 
 
 But these moods of passive happiness were inter- 
 rupted more frequently than they had been in earlier 
 years by the old whispering voice, now grown strangely 
 distinct, which asked, but no longer through laughing 
 lips, if it were possible to discern any purpose in hfe, 
 and if all thoughts and things were not as vain as a 
 little measure of sand. The dark fruit that hangs 
 
270 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 SO alluringly over the wall of the garden of life 
 now met liis eyes frequently, tempting him, and 
 perforce he must stay to touch and consider it. 
 Then, resolved to baffle at all costs the disease 
 which he now knew pursued him, he plunged in the 
 crowd of drunkenness and whoremongering which 
 swelled the Strand at night. He was found where 
 prize-fighters brawled, and card-sharpers cajoled ; 
 where hall singers fed on truffled dishes, and 
 courtesans laughed and called for champagne. He 
 was seen in Lubini's sprawling over luncheon tables 
 till late in the afternoon, and at nightfall lingering 
 about the corners of the streets, talking to the women 
 that passed. In such low form of vice he sought 
 escape. He turned to gambling, risking large sums, 
 sometimes imperilling his fortune for the sake of the 
 assuagement such danger brought of the besetting 
 sin. But luck poured thousands into his hands; and 
 he applied himself to the ruin of one seeking to 
 bring about his death. 
 
 " Before I kill myself," he said, " I will kill others ; 
 I'm weary of playing at Faust, now I'll play at 
 Mephistopheles." 
 
 Henceforth all men who had money, or friends -who 
 had mone)', were invited to Temple Gardens. You 
 met there members of both Houses of Parliament — 
 the successors of Muchross and Snowdown ; and men 
 exquisitely dressed, with quick, penetrating eyes, 
 assembled there, actors and owners of race-horses 
 galore, and bright complexioncd young men of many 
 affections. Rising now from the piano one is heard 
 to say reproachfully, " )-ou never admire anything I 
 wear," to a grave friend who had passed some criti- 
 cism on the flower in the young man's button-hole. 
 
 It was still early in the cxening and the usual 
 company had not yet arrived. Harding stood on 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 27 1 
 
 the white fur hearthrug, his legs slightly apart, smok- 
 ing. Mike lay in an easy chair. His eyes were upon 
 Harding, whom he had not seen for some years, and 
 the sight of him recalled the years when they wrote 
 the Pilgrim together. 
 
 He thought how splendid were then his enthusiasms 
 and how genuine his delight in life. It was in this 
 very room that he kissed Lily for the first time. 
 That happy day. Well did he remember how 
 the sun shone upon the great river, how the hay- 
 boats sailed, liow the city rose like a vision out of the 
 mist. But Lily lies asleep, far away in a southern 
 land ; she lies sleeping, facing Italy — that Italy 
 which they should have seen and dreamed together. 
 At that moment, he brushed from his book a little 
 green insect that had come out of the night, and it 
 disappeared in faint dust. 
 
 It was in this room he had seen Lady Helen for 
 the last time ; and he remembered how, when he 
 returned to her, after having taken Lily back to the 
 dancing-room, he had found her reading a letter, and 
 almost the very words of the conversation it had 
 given rise to came back to him, and her almost 
 aggressive despair. No one could say why she had 
 shot herself. Who was the man that had deserted 
 her? What was he like? Was it Harding? It was 
 certainly for a lover wRo had tired of her, and Mike 
 wondered how it were possible to weary of one so 
 beautiful and so interesting, and he believed that if 
 she had loved him that they both would have found 
 content. 
 
 "Do you remember, Harding, that it was in this 
 room we saw Lady Helen alive for the last time. 
 What a tragedy that was. Do you remember the 
 room in the Alexandra Hotel, the firelight, v/ith the 
 summer morning coming through the Venetian 
 
272 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 blinds ; somehow there was a sense of sculpture, even 
 without the beautiful body. Seven years have passf d. 
 She has enjoyed seven years of peace and rest ; we 
 have endured seven years of fret and worry. Life 
 of course was never worth living, but the common 
 dcupidity of the nineteenth century renders existence 
 for those who may see into the heart of things almost 
 unbearable. I confess that every day man's stupidity 
 seemb to me more and more miraculous. Indeed it 
 may be said to be divine, so inherent and so unalter- 
 able is it ; and to understand it we need not stray 
 from the question in hand — suicide. A man is 
 houseless, he is old, he is friendless, he is starving, 
 he is assailed in eveiy joint by cruel disease ; to save 
 hin:self from years of suffering he lights a pan of 
 charcoal ; and. after carefully considering all the cir- 
 cumstances, the jury returns a verdict of suicide 
 while in a state of temporary insanity. Out of years 
 of insanity had sprung a suprcine moment of sanity, 
 and no one understands it. The common stupidity, 
 I should say the common insanity, of the world on 
 the subject of suicide is quite comic. A man may 
 destroy his own property, which would certainly be 
 of use to some one, but he may not destroy his own 
 life, which possibly is of use to no one; and if two 
 men conspire to commit suicide and fail, they are 
 tried for murder and hanged. Can the mind conceive 
 more perfect nonsense?" 
 
 "I cannot say I agree with you," said Harding; 
 " man's aversion to suicide seems to me perfectly 
 coinprehensible." 
 
 " Does it really! Well, I should like to hear you 
 develop that paradox." 
 
 '' Your contention is that it is inconceivable that in 
 an already over-crowded society men should not look 
 rather with admiration than with contempt on those 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 273 
 
 who, convinced that they block the way, surrender 
 their places to those better able to fill them ; and 
 it is to you equally inconceivable that a man should 
 be allowed to destroy his property and not his per- 
 son. Your difficulty seems to me to arise from your 
 not taking into consideration the instinctive nature 
 of man. The average man may be said to be purely 
 instinctive. In popular opinion — that is to say, in 
 his own opinion — he is supposed to be a reasonable 
 being; but a short acquaintance shows him to be 
 illumined with no faintest ray of reason. His sense 
 of right and wrong is purely instinctive ; talk to him 
 about it, and you will see that you might as well ask 
 a sheep-dog why he herds the sheep." 
 
 " Quite so ; but I do not see how that explains his 
 aversion to suicide." 
 
 " I think it does. There are two forces in human 
 nature — instinct and reason. The first is the very 
 principle of life, and exists in all we see — give it a 
 philosophic name, and call it the ' will to live.' All 
 acts, therefore, proceed from instinct or from reason. 
 Suicide is clearly not an instinctive act, it is there- 
 fore a reasonable act ; and being of all acts the least 
 instinctive, it is of necessity the most reasonable ; 
 reason and instinct are antagonistic ; and the ex- 
 treme point of their antagonism must clearly be sui- 
 cide. One is the assertion of life, the other is the 
 denial of life. The world is mainly instinctive, and 
 therefore very tolerant to all assertions of the will 
 to live; it is in other words full of toleration for it- 
 self; no one is reproved for bringing a dozen chil- 
 dren into the world, though he cannot support them, 
 because to reprove him would involve a partial con- 
 demnation of the will to live; and the world will not 
 
 condemn itself. . ,. . , , , » , ,.^ 
 
 " If suicide merely cut the mdividual thread of hfe 
 
2/4 MJKE FLETCHER. 
 
 our brothers would rejoice. Nature is concerned in 
 the preservation of the species, not in the preserva- 
 tion of the individual ; but suicide is more than the 
 disappearance of an individual life, it is a protest 
 against all life, therefore man, in the interest of the 
 life of the race, condemns the suicide. The struggle 
 for life is lessened by every death, but the injury in- 
 flicted on the desire of hfe is greater ; in other words, 
 suicide is such a stimulant to the exercise of reason 
 (which has been proved antagonistic to life) that man, 
 in defence of instinct, is forced to condemn suicide. 
 
 And it is curious to note that of all the manners 
 of death which may bring them fortune men like 
 suicide the least ; a man would prefer to inherit a 
 property through his father falling a prey to a disease 
 that tortured him for months rather than he should 
 blow his brains out. If he were to sound his con- 
 science, his conscience would tell him that his pre- 
 ference resulted from consideration for his father's 
 soul. For as man acquired reason,. which, as I have 
 shown, endangers the sovereignty of the \\\\\ to live, 
 he developed notions of eternal life, such notions 
 being necessary to check and act as a drag upon 
 the new force that had been introduced into his life. 
 He says suicide clashes with the principle of eternal 
 life. So it does, so it does, he is quite right, but 
 how delightful and miraculously obtuse. We must 
 not take man for a reasoning animal ; ants and bees 
 are hardly more instinctive and less reasonable than 
 the majority of men. 
 
 "But far more than with any ordinary man is it 
 amusing to discuss suicide with a religionist. The 
 religionist does not know how to defend himself. If 
 he is a Roman Catholic he says the pope forbids 
 suicide, and that ends the matter ; but other churches 
 have no answer to make, for they find in the Old 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 27U 
 
 and New Testament not a shred of text to cover 
 themselves with. From the first page of the Bible 
 to the last there is not a word to say that a man 
 does not hold his life in his hands, and may not end 
 it when he pleases." 
 
 " Why don't you write an article on suicide ? It 
 would frighten people out of their wits !" said 
 Mike. 
 
 "I hope he'll do nothing of the kind," said a man 
 who had been listening with bated breath. " We 
 should have every one committing suicide all around 
 us — the world would come to an end." 
 
 "And would that matter much?" said Mike, with 
 a scornful laugh. •' You need not be afraid. No bit 
 of mere scribbling will terminate life ; the principle 
 of life is too deeply rooted ever to be uprooted ; 
 reason will ever remain powerless to harm it. Very 
 seldom, if ever, has a man committed suicide for 
 purely intellectual reasons. It nearly alwaj's takes 
 the form of a sudden paroxysm of mind. The will 
 to live is an almost unassailable fortress, and it will 
 remain impregnable everlastingly." 
 
 The entrance of some men talking loudly of 
 betting and women stopped the conversation. The 
 servants brought forth the card-tables; Mike played 
 several games of ^cart6, cheating openly, braving 
 detection. He did not care what happened, and, 
 almost desired the violent scene that would ensue 
 on his being accused of packing the cards. But 
 nothing happened, and about one o'clock, having 
 bade the last guest good-night, he returned to the 
 dining-room. The room in its disorder of fruit and 
 champagne looked like a human being — Mike thought 
 it looked like himself. He drank a tumbler of cham- 
 pagne and returned to the drawing-room, his pockets 
 full of the money he had swindled from a young 
 
276 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 man. He threw himself on a sofa by the open window 
 and h'stened to the solitude, terribly punctuated by 
 the clanging of the clocks. All the roofs were defined 
 on the blue night, and he could hear the sound of 
 water falling. The trees ro^e in vague masses undis- 
 tinguishable, and beyond was the immense brickwork 
 which hugs the shores. In the river there were 
 strange reflections, and above the river there were 
 blood-red lamps. 
 
 " If I were to fling myself from this window! . . . 
 I shouldn't feel anything; but I should be a shocking 
 sight on the pavement . . . Great Scott ! this silence 
 is awful, and those whispering trees, and those damned 
 clocks — another half-hour of life gone. I shall go mad 
 if something doesn't happen." 
 
 There came a knock. Who could it be? It did 
 not matter, anything was better than silence. He 
 threw open the door, and a pretty girl, almost a 
 child, bounded into the room, making it ring with 
 her laughter. 
 
 "Oh, Mike! darling Mike, I have left home; I 
 couldn't live without you . . . aren't you glad to 
 see me ?" 
 
 " Of course I'm glad to see you." 
 
 ' Then why don't you kiss me?" she said, jumping 
 on his knees and throwing her arms about his neck. 
 
 " What a wicked little girl you are." 
 
 "Wicked! It is you who make me wicked, my 
 own darling Mike. I ran away from home for you, 
 all for )ou ; I should have done it for nobody else. 
 . . I ran away the day — the day before yesterday. 
 My aunt was anno3'ing me for going out in the lane 
 with some young fellows. 1 said nothing for a long 
 time. At last 1 jumps up, and I saj'S that I would 
 stand it no longer; I told her straight; I says }Ou'll 
 never see me again, never no more; I'll go away to 
 
Ml KB FLETCttER. 277 
 
 London to some one who is awfully nice. And of 
 course I meant you, my own darling Mike." And 
 the room rang with girlish laughter. 
 
 " But where are you staying.?" said Mike, seriously 
 alarmed. 
 
 "Where am I staying? I'm staying with a youug 
 lady friend of mine who lives in Drury Lane, so I'm 
 not far from you. You can come and see me," she 
 .said, and her face lit with laughter. "We are rather 
 hard up. If you could lend me a sovereign I should 
 be so much obliged." 
 
 "Yes, I'll lend you a sovereign, ten if you like; 
 but I hope you'll go back to your aunt. I -know the 
 world better than you, ray dear little Flossy, and I 
 tell you that Drury Lane is no place for you." 
 
 " I couldn't go back to aunt ; she wouldn't take me 
 back ; besides 1 want to remain in, London for thp 
 present." 
 
 Before she left Mike filled the astonished child's 
 hands with money, and as she paused beneath his 
 window he threw some flowers towards her, and 
 listened to her laughter ringing through the pale 
 morning. Now the night was a fading thing, and the 
 town and Thames lay in the faint blue glamour of 
 the dawn. Another day had begun, and the rattle 
 of a morning cart was heard. Mike shut the window, 
 hesitating between throwing himself out of it, and 
 going to bed. 
 
 "As long as I can remember, I have had these fits 
 of depression, but now th2y never leave me ; I seem 
 more than ever incap iblc of shaking them off." 
 
 Then he thought of the wickedness he had done, 
 not of the wickedness of his life — that seemed to him 
 unlimited, — but of the wickedness accomplished 
 witliin the last few hours, and he wondered if he had 
 done worse in cheating the young man at cards or giv- 
 
278 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 ing the money he had won to Flossy. " Having tasted 
 of money, she will do anything to obtain more. I 
 suppose she is hopelessly lost, and will go from bad 
 to worse. But really I don't see that I'm wholly 
 responsible. I advised her to go home, I could do no 
 more. But I will get her aunt's address and write 
 to her. Or I will inform some of the philanthropic 
 people." 
 
 A few days after, he came in contact with some. 
 Their fervour awakened some faint interest in him, 
 and now as weary of playing at Mephistopheles as he 
 was of playing at Faust, he followed the occupation 
 of his new friends. But his attempts at reformation 
 were vain, they wore out the soul, and left it only 
 more hopeless than before ; and he remembered John 
 Norton's words, that faith is a gift from God which 
 we must cherish, -or He will tak-e it from us utterly, 
 and sighing, Mike recognized the great truth under- 
 lying a primitive mode of expression. He had drifted 
 too far into the salt sea of unfaith and cynicism, ever 
 to gain again the fair if illusive shores of aspiration — • 
 maybe illusive, but no more illusive than the cruel 
 sea that swung him like a wreck in its current, 
 feeding upon him as the sea feeds. Nor could he 
 make surrender of his passion of life, and saying — 
 
 "I see into the heart of things, I know the truth, 
 and in the calm possession of knowledge am able to 
 divest myself of my wretched individualit)', and so 
 free myself of all evils, seeking in absorption, rather 
 than by violent ends, to rid m)self of consciousness." 
 
 But this, the religion of the truly wise, born in 
 the sublime east, could find no roothold in Mike 
 Fletcher — that type and epitome of Western gross- 
 ness and lust of life. Religions being a s)'nthesis 
 of moral aspiration^, developed through centuries, 
 are mischievous and untrue except in the circum- 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 279 
 
 stances and climates in which they have gro'.vn up 
 in, and native races are decimated equally by the 
 importation of a religion or a disease. True it is 
 that Christianity was a product of the East, but it 
 was an accidental and inferior off-shoot from the 
 original religion of the race, hot adapted to their 
 needs, and fitted only for exportation. And now, 
 tainted and poisoned by a thousand years of habita- 
 tion in the West, Christianity returns to the East \iru- 
 lent and baneful as small-po.x, a distinctly demoraliz- 
 ing influence, having power only to change excellent 
 Buddhists into prostitutes and thieves. And in such 
 a way, according to the same laws, IVIike had ob- 
 served, si. ice he had adopted pessimism, certain un- 
 mistakable signs in himself of moral degeneracy. 
 
 Hi had now exhausted all Nature's remedies, save 
 one — Drink, and he could not drink. Drink has often 
 rescued men in straits of mental prostration, from 
 the ch:ircoal-pan, the pistol, and the river. But Mike 
 could not drink, and nature sought in vain to readjust 
 again, and balance anew, forces which seemed now 
 irretrievably disarranged. All the old agencies were 
 exhausted, and the new force which ch.ince, co-op- 
 erating with natural disposition had introduced, was 
 dominant in him. Against it women were now pow- 
 erless, and he turned aside from offered love 
 
 It is probable that the indirect influences to which 
 we have been subjected before birth outweigh the few 
 direct influences received by contagion with present 
 life. But the direct influences, slight as they may be, 
 are worth considL-ring, they being the only ones of 
 which we have any exact knowledge, even if in so 
 doing we exaggerated them ; and in striving to arrive 
 at a 'just estimation of the fo«ces that had brought 
 about his present mind, Mike was in the habit of 
 giving prominence to the thought of the demoralizing 
 
28o MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 influence of the introduction of Eastern pessimism 
 into a distinctly Western nature. He remembered 
 very well indeed the shock he had received when he 
 had heard John say for the first time that it was bet- 
 ter that human life should cease. 
 
 " For man's history, what is it, but the history of 
 crime? Man's life, what is it, but a disgraceful 
 episode in the life of one of the meanest of the 
 planets ? Let us be thankful that time shall obliterate 
 the abominable, and that once again the world shall 
 roll pure through the silence of the universe." 
 
 So John had once spoken, creating consternation 
 in Mike's soul, casting poison upon it. But John had 
 buried himself in Catholicism for refuge from this 
 awful creed, leaving Mike to perish in it. Then Mike 
 wondered if he should have lived and died a simple, 
 honourable. God-fearing man, if he had not been 
 taken out of the life he was born in, if he had married 
 in Ireland, for instance, and driven cattle to market, 
 as did his ancestors. 
 
 One day hearing the organ singing a sweet anthem, 
 he stayed to listen. It being midsummer, the doors 
 of the church were open, the window was in his view, 
 and the congregation came streaming out into the 
 sunshine of the courts, some stra}'ing hither and 
 thither, taking note of the various monuments. In 
 sucli occupation he spoke to one whom he recognized 
 at once as a respectable shop-girl. He took her out 
 to dinner, dazzled and delighted her with a present 
 of jewellery, enchanted her with assurances of his 
 love. But when her manner insinuated an inclination 
 to yield, he lost interest, and wrote saying he was 
 forced to leave town. Soon after, he wrote to a 
 certain actress proposing to write a play for her. 
 The proposal was not made with a \"iew to deceiving 
 her, but rather in the intention of securing their liaison 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 28 1 
 
 against caprice, by involving in it various mutual 
 advantages. For three weeks they saw each other 
 frequently; he wondered if he loved her, he dreamed 
 of investing his talents in her interest, and so rebuilding 
 the falling edifice of his life. 
 
 " I pould crush an affection out of my heart as easily 
 as I could kill a fly," she said. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, "my heart is as empty as a desert, 
 and no affection shall enter there again." 
 
 An appointment was made to go out to supper, 
 but he wrote saying he was leaving town to be 
 married. Nor was his letter a lie. After long hesita- 
 tions he had decided on this step, and it seemed 
 to him clear that no one would suit him so well 
 as Mrs. Pyril. By marryini^ an old mistress, he would 
 save himself from all the boredom of a honeymoon. 
 And sitting in the drawing-room, in the various 
 pauses between numerous licentious stories, they 
 discussed their matrimonial project. 
 
 Dear Einily, who said she suffered from loneliness 
 and fear of the future as acutely as he, was anxious 
 to force the matter forward. But her eagerness begot 
 reluctance in Mike, and at the end of a week, he fell 
 that he would sooner take his razor and slice his 
 head off, than live under the same roof with her. 
 
 In Regent Street one evening he met Frank 
 Escott. After a few preliminary observations Mike 
 asked him if he had heard lately from Lord Mount 
 Rorke. Frank said that he had not seen him. All 
 was over between them, but his uncle had, however, 
 arranged to allow him two hundred a year. He 
 was living at Mortlake, " a nice little house ; our 
 neighbour on the left was a city clerk at a salary of 
 seventy pounds a year, on the right is a chemist's 
 shop, a very nice woman is the chemist's wife ; my 
 wife and the chemist's wife are fast friends. We go 
 
232 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 over and have tea with them, and they come and 
 have tea with us. The chemist and I smoke our 
 pipes over the garden wall. All this appears very 
 dreadful to you, but I assure you I have more real 
 pleasure, and take more interest in my life, than 
 ever 1 did before. My only trouble is the insurance 
 policy — I must keep that paid up, for the two hundred 
 a year's only an annuity. It makes a dreadful hole 
 in our income. You might come down and see us." 
 
 "And be introduced to the chemist's wife!" 
 
 " There's no use in trying to come it over me ; I 
 know who you are. I have seen you many times 
 about the roads in a tattered jacket. You musn't 
 think that because all the good luck went your way, 
 and all the bad luck my way, that I'm any less a 
 gentleman, or you any less a " 
 
 " My dear Frank, I'm really very sorry for what I 
 said ; I forgot. I assure you I didn't mean to sneer. 
 I give you my word of honour." 
 
 They walked around Piccadilly Circus, edging their 
 way through the women, that the sultry night had 
 brought out in white dresses. It was a midnight of 
 white dresses, and fine dust ; the street was as clean 
 as a ball-room ; like a pure dream the moon soared 
 through the azure infinities, whitening the roadway; 
 the cabmen loitered, following those who showed 
 disposition to pair ; groups gathered round the lamp- 
 posts, and were dispersed by stalwart policemen. 
 "Move on, move on, if you please, gentlemen!" 
 
 Frank told Mike about the children. He had now 
 a boy five years old, " such a handsome fellow, and 
 he can read as well as you or I can. He's down at 
 the sea-side now with his mother. He wrote me 
 such a clever letter, telling me he had just finished 
 Robinson Crusoe, and was going to make a start on 
 Gulliver s Travels. I'm crazy about my boy. Talk 
 
MtKE FLETCHER. 283 
 
 of being tired of living, my trouble is that I shall 
 have to leave him one day." 
 
 Mike thought Frank's love of his son charming, 
 and he regretted he could find in his own heart no 
 such simple sentiments. Every now and then he 
 turned to look after a girl, and pulling his moustache, 
 muttered — 
 
 " Not bad !" 
 
 " Well, don't let's say anything more about it. 
 When will you come and see us?" 
 
 " What day will suit you — some day next week?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm always in in the evening ; will you come 
 to dinner?" 
 
 Mike replied evasively, anxious not to commit 
 himself to a promise for any day. Then seeing that 
 Frank thought he did not care to dine v/ith him, 
 he said — 
 
 " Very well, let us say Wednesday." 
 
 He bade his friend good-night, and stood on the 
 edge of the pavement watching him make his way 
 across the street to catch the last omnibus. Mike's 
 mind filled with memories of Frank. They came 
 from afar, surging over the shores of youth, thunder- 
 ing along the cliffs of manhood. Out of the remote 
 regions of boyhood they came, white crests upHftcd, 
 merging and mingling in the waters of life. It seemed 
 to Mike that, like sea-weed, he and Frank had been 
 washed together,and they then had been washed apart. 
 That was life, and that was the result of life, that and 
 nothing more. And of every adventure Frank was 
 the most distinctly realizable : all else, even Liiy, 
 was a little shadow that had come and gone. John 
 had lost himself in religion, Frank had lost himself 
 in his wife and child. To lose yourself, that is the 
 end to strive for ; absorption in religion or in the 
 family. They had attained it, he had failed. AH 
 
284 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 the love and all the wealth fortune had poured upon 
 him had not enabled him to stir from or change that 
 entity which he knew as Mike Fletcher. Ten years 
 ago he liad not a shilling to his credit, to-day he 
 had several thousands, but the irreparable had not 
 altered — he was still Mike Fletcher. He had wan- 
 dered over the world ; he had lain in the arms of a 
 hundred women, and nothing remained of it all but 
 Mike Fletcher. There was apparently no escape ; he 
 was lashed to himself like the convict to the oar. 
 For him there was nothing but this oar, and all the 
 jewellery that had been expended upon it had not 
 made it anything but an oar. There was a curse upon 
 it all. 
 
 He saw Frank's home — the little parlour with its 
 bits of furniture, scraggy and vulgar, but sweet with 
 the presence of the wife and her homely occupations; 
 then the children — the chicks — cooing and chattering, 
 creating such hope and fond anxiety! Why then did 
 he not have wife and children? Of all worldly pos- 
 sessions they are the easiest to obtain. Because he 
 had created a soul that irreparably separated him 
 from these, the real and durable prizes of life; they 
 lay beneath his hands, but his soul said no; he de- 
 sired, and was powerless to take what he desired. 
 
 For a moment he stood, in puzzled curiosity, listen- 
 ing to the fate that his thoughts were prophesying; 
 then, as if in answer antiphonal, terrible as the an- 
 nouncing of the chorus, came a quick thought, quick 
 and sharp as a sword, fatal as a sword set against the 
 heart. He strove to turn its point aside, he attempted 
 to pass it by, but on every side he met its point, 
 though he reasoned in jocular and serious mood. 
 Then his courage falling through him like a stone 
 dropped into a well, he crossed the street, seek- 
 ing the place Flossy had told him of, and soon 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 285 
 
 alfter saw her walking a little in front of him with 
 another girl. She beckoned him, leading the way 
 through numerous bye-streets. Something in the 
 sound of certain footsteps told him he was being fol- 
 lowed ; his reason warned him away, yet he could 
 not but follow. And in the shop below and on the 
 stairs o'f the low eating-house where they had led 
 him, loud voices were heard and tramping of feet. 
 Instantly h6 guessed the truth, and drew the furni- 
 ture across the doorway. The window was twenty 
 feet from the ground, but he might reach the water- 
 butt. He jumped from the window-sill, falling into 
 the water, out of which he succeeded in drawing him- 
 self; hence he crawled along the wall, dropped into 
 the lane', hearing his pursuers shouting to him from 
 the window. There were only a few children in the 
 lane; he sped quickly past, gained a main street, 
 hailed a cab, and was driven safely to the Temple. 
 
 He flung off his shoes, which were full of water ; 
 his trousers were soaking, and having rid himself of 
 them, he wrapped himself in a dressing-gown, and 
 went into the sitting-room in hrs slippers. It was the 
 same as when it was Frank's room. There was the 
 grand piano and the slender brass lamps; he had lit 
 none, but stood uncertain, his bed-room candle in his 
 hand. And listehing, he could hear London along 
 the Embankment — an occasional cry, the rattle of a 
 cab, the- hollow whistle of a train about to cross the 
 bridge at Blackfriars, the shrill whistle of a train far 
 away in the night. He had escaped from his pursuers, 
 but not from himself. 
 
 " How horribly lonely it is here," he muttered. 
 Then he thought of how narrowly he had escaped 
 disgraceful exposure of his infamy. "If those fel- 
 lows had got hold of my name it would have been in 
 the papers the day after to-morrow. What a fool I 
 
286 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 am; why do I risk so much? and for what?" He 
 turned fioni the memory as from sight of some dis- 
 gustful deformity or disease. Going to the mirror 
 he studied his face for some reflection of the soul; 
 but unable to master his feelings, in which there was 
 at once loathing and despair, he threw open the win- 
 dow and walked out of the suffocating room into the 
 sultry balcony. 
 
 It was hardly night ; the transparent obscurity of 
 the summer midnight was dissolving; the slight film 
 of darkness which had wrapped the world was evan- 
 escent. "Is it day or night?" he asked. "Oh, it is 
 day! another day has begun; I escaped from my 
 mortal enemies, but not from the immortal day. 
 Like a gray beast it comes on soft velvet paws to 
 devour. Stay! oh bland and beautiful night, thou 
 that dost so charitably hide our misfortunes, stay! 
 
 " I shudder when I think of the new evils and 
 abominations that this day will bring. The world is 
 still at rest, l\'ing in the partial purity of sleep. But, 
 as a cruel gray beast the day comes on soundless 
 velvet paws. Light and desire are one; light and 
 desire are the claws that the gray beast unsheathes ; 
 a few hours' oblivion and the world's torment begins 
 again !" Then looking down the great height he 
 thought how he might spring from consciousness 
 into oblivion — the town and the river were now 
 distinct in ghastly pallor — "I should feel nothing. 
 But what a mess I should make; what a horrible 
 little mess !" 
 
 After breakfast he sat looking into space, wonder- 
 ing what lie might do. He hoped for a visitor and 
 yet he could not think of one that he desired to see. 
 A woman! the very thought was distasteful. He 
 rose and went to the window. London implacable 
 lay before him, a morose mass of brick, fitting sign 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 287 
 
 and symbol of life. And the few hours that lay be- 
 tween breakfast and dinner were narrow and brick- 
 coloured, and longing for the vast green hours of the 
 country, he went to Belthorpe Park. But in a few 
 weeks the downs and lanes fevered and exasperated 
 him, and perforce he must seek some new distrac- 
 tion. Henceforth he hurried from house to house, 
 tiring of each last abode more rapidly than the one 
 that had preceded it. He read no books, and he only 
 bought newspapers to read the accounts of suicides; 
 and his friends had begun to notice the strange in- 
 terest with which he spoke of those who had done 
 away with themselves, and the persistency with which 
 he sought to deduce their motives from the evidence ; 
 and he seemed to be animated by a wish to depreciate 
 all worldly reasons and to rely upon weariness of life 
 as sufficient motive for their action. 
 
 The account of two young people engaged to be 
 married, who had taken tickets for some short journey 
 and shot themselves in the railway carriage. " Here," 
 he said, "was a case of absolute sanity, a quality al- 
 most undiscoverable in human nature. Two young 
 people resolve to rid themselves of the burden ; but 
 they are more than utilitarians, they are poets, and of 
 a high order ; for, not only do they make most public 
 and emphatic denial of life, but they add to it a mea- 
 sure of Aristophanesque satire — they engage them- 
 selves to marry. Now marriage is man's approval 
 and confirmation of his belief in human existence — 
 they engage themselves to m.arry, but instead of put- 
 ting their threat into execution, they enter a railway 
 carriage and blow out theii brains, proving thereby 
 that they had brains to blow out." 
 
 When, however, it transpired that letters were 
 found in the pockets of the suicides to the effect that 
 they had hoped to gain such notoriety as the daily 
 
288 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 press can give by their very flagrant leave-taking of 
 tliis world, Mike professed much regret, and gravely 
 assured his astonished listeners that, in the face of 
 these letters, which had unhappily conne to light, he 
 withdrew his praise of the quality of the brains blown 
 out. In truth he secretly rejoiced that proof of the 
 imperfect sanity of the suicides had come to light, 
 and assured himself that when he did away with Mike 
 Fletcher he would revenge himself on society by 
 leaving behind him a document which would forbid 
 the usual idiotic verdict, " Suicide while in a state of 
 temporary insanity," and leave no loophole through 
 which it might be said that he was impelled to seek 
 death for any extraneous reasons whatever. He would 
 go to death in the midst of the most perfect worldly 
 prosperity the mind could conceive, desiring nothing 
 but rest, profoundly convinced of the futility of all 
 else, and the perfect folly of human effort. 
 
 In such perverse and morbid mind Mike returned 
 to London. It was in the beginning of August, and 
 the Temple weltered in sultry days and calm nights. 
 The river flowed sluggishly through its bridges ; the 
 light? along its banks gleamed fiercely in the lucent 
 stillness of a sulphur-hued horizon. Like a night- 
 mare the silence of the apartment lay upon his chest ; 
 and there was a frightened look in his eyes as he walked 
 to and fro. The moon lay like a Creole amid the 
 blue curtains of the night ; the murmur of London 
 hushed in stray cries, and only the tread of the police- 
 man was heard distinctly. About the river the night 
 was deepest and out of the shadows falling from the 
 bridges the lamps gleamed with strange intensity, 
 some flickering sadly in the water. Mike walked 
 into the dining-room He could see the sward in 
 the darkness that the trees spread, and the lilies 
 reeked in the great stillness. Then he thought of 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 289 
 
 the old days when the Pilgrim was written in these 
 rooms, and of the youthfulness of those days ; and 
 he maddened when he recalled the evenings of artistic 
 converse in John Norton's room — how high were then 
 their aspirations ! The Temple, too, seemed to have 
 lost youth and gaiety. No longer did he meet his old 
 friends in the eating-houses and taverns. Everything 
 had been dispersed or lost. Some were married, ' 
 some had died. 
 
 Then the solitude grew more unbearable and he 
 turned from it, hoping he might meet some one he 
 knew. As he passed up Temple Lane he saw a 
 slender woman dressed in black, talking to the police- 
 men. He had often seen her about the Courts and 
 Buildings, and had accosted her, but she had passed 
 without heeding. Curious to hear who and what she 
 was, Mike entered into conversation with one of the 
 policemen. 
 
 " She ! we calls her old Specks, sir." 
 " I have often seen her about, and I spoke to her 
 once, but she didn t answer." 
 
 " She didn't hear you, sir; she's a little deaf. A 
 real good sort, sir, is old Jenny. She's alwajs about 
 here. She was brought out in the Temple ; she lived 
 eight years with a Q.C., sir. He's dead. A strapping 
 fine wench she was then, I can tell you." 
 "And what does she do now?" 
 " She has three or four friends here. She goes to 
 see Mr. — I can't think of his name — you know him, 
 the red-whiskered man in Dr. Johnson's Buildings. 
 You have seen him in the Probate Court many a 
 time." And then in defence of her respectability, if 
 not of her morals, the policeman said, "You'll never 
 see her about the streets, sir, she only comes to the 
 Temple." 
 
 Old Jenny stood talking to the younger member 
 
290 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 of the force. When she didn't hear him she cooed 
 in the soft, sweet way of deaf women ; and her genial 
 laugh told Mike that the policeman was not wrong 
 when he described her as a real good sort. She 
 spoke of her last 'bus, and on being told the time 
 gathered up her skirts and ran up the Lane. 
 
 Then the policemen related anecdotes concerning 
 their own and the general amativeness of the Temple. 
 
 " But, lor, sir, it is nothing now to what it used to 
 be ! Some years ago, half the women of London 
 used to be m here of a night : now there's very 
 little going on — an occasional kick up, but nothing to 
 speak of." 
 
 "What are you laughing at?" said Mike, looking 
 from one to the other. 
 
 The policemen consulted each other, and then one 
 said — 
 
 "You didn't hear about the little shindy we had 
 here last night, sir? It wa^ in Elm Court, just 
 behind you, sir. We heard some one shouting for 
 the police ; we couldn't make out where the shouting 
 came from first, we were looking about — the echo in 
 these Courts makes it very difficult to say where a 
 voice comes from. At last we saw the fellow at the 
 window, and we went up. He met us at the door. 
 He said, ' Policemen, the lady knocked at my door 
 and asked for a drink ; I didn't notice that she was 
 drunk and I gave her a brandy-and-soda, and before 
 I could stop her she undressed herself! ' There was 
 the lady right enough, in her chemise, sitting in the 
 arm-chair, as drunk as a lord, humming and singing 
 as gay, sir, as any little bird. Then the part}' says, 
 'Policeman, do your duty!' I says, 'What'is my 
 duty?' He says, ' Policeman, I'll report you!' I 
 says, ' Report yourself. I knows my duty.' He says, 
 ' Policeman, remove that woman ! ' I says, ' I can't 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 29 1 
 
 remove her in that state. Tell her to dress herself, 
 and I'll remove her.' Well, the long and the short 
 of it, sir, is that we had to dress her between us, and 
 I never had such a job." 
 
 The exceeding difficulties of this toilette, as nar- 
 rated by the stolid policeman, made Mike laugh con- 
 summately. Then alternately, and in conjunction, 
 the policemen told stories concerning pursuits 
 through the areas and cellars with which King's 
 Bench Walk abounds. 
 
 " It was from Paper Buildings that the little girl 
 came from who tried to drown herself in the fountain." 
 
 " Oh, I haven't heard about her," said Mike. " She 
 tried to drown herself in the fountain, did she? 
 Crossed in love ; tired of life ; which was it ?" 
 
 " Neither, sir; she was a bit drunk, that was about 
 it. My mate could tell you about her, he pulled her 
 out. She's up before the magistrate to-day again." 
 
 "Just fancy, bringing a person up before a magis- 
 trate because she wanted to commit suicide ! Did 
 any one ever hear such rot? If our own persons 
 don't belong to us, I don't know what does. But 
 tell me about her." 
 
 "She went up to see a party that lives in Pump 
 Court. We was at home, so she picks up her skirts, 
 runs across here and throws herself in. I see her run 
 across, and follows her; but I had to get jnto the 
 water to get her out ; I was wet to the waist — there's 
 about four feet of water in that 'ere fountain." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 " She had fainted. We had to send for a cab to 
 get her to the station, sir." 
 
 At that moment the presence of the sergeant hur- 
 ried the policemen away, and Mike was left ^lone. 
 The warm night air was full of the fragrance of .the 
 leaves, and he was alive to the sensation of the foli- 
 age spreading above him, and deepening amid the 
 
292 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 branches of the tall plane trees that sequestered and 
 shadowed the fountain. They grew along the walls, 
 forming a quiet dell, in whose garden silence the 
 dripping fountain sang its song of falling water. Light 
 and shade fell picturesquely about the steps descend- 
 ing to the gardens, and the parapeted buildings fell 
 in black shadows upon the sward, and stood sharp 
 upon the moon illuminated blue. Mike sat beneath 
 the plane trees, and thesuasive silence, sweetly tuned 
 by the dripping water, murmured in his soul dismal 
 sorrowings. Over the cup, whence issued the jet that 
 played during the day, the water flowed. There were 
 there the large leaves of some aquatic plant, and 
 Mike wondered if the policeman had not rescued the 
 girl if she would now be in perfect peace, instead 
 of dragged before a magistrate and forced to promise 
 to bear her misery. 
 
 "A pretty little tale," he thought, and he saw her 
 floating in shadowy water in pallor and beautiful, and 
 reconciliation with nature. "Why see another day? 
 I must die very soon, why not at once? 1 housands 
 have grieved as I am grieving in this self-same place, 
 have asked the same sad questions. Sitting under 
 these ancient walls young men have dreamed as I am 
 dreaming — no new thoughts are mine. For five 
 thousand years man has asked himself why he lives. 
 Five thousand years have changed the face of the 
 world and the mind of man; no thought has resisted 
 the universal transformation of thought, save that one 
 thought — why live? Men change their gods, but one 
 thought floats immortal, unchastened by the teaching 
 of any mortal gods. Why see another day ? why 
 drink again the bitter cup of life when we may drink 
 the waters of oblivion ?" 
 
 He walked through Pump Court slowly, like a 
 prisoner impeded by the heavy chain, and at every 
 step the death idea clanked in his brain. All the 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 293 
 
 windows were full of light, and he could hear women's 
 voices. In imagination he saw the young men sitting 
 round the sparely furnished rooms, law books and 
 broken chairs — smoking and drinking, playing the 
 piano, singing, thinking they were enjoying them- 
 selves. A few years and all would be over for them 
 as all was over now for him. But never would they 
 drink of life as he had drunk, he was the type of that 
 of which they were but imperfect and inconclusive 
 figments. Was he not the Don Juan and the poet — 
 a sort of Byron doubled with Byron's hero? But he 
 was without genius; had he genius, genius would force 
 him to live. 
 
 He considered how far in his pessimism he was a 
 representative of the century. He thought how much 
 better he would have done in another age, and how 
 out of sympathy he was with the utilitarian dulness 
 of the present time, how much more brilliant he 
 would have been had he lived at any other period 
 of the Temple's history. Then he stopped to study 
 the style of the old staircase, the rough woodwor'K 
 twisting up the wall so narrowly, the great bannisters 
 full of shadow lighted by the flickering lanterns. 
 The yellowing colonnade — it'? beams and overhang- 
 ing fronts were also full of s\iggestion, and the sugges- 
 tion of old time was enforced by the signboard of a 
 wig-maker. 
 
 "The last of an ancient industry," thought Mike. 
 "The wig is representative of the seventeenth as the 
 silk hat is of the nineteenth century. I wonder why 
 I am so strongly fascinated with the seventee^ith 
 century? — I, a peasant; atavism, I suppose; my 
 family were not always peasants." 
 
 Turning from the old Latin inscription he viewed 
 the church, so evocative in its fortress form of an 
 earlier and more romantic century. The clocks were 
 striking one, two hours would bring the dawn close 
 
294 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 again upon the verge of the world. Mike trembled 
 and thought how he might escape. The beauty of 
 the cone of the church was outlined upon the sky, 
 and he dreamed, as he walked round the shadow-filled 
 porch, full of figures in prayer and figures holding 
 scrolls, of the white-robed knights, their red crosses, 
 their long swords, and their banner called Beauseant. 
 He dreamed himself Grand Master of the Order ; saw 
 himself in chain armour charging the Saracen. The 
 story of the terrible idol with the golden eyes, the 
 secret rites, the knight led from the penitential cell 
 and buried at daybreak, the execution of the Grand 
 Master at the stake, turned in his head fitfully ; cloud- 
 shapes that passed, floating, changing incessantly, sud- 
 denly disappearing, leaving him again Mike Fletcher, 
 a strained, agonized soul of our time, haunted and 
 hunted by an idea, overpowered by an idea as a wolf 
 by a hound. 
 
 His life had been from the first a series of attempts 
 to escape from the idea. His loves, his poetry, his 
 restlessness were all derivative from this one idea. 
 Among those whose brain plays a part in their exist- 
 ence there is a life idea, and this idea governs them 
 and leads them to a certain and predestined end ; and 
 all struggles with it are delusions. A life idea in the 
 higher classes of mind, a life instinct in the lower. It 
 were almost idle to differentiate between them, both 
 may be included under the generic title of the soul, 
 and the drama involved in such conflict is always of 
 the highest interest, for if we do not read the story of 
 our own soul we read in each the story of a soul that 
 might have been ours, and that passed very near to us ; 
 and who reading of Mike's torment is fortunate enough 
 to say, " I know nothing of what is written there" ? 
 
 His steps echoed hollow on the old pavement. 
 Full of shadow the roofs of the square church swept 
 across the sky ; the triple lancet windows caught a 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 29S 
 
 little light from the gaslight on the buildings ; and 
 he wondered what was the meaning of the little gold 
 lamb standing over one doorway, and then remem- 
 bered that in various forms the same symbolic lamb 
 is repeated through the Temple. He passed under 
 the dining-hall by the tunnel and roamed through 
 the spaces beneath the plane trees of King's Bench 
 Walk. " My friends think my life was a perfect gift, 
 but a burning cinder was placed in my breast, and 
 time has blown it into flame." 
 
 In the soporific scent of the lilies and the stocks, 
 the night drowsed in the darkness of the garden ; 
 Mike unlocked the gate and passed into the shadows, 
 and hypnotized by the heavenly spaces, in which there 
 were a few stars ; by the earth and the many ema- 
 nations of the earth ; by the darkness which covered 
 all things, hiding the little miseries of human exist- 
 ence, he threw himself upon the sward crying, " Oh, 
 take me, mother, hide me in thy infinite bosom, give 
 me forgetfulness of the day. Take and hide me away. 
 We leave behind a corpse that men will touch. 
 Sooner would I give myself to the filthy beaks of 
 vultures, than to their more defiling sympathies. 
 Why were we born? Why are we taught to love 
 our parents? It is they whom we should hate, for it 
 is they who, careless of our sufferings, inflict upon 
 us the evil of life. We are taught to love them because 
 the world is mad ; there is nothing but madness in 
 the world. Night, do not leave me ; I cannot bear 
 with the day. Ah, the day will come ; nothing can 
 retard the coming of the day, and I can bear no 
 longer with the day." 
 
 Hearing footsteps, he sprang to his feet, and 
 walking in the direction whence the sound came, he 
 found himself face to face with the policeman. 
 
 " Not able to get to sleep, sir?" 
 
296 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 " No, I couldn't sleep, the night is so hot ; I shall 
 sleep presently though." 
 
 They had not walked far before the offlcer, pointing 
 to one of the gables of the Temple gardens, said — 
 
 " That's where Mr. Williamson threw himself over, 
 sir; he got out on the roof, on to the highest point 
 he could reach." 
 
 " He wanted," said Mike," to do the job effectually." 
 
 " He did so ; he made a hole two feet deep." 
 
 "They put him into a deeper one." 
 
 The officer, laughed ; and they walked round the 
 gardens, passing by the Embankment to King's 
 Bench Walk. Opening the gate there, the policeman 
 asked Mike if he were coming out, but he said he 
 would return across the gardens, and let himself out 
 by the opposite gate. He walked, thinking of what 
 he and the policeman had been saying — the proposed 
 reduction in the rents of the chambers, the late inno- 
 vation of throwing open the gardens to the poor 
 children of the neighbourhood, and it was not until 
 he stooped to unlock the gate, that he remembered 
 that he was alive. 
 
 Then the voice that had been counselling him so 
 long, drew strangely near, and said "Die." The voice 
 sounded strangely clear in the void of a great brain 
 silence. Earth ties seemed severed, and then quite 
 naturally, without any effort of mind, he went up stairs 
 to shoot himself. No effort of mind was needed, it 
 seemed the natural and inevitable course for him to 
 take, and he was only conscious of a certain faint sur- 
 prise that he had so long delayed. There was no trace 
 of fear or doubt in him; he walked up the long stair- 
 case, without embarrassment, and in a heavenly calm 
 of mind hastened to put his project into execution, 
 dreading the passing of the happiness of his present 
 mood, and the return of the fever of living. He 
 
MIKEIFLETCHER. 297 
 
 stopped for a moment to see himself in the glass, 
 and looking into the depths of his eyes, he strove 
 to read there the story of his triumph over life. Then 
 seeing the disorder of his dress, and the untidy 
 appearance of his unshaven chin, he smiled, conceiving 
 in that moment that it would be consistent to make 
 as careful a toilette to meet death, as he had often 
 done to meet a love. 
 
 He was anxious for the world to know that it was 
 no' after a drunken bout he had shot himself, but after 
 philosophic deliberation and judicious reflection. And 
 he could far better affirm his state of mind by his dress, 
 than by any written words. Lying on the bed, cleanly 
 shaved, wearing evening clothes, silk socks, patent 
 leather shoes and white gloves? No, that would be 
 vulgar, and all taint of vulgarity must be avoided. He 
 must represent, even in a state of symbol, the young 
 man, who having drunk of life to repletion, and finding 
 that he can but repeat the same love draughts, says : 
 "It is far too great a bore, I will go," and he goes 
 out of life just as if he were leaving a fashionable 
 soiree in Piccadilly. That was exactly the impression 
 he wished to convey. Yes, he would have out his 
 opera hat aid light overcoat. He was a little uncer- 
 tain whether he should die in the night, or wait for 
 the day, and considering the question, he lathered 
 his face. " Curious it is," he thought, " I never was 
 so happy, so joyous in life before . . . These walls, 
 all that I see, will in a few minutes disappear; it is 
 this I, this Ego, which creates them ; in destroying 
 myself I destroy the world . . . How hard this beard 
 is! I never can shave properly without hot water!"' 
 
 As he pulled on a pair of silk socks and tied his 
 white necktie he thought of Lady Helen. Going to 
 bed was not a bad notion — particularly for a woman 
 and a woman in love, but it would be ridiculous for 
 a man. He looked at himself again in the long glass 
 
298 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 in the door of his carved mahogany wardrobe, and 
 ■was pleased to see that, although a Httle jaded and 
 worn, he was still handsome. Having brushed 
 his hair carefully, he looked out the revolver ; he did 
 not remember exactly where he had put it, and in 
 turning out his drawers he came upon a bundle of 
 old letters. They were mostly from Frank and 
 Lizzie, and in recalling old times they reminded him 
 that if he died without making a will, his property 
 would go to the crown. It displeased him to think 
 that his property should pass away in so impersonal 
 a manner. But his mind was now f«ull of death; like 
 a gourmet he longed to taste of the dark fruit of ob- 
 livion ; and the delay involved in making out a will 
 exasperated him, and it was with difificulty that he 
 conquered his selfishness and sat down to write. 
 Fretful he threw aside the pen ; this little delay had 
 destroyed all his happiness. To dispose of his 
 property in money and land would take some time; 
 the day would surprise him still in the world. After 
 a few moments' reflection he decided that he would 
 leave Belthorpe Park to Frank Escott. 
 
 " I dare say I'm doing him an injury . . . but no. 
 there's no time for paradoxes — I'll leave Belthorpe 
 Park to Frank Escott. The aristocrat shall not return 
 to the people. But to whom shall I leave all my 
 money in the funds? To a hospital? No — to a 
 woman ? I must leave it to a woman ; I hardly know 
 any one but women ; but to whom ? Suppose I were 
 to leave it to be divided among those who could 
 advance irrefutable proof that they had loved me ! 
 What a throwing over of reputation there would be." 
 Then a sudden memory of the girl by \\'hom he had 
 had a child sprang upon him like something out of 
 the dark. He wondered for a moment what the child 
 was like, and then he wrote leaving the interest of 
 his money to her, until his son, the child born in such 
 
MIKE FLETCHER. 299 
 
 a year — he had some difficulty in fixing the date — 
 came of age. She should retain the use of the interest 
 of twelve thousand pounds, and at her death that sum 
 
 should revert to the said child born in ,and if the 
 
 said child were not living, his mother should become 
 possessor of the entire moneys now invested in funds, 
 to do with as she pleased. 
 
 " That will do," he thought ; " I dare say it isn't 
 very legal, but it is common sense and will be difficult 
 to upset. Yes, and I will leave all my books and 
 furniture in Temple Gardens to Frank ; I don't care 
 much about the fellow, but I had better leave it to 
 him. And now, what about witnesses? The police- 
 men will do." 
 
 He found one in King's Bench Walk, another he 
 met a little further on, talking to a belated harlot, 
 whom he willingly relinquished on being invited to 
 drink. Mike led the way at a run up the high steps, 
 the burly officers followed more leisurely. 
 
 " Come in," he cried, and they advanced into the 
 room, their helmets in their hands. " What will you 
 take, whiskey or brandy ?" 
 
 After some indecision both decided, as Mike knew 
 they would, for the former beverage. He offered them 
 soda-water ; but they preferred a little plain water 
 and drank to his very good health. They were, as 
 before, garrulous to excess. Mike listened for some 
 few minutes, so as to avoid suspicion, and then said — 
 " Oh, by the way, I wrote out my will a night or 
 two ago — not that I want to die yet, but one never 
 knows. Would you mind witnessing it?" 
 
 The policemen saw no objection ; in a few moments 
 the thing was done, and they retired bowing, and 
 the door closed on solitude and death. 
 
 Mike lay back in his chair reading the document. 
 The fumes of the whiskey he had drunk obscured 
 his sense of purpose, and he allowed his thoughts to 
 
300 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 wander; his eyes closed and he dozed, his head 
 leaned a little on one side. He dreamed, or rather 
 he thought, for it was hardly sleep, of the dear good 
 women who had loved him ; and he mused over his 
 folly in not taking one to wife and accepting life in 
 its plain naturalness. 
 
 Then as sleep deepened the dream changed, be- 
 coming hyperbolical and fantastic, until he saw him- 
 self descending into hell. The numerous women he 
 had betrayed awaited him and pursued him with 
 blazing lamps of intense and blinding electric fire. 
 And he fled from the light, seeking darkness like 
 some nocturnal animal. His head was leaned slightly 
 on one side, the thin, weary face lying in the shadow 
 of the chair, and the hair that fell thickly on the 
 moist forehead. As he dreamed the sky grew 
 ghastly as the dead. The night crouched as if in 
 terror along the edges of the river, beneath the 
 bridges and among the masonry and the barges 
 aground, and in the ebbing water a lurid reflection 
 trailed ominously. And as the day ascended, the 
 lamps dwindled from red to white, and beyond the 
 dark night of the river, spires appeared upon faint 
 roseate gray. 
 
 Then, as the sparrows commenced their shrilling 
 in the garden, another veil was lifted, and angles 
 and shapes on the warehouses appeared, and boats 
 laden with newly-cut planks ; tJien the lights that 
 seemed to lead along the river turned short over the 
 iron girders, and in white whiffs a train sped across 
 the bridge. The clouds lifted and cleared away, 
 changing from dark gray to undecided purple, and 
 in the blank silver of the east, the spaces flushed, 
 and the dawn appeared in her first veil of rose. And 
 as if the light had penetrated and moved the brain, 
 the lips murmured — 
 
 " False fascination in which we are blinded. 
 
MIKE FLETCHkR. 3° I 
 
 Night ! shelter and save me from the day, and in 
 thy opiate arms bear me across the world." 
 
 He turned uneasily as if he were about to awake, 
 and then his eyes opened and he gazed on the spec- 
 tral pallor of the dawn in the windows, his brain 
 rousing from dreams slowly into comprehension of 
 the change that had come. Then collecting his 
 thoughts he rose and stood facing the dawn. He 
 stood for a moment like one in combat, and then 
 like one overwhelmed retreated through the folding 
 doors, seeking his pistol. 
 
 " Another day begun ! Twelve more hours of 
 consciousness and horror! I must go !" 
 
 None had heard the report of the pistol, and 
 while the pomp of gold and crimson faded, and the 
 sun rose into the blueness of morning, Mike lay still 
 grasping the revolver, the blood flowing down his 
 face, where he had fallen across the low bed, raised 
 upon lions' claws and hung with heavy curtains. 
 Receiving no answer, the servant had opened the 
 door. A look of horror passed over her face; she 
 lifted his hand, let it fall, and burst into tears. 
 
 And all the while the sun rose, bringing work and 
 sorrow to every living thing — filling the fields with 
 labourers, filling the streets with clerks and journal- 
 ists, authors and actors. And it was in the morning 
 hubbub of the Strand that Lizzie Escott stopped to 
 speak to Lottie, who was going to rehearsal. 
 
 " How exactly like his father he is growmg,' she 
 said, speaking of the little boy by the actress's side. 
 " Frank saw Mike m Piccadilly about a month ago ; 
 he promised to come and see us. but he never did." 
 
 " Swine. . He nevei could keep a promise. I 
 hope Wiliy won t grow up like him 
 
 " Who are you talking of, mother ' ot father ? ' 
 
302 MIKE FLETCHER. 
 
 The women exchanged glances. 
 
 " He's as sharp as a needle. And to think that 
 that beast never gave me but one hundred pounds, 
 and it was only an accident I got that — we happened 
 to meet in the underground railway. He took a 
 ticket for me — you know he could always be very 
 nice if he liked ; he told me a lady had left him five 
 thousand a-year, and if I wanted any money I had 
 only to ask him for it. I asked him if he wouldn't 
 like to see the child, and he said I mustn't be beastly ; 
 I never quite knew what he meant ; but I know he 
 thought it funny, for he laughed a great deal, and I 
 got into such a rage. I said I didn't want his dirty 
 money, and got out at the next station. He sent 
 me a hundred pounds next day. I haven't heard of 
 him since, and don't want to." 
 
 "Suicide of a poet in the Temple!" shouted a 
 little boy. 
 
 " I wonder who that is," said Lizzie. 
 
 " Mike used to live in the Temple," said Lottie. 
 
 The women read the reporter's account of the 
 event, and then Lottie said — 
 
 " Isn't it awful ! I wonder what he has done with 
 his money ?" 
 
 " You may be sure he hasn't thought of us. He 
 ought to have thought of Frank. Frank was very 
 good to him in old times." 
 
 "Well, I don't care what he has done with his 
 money. I never cared for any man but him. I 
 could have forgiven him everything if he had only 
 thought of the child. I hope he has left him some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Now Fm sure you are talking of father." 
 
 THE END.