“Dearest A——“I lied to you. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so.“My husband knows all. We leave England to-night.“Ever yours,“Annabel.”
“Dearest A——
“I lied to you. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so.
“My husband knows all. We leave England to-night.
“Ever yours,
“Annabel.”
Anna moved softly to the window, and threw up the sash. Ennison had disappeared.
The man opened his eyes and looked curiously about him.
“Where am I?” he muttered.
Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him.
“You are in a private room of St. Felix Hospital,” he said.
“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?”
Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. A nurse was at the other end of the room.
“There was an accident with a pistol in Miss Pellissier’s room,” he said.
The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. His brows drew a little nearer together.
“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Listen, you. Am I going to die?”
“I am afraid that you are in a dangerous state,” Courtlaw answered gravely. “The nurse will fetch the doctor directly. I wanted to speak to you first.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a friend of Miss Pellissier’s,” Courtlaw answered.
“Which one?”
“The Miss Pellissier in whose rooms you were, and who sings at the ‘Unusual,’” Courtlaw answered. “The Miss Pellissier who was at White’s with us.”
The man nodded.
“I remember you now,” he said. “So it seems that I was wrong. Annabel was in hiding all the time.”
“Annabel Pellissier is married,” Courtlaw said quietly.
“She’s my wife,” the man muttered.
“It is possible,” Courtlaw said, “that you too were deceived. Where were you married?”
“At the English Embassy in Paris. You will find the certificate in my pocket.”
“And who made the arrangements for you, and sent you there?” Courtlaw asked.
“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. He did everything.”
“I thought so,” Courtlaw said.“You too were deceived. The place to which you went was not the English Embassy, and the whole performance was a fraud. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed.”
“But Hainault—assured—me—that the marriage was binding.”
“So it would have been at the English Embassy,” Courtlaw answered, “but the place to which you went was not the English Embassy. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before.”
“But Hainault—was—a pal. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily.
“Hainault was Celeste’s friend, and Celeste was Annabel’s enemy,” Courtlaw said. “It was a plot amongst them all to humiliate her.”
“Then she has never been my wife.”
“Never for a second. She is the wife now of another man.”
Hill closed his eyes. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Then he opened them again suddenly, to find Courtlaw still by his side.
“It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. And I heard ‘Alcide’ sing, and that little dance she did. I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. He shook his head all the time. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. But one day he came to me. It was Celeste’s idea. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. We were alike. He was—a millionaire. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. God help me.”
Courtlaw was alarmed at the man’s pallor.
“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. The doctor will be here to see you in five minutes. The nurse sent for him as soon as she saw that you were conscious. It is very possible that he will ask you to tell him before witnesses how you received your wound.”
The man smiled at him.
“You are their friend, then?”
“I am,” Courtlaw answered.
“Which one?”
“The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister. I would have married her long ago, but she will not have me.”
“Bring her—here,” Hill muttered. “I——”
The door opened, and the doctor entered softly. Hill closed his eyes. Courtlaw stood up.
“He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. “Is there any urgency?”
The doctor bent over his patient, who seemed to have fallen asleep. Presently he turned to Courtlaw.
“I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. His condition is not unfavourable, but there may be a relapse at any moment.”
So only a few minutes after Ennison’s departure, while Anna stood indeed with her sister’s open letter still in her hand, Courtlaw drove up in hot haste. She opened the door to him herself.
“Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. “Hill has asked for you, and they will take his depositions to-night.”
She slipped on her cloak and stepped into the hansom with him. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets.
“Will he die?” she asked.
“Impossible to say,” he answered. “We have a private room at St. Felix. Everything is being done that can be.”
“You are sure that he asked for me—not for Annabel?”
“Certain,” Courtlaw answered.
“Has he accused any one yet?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “I have scarcely left his side.”
He was still conscious when they reached the hospital and his state was much more favourable. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her.
“Thank you—for coming,” he said. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I—wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death.”
“I forgive you willingly,” Anna said, bending over him. “It has all been a mistake, hasn’t it?”
“No more talking,” the doctor interposed.
“I want two words—with Miss Pellissier alone,” Hill pleaded.
The doctor frowned.
“Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength.”
“Two words only,” Hill repeated.
They all left the room. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper.
“Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. I meant mischief. But tell her this, too. I believed that our marriage was genuine. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me.”
“I will tell her,” Anna promised.
“She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true.”
His eyes were closed. Anna left the room on tiptoe. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together.
Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered.
She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.
“John,” she declared, “I must eat or die. Do get your hat, and we will go to that corner café.”
“Right,” he answered. “I know the place you mean—very good cooking for such an out-of-the-way show. I’ll be ready in a moment.”
Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass.
“I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. What do you think, Annabel?”
“I don’t think they would,” she admitted. “You seem to have cultivated quite a jaunty appearance, and you certainly look years younger. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife.”
“Upon my word,” he declared, “you are right. I really am enjoying it. It is like a second honeymoon. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. To-night we leave for Marseilles. On Thursday we embark for South America.”
“You are a marvellous courier,” she declared, as they passedinto the street. “You see, I will take your arm. It looks so French to be affectionate.”
“There are some French customs,” he declared, “which are admirable. I presume that I may not kiss you in the street?”
“Certainly not, sir,” she replied, laughing. “If you attempted such a thing it would be in order that I should smack you hard with the palm of my hand upon the cheek.”
“That is another French custom,” he remarked, “which is not so agreeable. Here we are. Shall we sit outside and drink apetit verreof something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?”
“Certainly not,” she answered. “I am already so hungry that I shall begin on thepetit pains. I have an appetite which I dare not increase.”
They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. Most of the tables were for those who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with tablecloths and laid for dinner. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter.
“Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. Thecarte de jourwas before Monsieur. He had but to give his orders. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. And always they were well satisfied. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur.
Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
“I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. They will guess that I am English.”
Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.
“Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t see why not,” he answered. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well.”
“You did,” Anna exclaimed.“Thank Heaven, they are bringing thehors d’oeuvres. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. Do take them away from me after I have had four.”
“After all,” Sir John remarked complacently, “it is astonishing how easy it is for people with brains and a little knowledge of the world to completely hide themselves. I am absolutely certain that up to the present we have escaped all notice, and I do not believe that any casual observer would take us for English people.”
A man who had been sitting with his hat tilted over his eyes at an adjacent table had risen to his feet and stood suddenly before them.
“Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out aDaily Telegraph. “You may find in it a paragraph of some interest to you.”
Sir John was speechless. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
“You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said.
“Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “I know you very well by sight, Sir John. It is my business to know most people. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart.”
A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John’s attention. The stranger with a bow returned to his table.
“Read this, John.”
“The Bucknall Mansions Mystery.“Montague Hill, the man who was found lying wounded in Bucknall Mansions late on Wednesday night in the rooms of a well-known artiste, has recovered sufficiently to make a statement to the police. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. He further gave the name and address of the firm from whom he purchased the revolver and cartridges, a member of which firm has since corroborated his statement.“Hill’s confession will finally refute a number of absurd stories which have been in circulation during the last few days. We understand that, notwithstanding the serious nature of the man’s injuries, there is every possibility of his recovery.”
“The Bucknall Mansions Mystery.
“Montague Hill, the man who was found lying wounded in Bucknall Mansions late on Wednesday night in the rooms of a well-known artiste, has recovered sufficiently to make a statement to the police. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. He further gave the name and address of the firm from whom he purchased the revolver and cartridges, a member of which firm has since corroborated his statement.
“Hill’s confession will finally refute a number of absurd stories which have been in circulation during the last few days. We understand that, notwithstanding the serious nature of the man’s injuries, there is every possibility of his recovery.”
Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand.
“Thank God,” he exclaimed. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all.”
Annabel’s hand stole into his.
“And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured.
“For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. It has been a real honeymoon trip, Annabel, for I feel that it has given me a wife.”
Annabel pulled up her veil.
“You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. “I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you.”
Sir John’s reply was incoherent. He called a waiter.
“Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me.”
The stranger came over to them smiling. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. He accepted the glass of wine, and bowed.
“I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. If I might take the liberty, Sir John,” he added, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, “I should like to congratulate you upon your tie.”
“Oh, damn the thing!” Sir John exclaimed, tucking the loose ends inside his coat.
“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had—tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz.”
Annabel shook her head.
“Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. He would be so disappointed. I am sure it will be good, John, and I could eat anything. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz.”
“Excellent,” Sir John declared. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner.”
Everything was good. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. They drove up into Paris in an openfiacrewith a soft cool wind blowing in their faces,hand in hand beneath the rug. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. They laughed and talked and stared about them. She took his hand in hers.
“Dear John,” she whispered. “We are to begin our married life to-night—here where I first met you. I shall only pray that I may reward you for all your goodness to me.”
Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her into his arms and kissed her. Then he stood up and hailed afiacre.
“Hotel Ritz!”
“I suppose you haven’t the least idea who I am,” Lady Lescelles said, as she settled herself in Anna’s most comfortable chair.
“I have heard of you, of course,” Anna answered hesitatingly, “but——”
“You cannot imagine what I have come to see you about. Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!”
“Oh!” Anna said.
“Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. “He is a sad blunderer. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. He is an awfully good sort—and now he has come to me to help him if I can. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?”
Anna smiled.
“Well,” she admitted. “He has said something of the sort.”
“And you have sent him about his business. He tells me that you will not even see him. I don’t want to bother you, of course. A woman has a perfect right to choose her own husband, but Nigel seemed to think that there was something a little mysterious about your treatment of him. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?”
Anna was silent for a moment or two.
Lady Lescelles, graceful, very fashionably but quietly dressed, leaned back and watched her with shrewd kindly eyes.
“I like your brother better than any other man I know,” Anna said at last.
“Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked.
“I did not,” Anna answered. “To be frank with you, Lady Lescelles, when your brother asked me the other day to be his wife I was under a false impression as regards his relations—with some other person. I know now that I was mistaken.”
“That sounds more promising,” Lady Lescelles declared. “May I tell Nigel to come and see you again? I am not here to do his love-making for him, you know. I came to see you on my own account.”
“Thank you very much,” Anna said. “It is very nice of you to come, but I do not think for the present, at any rate, I could give him any other answer. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present.”
“Well, why not?” Lady Lescelles asked, smiling. “I can only be a few years older than you, and I have been married four years. I can assure you, I wouldn’t be single again for worlds. One gets a lot more fun married.”
“Our cases are scarcely similar,” Anna remarked.
“Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours. As for money, Nigel has tons of it.”
“It isn’t exactly that,” Anna answered, “but to tell you the truth, I cannot bear to look upon myself as a rank failure. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. I tried painting and couldn’t get on. Then I came to London and tried almost everything—all failures. I had two offers of marriage from men I liked very much indeed, but it never occurred to me to listen to either of them. You see I am rather obstinate. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage.”
“Well, you can’t say you’re a failure there,” Lady Lescelles remarked, smiling. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times.”
“I have been more fortunate than I deserved,” Anna answered, “but I only meant to stay upon the music hall stage until I could get something better. I am rehearsing now for a new play at the ‘Garrick’ and I have quite made up my mind to try and make some sort of position for myself as an actress.”
“Do you think it is really worth while?” Lady Lescelles asked gently. “I am sure you will marry Nigel sooner or later, and then all your work will be thrown away.”
Anna shook her head.
“If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me.”
“What else,” Lady Lescelles murmured, “are men for?”
Anna laughed.
“Afterwards,” she said,“I should be perfectly content to have everything done for me. But I do think that if a girl is to feel comfortable about it they should start fairly equal. Take your case, for instance. You brought your husband a large fortune, your people were well known in society, your family interest I have heard was useful to him in his parliamentary career. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. Your brother has everything—I have not shown myself capable even of earning my own living except in a way which could not possibly bring any credit upon anybody. And beyond this, Lady Lescelles, as you must know, recent events have set a good many people’s tongues wagging, and I am quite determined to live down all this scandal before I think of marrying any one.”
“I am sure,” Lady Lescelles said, gently, “that the last consideration need not weigh with you in the least. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal—we all catch it terribly sometimes. It simply doesn’t count.”
“You are very kind,” Anna said. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. It does sound a little horrid to talk so much about oneself and to have views.”
“I think,” Lady Lescelles said, putting down her teacup, “that I must send Nigel to plead his own cause. I may tell him, at any rate, that you will see him?”
“I shall like to see him,” Anna answered. “I really owe him something of an apology.”
“I will tell him,” Lady Lescelles said. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves.”
“I am delighted to see you all here,” Anna said smiling upon them from behind the tea-tray, “but I shall have to ask you to excuse me for a few minutes. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. I will give you all some tea, and then I must leave you for a few minutes.”
The three men, who had arrived within a minute or two of one another, received her little speech in dead silence. Ennison, who had been standing with his back to the window, came suddenly a little further into the room.
“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I came here this afternoon hoping particularly to see you for a few moments before you signed that contract.”
She shook her head.
“We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. Earles waiting.”
Courtlaw suddenly interposed.
“May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention.”
“And I also,” Brendon echoed.
Anna was suddenly very quiet.
She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life.
“If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. I know that you are all my friends, and I know that you all have very good advice to give me. But I am afraid I am a shockingly obstinate and a very ungrateful person. No, don’t let me call myself that. I am grateful, indeed I am. But on this matter my mind is quite made up.”
Ennison hesitated for a moment.
“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “these gentlemen are your friends, and therefore they are my friends. If I am to have no other opportunity I will speak before them. I came here to beg you not to sign that contract. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
“And I,” Courtlaw said, “although I have asked before in vain, have come to ask you once more the same thing.”
“And I,” Brendon said, humbly, “although I am afraid there is no chance for me, my errand was the same.”
Anna looked at them for a moment with a pitiful attempt at a smile. Then her head disappeared suddenly in her hands, and her shoulders shook violently.
“Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. “I—I shall be all right directly.”
Brendon rushed to the piano and strummed out a tune.
The others hurried to the window. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. After all, life had still its pulsations. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity.
She called them back very soon.
The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner.
“My friends,” she said,“my dear friends, I am going to make the same answer to all of you—and that is perhaps you will say no answer at all. At present I cannot marry, I will not become bound even to any one. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. I won’t try. Only I feel that you all want to make life too easy for me, and I am determined to fight my own battles a little longer. If any of you—or all of you feel the same in six months’ time from to-day, will you come, if you care to, and see me then?”
There was a brief silence. Ennison spoke at last.
“You will sign the contract?”
“I shall sign the contract. I think that I am very fortunate to have it to sign.”
“Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?”
Her eyes were a little dim again.
“I do mean that,” she declared. “I want to have no distractions. My work will be all sufficient. I have an aunt who is coming to live with me, and I do not intend to receive any visitors at all. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself—and I think for you. Do not avoid me if we meet by accident, but I trust to you all not to let the accident happen if you can help it.”
Brendon rose and came towards her with outstretched hand.
“Good-bye, Miss Pellissier, and success to you,” he said. “May you have as much good fortune as you deserve, but not enough to make you forget us.”
Courtlaw rose too.
“You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. “I do not know whether to wish you success or not. I will wish you success or failure, whichever is the better for you.”
“And I,” Ennison said, holding her fingers tightly, and forcing her to look into his eyes, “I will tell you what I have wished for you when we meet six months from to-day.”
Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. By the side of her plate was a small key. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. There was one letter. One only.
She opened and read it at once. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day.
“My Dear Miss Pellissier,—“To-morrow the six months will be up. For days I have been undecided as to whether I would come to you or no. I would like you to believe that the decision I have arrived at—to stay away—is wholly and entirely to save you pain. It should be the happiest day of your life, and I would not detract from its happiness by letting you remember for a moment that there are others to whom your inevitable decision must bring some pain.“For I know that you love Ennison. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. It was not your fault you failed. If by any chance I have made a mistake a word will bring me to you. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken.“Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. You have made for yourself a unique place upon the stage. We have so many actresses who aspire to great things in the drama, not one who can interpret as you have interpreted it, the delicate finesse, the finer lights and shades of true comedy. Ennison will make a thousand enemies if he takes you from the stage. Yet I think that he will do it.“For my own part I have come fully now into my inheritance. I am bound to admit that I greatly enjoy my altered life. Every minute I spend here is an education to me. Before very long I hope to have definite work. Some of my schemes are already in hand. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.“You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as“Your devoted friend,“Walter Brendon.”
“My Dear Miss Pellissier,—
“To-morrow the six months will be up. For days I have been undecided as to whether I would come to you or no. I would like you to believe that the decision I have arrived at—to stay away—is wholly and entirely to save you pain. It should be the happiest day of your life, and I would not detract from its happiness by letting you remember for a moment that there are others to whom your inevitable decision must bring some pain.
“For I know that you love Ennison. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. It was not your fault you failed. If by any chance I have made a mistake a word will bring me to you. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken.
“Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. You have made for yourself a unique place upon the stage. We have so many actresses who aspire to great things in the drama, not one who can interpret as you have interpreted it, the delicate finesse, the finer lights and shades of true comedy. Ennison will make a thousand enemies if he takes you from the stage. Yet I think that he will do it.
“For my own part I have come fully now into my inheritance. I am bound to admit that I greatly enjoy my altered life. Every minute I spend here is an education to me. Before very long I hope to have definite work. Some of my schemes are already in hand. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.
“You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as
“Your devoted friend,
“Walter Brendon.”
She set the letter down, and drew from her pocket another with a foreign post mark which had come the day before. This one too she read.
“Hassell’s Camp,“Near Colorado.“On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. Do you expect me, I wonder. I think not. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. It is a true saying that in the mountains there is peace. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. Some day I shall come back, and I will show you on canvas the things which have come to me up here amongst the eternal silence.“Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I longfor a two-edged sword and a minute of Divinity. To perdition with them all.“I shall come back, if at all, a new man. I have a new cult to teach, a new enthusiasm. I feel years younger, a man again. My first visit will be to you. I must tell you all about God’s land, this marvellous virgin country, with its silent forests and dazzling peaks. I make no apology for not being with you now. You love Ennison. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. Yet I shall think of you to-day. I pray, Anna, that you may find your happiness.“Your friend,“David Courtlaw.“P.S.—I do not congratulate you on your success. I was certain of it. I am glad or sorry according as it has brought you happiness.”
“Hassell’s Camp,
“Near Colorado.
“On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. Do you expect me, I wonder. I think not. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. It is a true saying that in the mountains there is peace. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. Some day I shall come back, and I will show you on canvas the things which have come to me up here amongst the eternal silence.
“Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I longfor a two-edged sword and a minute of Divinity. To perdition with them all.
“I shall come back, if at all, a new man. I have a new cult to teach, a new enthusiasm. I feel years younger, a man again. My first visit will be to you. I must tell you all about God’s land, this marvellous virgin country, with its silent forests and dazzling peaks. I make no apology for not being with you now. You love Ennison. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. Yet I shall think of you to-day. I pray, Anna, that you may find your happiness.
“Your friend,
“David Courtlaw.
“P.S.—I do not congratulate you on your success. I was certain of it. I am glad or sorry according as it has brought you happiness.”
Anna’s eyes were a little dim as she poured out her coffee, and the laugh she attempted was not altogether a success.
“This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters—and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid.”
She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk.
Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. She struggled against it quite uselessly. She knew very well that a new thing wasstirring in her. The period of repression was over. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. He will not come. He cannot.
And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney.
“Anna,” he cried eagerly.
She held out her arms to him and smiled.
“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?”
“Deserters,” she answered, laughing. “It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid. Here are their letters.”
He took them from her and read them. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her.
“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving.”
“Please tell me why?” she asked.
“Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. You have made your public, you are already a personage. And I want you for myself—for my wife.”
She took his hand and smiled upon him.
“Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. It is just the aim I have had in view all the time. I wanted to have something to give up. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua.”
“Then you will really give it all up!” he exclaimed.
She laughed.
“When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. “They have all been trying to turn my head. I think that nearly every manager in London has made me an offer. My reply to all of them has been the same. My engagement at the ‘Garrick’ terminates Saturday week, and then I am free.”
“You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. You are not playing to-night, are you?”
“Not to-night,” she answered. “I am giving my understudy a chance. I am going up to dine with my sister.”
“Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. “I too am asked.”
“It is a conspiracy,” she exclaimed. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. My little maidservant will think that I am lost.”
They clambered down the hill together. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Ennison paused by the little gate.
“I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Here one might live the life of golden days.”
She shook her head gently.
“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “These are the playgrounds of life. The great heart of the world beats only where men and women are gathered together. You have your work before you, and I——”
He kissed her on the lips.
“I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister.”
Typesetting and editing of the original book from which this e-text has been transcribed was inconsistent. In addition to minor changes in punctuation, the theater in London in which the main character was a singer was referred to as the ‘Unusual’ and as the 'Universal'; this has been changed to refer to the theater consistently as the ‘Unusual.’ Additionally, Russell Square, the area in London where the main character resided was referred to twice as Russell Street; this has been changed to be consistent throughout this etext. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.