The "Celibate" Club (Dialogue).

"To get myself in courage—crush out fears;To strive with fate for something more than gold."

A year or two ago I received an envelope containing a lock of flame-red hair wrapped in a soiled linen rag. By this token I knew that old Sergeant Kemp—the name is a pseudonym, for reasons which will be seen—Sergeant Kemp, formerly of the Light Brigade, was dead. This knowledge unseals my lips, and permits me to divulge an extraordinary episode of the charge of Balaclava which was related to me by the veteran, and which, as far as I can judge, has entirely escaped the research of the romanticist and historian.

My original intention in going to see the old hero was to interview him and learn if he could throw any new light on the tragic and immemorial events of '54-5-6, through which, with the exception of a slight wound in the wrist, he had passed unscathed.

I propitiated him with gifts of tobacco, and, having found the "open sesame" to the cave of his reminiscences, visited him often. My object was to filch, surreptitiously as it were, the treasures I coveted, before their valuable crudity could suffer the unconscious adulteration to which such goods are liable at the hands of the professional story-monger. But I found, when the strings of his tongue were unloosed, he had very little more to relate about the events of the campaign than is already recorded. In fact, like many an actor in the drama of life, he really knew less about the generalmise-en-scenethan I, who had only reviewed it through the lorgnon of Tennyson and other contemporary writers. Seeing, however, that a shade of disappointment was cast by the fogginess of his disclosures, the old fellow one day abruptly asked if I could keep a secret were he to tell it me. I vowed my complete trustworthiness, but at the same time remonstrated that confidences so hampered would be of absolutely no use to the work I had on hand. He rose laboriously from his chair—lumbago had almost crippled him—and produced from a tin box a soiled ragcontaining the curl of red hair which is now in my possession.

"This 'air," he explained in mumbling tones, "was cut off the 'ead of Trooper Jones of ours—in times of war one 'asn't much truck with the barber," he parenthesised. "We called 'im 'Carrots,' as bein' most convenient and discriptive like. And that there bit of shirt belonged to my pal Jenkins, as good a chap as ever wore shako. It's the 'istory of 'em both as I've 'alf a mind to tell you, but you must be mum as old bones about it—at all events till this 'ere bloke's a-carried out feet foremost."

"And then?" I said, with unbecoming eagerness.

"Then you can jest do what ye darn please; the 'ole three of us 'll be orf dooty together."

So he related to me in a fragmentary manner, halting now and again and blowing clouds from his pipe as if to assist his ruminations, the strange history of Trooper Jones, almost word for word as I have set it down. He began:—

"It was in May that we got orders toembark.... I can remember turning out at four in the mornin' to march to the dockyard, and 'ow the green lanes was all a-sproutin' and a-shinin', and 'ow the sky was that pink and streaky, for all the world like a prime rasher. But that's neither 'ere nor there.... We 'ad been billeted in the villages nigh Portsmouth for several days, and my comrade, James Jenkins, and I 'ad been quartered at an inn kept by Jones' father and 'is sister—a strappin' girl, and as like her brother as one bullet's like another. They was twins, them two—with top-knots the colour o' carrots, mouths as wide as oyster-shells, allus grinnin', and a power of freckles that made their faces as yeller as speckled eggs. But Jenny Jones was a stunner, she was; she served at the bar, and gave the boys as good as they gave—'ot sauce for the cheeky and a clout o' the 'ead if need be when mi lady's blood was up. Woman-like, she was that contrary, wi' a tongue as sharp as a razor for some o' us, and all butter and honey and eyes like a sucking-calf whenever Jenkins so much as showed 'is nose. And 'e, 'e wasthat sweet on 'er as though she'd been a Wenus cast in sugar."

The old fellow blew a mighty whiff from his pipe, a whiff that was akin to a sigh, and for a few moments he became apparently fogged by the retrospective haze that surrounded him. He seemed disinclined to relate more, but as I remained silent he presently resumed:—

"I won't tell you of all the 'arrowin' sights of that there mornin', the women—mothers and wives and sweethearts—a-snivellin' and a-sobbin', the men lookin' all awry, as though they'd swallered a chemist shop and couldn't get the taste out o' their mouths. All this wi' shoutin' of orders, and noise of the 'orses bein' slung up the ship's side and let down the main 'atchway into the 'old, and the playin' of the band, and the cheerin' of the crowd in the dockyard, and the crews in the 'arbour, and the youngsters on theVictory—old fellers they must be now—a-roarin' fit to split 'emselves from the yards and riggin' so long as we 'ad ears to 'ear.

"I, bein' som'at of a bachelor by instink, 'ad no gal to wish me God-speed; but Jenkins, poor chap, was in the same boat. JennyJones 'ad not put 'erself about to see 'im nor 'er brother orf, and as they stood alongside one another looking that solemn and glum, I couldn't 'elp thinkin' o' the 'eartlessness of wenches in general and that there in pertikilar.

"But soon I thought no more on the subjec', for there was other things to mind. There was dinner, and givin' out of sea kit and gettin' our ration of grog—three parts water it was to one o' rum then, but it grew to 'alf a gill and a gill a day later on."

"About Jenkins?" I reminded, seeing that his brain reeled with the reminiscence of bygone potations.

"Oh, I didn't see 'im at that time. We went below to the stable; our beasts was stood wi' heels to the ship's sides and their sorry 'eads a-facin' of each other. They was awful bad, and mighty funky of the lurchin's of the ship. I found Jones down there—'e was a-bathin' of 'is 'orse's nose with water and vinegar, and a-cheerin' of 'im up to eat, which he wouldn't do for all the coaxin'. 'Carrots' spent all 'is spare time at that there game, givin' short answers and cursin' freely now and agin. But 'e did 'is work rightenough—cleaned stalls, polished and burnished 'is saddle and accoutrements like the best of us—though whenever I looked at 'im there was some'at shifty in his eye and an odd turn o' the 'ead, as though 'e'd been a-sneakin' rum, or a-doin' somethin' as was contrary to regilations. And one day he turns on me savage like:—

"'What the —— are you lookin' at me for? Can't you mind your own bloomin' business,' sez 'e. So I ups and sez what came to me all of a flash:—

"'Yer no more Ben Jones than I be, and what's more——'

"Before I gets out another word 'e grips 'old of my hands and looks as though 'e was a-goin' down on 'is bended knees afore me.

"'For Gord's sake, Bill, don't blow on me. I've been a-dodgin' of you so careful, and you was the only one I was a-feared on. I've allus been civil to 'e, Bill—I'll give 'e my rations of grog, Bill—I'll do anythin' for ye so long as yer leaves me alone.'

"All this came a-rushin' from 'is mouth like a water-shoot in summer that 'as been froze for 'arf the year. Then I slaps my knee and bursts into a roar.

"'Good Gord, Jenny,' sez I, 'this 'ere is a go! It's a desp'rate game you're a-playin' of.'

"'D'ye think,' she sez, 'I'd play it if I weren't desp'rate, too? 'Ere was Jim and I just married, and I not on the "strength" and 'e a-goin' sails set for the grave. Oh! I seed it, sure as I stands 'ere, and I sez to mysel', wot's the fun of bein' twin with Ben if can't go like 'im, an' fight shoulder to shoulder with my Jim? Wot's the good of this 'ere life without 'im, a-fillin' and a-swillin' and nothin' more?—for that's all's left for wummin when their 'earts is cut in two.'

"I put up my 'and, for there was someone a-comin', and we went on a-cleanin' of the stalls; but d'rectly I was able I stalked Trooper Jones and got the rest o' the 'istory out o' 'im. Course, I asks after Ben, our real 'Carrots.' And she larfs with 'er mouth a-gape and 'er white strong teeth a-shinin'.

"'Ben?' she sez, 'O, 'e was that sick 'e couldn't say me nay; he was jist rolled up in bed like a worm, and fit to stay there a week or two. Nothing pisonous, mind you; but all's fair in love or war, and this 'ere game is both. So I got 'is kit and jist marched alongat daybreak wi' the lot of you. You should 'a' seed Jim's face when 'e recognises me. He didn't guess whether 'e was glad nor glum, so he cussed like a good 'un, and that did dooty either way.'

"Young Jenny larfed till the tears came a-rollin' down 'er uniform.

"'Yer brother's in for a nasty business," sez I.

"'Not a bit of it. I've settled it. 'E'll dye 'is carrots and imigrate. Father'll see to 'im; 'e never 'ad the constitootion as was given to compensate me for being a——'

"'Hold,' sez I, 'the timbers 'ave ears. I am a-goin' to forget as there's any amphibus animals 'ereabouts; there's only troopers and 'osses as I knows of.'

"'Gord bless you, Bill! None of the other chaps 'ave twigged, and I've scarce throwed a word at Jim since we got afloat. But I looked at 'im and 'e at me, and folks with one 'eart between 'em don't need for words.'"

Here the narrator put a square thumb over the brim of his pipe and pressed the weed almost tenderly.

"In time," he went on, "I got quite proudo' young Jones, 'e was as smart a dragoon as any, an 'orsemaster every inch of 'im. Why, the way 'ed whisper into the ear of them beasts would make 'em meek were they contrary ever so....

"It took us over fifty days a-journeyin' past Malta and Constantinople and the Black Sea. I was landed fust with one or two others to report oursel's to Gen'ral the Earl of Lucan, who was a-commandin' of the Cavalry Division. Jones and Jenkins and the rest of our fellers came over fully accoutred in 'orse-boats, each at the 'ead of 'is charger. We soon 'ad work enough, I can tell you, a tent pitchin' and gettin' rations and makin' oursel's understood. The town was choke full o' ruffians, Turks, Jews, Armenians, Greeks, all a-jawing in diff'rent tongues and a quarrellin' like magpies over a bit of offal. 'Ere Jones was full o' spirits, a-larfin' and a-swearin' with the best of us. 'E 'ad a way about 'im as licked the sourest grumbler into shape. And the gals, such as they was, fancied 'is jovial mug and made eyes at 'im. It was a rum sight to watch the poor things a-wastin' ammunishun on one of their own sex. I mind me of awivandeer of the Chasseurs D'Afrique, a smart young lass in red trousers and a dark tunic, with 'er plumed 'at all cockeye on 'er head, and 'er legs astride the saddle—she was quite took up with Jones. And afterwards the Bulgarian gals was nuts on 'im, too. Jones would give us real pantomimes a-snatchin' o' kisses from one or another of 'em when they came to fill their wessels at the well.

"'E was good at work or play was 'Carrots.' Right well 'e came out of it when we 'ad to turn our 'ands to odd jobs, such as mowin' and reapin' and cookin', cos 'is fingers weren't thumbs like ours war. And at skirmishin' and outpost drill, and a-chargin' in line and by squadrons, he was real smart too; 'e took to them manœuvres as a duck takes to water, with niver a growl nor a grumble, 'owever 'ard the work.

"But a bad day it was for 'im when the cholera broke up our camp at Devno; it takes the strong 'uns fust, and then swoops down promiscus-like. Poor Jenkins got bad just as we was a-tired of buryin' an' 'earin' nothin' but the 'Dead March,' which madethe sick all of a tremble to know which would be the next to be took. 'E was down with it the wery day as we got orders to start for the Crimea. We was to march the next mornin' for Varna, and most of the night was spent in packin' up.

"Jones, 'e comes to me like one stark mad, beatin' of 'is breast and a-cursin' at the back o' 'is teeth.

"'Jim's that bad,' says 'e, 'they don' know as whether there's any 'ope for 'im.'

"'They're preparin' of arabas to carry the sick,' sez I, to console 'im.

"'Gord, Gord,' 'e sez, 'that's jest it. All the sick as might get well will go, and the others—they'll be left be'ind afore the breath's out of 'em. I 'eard someone a-sayin' there was no use in movin' of 'em as was as good as dead.'

"And sure enough next mornin' I larnt that Jones was right. Revelly sounded at three, and by six every man was on parade. Arabas, drawn by bufferloes, was packed wi' sick, the dyin' was left in 'ospital with orderleys and a sawbones to keep 'em company. They must ha' 'eard us marchin',marchin' away—them poor, animated corpses, with jest the regilation number o' gasps between 'em and eternity—but most on us was too busy to think on abstrac' things at sich a time."

"How about Jenkins?" I asked, seeing that my friend's mind had gone wool-gathering over the whole panorama of the war.

"Oh, 'e was safe enough; 'e took a turn for the better at the last moment, and they moved 'im into the arabas along with the rest, but Jones looked 'iself badly enough. 'E comes to me the nex' night and brings this 'ere lock of 'air in 'is 'and.

"'If I'm took,' sez 'e, 'give it to Jim and tell 'im to wear it on 'is 'eart for the love of "Carrots" as was.'

"I put the 'air in my 'aversack careless-like, and gave 'im a drink o' rum neat, which was better nor talk. It kippers the cholera out o' one fine.

"'The likes of you and me is always spared,' sez I, a-larfin'; 'rubbish ain't marketable aloft.'

"And spared 'e was, and would 'ave beento this day, along with this 'ere lumber, but for 'is cussed fool'ardiness....

"Things was lively for a bit afore and after the victory o' the Alma, the pertikilars of which I have reported to you. I scarce clapped eyes on Jones or Jenkins, but they was engaged in skirmishin' along with the rest of us.

"On the day that Captain Nolan came a-gallopin' in with that there momentous paper, Jones sez to me, 'There's somethin' up,' and we saw Lord Lucan and Lord Cardigan a-lookin' at them guns. The enemy had ranged 'em across the walley about a mile and a-'arf orf, with a field batt'ry on the 'ill on our left front, and another between the redoubts and the walley on our right. Captain Nolan was a-pointin', and the generals was a-confabulatin'. Then we was told to mount and move orf at a trot. The first thing that 'appens was poor Captain Nolan a-gettin' shot almost afore we broke into a gallop. 'E was struck by a bit o' shell, and d'rectly after the guns began a-playin' on us all, and the air was 'eavy with groans and curses and screams of men and 'orses a-fallin' to right and leftlike nine-pins. Jenkins and Jones was with me on the right of the line, Jenkins as blue as a corpse, and Jones flushed and savage-like, avoidin' as best 'e could the 'orses without riders as still kept pace with us, and the press of men and beasts a-jostlin' to close to the centre. We couldn't see where we was a-goin' cos o' the power 'o smoke, nor 'ear 'cos o' the boomin' and bustin' and bumpin' round the 'ill-side. Then bang I goes. A shell 'ad caught my poor 'orse in the shoulder, and over 'e rolls and I under 'im, fortunately covered from the explodin' pieces as would 'ave settled me 'ad they 'ave reached me. Jest as I was beginnin' to wonder whether I was really breathin', over my 'ead comes the second line a-gallopin' for all they was worth. 'Twas a near squeak that, and I was mighty 'mazed to find that never a 'oof 'ad come nigh so much as a finger o' me. At last I got clear of my poor beast—'e was only a dead 'ulk, all 'is fore quarters bein' blown away—and tried to stand. It was precious difficult, an' as I was limpin' in an 'op-and-go fashun, I chanced on Jenkins who 'ad likewise been bowled over, an' was lyin' under 'is 'orse in a pool o' blood.Jones was a-kneelin' by 'is side with 'is left arm clean ripped up. I suspects a splinter from the same shell as caught Jenkins 'ad struck 'im.

"''Elp me to draw 'im out,' sez 'Carrots,' with never a quiver o' the eye.

"I lent a 'and, and Jones with 'is only arm was a-strugglin' to move 'im, but we soon saw we was only causin' of the poor chap unnecessary aginy.

"'It's all up wi' me,' sez Jenkins in a failin' voice. 'Clear out sharp, they're a-firm' from the flank o' the batt'ry at them as is dismounted.'

"'Take care of Jenny,' sez 'e with 'is last breath, and wrings my 'and.

"Then Jones begins a-kneelin' alongside of 'im a-callin' 'im by every sweet name as could be thought on. Oh! it was a pitiful sight to see a big dragoon a-huggin' of another, a-kissin' of 'is lips and 'is 'ands, and 'im stone dead, a-smilin' up at the sky.

"This 'ere 'appened in a minite like, for d'rectly afterwards I sees Jones leap up and catch a 'orse wot 'ad lost 'is rider and mount 'im. 'E just looks once at 'is poor comrade,and out at the 'ills and the guns a-vomitin' smoke. Then 'e starts off—not a-ridin' like woman, nor man, nor 'ero, but a-gallopin' like the wery Devil 'isself, straight into the jaws of 'ell."

There was a pause, during which the old trooper knocked out the ashes of his pipe against the arm of his chair.

"That was the last wot I sees of 'Carrots,'" he said, with a dry smile.

MissHagar Hunch,President;MissDora Darlish,Secretary; MrsEgertonand MrsClare Graham,Visitors; and the "Celibates," eight in number.

MissHunch. Oh, Mrs Egerton, you are just in time. We are now to take the oath binding ourselves to refuse all offers of marriage.

MrsEgerton. Perhaps I had better retire; as wife, and mother of a family, I——

MissHunch. Certainly not; we welcome any witness, and, after all, we owe much to married women, since everyone of them is a Curtius who, by a leap into the chasm of publicity, may save a doomed multitude!

MrsClare Graham(laughing). Gracious! I did not know I could leap anywhere. Pray tell me how it is done.

MissHunch(glaring through her spectacles). The subject is too serious for trifling. Marriageis calculated to pen the free instincts of the feminine community. You know our motto,Aut viam inveniam aut faciam?

MrsEgerton. I see it all over the room, but that doesn't tell me what it means.

MissHunch. It means we will find a road out of our bondage—or make one!

MrsClare Graham(giggling). Sail from Scylla into Charybdis, eh? You see I allow the tragedy of both destinations.

MissHunch(sarcastically). A kind concession, but a frivolous. Still, we prefer the risk of the unknown to the horror of the known.

MrsGrahamto MrsEgerton(aside). What on earth does she mean? How many times has she been married?

MrsEgerton(aside). Hush. You mustn't offend the prejudices of the club. Ah, how do you do, Miss Darlish?

Dora Darlish(joining them). Charming rooms, aren't they? So glad to see you here, Clare.

MrsClare Graham. Thank you, but I feel rather like a fish out of water. It takes a long time to cultivate amphibiousness——

Dora. Oh, we're not amphibious—we mean to keep high and dry——

MrsClare Graham. I thought you didn't forswear love and romance and all that kind of thing, but——

Dora. Nor do we. We look on love as the divine revelation of life——

MrsClare Graham. Oh! And then?

Dora. When love has ceased to be love, we——

MrsClare Graham. Scramble to the bank to sun yourselves till ready for another dive? I must tell Charlie——

Dora. Don't. You will put wrong constructions on things. Of course we would merely preserve the right to scramble out in self-defence——

MrsClare Graham(laughing). I thought so! How about amphibians? You ought to re-christen the club!

MissHunch(speaking above the buzz of conversation). Let us join hands and make oath that, however pressed to marry, we will refuse.

(The"Celibates"join hands.)

MrsClare Graham(clutchingDora'sdressand whispering). Dora, don't be a fool. You know Charlie is devoted to you——

MissHunch(severely). Let me beg silence while the oath is taken.

Chorus of the "Celibates"(with clasped hands). We solemnly swear that, however pressed to marry, we will refuse.

MrsClare Graham(pullingDorato her side). Dora, I'm disgusted with you. Only yesterday you gave my brother a book with an inscription.

Dora. Well?

MrsClare Graham. I read it—there was something about "Pure romance of love, Idyllic and ideal as could be, All policy and prudence far above."

Dora. I'm not ashamed of it. Why shouldn't our love be idyllic and ideal? Why should wedlock of soul mean padlock of individual?

MrsClare Graham(angrily). Why, indeed? But don't talk against policy and prudence. Your theory seems the quintessence of both!

(Charlie Cheyneand his sisterMrsClare Grahamare seated.)

MrsClare Graham. Now I have told you the whole story surely you don't intend to proceed with your absurd courtship?

Charlie. I mean to marry Dora, if that's what you're driving at.

MrsClare Graham. It's impossible! However much she wanted to accept she would be bound—as a matter of honour—to refuse.

Charlie(stroking his chin contemplatively). After all, marriage is merely a matter of form, and if it pleases Dora——

MrsClare Graham(warmly). To please Dora you'll let Jane's boy inherit the estates?

Charlie. Still, Dora loves me, and she will do anything I ask.

MrsClare Graham(rising irately to leave the room). I tell you she won't! Women with convictions are obstinate as Cork pigs.

(EnterDorain a Parisian bonnet.)

Charlie. Oh, Dora, here you are! We've been expecting you for hours.

Dora. I'm afraid I've disturbed the conversation; I see Clare is ruffled.

MrsClare Graham(abruptly). No, I was going out. Good-bye. (She goes out.)

Dora. She is in a huff with me about something. Why?

Charlie(hesitatingly). No—that is—she was angry with me.

Dora. About?

Charlie. Oh, because you and I agree with each other so well on all subjects, marriage included.

Dora(pressing his hand). My beloved!

Charlie. I said it was a rotten institution—or something of the kind.

Dora(charmingly). An effete conventionality——

Charlie(putting his arm round her waist). Only suited to reckless people who risk the disappointments of the future for the effervescence of the present.

Dora. What did she say?

Charlie. She began to talk about my sister's boy inheriting the property, as though we cared.

Dora. Will he?

Charlie. Of course. It's entailed. But he's a fine lad, and we, who will be all in all to each other, need not grudge it him.

Dora(thoughtfully). I suppose not.

Charlie. I believe that is the source of Jane's affection for me. She knows how safe I am in the matter of marriage.

Dora. Then you have never contemplated it?

Charlie(emphatically). Never!

Dora(horrified). And you made love to me without any idea of proposing?

Charlie.You forget: you explained your creed at the outset.

Dora(paling). Then you deliberately availed yourself of the opportunity——

Charlie(drawing his moustache over the corners of his lips). Of adoring a girl whose theories corresponded with my own? Yes.

Dora(with tears in her eyes). Oh! You mean you would not have loved me if your courtship had involved marriage?

Charlie. I can't say. We both abhor to be handicapped by legalities, don't we? We both enjoy the same rights of independence——

Dora(rising angrily). Then, if loving mehad necessitated the surrender of your liberty you could not have done it?

Charlie(earnestly). Could you?

Dora(sobbing). Could I? I would have loved you always.

Charlie(taking her in his arms). I would have loved you in the same way.

Dora. Not if I had wanted to marry you?

Charlie. I won't say. You never put me to the test.

Dora(excitedly). But if I should? Oh, Charlie—tell me, would you—won't you—marry me?

(MrsGrahamenters, and, finding them in each others arms, prepares to leave.)

Charlie. Clare! We want your congratulations. Dora has proposed to me, and I am to name the happy day.

MrsClare Graham. What! And how about her oath?

Dora(blushing). Oh, I only vowed that, however pressed to marry, I would refuse. But I was not pressed; was I, Charlie?

Charlie(sedately). Certainly not.

"But the sweet child heart you may always keep,For then the stars will be yours and the deep,The boundless deep. Good night."

It had been a long engagement, commenced by him between the ages of knickerbocker and tobacco, and encouraged by her as a development of the Prince Bountiful and Cinderella romances of the schoolroom. A charming contract, drawn up without sign and seal and cemented after the manner of barbaric hordes by heterogeneous offerings precious to the engaging parties, such as guinea-pigs, bird's eggs, looted apples, and, later on, prizes in vellum, deposited with blushing triumph into the concavity of a Dolly Varden pinafore. Parents wagged their heads and forbade, but the veto was conditional; the wisdom of the serpent was allied to a certain downiness of the dove, for hints at expectations in the future of the impecunious suitor necessitated an attitude both Janus-faced and revolving. Their perspicacity was duly rewarded, for lateron the vacuous pockets of the young subaltern—he had gone to thicken the "thin red line"—became plethoric with inherited revenues of a deceased uncle on the mother's side, a personage for whom malt had been the Brahma of idolatry, who had laid up for himself a tidy treasure despite the corruptions of rust and moth.

No sooner were the legacy dues arranged than Victor Dorrien, in a letter beautifully ebullient if ungrammatical, demanded permission to import his chosen one to share a temporary exile in India where, for the nonce, he was tied by technical obligations. He vowed that celibacy was dull, and soldiering monotonous; and, moreover, that, without the sweetheart of his youth to tease and plague him, there would no glint on the avuncular guineas.

The letter was a hearty one, and went the round of the family circle to a chorus of satisfied praise. The chorus did it. Someone has said that "perpetual representation amounts to inculcation," and this phrase ably describes the uses of chorus. Continued reiteration makes gospel truth. The family chorus onthe subject of matrimony is the mainstay of parental soloists, its note brings the recalcitrant or frisking lamb to "mark time," and subsequently dictates the pace of a quick march to the impending sacrifice. Social excitement is almost as sustaining as fanatical enthusiasm; it is the intoxicant which inflames half the actors that strut through the world's dramas of marriage, murder, or martyrdom. It sustained and inflamed little Elsie, who, dizzy with congratulations, valedictory gushings, present receiving, dress trying, and orange-blossom choosing, ignored the importance of life's destination in the enjoyment of the surrounding and immediate scenery. There was great leave-taking and kerchief-waving and some coursing of tears down kindred cheeks and noses as the bride-elect was deposited, with wedding-cake, dress, and addenda, on board the s.s.Kenilworth, in temporary charge of apasséematron of skittish proclivities and Anglo-Indian epidermis. This obliging lady had volunteered to personify decorum until arrival in Bombay, when her youthful charge would be transferred to the chaperonage of Dorrien'ssister, on whom the observances of marriage etiquette depended. Elsie was in no way averse from the arrangement. All was so novel and so exciting that the Columbus instinct outbalanced the romantic one. The world had much to offer and the suburbs very little. There was certainly a well-grown curate, an Oxford man, ingrained with pedantry and pomposity, and delicately veneered with artistic ethics; also a retired bookmaker's son, who wore loud ties and restricted "unmentionables," and who spent money lavishly nursing a constituency, no one knew where. On the other hand stood Victor as she remembered him, sound in wind and limb, handsome, honest, and professedly devoted. Her choice was unhesitating, and she started forth with dancing heart.

As usual came the inevitabledies non, when the unfledged traveller makes a first bow to the Channel, followed by one or two squeamish days, when the Bay of Biscay as lauded in poesy and the Bay of Biscay as discovered in practice are two quite antagonistic things. After which, with rarified complexion, the sufferer forgets his troubles, and mounts thedeck to enjoy a beatific spell of brine and breeze.

So in due course did Elsie. She found Mrs Willis, who was an old campaigner, busily engaged in conversation, or its equivalent, the note-comparing, gossip-scavengering tattle which is inherent to feminine camp followers of a certain age. Her companions were one Major Lane and his friend, Captain Burton Aylmer, the latter a person of some celebrity in military circles where sport was supreme. He looked lazy, long, and languid, and to those who had seen him neither tent-pegging nor polo playing, who knew nothing of the spearing of veteran boars, whose tushes fringed his mantel at home, nor of the "man eater" duel, which in hunting annals had made his name historical, he seemed effete, if not affected. He was lolling at full length in a rattan chair, listening indolently to the flippant duologue of the major and the grass widow. The lady did not interest him. Her type was too cheap. She represented one of an order that seemed to be chromo-lithographed in reams for the benefit of garrisons in Great Britain, India,and the Colonies; but when he discovered in her the chaperone of a youngingenue, with fringeless forehead and skin like new milk dashed with sunset, his nonchalance subsided, and he became almost polite. Mrs Willis was prompt to detect the change of tactics, and swift to solve the problem. She plumed herself not a little on the possession of a decoy duck, capable of luring so desirable a prey as Captain Burton Aylmer into her social toils.

"Be civil to him, my dear," she advised when in private. "Half the women on board would give their eyes to get him in tow. He is verydifficile." Mrs Willis affected the slangy in talking to young girls. She thought it gave a contemporaneous flavour to the intercourse.

"He seemed to me pleasant enough," breathed Elsie, who was quite unscienced in complexities of character.

"He can be when he chooses. They say Lady Staines would have given her back hair for him and followed him barefoot across Asia—but he didn't see it!"

"Oh!"

"He is very accustomed to that sort of thing. His heart is quite tear-toughened, a kind of spongiopiline—receptive and impermeable at the same time."

"Perhaps you do him an injustice; there may never have been a question of his heart?"

"His sponsor so soon? Beware, little girl; they say he never loved since a certain queen of society threw him over for strawberry leaves."

"Threw him over!" A line of Tennyson regarding the value of coronets flashed across her. She wondered with a girlish contemplative scepticism how this bronzed physique, this heroic modelling, this almost womanly gentleness of expression had failed, having won, to hold.

Hour after hour passed in the usual shipboard routine, by which every day became the exact counterpart of its forerunner. Only to Elsie was each moment a joy and a revelation. It was impossible to disregard the fact that, from being a juvenile of no account, she had developed into a personage—a personage, whose humble servitor society had been readyenough to serve. In the conquest there was no elation such as might have existed for maturer women. She was too absorbed with the all ruling presence to heed what happened around. The wind was only fresh when it carried his voice to her ear, the waves only buoyant when they danced beneath their mutual pacings; day was light, because she shared it with him; night was dark, because they were apart.

At last Mrs Willis betrayed signs of alarm. "A mild flirtation is all very well, but people will talk; you must really be careful, Elsie! What will Victor Dorrien say when he comes to claim his bride?"

Dorrien! His bride! The words mentally thrust Bradshaw into the binding of Keats; she suffocated as though she had steamed direct from Eden to seaside lodgings. Was she indeed affianced to this almost unremembered lover of her childhood, and was she indeed journeying straight into his arms? How came it that the purpose of her voyage had been almost forgotten, that the seconds had grown so full of actuality as to outsize the horizon, the zenithed sunshine so blinding,that all surroundings seemed enveloped in atmospheric haze?

Each morning in her cabin she registered a vow that the coming day should be the last of illusion, that the stern facts of destiny should be faced; each night her fevered, impatient brain cried for dawn, to prove by the sight of the noble outlines, the sound of the beloved voice, that the end was not yet come. It was scarcely his utterances that attracted; perhaps the knowledge of his soul grew best from what he failed to say, what he failed to seem. But she saw the weary boredom of his eyes change to fire as her glance sought his, and she knew her lightest speech sped like spores upon the wind to find a root and resting place within his heart. She yearned to hint at her projected fate—she yearned, yet dreaded. Dissection of the sentimental mosaic of years is no facile undertaking, so many scraps and fragments go to the gradual making of the romantic whole, and she dared not approach the culminating tangle of the love story without explaining in detail the nascence and growth of the dilemma.

Thus with the course of the vessel driftedthe craft of emotion, past Suez, through the broil of the Red Sea, out again into a sapphire ocean.

Mrs Willis, looking ahead, saw breakers and imminent wreck.

"You are both mad," she thundered at Elsie. "This must cease; you must tell him that in a few days, immediately on your arrival in Bombay in fact, you are to marry."

"I cannot."

"But, child, think of it. What can you do? Youmustgo to Dorrien's sister's house—it is all arranged—you will be married the next day. You know I do not land, and that there will be no one but the Dorriens to take care of you. You could not even return to England without delay that would be scandalous."

All this poured in a breath from the agitated chaperone, who had awakened too late to a sense of her responsibilities.

"I will tell him to-morrow—to-morrow night ... it will be the last," sobbed Elsie to the pillows in her restricted berth. And when dinner was ended, the final meal on board—for the vessel was steaming extraknots per hour in order to reach port at daybreak—these lovers met for their farewell. They paced the dimly-lighted deck in silence, with weighted feet, and hearts that scarcely pulsed lest the bumper of anguish might run over. Then, behind the wheel, where the gusts of laughter from the expectant and happy travellers could not reach them, they halted—still silent, staring with parched, despairing eyes at the swirling water and the long track of dimpled silver that spread like the trail of an ocean comet in their wake. The night showed serene and purple, a universe in regal repose, only the ship, throbbing with insensate activity, rushed panting to doom; on, on, on, while precious moments flashed fast—a shower of jewels falling into the abyss, never to be retrieved. There was no Joshua to hold time in a spell; nothing to stay the deepening hours from waning into a disastrous dawn.

She spoke. His profile cut dark against the ocean reflections; there was no fear of meeting his eyes.

"To-morrow morning we shall touch Bombay. I am going there to be married, Captain Aylmer." Silence again. Theship's machinery rotated evenly—mercilessly. His face was sunk in shadow, she could but guess that her speech was heard.

"Is it not news to you?"

Her words, like drunken footsteps on stony soil, reeled despite an affectation of steadiness.

"No; I was told you would marry unless——"

"Unless what?" she quavered.

"Unless you changed your mind—refused."

"Mr Dorrien's sister is my only friend in Bombay. If I refuse—leave her house—I shall be alone. I shall be helpless when Mrs Willis and you are gone."

A light hand, hot and feverish, shot its flame through his thin coat sleeve. He shivered.

"That is what I am coming to. Stand away from me—do not look at me—I want to say something which sticks very hard."

He shrank back into deeper shadow. There was horrible stillness. She stood transfixed, chilling, as Lot's wife must have stood when crystal after crystal replaced the warm and buoyant rivulets of being.

"Elsie—I may call you that just once—youmust not refuse. If you do, you will be without any friendship but mine—and my friendship would be worse than deadliest enmity. The reason you must have guessed. It has kept me tongue-tied till now—a coward, a blackguard, some might say. The reason is because"—his voice blurred hoarsely through a strangled sob—"because I am married already."

A convulsive gasp from her—scarcely audible—no word.

He clutched at a rail and resumed almost grimly, cauterising his gaping wound with reality's searing iron,

"My wife is in a sanatorium, mentally deranged. A virtuous woman, but she was wedded to mysticism and morphia, and loved me never a bit."

The fall of pitiful tears, tears from the sweet blue of her guileless eyes, came hissing against the red-hot cicatrice. His strength almost failed. Such innocence, such loneliness needed protection. But his! This man who had brought down wild beasts in the open, found deadlier tussle in the confines of his brain. He quavered—his firm jawsclenched. Reason is muscular, but nature is subtle and crafty. With a jerk, a twist, reason is overthrown, but it takes time and heart's blood to stretch nature prone and panting.

When he next spoke his voice was hard—uneven.

"Elsie, for God's sake help me! Don't cry, or I must open my arms and hold you in them for ever, come what may. We have needed no words to translate love's language in—no signs to show we were each to each the complement that Heaven has made and laws of men have marred; we shall need no oath to bind us to remembrance. Good-bye. Some day, when you are older, you may know what it costs a fellow to protect a woman from her greatest enemy—himself."

The sound smote her heart, harsh and grating, like rusty steel. She could not scan the ashen mask that hid the rage of conflict; merciful darkness had enveloped the death struggle with a gossamer pall. There was not even a clasp of hands to tell his going; she knew it, but still stood there, as the vessel glided on into the sweltering night's maturityover a placid sea, under a placid sky, while human passions raged and rent themselves in useless agony.

Two hours later all was silent; most of the passengers, overcome with the tropical temperature and restlessness, were sinking into the fevered sleep that comes only when night's noon has turned a cool shoulder to the scorchings of the day. On the open deck, to catch what breeze there might be, the men slumbered, with forms inartistically outspread; the women, in a more sheltered nook, though not far removed, were stretched on couches all in a row like shrouded corpses awaiting the resurrection. Night looked down as on some pillaged city where only the dead are left to keep each other ghostly company. Suddenly, from among them there uprose a small, white wraith—lithe, barefooted, with wandering hair. It fled, looking nor right nor left—its footfall light as snowflakes—straight on, to where the ship's track threw a ruffled tongue across the stillness of the water. In a single flash the silver ripples gaped, parted, closed again, enfolding in the bosom of the deep thefair frail atom—an atom that seemed, in the immensity, scarce larger than the feather from a seagull's wing. Then the serene face of the ocean smiled smoothly as ever, hugging its hidden secret till the bursting of the grand chorus when the sea gives up its dead.

And Burton Aylmer, afar off, with outstretched, grey-flanneled limbs, lay motionless, his hands clasped beneath his head, his eyes staring with haggard scepticism at the floating ultramarine of the heavens. His lips moved as though framing a prayer, but he was only muttering to himself, parrot-wise, the burden of the ritual that bound him to "a virtuous woman, wedded to mysticism and morphia," who loved him "never a bit."

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