Oscar Wilde.............................................................................................................................................1

IT was Lady Windermere's last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded than

usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speaker's Levee in their stars and ribands, all the pretty

women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picturegallery stood the Princess Sophia of

Carlsruhe, a heavy Tartarlooking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at

the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a

wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers

brushed coattails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout primadonna from

room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at

one time the supperroom was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermere's

As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picturegallery, where a celebrated political

economist was solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and

began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her

large blue forgetmenot eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. OR PUR they were not that pale straw

colour that nowadays usurps the gracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in

strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the fascination

of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she had discovered the important truth that

nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite

harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed her husband;

indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long

ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with that inordinate

Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear contralto voice, 'Where is my

'Dear Gladys! you are always so original,' murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist

'He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,' continued Lady Windermere, 'and is most interesting

'Good heavens!' said the Duchess to herself, 'he is a sort of cheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope

'Introduce him!' cried the Duchess; 'you don't mean to say he is here?' and she began looking about for a

small tortoiseshell fan and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a moment's notice.

'Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without him. He tells me I have a pure psychic

hand, and that if my thumb had been the least little bit shorter, I should have been a confirmed pessimist, and

'Oh, I see!' said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; 'he tells fortunes, I suppose?'

'And misfortunes, too,' answered Lady Windermere, 'any amount of them. Next year, for instance, I am in

great danger, both by land and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket

every evening. It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.'

'My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. I think every one should have their

hands told once a month, so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so

pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn't go and fetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.'

'Let me go, Lady Windermere,' said a tall handsome young man, who was standing by, listening to the

'If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn't well miss him. Tell me what he is like, and I'll

'Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not mysterious, or esoteric, or romanticlooking. He is

a little, stout man, with a funny, bald head, and great goldrimmed spectacles; something between a family

doctor and a country attorney. I'm really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my

pianists look exactly like poets, and all my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking

a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a coat

of mail, and carried a dagger up his shirtsleeve; and do you know that when he came he looked just like a

nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I

was awfully disappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only laughed, and said it was far

too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of

Paisley's hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the left hand, the other.'

'Dear Gladys, I really don't think it is quite right,' said the Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid

'Nothing interesting ever is,' said Lady Windermere: 'ON A FAIT LE MONDE AINSI. But I must introduce

you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley, and if

you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I have, I will never believe in you again.'

'I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,' said the Duchess gravely.

'Your Grace is quite right,' said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the little fat hand with its short square fingers, 'the

mountain of the moon is not developed. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the wrist. Thank

you. Three distinct lines on the RASCETTE! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy.

'Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' said Mr. Podgers, bowing, 'if the Duchess ever had been, but I am

sorry to say that I see great permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of duty.'

'Economy is not the least of your Grace's virtues,' continued Mr. Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off

'Economy is a very good thing,' remarked the Duchess complacently; 'when I married Paisley he had eleven

'Comfort,' said Mr. Podgers, 'and modern improvements, and hot water laid on in every bedroom. Your Grace

'You have told the Duchess's character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and now you must tell Lady Flora's'; and in

answer to a nod from the smiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulderblades,

stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers.

'Ah, a pianist! I see,' said Mr. Podgers, 'an excellent pianist, but perhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved,

'Quite true!' exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere, 'absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen

collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our town house into a menagerie if her father would let her.'

'Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,' cried Lady Windermere, laughing, 'only

'If a woman can't make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,' was the answer. 'But you must read

some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours'; and a geniallooking old gentleman, in

a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged hand, with a very long third finger.

'An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come. Been shipwrecked three times. No,

only twice, but in danger of a shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, very punctual, and with a

passion for collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a

'Extraordinary!' exclaimed Sir Thomas; 'you must really tell my wife's hand, too.'

'Your second wife's,' said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir Thomas's hand in his. 'Your second wife's. I

shall be charmed'; but Lady Marvel, a melancholylooking woman, with brown hair and sentimental

eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could

do would induce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many

people seemed afraid to face the odd little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and his bright,

beady eyes; and when he told poor Lady Fermor, right out before every one, that she did not care a bit for

music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancy was a most dangerous

Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady Fermor's unfortunate story, and who

had been watching Mr. Podgers with a great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity to have his

own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting himself forward, crossed over the room to where

Lady Windermere was sitting, and, with a charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.

'Of course, he won't mind,' said Lady Windermere, 'that is what he is here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are

performing lions, and jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I shall

tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me tomorrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers

finds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let

Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. 'I am not afraid,' he answered. 'Sybil knows me as well as I know

'Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I

am not at all cynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same thing. Mr.

Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his hand read. Don't tell him that he is engaged to one of the

most beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the MORNING POST a month ago.

'Dear Lady Windermere,' cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, 'do let Mr. Podgers stay here a little longer. He

'If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and

'Well,' said Lady Jedburgh, making a little MOUE as she rose from the sofa, 'if I am not to be allowed to go

'Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,' said Lady Windermere; 'and now, Mr. Podgers, be

But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale, and said nothing. A shudder seemed

to pass through him, and his great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had

when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a

Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself

felt fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the worst,

'We are all waiting,' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no

'I believe Arthur is going on the stage,' said Lady Jedburgh, 'and that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is

Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seized hold of his left, bending down so low to

examine it that the gold rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face

became a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his SANGFROID, and looking up at Lady

'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be a charming husband? That is what I want to

'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating,' murmured Lady Jedburgh pensively, 'it is so dangerous.'

'My dear child, they never are too fascinating,' cried Lady Windermere. 'But what I want are details. Details

'Certainly not his sister,' answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating wave of the hand, 'a distant relative

'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I have absolutely nothing to tell Sybil

tomorrow. No one cares about distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I

suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for church, you know. And now let us go to

supper. They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. Francois used to make

excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I

'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards the door. 'I have enjoyed myself

immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my

tortoiseshell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir

Thomas, very kind, I'm sure'; and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without dropping her

All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over

him, the same sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as she swept past him on Lord

Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when

she called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come between

Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of Pallas, and shown him the

Gorgon's head. He seemed turned to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the

delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid

care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery

How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his hand, in characters that he could not

read himself, but that another could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some bloodred sign of crime?

Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the

potter fashions at his fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt that some

tragedy was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable burden.

Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will

suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men and women are forced to

perform parts for which they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets

Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he started, and his coarse, fat face

became a sort of greenishyellow colour. The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.

'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked me to bring it to her,' said Mr.

'Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to a question I am going to put to

'Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,' said Mr. Podgers, with his sickly smile. 'The fair sex is apt

Lord Arthur's finelychiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor Duchess seemed to him of very little

importance at that moment. He walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his hand

'Tell me what you saw there,' he said. 'Tell me the truth. I must know it. I am not a child.'

Mr. Podgers's eyes blinked behind his goldrimmed spectacles, and he moved uneasily from one foot to the

'What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur, more than I told you?'

'I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I will pay you. I will give you a cheque for a

'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address is , but allow me to give you my card'; and

producing a bit of giltedge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed it, with a low bow, to

'My hours are from ten to four,' murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically, 'and I make a reduction for families.'

Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy PORTIERE across the door.

'Be quick, sir,' cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily on the polished floor.

Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breastpocket a small magnifying glass, and wiped it carefully with his

TEN minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with grief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from

Bentinck House, crushing his way through the crowd of furcoated footmen that stood round the large striped

awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The night was bitter cold, and the gaslamps round the

square flared and flickered in the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned like

fire. On and on he went, almost with the gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as he

passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery greater

than his own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he could detect the stain of

Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very night seemed to know it, and the

desolate wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It grinned at him from the

First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him. He leaned wearily up against the

railings, cooling his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the trees. 'Murder!

murder!' he kept repeating, as though iteration could dim the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice

made him shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its

dreams. He felt a mad desire to stop the casual passerby, and tell him everything.

Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys. Two women with painted faces mocked

at him as he went by. From a dark courtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrill screams,

and, huddled upon a damp doorstep, he saw the crookbacked forms of poverty and eld. A strange pity came

over him. Were these children of sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his? Were they, like him,

And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck him; its absolute uselessness, its

grotesque want of meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He was

amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real facts of existence. He was still

After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The silent roadway looked like a long riband of

polished silver, flecked here and there by the dark arabesques of waving shadows. Far into the distance

curved the line of flickering gaslamps, and outside a little walledin house stood a solitary hansom, the

driver asleep inside. He walked hastily in the direction of Portland Place, now and then looking round, as

though he feared that he was being followed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading a small bill

upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirred him, and he crossed over. As he came near, the word

'Murder,' printed in black letters, met his eye. He started, and a deep flush came into his cheek. It was an

advertisement offering a reward for any information leading to the arrest of a man of medium height, between

thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billycock hat, a black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon

his right cheek. He read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretched man would be caught, and how

he had been scarred. Perhaps, some day, his own name might be placarded on the walls of London. Some

The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and hurried on into the night.

Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a labyrinth of sordid houses, of

being lost in a giant web of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at last in Piccadilly

Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square, he met the great waggons on their way to Covent

Garden. The whitesmocked carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode sturdily

on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the

leader of a jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping tight hold

of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of vegetables looked like masses of jade

against the morning sky, like masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous rose. Lord

Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There was something in the dawn's delicate loveliness

that seemed to him inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in beauty, and that set in

storm. These rustics, too, with their rough, goodhumoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange

London they saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a pallid, ghostlike city, a

desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knew anything of its

splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fierycoloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of all it makes and mars

from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a mart where they brought their fruits to sell, and where

they tarried for a few hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still asleep. It gave him pleasure

to watch them as they went by. Rude as they were, with their heavy, hobnailed shoes, and their awkward

gait, they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived with Nature, and that she had taught

By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and the birds were beginning to twitter

WHEN Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun was streaming through the ivorysilk

curtains of his room. He got up and looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over the great

city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver. In the flickering green of the square below some

children were flitting about like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded with people on their way to

the Park. Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had the things of evil seemed more remote.

Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he had drunk it, he drew aside a heavy

PORTIERE of peachcoloured plush, and passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from above,

through thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble tank glimmered like a moonstone. He

plunged hastily in, till the cool ripples touched throat and hair, and then dipped his head right under, as

though he would have wiped away the stain of some shameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost

at peace. The exquisite physical conditions of the moment had dominated him, as indeed often happens in the

case of very finelywrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can purify as well as destroy.

After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette. On the mantelshelf, framed in dainty

old brocade, stood a large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at Lady Noel's ball. The small,

exquisitelyshaped head drooped slightly to one side, as though the thin, reedlike throat could hardly bear

the burden of so much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet music; and all the

tender purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress of

CREPEDECHINE, and her large leafshaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little figures men

find in the olivewoods near Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she

was not PETITE. She was simply perfectly proportioned a rare thing in an age when so many women are

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity that is born of love. He felt that to

marry her, with the doom of murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of Judas, a sin worse

than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he

might be called upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life would be

theirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, at all costs. Of

this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat

together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognised none the less clearly where his

duty lay, and was fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed the murder.

This done, he could stand before the altar with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of

wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that she would never have to blush for him,

never have to hang her head in shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of dalliance to the steep heights of duty;

but Lord Arthur was too conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than mere passion in

his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is good and noble. For a moment he had a natural

repugnance against what he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not a sin,

but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there was no other course open. He had to choose between living

for himself and living for others, and terrible though the task laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet he knew

that he must not suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner or later we are all called upon to decide on

the same issue of us all, the same question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life before his nature

had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of middleage, or his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable

egotism of our day, and he felt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunately also, for him, he was no mere

dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had he been so, he would have hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution mar his

purpose. But he was essentially practical. Life to him meant action, rather than thought. He had that rarest of

The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time completely passed away, and it was almost

with a sense of shame that he looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, his fierce emotional

agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings made them seem unreal to him now. He wondered how he could

have been so foolish as to rant and rave about the inevitable. The only question that seemed to trouble him

was, whom to make away with; for he was not blind to the fact that murder, like the religions of the Pagan

world, requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he felt that this

was not the time for the gratification of any personal pique or dislike, the mission in which he was engaged

being one of great and grave solemnity. He accordingly made out a list of his friends and relatives on a sheet

of notepaper, and after careful consideration, decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old

lady who lived in Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his mother's side. He had always been

very fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and as he was very wealthy himself, having come into all

Lord Rugby's property when he came of age, there was no possibility of his deriving any vulgar monetary

advantage by her death. In fact, the more he thought over the matter, the more she seemed to him to be just

the right person, and, feeling that any delay would be unfair to Sybil, he determined to make his arrangements

The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the cheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton

writingtable that stood near the window, drew a cheque for 105 pounds, payable to the order of Mr.

Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an envelope, told his valet to take it to West Moon Street. He then

telephoned to the stables for his hansom, and dressed to go out. As he was leaving the room he looked back at

Sybil Merton's photograph, and swore that, come what may, he would never let her know what he was doing

for her sake, but would keep the secret of his selfsacrifice hidden always in his heart.

On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist's, and sent Sybil a beautiful basket of narcissus, with

lovely white petals and staring pheasants' eyes, and on arriving at the club, went straight to the library, rang

the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him a lemonandsoda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully

decided that poison was the best means to adopt in this troublesome business. Anything like personal

violence was extremely distasteful to him, and besides, he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina

in any way that might attract public attention, as he hated the idea of being lionised at Lady Windermere's, or

seeing his name figuring in the paragraphs of vulgar society newspapers. He had also to think of Sybil's

father and mother, who were rather oldfashioned people, and might possibly object to the marriage if there

was anything like a scandal, though he felt certain that if he told them the whole facts of the case they would

be the very first to appreciate the motives that had actuated him. He had every reason, then, to decide in

favour of poison. It was safe, sure, and quiet, and did away with any necessity for painful scenes, to which,

Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, and as the waiter seemed quite unable to

find anything in the library but RUFF'S GUIDE and BAILEY'S MAGAZINE, he examined the bookshelves

himself, and finally came across a handsomelybound edition of the PHARMACOPOEIA, and a copy of

Erskine's TOXICOLOGY, edited by Sir Mathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians, and

one of the oldest members of the Buckingham, having been elected in mistake for somebody else; a

CONTRETEMPS that so enraged the Committee, that when the real man came up they blackballed him

unanimously. Lord Arthur was a good deal puzzled at the technical terms used in both books, and had begun

to regret that he had not paid more attention to his classics at Oxford, when in the second volume of Erskine,

he found a very interesting and complete account of the properties of aconitine, written in fairly clear English.

It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It was swift indeed, almost immediate, in its effect

perfectly painless, and when taken in the form of a gelatine capsule, the mode recommended by Sir Mathew,

not by any means unpalatable. He accordingly made a note, upon his shirtcuff, of the amount necessary for

a fatal dose, put the books back in their places, and strolled up St. James's Street, to Pestle and Humbey's, the

great chemists. Mr. Pestle, who always attended personally on the aristocracy, was a good deal surprised at

the order, and in a very deferential manner murmured something about a medical certificate being necessary.

However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him that it was for a large Norwegian mastiff that he was

obliged to get rid of, as it showed signs of incipient rabies, and had already bitten the coachman twice in the

calf of the leg, he expressed himself as being perfectly satisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his wonderful

Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver BONBONNIERE that he saw in a shop window in Bond

Street, threw away Pestle and Hambey's ugly pillbox, and drove off at once to Lady Clementina's.

'Well, MONSIEUR LE MAUVAIS SUJET,' cried the old lady, as he entered the room, 'why haven't you been

'My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself,' said Lord Arthur, smiling.

'I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss Sybil Merton, buying CHIFFONS and talking

nonsense? I cannot understand why people make such a fuss about being married. In my day we never

'I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twentyfour hours, Lady Clem. As far as I can make out, she belongs

'Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly old woman like myself. I wonder you men don't

take warning. ON A FAIT DES FOLIES POUR MOI, and here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, with a false

front and a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady Jansen, who sends me all the worst French novels

she can find, I don't think I could get through the day. Doctors are no use at all, except to get fees out of one.

'I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,' said Lord Arthur gravely. 'It is a wonderful thing, invented by

'I don't think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sure I don't. I read some American novels lately,

'Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! I assure you it is a perfect cure. You must promise

to try it'; and Lord Arthur brought the little box out of his pocket, and handed it to her.

'Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? That is very sweet of you. And is this the wonderful

'Good heavens! Lady Clem,' cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of her hand, 'you mustn't do anything of the

kind. It is a homoeopathic medicine, and if you take it without having heartburn, it might do you no end of

harm. Wait till you have an attack, and take it then. You will be astonished at the result.'

'I should like to take it now,' said Lady Clementina, holding up to the light the little transparent capsule, with

its floating bubble of liquid aconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The fact is that, though I hate doctors, I love

'I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morning with it. But one never knows.'

'I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are today, Arthur! Really, Sybil has done you a great deal of good.

And now you must run away, for I am dining with some very dull people, who won't talk scandal, and I know

that if I don't get my sleep now I shall never be able to keep awake during dinner. Goodbye, Arthur, give my

'You won't forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat.

'Of course I won't, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of you to think of me, and I shall write and tell you if

Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling of immense relief.

That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her how he had been suddenly placed in a position

of terrible difficulty, from which neither honour nor duty would allow him to recede. He told her that the

marriage must be put off for the present, as until he had got rid of his fearful entanglements, he was not a free

man. He implored her to trust him, and not to have any doubts about the future. Everything would come right,

The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton's house, in Park Lane, where Lord Arthur had dined

as usual. Sybil had never seemed more happy, and for a moment Lord Arthur had been tempted to play the

coward's part, to write to Lady Clementina for the pill, and to let the marriage go on as if there was no such

person as Mr. Podgers in the world. His better nature, however, soon asserted itself, and even when Sybil

flung herself weeping into his arms, he did not falter. The beauty that stirred his senses had touched his

conscience also. He felt that to wreck so fair a life for the sake of a few months' pleasure would be a wrong

He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and being comforted in turn, and early the next

morning he left for Venice, after writing a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about the necessary postponement

IN Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to have come over from Corfu in his yacht. The

two young men spent a delightful fortnight together. In the morning they rode on the Lido, or glided up and

down the green canals in their long black gondola; in the afternoon they usually entertained visitors on the

yacht; and in the evening they dined at Florian's, and smoked innumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet

somehow Lord Arthur was not happy. Every day he studied the obituary column in the TIMES, expecting to

see a notice of Lady Clementina's death, but every day he was disappointed. He began to be afraid that some

accident had happened to her, and often regretted that he had prevented her taking the aconitine when she had

been so anxious to try its effect. Sybil's letters, too, though full of love, and trust, and tenderness, were often

very sad in their tone, and sometimes he used to think that he was parted from her for ever.

After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and determined to run down the coast to Ravenna, as

he heard that there was some capital cockshooting in the Pinetum. Lord Arthur at first refused absolutely to

come, but Surbiton, of whom he was extremely fond, finally persuaded him that if he stayed at Danieli's by

himself he would be moped to death, and on the morning of the 15th they started, with a strong nor'east

wind blowing, and a rather choppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free, openair life brought the colour

back to Lord Arthur's cheek, but about the 22nd he became anxious about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of

As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the proprietor came forward to meet him with a sheaf

of telegrams. Lord Arthur snatched them out of his hand, and tore them open. Everything had been

His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegram announcing his immediate return to London. He

then ordered his valet to pack his things for the night mail, sent his gondoliers about five times their proper

fare, and ran up to his sittingroom with a light step and a buoyant heart. There he found three letters waiting

for him. One was from Sybil herself, full of sympathy and condolence. The others were from his mother, and

from Lady Clementina's solicitor. It seemed that the old lady had dined with the Duchess that very night, had

delighted every one by her wit and ESPRIT, but had gone home somewhat early, complaining of heartburn.

In the morning she was found dead in her bed, having apparently suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been

sent for at once, but, of course, there was nothing to be done, and she was to be buried on the 22nd at

Beauchamp Chalcote. A few days before she died she had made her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house

in Curzon Street, and all her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, with the exception of her collection of

miniatures, which was to go to her sister, Lady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst necklace, which Sybil

Merton was to have. The property was not of much value; but Mr. Mansfield, the solicitor, was extremely

anxious for Lord Arthur to return at once, if possible, as there were a great many bills to be paid, and Lady

Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina's kind remembrance of him, and felt that Mr.

Podgers had a great deal to answer for. His love of Sybil, however, dominated every other emotion, and the

consciousness that he had done his duty gave him peace and comfort. When he arrived at Charing Cross, he

The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise that he would never again allow anything to

come between them, and the marriage was fixed for the 7th June. Life seemed to him once more bright and

One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street, in company with Lady Clementina's

solicitor and Sybil herself, burning packages of faded letters, and turning out drawers of odd rubbish, the

'What have you found, Sybil?' said Lord Arthur, looking up from his work, and smiling.

'This lovely little silver BONBONNIERE, Arthur. Isn't it quaint and Dutch? Do give it to me! I know

Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He had almost entirely forgotten what he had

done, and it seemed to him a curious coincidence that Sybil, for whose sake he had gone through all that

'Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the BONBON too? I had no notion that Lady Clementina liked

'There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty, and I have not the slightest intention of eating it.

Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside it was the ambercoloured capsule, with its

The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flung the capsule into the fire, and sank on the

MR. MERTON was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of the marriage, and Lady Julia, who

had already ordered her dress for the wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the match. Dearly,

however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her whole life into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing that

Lady Julia could say could make her waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, it took him days to get

over his terrible disappointment, and for a time his nerves were completely unstrung. His excellent common

sense, however, soon asserted itself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him long in doubt about what

to do. Poison having proved a complete failure, dynamite, or some other form of explosive, was obviously

He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and relatives, and, after careful consideration,

determined to blow up his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of great culture and

learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a wonderful collection of timepieces, ranging from the

fifteenth century to the present day, and it seemed to Lord Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean's offered

him an excellent opportunity for carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an explosive machine was, of

course, quite another matter. The London Directory gave him no information on the point, and he felt that

there was very little use in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed to know anything about the

movements of the dynamite faction till after an explosion had taken place, and not much even then.

Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very revolutionary tendencies, whom he had

met at Lady Windermere's in the winter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life of Peter the

Great, and to have come over to England for the purpose of studying the documents relating to that Tsar's

residence in this country as a ship carpenter; but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist agent, and

there was no doubt that the Russian Embassy did not look with any favour upon his presence in London. Lord

Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose, and drove down one morning to his lodgings in

'So you are taking up politics seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff, when Lord Arthur had told him the object of

his mission; but Lord Arthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to him that he had not the

slightest interest in social questions, and simply wanted the explosive machine for a purely family matter, in

Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and then seeing that he was quite serious,

wrote an address on a piece of paper, initialled it, and handed it to him across the table.

'They shan't have it,' cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after shaking the young Russian warmly by the hand he

ran downstairs, examined the paper, and told the coachman to drive to Soho Square.

There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he came to a place called Bayle's Court. He

passed under the archway, and found himself in a curious CULDESAC, that was apparently occupied by a

French Laundry, as a perfect network of clotheslines was stretched across from house to house, and there

was a flutter of white linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, and knocked at a little green house.

After some delay, during which every window in the court became a blurred mass of peering faces, the door

was opened by a rather roughlooking foreigner, who asked him in very bad English what his business was.

Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given him. When the man saw it he bowed, and

invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front parlour on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr

Winckelkopf, as he was called in England, bustled into the room, with a very winestained napkin round his

'Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,' said Lord Arthur, bowing, 'and I am anxious to have a

short interview with you on a matter of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to

'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,' said the genial little German, laughing. 'Don't look so alarmed, it is my

duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere's. I hope her ladyship

is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I finish my breakfast? There is an excellent PATE, and my

friends are kind enough to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German Embassy,' and

before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the backroom,

sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellow hockglass marked with the Imperial

monogram, and chatting in the friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.

'Explosive clocks,' said Herr Winckelkopf, 'are not very good things for foreign exportation, as, even if they

succeed in passing the Custom House, the train service is so irregular, that they usually go off before they

have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with an

excellent article, and guarantee that you will he satisfied with the result. May I ask for whom it is intended? If

it is for the police, or for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do anything for you.

The English detectives are really our best friends, and I have always found that by relying on their stupidity,

'I assure you,' said Lord Arthur, 'that it has nothing to do with the police at all. In fact, the clock is intended

'Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.'

'I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,' said Lord Arthur, blushing. 'The fact is, I really know

Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in a few minutes with a round cake of

dynamite about the size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an ormolu figure of

Lord Arthur's face brightened up when he saw it. 'That is just what I want,' he cried, 'and now tell me how it

'Ah! there is my secret,' answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his invention with a justifiable look of

pride; 'let me know when you wish it to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.'

'That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand for some friends of mine in Moscow. Still,

'Oh, it will be quite time enough!' said Lord Arthur politely, 'if it is delivered tomorrow night or Thursday

morning. For the moment of the explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at that

'Friday, at noon,' repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that effect in a large ledger that was lying

'And now,' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, 'pray let me know how much I am in your debt.'

'It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make any charge. The dynamite comes to seven

and sixpence, the clock will be three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I am only too pleased

'Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for money; I live entirely for my art.'

Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German for his kindness, and, having

succeeded in declining an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meattea on the following Saturday, left

For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and on Friday at twelve o'clock he drove

down to the Buckingham to wait for news. All the afternoon the stolid hallporter kept posting up telegrams

from various parts of the country giving the results of horseraces, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of

the weather, and the like, while the tape ticked out wearisome details about an allnight sitting in the House

of Commons, and a small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the evening papers came in, and Lord

Arthur disappeared into the library with the PALL MALL, the ST. JAMES'S, the GLOBE, and the ECHO, to

the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to read the reports of a speech he had delivered

that morning at the Mansion House, on the subject of South African Missions, and the advisability of having

black Bishops in every province, and for some reason or other had a strong prejudice against the EVENING

NEWS. None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and Lord Arthur

felt that the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was quite unnerved.

Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day was full of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply

him with another clock free of charge, or with a case of nitroglycerine bombs at cost price. But he had lost

all faith in explosives, and Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is so adulterated

nowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure condition. The little German, however, while

admitting that something must have gone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the clock

might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he had once sent to the military Governor at

Odessa, which, though timed to explode in ten days, had not done so for something like three months. It was

quite true that when it did go off, it merely succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor having

gone out of town six weeks before, but at least it showed that dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when

under the control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual agent. Lord Arthur was a little

consoled by this reflection, but even here he was destined to disappointment, for two days afterwards, as he

was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and showed him a letter she had just received

'Jane writes charming letters,' said the Duchess; 'you must really read her last. It is quite as good as the novels

Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also for the gingham. I quite agree with you

that it is nonsense their wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and irreligious nowadays,

that it is difficult to make them see that they should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I don't

know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in his sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.

We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden

box from London, carriage paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read his

remarkable sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty?' for on the top of the clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa

said was the cap of Liberty on her head. I didn't think it very becoming myself, but papa said it was historical,

so I suppose it is all right. Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and we were

all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little

puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty fell off, and broke her nose on

the fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits of

laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we found it was a sort of alarum clock, and that,

if you set it to a particular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it went off

whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it

away to the schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all day long. Do you think Arthur would

like one for a wedding present? I suppose they are quite fashionable in London. Papa says they should do a

great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can't last, but must fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at

I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your

idea is, that in their rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is absurd, their anxiety

about dress, when there are so many more important things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your

flowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so

kindly gave me, at the Bishop's on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you have bows or not?

Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had

another explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables. I don't think papa likes it so much

as he did at first, though he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. It shows that people

Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite, and, hoping that Uncle Cecil's gout is

Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the Duchess went into fits of laughter.

'My dear Arthur,' she cried, 'I shall never show you a young lady's letter again! But what shall I say about the

clock? I think it is a capital invention, and I should like to have one myself.'

'I don't think much of them,' said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and, after kissing his mother, he left the

When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes filled with tears. He had done his best to

commit this murder, but on both occasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own. He had tried to do

his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had turned traitor. He was oppressed with the sense of the

barrenness of good intentions, of the futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break off the

marriage altogether. Sybil would suffer, it is true, but suffering could not really mar a nature so noble as hers.

As for himself, what did it matter? There is always some war in which a man can die, some cause to which a

man can give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death had no terror. Let Destiny work out his

At halfpast seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton was there with a party of young men, and

he was obliged to dine with them. Their trivial conversation and idle jests did not interest him, and as soon as

coffee was brought he left them, inventing some engagement in order to get away. As he was going out of the

club, the hallporter handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call down the next

evening, and look at an explosive umbrella, that went off as soon as it was opened. It was the very latest

invention, and had just arrived from Geneva. He tore the letter up into fragments. He had made up his mind

not to try any more experiments. Then he wandered down to the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by

the river. The moon peered through a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye, and innumerable stars

spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into

the turbid stream, and floated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to scarlet as the

trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some time, twelve o'clock boomed from the tall tower at

Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights

went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became

At two o'clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal everything looked! How like a strange

dream! The houses on the other side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that silver

and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge dome of St. Paul's loomed like a bubble through the

As he approached Cleopatra's Needle he saw a man leaning over the parapet, and as he came nearer the man

It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the fat, flabby face, the goldrimmed

Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he stole softly up behind. In a moment he had

seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and flung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and

all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat,

pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit water. After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was visible.

Once he thought that he caught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for the staircase by the

bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came over him, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when

the moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he seemed to have realised the decree of

'Nothing of importance, sergeant,' he answered, smiling, and hailing a passing hansom, he jumped in, and told

For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There were moments when he almost expected

Mr. Podgers to walk into the room, and yet at other times he felt that Fate could not be so unjust to him.

Twice he went to the cheiromantist's address in West Moon Street, but he could not bring himself to ring the

Finally it came. He was sitting in the smokingroom of the club having tea, and listening rather wearily to

Surbiton's account of the last comic song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He

took up the ST. JAMES'S, and was listlessly turning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:

He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph ran as follows:

Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was

washed on shore at Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate gentleman had been missing

for some days, and considerable anxiety for his safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is supposed

that he committed suicide under the influence of a temporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a

verdict to that effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an

elaborate treatise on the subject of the Human Hand, that will shortly be published, when it will no doubt

attract much attention. The deceased was sixtyfive years of age, and does not seem to have left any

Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand, to the immense amazement of the

hallporter, who tried in vain to stop him, and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from the window,

and something told her that he was the bearer of good news. She ran down to meet him, and, when she saw

'You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!' said Sybil, laughing through her tears.

WHEN the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter's was crowded with a perfect mob of smart

people. The service was read in the most impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and everybody

agreed that they had never seen a handsomer couple than the bride and bridegroom. They were more than

handsome, however they were happy. Never for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret all that he had

suffered for Sybil's sake, while she, on her side, gave him the best things a woman can give to any man

worship, tenderness, and love. For them romance was not killed by reality. They always felt young.

Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born to them, Lady Windermere came down on

a visit to Alton Priory, a lovely old place, that had been the Duke's wedding present to his son; and one

afternoon as she was sitting with Lady Arthur under a limetree in the garden, watching the little boy and girl

as they played up and down the rosewalk, like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took her hostess's hand in hers,

'I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last person who is introduced to me; but, as a rule, as

'Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as their manes are cut, they are the dullest creatures

going. Besides, they behave very badly, if you are really nice to them. Do you remember that horrid Mr.

Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I didn't mind that at all, and even when he wanted to borrow

money I forgave him, but I could not stand his making love to me. He has really made me hate cheiromancy.

'You mustn't say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady Windermere; it is the only subject that Arthur does

'Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is'; and Lord Arthur came up the garden with a large bunch of yellow

'Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life,' he murmured, throwing himself into a wicker chair.

'Sybil,' he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking into her violet eyes.

'What nonsense!' cried Lady Windermere. 'I never heard such nonsense in all my life.'

WHEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was

doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville

himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis

'We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,' said Lord Canterville, 'since my grandaunt, the Dowager

Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands

being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the

ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev.

Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the

Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at

night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library.'

'My Lord,' answered the Minister, 'I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I come from a modern

country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old

World red, and carrying off your best actresses and primadonnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as

a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a

'I fear that the ghost exists,' said Lord Canterville, smiling, 'though it may have resisted the overtures of your

enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always makes its

'Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost,

and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.'

'You are certainly very natural in America,' answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr.

Otis's last observation, 'and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember I

A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the close of the season the Minister and his family

went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a

celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middleaged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb

profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic illhealth, under

the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had

a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she

was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with

America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a

moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fairhaired, rather goodlooking young man,

who had qualified himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three

successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage

were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of

fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful

amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a

half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for

her on the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia

came the twins, who were usually called 'The Stars and Stripes,' as they were always getting swished. They

were delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the only true republicans of the family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a

waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening, and the

air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its

own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered

at them from the beechtrees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over

the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however,

the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great

flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a white cap and

apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had

consented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a

quaint, oldfashioned manner, 'I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase.' Following her, they passed through

the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large

stainedglass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace and, quite unconscious of

what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, 'I am afraid something has been spilt there.'

'Yes, madam,' replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, 'blood has been spilt on that spot.'

'How horrid,' cried Mrs. Otis; 'I don't at all care for bloodstains in a sittingroom. It must be removed at

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, 'It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de

Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir

Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has

never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The bloodstain has been much admired by

'That is all nonsense,' cried Washington Otis; 'Pinkerton's Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent

will clean it up in no time,' and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallen upon his knees,

and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments

'I knew Pinkerton would do it,' he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked round at his admiring family; but no

sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of

'What a monstrous climate!' said the American Minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. 'I guess the old

country is so overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of

'Charge it to her like breakages,' answered the Minister; 'she won't faint after that'; and in a few moments

Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she sternly

'I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,' she said, 'that would make any Christian's hair stand on end, and

many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.' Mr. Otis,

however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking

the blessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of

THE storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The next morning, however,

when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. 'I don't

think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,' said Washington, 'for I have tried it with everything. It

must be the ghost.' He accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared

again. The third morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis

himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect

that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of

joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the

subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out for a drive.

They did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned

upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectation which so often precede

the presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were

merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense

superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green

corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the

development of the worldsoul; the advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and the

sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the

supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the family retired,

and by halfpast all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the

corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment.

He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and

felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly

the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressingcase, and opened

the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as

red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique

cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis, 'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that

purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon

one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most

eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you

with more should you require it.' With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle

violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly

green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little

whiterobed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be

lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath,

and began to try and realise his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years,

had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as

she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics

when he merely grinned at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish,

whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the

care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de

Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair by the

fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her

recovery, had become reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic

Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found

choking in his dressingroom, with the knave of diamonds halfway down his throat, and confessed, just

before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of 50,000 pounds at Crockford's by means of that

very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him

again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the

window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her

throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the

carppond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his

most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as

'Red Ruben, or the Strangled Babe,' his DEBUT as 'Gaunt Gibeon, the Bloodsucker of Bexley Moor,' and

the FURORE he had excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon

the lawntennis ground. And after all this, some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the

Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghosts in history

had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till

THE next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The

United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. 'I have no

wish,' he said, 'to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he has

been in the house, I don't think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him' a very just remark, at which, I am

sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. 'Upon the other hand,' he continued, 'if he really declines

to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite impossible to

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any attention being the

continual renewal of the bloodstain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was

always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept closely barred. The chameleonlike colour, also, of

the stain excited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be

vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites

of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright emeraldgreen. These

kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every

evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained

reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the bloodstain, and very nearly cried the morning it

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to bed they were

suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armour

had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while, seated in a highbacked chair,

was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having

brought their peashooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which

can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writingmaster, while the United States Minister

covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his

hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing

Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the

staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had

on more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in a

single night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French governesses give warning before their

month was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again,

but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue

dressinggown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's

tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.' The ghost glared at her in fury, and

began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for which

he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord

Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him

hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent agitation. The vulgarity

of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really

distressed him most was, that he had been unable to wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern

Americans would be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out

of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled

away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had worn it

with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it by no less a person

than the Virgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight

of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except to keep the

bloodstain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to make a

third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for

his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a

large slouched hat with a red feather, a windingsheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger.

Towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in

the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He

was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, and stab

himself three times in the throat to the sound of slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being

quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville bloodstain, by means of

Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject

terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his wife, and there to

place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful

secrets of the charnelhouse. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never

insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought,

would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with

palsytwitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to

be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as

their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icycold corpse, till

they became paralysed with fear, and finally, to throw off the windingsheet, and crawl round the room, with

white bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of 'Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's Skeleton,' a

ROLE in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quite

At halfpast ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter

from the twins, who, with the lighthearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before

they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The

owl beat against the window panes, the raven croaked from the old yewtree, and the wind wandered

moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above

the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped stealthily

out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud

as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in

azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he

passed. Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the

Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenthcentury curses, and ever and anon brandishing the

rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless

Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and

twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's shroud. Then the clock

struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no

sooner had he done so, than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long,

bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and

monstrous as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and

hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of

scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent

snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of

shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the

awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long windingsheet as he sped down the corridor,

and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's jackboots, where it was found in the morning by the

butler. Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small palletbed, and hid his

face under the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he

determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was

touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom,

feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely

grapple with the twins. On reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently

happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen

from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed

forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body

assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bedcurtain, with a

sweepingbrush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious

transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old Canterville look

came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his

head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique school, that when Chanticleer had

sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the redtiled roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. He

laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange

reason, did not crow again. Finally, at halfpast seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his

fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain hope and baffled purpose. There he

consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every

occasion on which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. 'Perdition seize the

naughty fowl,' he muttered, 'I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have run him through the

gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!' He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed

THE next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement of the last four weeks was

beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For

five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point of the bloodstain on the library

floor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a low,

material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena.

The question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different

matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to

gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third Wednesday in every month, and he did not see how

he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the

other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three

Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every

possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on

the old wormeaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator

for oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought

himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped

into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated at first, but afterwards was

sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it

served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being

stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the

part of 'Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods,' he met with a severe fall, through treading on a

butterslide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak

staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and

social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next night in his celebrated character

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty

Lady Barbara Modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord

Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that

nothing in the world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up

and down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth

Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every

way, it had been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult 'makeup,' if I may use such a

theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a

more scientific term, the highernatural world, and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At

last everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance. The big leather ridingboots that

went with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horsepistols,

but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept

down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the Blue

Bed Chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an

effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to

the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled shrieks

of laughter proceeding from the fourpost bed. The shock to his nervous system was so great that he fled

back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thing

that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented himself, as a rule, with

creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of draughts, and

a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the

19th of September. He had gone downstairs to the great entrancehall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he

would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni

photographs of the United States Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the Canterville

family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up

his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed

for the character of 'Jonas the Graveless, or the CorpseSnatcher of Chertsey Barn,' one of his most

remarkable impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real

origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o'clock in the

morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards the library,

however, to see if there were any traces left of the bloodstain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark

corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out 'BOO!' in his ear.

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found

Washington Otis waiting for him there with the big gardensyringe; and being thus hemmed in by his

enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for

him, was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins lay in wait for him on several

occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the

servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not

appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he

had been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clambake, which amazed the whole

county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other American national games; and Virginia rode about

the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to spend the last week of

his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr.

Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news,

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though now almost an invalid,

was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young Duke

of Cheshire, whose granduncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury

that he would play dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the

cardroom in such a helpless paralytic state, that though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say

anything again but 'Double Sixes.' The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to

the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up; and a full account of all the

circumstances connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's RECOLLECTIONS OF

THE PRINCE REGENT AND HIS FRIENDS. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he

had not lost his influence over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first

cousin having been married EN SECONDES NOCES to the Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one

knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to

Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of 'The Vampire Monk, or, the Bloodless Benedictine,' a

performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in the

year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in

three days, after disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to

her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room,

and the little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, and dreamed of

A FEW days after this, Virginia and her curlyhaired cavalier went out riding on Brockley meadows, where

she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge, that, on her return home, she made up her mind to go

up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of

which happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who

sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense surprise,

however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the

yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long avenue. His head was

leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much

out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her

room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his

'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton tomorrow, and then, if you behave

'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl

who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and

walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'

'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day

'Well, I quite admit it,' said the Ghost petulantly, 'but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one

'It is very wrong to kill any one,' said Virginia, who at times had a sweet Puritan gravity, caught from some

'Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly

starched, and knew nothing about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a

magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to table? However, it is no matter now, for it is

all over, and I don't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.'

'Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I have a sandwich in my case.

'No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than

'Stop!' cried Virginia, stamping her foot, 'it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty,

you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous bloodstain in the library.

First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the

emeraldgreen and the chromeyellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and

could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never

told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever

'Well, really,' said the Ghost, rather meekly, 'what was I to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood

nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I

should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood,

for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this kind.'

'You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind. My father

will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,

there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you

are sure to be a great success. I know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have

'I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,' said Virginia satirically.

'No ruins! no curiosities!' answered the Ghost; 'you have your navy and your manners.'

'Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's holiday.'

'Please don't go, Miss Virginia,' he cried; 'I am so lonely and so unhappy, and I really don't know what to do.

'That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. It is very difficult sometimes to

keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even babies know how

'I have not slept for three hundred years,' he said sadly, and Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder;

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like roseleaves. She came towards him, and kneeling

'Far away beyond the pinewoods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the

grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings

all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yewtree spreads out

'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's

head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at

peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you, and

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence. She felt as if she

'Oh, often,' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quite well. It is painted in curious black letters, and it is

'They mean,' he said sadly, 'that you must weep for me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me

for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the

Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will

whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell

Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked down at her bowed

golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. 'I am not afraid,' she said

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with oldfashioned grace and

kissed it. His fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he led her

across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled

horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. 'Go back! little Virginia,' they cried, 'go back!' but

the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard

tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and murmured 'Beware! little Virginia,

beware! we may never see you again,' but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen.

When they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. She

opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A

bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. 'Quick, quick,' cried the

Ghost, 'or it will be too late,' and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry

ABOUT ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of

the footmen to tell her. After a little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia anywhere.

As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every evening to get flowers for the dinnertable, Mrs. Otis

was not at all alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not appear, she became really

agitated, and sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the

house. At halfpast six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace of their sister anywhere.

They were all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly

remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gypsies permission to camp in the park. He

accordingly at once set off for Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son

and two of the farmservants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged

hard to be allowed to go too, but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. On

arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gypsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had

been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off

Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police

inspectors in the county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or

gypsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys

sitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot Road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone a couple

of miles when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on

his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. 'I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,' gasped out the boy, 'but I can't

eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last

year, there would never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will you? I can't go! I won't go!'

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his

devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, 'Well,

Cecil, if you won't go back I suppose you must come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot.'

'Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!' cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway

station. There Mr. Otis inquired of the stationmaster if any one answering the description of Virginia had

been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The stationmaster, however, wired up and down

the line, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little

Duke from a linendraper, who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about

four miles away, which he was told was a wellknown haunt of the gypsies, as there was a large common

next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get no information from him, and, after riding

all over the common, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase about eleven o'clock,

deadtired and almost heartbroken. They found Washington and the twins waiting for them at the

gatehouse with lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of Virginia had been

discovered. The gypsies had been caught on Brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had

explained their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and had gone off

in a hurry for fear they might be late. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's

disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his park, and four

of their number had stayed behind to help in the search. The carppond had been dragged, and the whole

Chase thoroughly gone over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate, Virginia

was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest depression that Mr Otis and the boys walked up to the

house, the groom following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they found a group of

frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror

and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eaudecologne by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once

insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal,

as hardly any one spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their

sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed,

saying that nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in the morning to Scotland

Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately. Just as they were passing out of the diningroom,

midnight began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash and a

sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the

air, a panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing, looking very pale

and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.

Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed

'Good heavens! child, where have you been?' said Mr. Otis, rather angrily, thinking that she had been playing

some foolish trick on them. 'Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and your

mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these practical jokes any more.'

'Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!' shrieked the twins, as they capered about.

'My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side again,' murmured Mrs. Otis, as she

'Papa,' said Virginia quietly, 'I have been with the Ghost. He is dead, and you must come and see him. He had

been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of beautiful

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious; and, turning round,

she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following

with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded

with rusty nails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a

little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron

ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and

seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an oldfashioned trencher and ewer, that were

placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered inside with

green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton,

and, folding her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at

'Hallo!' suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window to try and discover in

what wing of the house the room was situated. 'Hallo! the old withered almondtree has blossomed. I can see

'God has forgiven him,' said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine

'What an angel you are!' cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round her neck and kissed her.

FOUR days after these curious incidents a funeral started from Canterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at

night. The hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of nodding

ostrichplumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold

the Canterville coatofarms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted

torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner,

having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little

Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the

last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more

than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of

the churchyard, just under the old yewtree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the

Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in

the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave,

Virginia stepped forward and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almondblossoms. As she did

so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a

distant copse a nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the Garden of Death, her

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had an interview with him on the

subject of the jewels the ghost had given to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain

ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of sixteenthcentury work, and

their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.

'My lord,' he said, 'I know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is

quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg you, accordingly, to

take them to London with you, and to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been

restored to you under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I

am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who,

I may say, is no mean authority upon Art having had the privilege of spending several winters in Boston

when she was a girl that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall

price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will recognise how impossible it

would be for me to allow them to remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such

vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the British aristocracy, would be

completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal,

principles of republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very anxious that you should

allow her to retain the box as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old,

and consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my

own part, I confess I am a good deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with

mediaevalism in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of your

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech, pulling his grey moustache now and

then to hide an involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and

said, 'My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important

service, and I and my family are much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are

clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow

would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is

an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been

quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss Virginia grows

up I daresay she will be pleased to have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the

furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your

possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision,

but the goodnatured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to retain the

present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was

presented at the Queen's first drawingroom on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal

theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little American girls,

and was married to her boylover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and they loved

each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton,

who had tried to catch the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three

expensive dinnerparties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond

of the young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words, 'was not

without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasureloving aristocracy, the true principles

of republican simplicity should be forgotten.' His objections, however, were completely overruled, and I

believe that when he walked up the aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville Chase, and on the day after

their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pinewoods. There had been a

great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided

to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the library window. The

Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood

by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat down on a

fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes.

Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, 'Virginia, a wife should have no

'Yes, you have,' he answered, smiling, 'you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked

'Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil,

I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.'

ONE afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix, watching the splendour and shabbiness of Parisian

life, and wondering over my vermouth at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was passing before

me, when I heard some one call my name. I turned round, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we

had been at college together, nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we

shook hands warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so handsome,

so highspirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that he would be the best of fellows, if he did not

always speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. I found him a good

deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled, and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not

be modern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as

he believed in the House of Peers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he was married yet.

'I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,' I exclaimed; 'tell me about it.'

'Let us go for a drive,' he answered, 'it is too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage, any other colour

there, that dark green one will do'; and in a few moments we were trotting down the boulevard in the

'Oh, anywhere you like!' he answered 'to the restaurant in the Bois; we will dine there, and you shall tell me

He took from his pocket a little silverclasped morocco case, and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside there

was the photograph of a woman. She was tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes

and loosened hair. She looked like a CLAIRVOYANTE, and was wrapped in rich furs.

I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a secret, but whether that secret was

good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteries the beauty, in fact,

which is psychological, not plastic and the faint smile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to

When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of his promise. He rose from his seat,

walked two or three times up and down the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me the following

'One evening,' he said, 'I was walking down Bond Street about five o'clock. There was a terrific crush of

carriages, and the traffic was almost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a little yellow brougham,

which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention. As I passed by there looked out from it the face I

showed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All that night I kept thinking of it, and all the next

day. I wandered up and down that wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and waiting for the yellow

brougham; but I could not find MA BELLE INCONNUE, and at last I began to think she was merely a

dream. About a week afterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was for eight o'clock; but at

halfpast eight we were still waiting in the drawingroom. Finally the servant threw open the door, and

announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. She came in very slowly, looking like a

moonbeam in grey lace, and, to my intense delight, I was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat

down, I remarked quite innocently, "I think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady Alroy."

She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice, "Pray do not talk so loud; you may be overheard." I felt

miserable at having made such a bad beginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject of the French plays.

She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of some one

listening. I fell passionately, stupidly in love, and the indefinable atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her

excited my most ardent curiosity. When she was going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I asked

her if I might call and see her. She hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see if any one was near us, and

then said, "Yes; tomorrow at a quarter to five." I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me about her; but all that

I could learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park Lane, and as some scientific bore

began a dissertation on widows, as exemplifying the survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and went

'The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told by the butler that Lady Alroy had

just gone out. I went down to the club quite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after long consideration

wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed to try my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for

several days, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home on Sunday at four and with this

extraordinary postscript: "Please do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you." On Sunday

she received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was going away she begged of me, if I ever had

occasion to write to her again, to address my letter to "Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker's Library, Green Street."

'All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I

thought that she was in the power of some man, but she looked so unapproachable, that I could not believe it.

It was really very difficult for me to come to any conclusion, for she was like one of those strange crystals

that one sees in museums, which are at one moment clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask

her to be my wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on all my visits, and on the

few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the following Monday at six.

She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I was infatuated with her: in spite of the

mystery, I thought then in consequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery

'When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four o'clock found myself in the

Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and took a short

cut through a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly I saw in front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking

very fast. On coming to the last house in the street, she went up the steps, took out a latchkey, and let herself

in. "Here is the mystery," I said to myself; and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemed a sort of place

for letting lodgings. On the doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had dropped. I picked it up and put it in

my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do. I came to the conclusion that I had no right to spy on

her, and I drove down to the club. At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa, in a teagown of silver

tissue looped up by some strange moonstones that she always wore. She was looking quite lovely. "I am so

glad to see you," she said; "I have not been out all day." I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the

handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. "You dropped this in Cumnor Street this afternoon, Lady

Alroy," I said very calmly. She looked at me in terror but made no attempt to take the handkerchief. "What

were you doing there?" I asked. "What right have you to question me?" she answered. "The right of a man

who loves you," I replied; "I came here to ask you to be my wife." She hid her face in her hands, and burst

into floods of tears. "You must tell me," I continued. She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said,

"Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you." "You went to meet some one," I cried; "this is your

mystery." She grew dreadfully white, and said, "I went to meet no one." "Can't you tell the truth?" I

exclaimed. "I have told it," she replied. I was mad, frantic; I don't know what I said, but I said terrible things

to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and

started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the MORNING

POST was the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five days of

congestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved her so much, I had loved her so madly.

'One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a

respectablelooking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. "Well, sir," she replied,

"the drawingrooms are supposed to be let; but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing

on them, you can have them." "Is this the lady?" I said, showing the photograph. "That's her, sure enough,"

she exclaimed; "and when is she coming back, sir?" "The lady is dead," I replied. "Oh sir, I hope not!" said

the woman; "she was my best lodger. She paid me three guineas a week merely to sit in my drawingrooms

now and then." "She met some one here?" I said; but the woman assured me that it was not so, that she

always came alone, and saw no one. "What on earth did she do here?" I cried. "She simply sat in the

drawingroom, sir, reading books, and sometimes had tea," the woman answered. I did not know what to say,

so I gave her a sovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believe the woman

'My dear Gerald,' I answered, 'Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania for mystery. She took these

rooms for the pleasure of going there with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion

He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. 'I wonder?' he said at last.

UNLESS one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not

the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent

income than to be fascinating. These are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised.

Poor Hughie! Intellectually, we must admit, he was not of much importance. He never said a brilliant or even

an illnatured thing in his life. But then he was wonderfully goodlooking, with his crisp brown hair, his

clearcut profile, and his grey eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with women and he had every

accomplishment except that of making money. His father had bequeathed him his cavalry sword and a

HISTORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR in fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his lookingglass,

put the second on a shelf between RUFF'S GUIDE and BAILEY'S MAGAZINE, and lived on two hundred a

year that an old aunt allowed him. He had tried everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six

months; but what was a butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He had been a teamerchant for a little longer,

but had soon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did not answer; the

sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he became nothing, a delightful, ineffectual young man with a perfect

To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired

Colonel who had lost his temper and his digestion in India, and had never found either of them again. Laura

adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoestrings. They were the handsomest couple in London, and had

not a pennypiece between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but would not hear of any

'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own, and we will see about it,' he used

to say; and Hughie looked very glum in those days, and had to go to Laura for consolation.

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons lived, he dropped in to see a great

friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. But he was also

an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red

ragged beard. However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought

after. He had been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on account of his

personal charm. 'The only people a painter should know,' he used to say, 'are people who are BETE and

beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose to talk to. Men who are

dandies and women who are darlings rule the world, at least they should do so.' However, after he got to

know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless

When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful lifesize picture of a

beggarman. The beggar himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a

wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders

was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one

hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.

'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I should think so! Such beggars as he are not to

be met with every day. A TROUVAILLE, MON CHER; a living Velasquez! My stars! what an etching

'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'

'How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he found himself a comfortable seat on a divan.

'Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried Hughie, laughing; 'they work quite as hard as you

'Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint alone, and standing all day long at one's

easel! It's all very well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are moments when Art almost

attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn't chatter; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep

After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the framemaker wanted to speak to him.

'Don't run away, Hughie,' he said, as he went out, 'I will be back in a moment.'

The old beggarman took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a moment on a wooden bench that was

behind him. He looked so forlorn and wretched that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in his

pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a sovereign and some coppers. 'Poor old fellow,' he

thought to himself, 'he wants it more than I do, but it means no hansoms for a fortnight'; and he walked across

The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered lips. 'Thank you, sir,' he said, 'thank you.'

Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little at what he had done. He spent the day with

That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the

'Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he said, as he lit his cigarette.

'Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; 'and, by the bye, you have made a conquest. That old model

you saw is quite devoted to you. I had to tell him all about you who you are, where you live, what your

'My dear Alan,' cried Hughie, 'I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home. But of course you

are only joking. Poor old wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is dreadful that any one

should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at home do you think he would care for any of

'But he looks splendid in them,' said Trevor. 'I wouldn't paint him in a frock coat for anything. What you call

rags I call romance. What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I'll tell him of your offer.'

'An artist's heart is his head,' replied Trevor; 'and besides, our business is to realise the world as we see it, not

to reform it as we know it. A CHACUN SON METIER. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was

'Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, the lovely Laura, and the 10,000 pounds.'

'You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.

'My dear boy,' said Trevor, smiling, 'that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He

could buy all London tomorrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital, dines off

'What I say,' said Trevor. 'The old man you saw today in the studio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great

friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission a month ago to paint

him as a beggar. QUE VOULEZVOUS? LA FANTAISIE D'UN MILLIONNAIRE! And I must say he

made a magnificent figure in his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit I got in Spain.'

'Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. 'Good heavens! I gave him a sovereign!' and he sank into an armchair the

'Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar of laughter. 'My dear boy, you'll never see it

'I think you might have told me, Alan,' said Hughie sulkily, 'and not have let me make such a fool of myself.'

'Well, to begin with, Hughie,' said Trevor, 'it never entered my mind that you went about distributing alms in

that reckless way. I can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving a sovereign to an ugly one

by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that I really was not at home today to any one; and when you came in I

didn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. You know he wasn't in full dress.'

'Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept chuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled

hands together. I couldn't make out why he was so interested to know all about you; but I see it all now. He'll

invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you the interest every six months, and have a capital story to tell

'I am an unlucky devil,' growled Hughie. 'The best thing I can do is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you

'Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have

However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of

The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him up a card on which was written, 'Monsieur

Gustave Naudin, DE LA PART DE M. le Baron Hausberg.' 'I suppose he has come for an apology,' said

An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into the room, and said, in a slight French accent,

'The Baron,' said the old gentleman with a smile, 'has commissioned me to bring you this letter'; and he

On the outside was written, 'A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar,' and

When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding

'Millionaire models,' remarked Alan, 'are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!'

I HAD been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in Birdcage Walk, and we were sitting in the library

over our coffee and cigarettes, when the question of literary forgeries happened to turn up in conversation. I

cannot at present remember how it was that we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that

time, but I know that we had a long discussion about Macpherson, Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with

regard to the last I insisted that his socalled forgeries were merely the result of an artistic desire for perfect

representation; that we had no right to quarrel with an artist for the conditions under which he chooses to

present his work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode of acting, an attempt to realise one's own

personality on some imaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents and limitations of real life,

to censure an artist for a forgery was to confuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem.

Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been listening to me with the amused deference of a

man of forty, suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to me, 'What would you say about a young

man who had a strange theory about a certain work of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery in

Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey threads of smoke that were rising from

There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of bitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity.

'Yes,' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire, 'a great friend of mine, Cyril Graham. He was very

fascinating, and very foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only legacy I ever received in my

'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and going over to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood

between the two windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding in his hand a small

It was a fulllength portrait of a young man in late sixteenthcentury costume, standing by a table, with his

right hand resting on an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was of quite extraordinary

personal beauty, though evidently somewhat effeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely

cropped hair, one would have said that the face with its dreamy wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was

the face of a girl. In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the picture reminded one of

Francois Clouet's later work. The black velvet doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the

peacockblue background against which it showed up so pleasantly, and from which it gained such luminous

value of colour, were quite in Clouet's style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that hung somewhat

formally from the marble pedestal had that hard severity of touch so different from the facile grace of the

Italians which even at the Court of France the great Flemish master never completely lost, and which in

'It is a charming thing,' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful young man, whose beauty Art has so happily

'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,' said Erskine, with a sad smile. It might have been a chance effect of light,

'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which his hand is resting.'

'Take this magnifyingglass and try,' said Erskine, with the same sad smile still playing about his mouth.

I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to spell out the crabbed sixteenthcentury

handwriting. 'To the onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets.' . . . 'Good heavens!' I cried, 'is this Shakespeare's

'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,' I answered. 'I know the Penshurst portraits very well. I was staying

'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke?' he asked.

'I am sure of it,' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs. Mary Fitton are the three personages of the

'Well, I agree with you,' said Erskine, 'but I did not always think so. I used to believe well, I suppose I used

'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait, which had already begun to have a strange

'It is a long story,' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me rather abruptly I thought at the time 'a

'I love theories about the Sonnets,' I cried; 'but I don't think I am likely to be converted to any new idea. The

matter has ceased to be a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was a mystery.'

'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you to it,' said Erskine, laughing; 'but it may

'Tell it to me, of course,' I answered. 'If it is half as delightful as the picture, I shall be more than satisfied.'

'Well,' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by telling you about Cyril Graham himself. He and I

were at the same house at Eton. I was a year or two older than he was, but we were immense friends, and did

all our work and all our play together. There was, of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot

say that I am sorry for that. It is always an advantage not to have received a sound commercial education, and

what I learned in the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful to me as anything I was taught at

Cambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a

horrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in the diplomatic service, and had

married a daughter, the only daughter, in fact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's guardian after the

death of his parents. I don't think that Lord Crediton cared very much for Cyril. He had never really forgiven

his daughter for marrying a man who had not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like a

costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him once on Speechday. He growled at

me, gave me a sovereign, and told me not to grow up "a damned Radical" like my father. Cyril had very little

affection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his holidays with us in Scotland. They never really

got on together at all. Cyril thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate, I

suppose, in some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital fencer. In fact he got the foils before

he left Eton. But he was very languid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a strong

objection to football. The two things that really gave him pleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was

always dressing up and reciting Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became a member of the

A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I

suppose because we were so different in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge feet, and

horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as gout does in English families. Cyril used to say that

of the two he preferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on personal appearance, and once

read a paper before our debating society to prove that it was better to be goodlooking than to be good. He

certainly was wonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines and college tutors, and young

men reading for the Church, used to say that he was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face

than mere prettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and nothing could exceed the grace

of his movements, the charm of his manner. He fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and a great

many people who were not. He was often wilful and petulant, and I used to think him dreadfully insincere. It

was due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire to please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was contented

with very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are

'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no actresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C.

At least they were not in my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril was always cast for the

girls' parts, and when AS YOU LIKE IT was produced he played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance.

In fact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible to describe to

you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid

little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every night. Even when I read the play now I can't help thinking of

Cyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he took his degree, and came to London to read for

the diplomatic. But he never did any work. He spent his days in reading Shakespeare's Sonnets, and his

evenings at the theatre. He was, of course, wild to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could

do to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be alive now. It is always a silly thing to

give advice, but to give good advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error. If you do,

'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a letter from Cyril asking me to come round to his

rooms that evening. He had charming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the Green Park, and as I used to go

to see him every day, I was rather surprised at his taking the trouble to write. Of course I went, and when I

arrived I found him in a state of great excitement. He told me that he had at last discovered the true secret of

Shakespeare's Sonnets; that all the scholars and critics had been entirely on the wrong tack; and that he was

the first who, working purely by internal evidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. really was. He was

perfectly wild with delight, and for a long time would not tell me his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of

notes, took his copy of the Sonnets off the mantelpiece, and sat down and gave me a long lecture on the

'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare addressed these strangely passionate

poems must have been somebody who was a really vital factor in the development of his dramatic art, and

that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or Lord Southampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could

not have been anybody of high birth, as was shown very clearly by the 25th Sonnet, in which Shakespeare

contrasting himself with those who are "great princes' favourites," says quite frankly

Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune

And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of him he so adored.

This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we fancied that it was addressed to either the Earl

of Pembroke or the Earl of Southampton, both of whom were men of the highest position in England and

fully entitled to be called "great princes"; and he in corroboration of his view read me Sonnets CXXIV. and

CXXV., in which Shakespeare tells us that his love is not "the child of state," that it "suffers not in smiling

pomp," but is "builded far from accident." I listened with a good deal of interest, for I don't think the point

had ever been made before; but what followed was still more curious, and seemed to me at the time to

dispose entirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnets had been written before 1598,

and Sonnet CIV. informs us that Shakespeare's friendship for Mr. W. H. had been already in existence for

three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in 1580, did not come to London till he was eighteen years

of age, that is to say till 1598, and Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr. W. H. must have begun in 1594, or at

the latest in 1595. Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord Pembroke till after the Sonnets had

'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till 1601; whereas it was evident from the line,

that the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was absurd to imagine that any publisher of the

time, and the preface is from the publisher's hand, would have ventured to address William Herbert, Earl of

Pembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord Buckhurst being spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a

parallel instance, as Lord Buckhurst was not a peer, but merely the younger son of a peer, with a courtesy

title, and the passage in ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and stately

dedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily

demolished while I sat by in wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less difficulty. Southampton

became at a very early age the lover of Elizabeth Vernon, so he needed no entreaties to marry; he was not

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning sonnets (CXXXV. and CXLIII.) show

'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr. W. H. is a misprint for Mr. W. S.,

meaning Mr. William Shakespeare; that "Mr. W. H. all" should be read "Mr. W. Hall"; that Mr. W. H. is Mr.

William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed after "wisheth," making Mr. W. H. the writer and not

the subject of the dedication, Cyril got rid of them in a very short time; and it is not worth while to mention

his reasons, though I remember he sent me off into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to say not in

the original, some extracts from a German commentator called Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. was

no less a person than "Mr. William Himself." Nor would he allow for a moment that the Sonnets are mere

satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies of Hereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of

serious and tragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare's heart, and made sweet by the honey of

his lips. Still less would he admit that they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that in them

Shakespeare is addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood, or the Spirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the

Divine Logos, or the Catholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, that the Sonnets are

addressed to an individual, to a particular young man whose personality for some reason seems to have

'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me to dismiss from my mind any preconceived

ideas I might have formed on the subject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his own theory. The

problem he pointed out was this: Who was that young man of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble

birth or even of noble nature, was addressed by him in terms of such passionate adoration that we can but

wonder at the strange worship, and are almost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the poet's

heart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it became the very cornerstone of Shakespeare's

art; the very source of Shakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of Shakespeare's dreams? To look upon

him as simply the object of certain lovepoems is to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of which

Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the Sonnets themselves, which indeed were to him but slight

and secret things it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding; and he to whom Shakespeare

was surely none other than the boyactor for whom he created Viola and Imogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia

and Desdemona, and Cleopatra herself. This was Cyril Graham's theory, evolved as you see purely from the

Sonnets themselves, and depending for its acceptance not so much on demonstrable proof or formal evidence,

but on a kind of spiritual and artistic sense, by which alone he claimed could the true meaning of the poems

How can my Muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; For who's so dumb that

cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in

worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal

and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and indeed he went through all the Sonnets

carefully, and showed, or fancied that he showed, that, according to his new explanation of their meaning,

things that had seemed obscure, or evil, or exaggerated, became clear and rational, and of high artistic import,

illustrating Shakespeare's conception of the true relations between the art of the actor and the art of the

'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare's company some wonderful boyactor of

great beauty, to whom he intrusted the presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespeare was a practical

theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet, and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boyactor's

name. He was Will, or, as he preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The Christian name he found of course in

the punning sonnets, CXXXV. and CXLIII.; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the seventh line of

'In the original edition of the Sonnets "Hews" is printed with a capital letter and in italics, and this, he

claimed, showed clearly that a play on words was intended, his view receiving a good deal of corroboration

from those sonnets in which curious puns are made on the words "use" and "usury." Of course I was

converted at once, and Willie Hughes became to me as real a person as Shakespeare. The only objection I

made to the theory was that the name of Willie Hughes does not occur in the list of the actors of

Shakespeare's company as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however, pointed out that the absence of Willie

Hughes's name from this list really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from Sonnet LXXXVI. that

Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company to play at a rival theatre, probably in some of

Chapman's plays. It is in reference to this that in the great sonnet on Chapman, Shakespeare said to Willie

But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine

the expression "when your countenance filled up his line" referring obviously to the beauty of the young actor

giving life and reality and added charm to Chapman's verse, the same idea being also put forward in the 79th

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth

the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the phrase "under thee their poesy disperse,"

'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading and rereading the Sonnets. After some

time, however, I began to see that before the theory could be placed before the world in a really perfected

form, it was necessary to get some independent evidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie

Hughes. If this could be once established, there could be no possible doubt about his identity with Mr. W. H.;

but otherwise the theory would fall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, who was a good

deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone of mind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the subject.

However, I made him promise that in his own interest he would not publish his discovery till he had put the

whole matter beyond the reach of doubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City churches,

the Alleyn MSS. at Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers of the Lord Chamberlain everything, in fact,

that we thought might contain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered nothing, of course, and every

day the existence of Willie Hughes seemed to me to become more problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful

state, and used to go over the whole question day after day, entreating me to believe; but I saw the one flaw in

the theory, and I refused to be convinced till the actual existence of Willie Hughes, a boyactor of

'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at the time, but I afterwards heard from Lord

Crediton that this was not the case; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a telegram from him, handed

in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to come and dine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I arrived,

he said to me, "The only apostle who did not deserve proof was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only

apostle who got it." I asked him what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been able to establish the

existence in the sixteenth century of a boyactor of the name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the most

conclusive evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. He would not tell me anything more at the

time; but after dinner he solemnly produced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had discovered it

by the merest chance nailed to the side of an old chest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire.

The chest itself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had, of course, brought with him,

and in the centre of the front panel the initials W. H. were undoubtedly carved. It was this monogram that had

attracted his attention, and he told me that it was not till he had had the chest in his possession for several

days that he had thought of making any careful examination of the inside. One morning, however, he saw that

one of the sides of the chest was much thicker than the other, and looking more closely, he discovered that a

framed panel picture was clamped against it. On taking it out, he found it was the picture that is now lying on

the sofa. It was very dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to clean it, and, to his great joy, saw that

he had fallen by mere chance on the one thing for which he had been looking. Here was an authentic portrait

of Mr. W. H., with his hand resting on the dedicatory page of the Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be

faintly seen the name of the young man written in black uncial letters on a faded gold ground, "Master Will.

'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment that Cyril Graham was playing a trick on me,

'Of course it is,' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but it is a forgery none the less. I thought at the time

that Cyril was rather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he more than once told me that he himself

required no proof of the kind, and that he thought the theory complete without it. I laughed at him, and told

him that without it the theory would fall to the ground, and I warmly congratulated him on the marvellous

discovery. We then arranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and placed as the frontispiece to

Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and for three months we did nothing but go over each poem line by line, till we

had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One unlucky day I was in a printshop in Holborn, when I

saw upon the counter some extremely beautiful drawings in silverpoint. I was so attracted by them that I

bought them; and the proprietor of the place, a man called Rawlings, told me that they were done by a young

painter of the name of Edward Merton, who was very clever, but as poor as a church mouse. I went to see

Merton some days afterwards, having got his address from the printseller, and found a pale, interesting young

man, with a rather commonlooking wife his model, as I subsequently learned. I told him how much I

admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked him if he would show me some of his

other work. As we were looking over a portfolio, full of really very lovely things, for Merton had a most

delicate and delightful touch, I suddenly caught sight of a drawing of the picture of Mr. W. H. There was

no doubt whatever about it. It was almost a FACSIMILE the only difference being that the two masks of

Tragedy and Comedy were not suspended from the marble table as they are in the picture, but were lying on

the floor at the young man's feet. "Where on earth did you get that?" I said. He grew rather confused, and said

"Oh, that is nothing. I did not know it was in this portfolio. It is not a thing of any value." "It is what you

did for Mr. Cyril Graham," exclaimed his wife; "and if this gentleman wishes to buy it, let him have it." "For

Mr. Cyril Graham?" I repeated. "Did you paint the picture of Mr. W. H.?" "I don't understand what you

mean," he answered, growing very red. Well, the whole thing was quite dreadful. The wife let it all out. I

gave her five pounds when I was going away. I can't bear to think of it now; but of course I was furious. I

went off at once to Cyril's chambers, waited there for three hours before he came in, with that horrid lie

staring me in the face, and told him I had discovered his forgery. He grew very pale and said "I did it purely

for your sake. You would not be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of the theory." "The

truth of the theory!" I exclaimed; "the less we talk about that the better. You never even believed in it

yourself. If you had, you would not have committed a forgery to prove it." High words passed between us; we

'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed upon the frame of the picture, just where

the name had been painted. By the time I arrived his servant had sent for me at once the police were

already there. He had left a letter for me, evidently written in the greatest agitation and distress of mind.'

'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery of the picture had been done simply as a

concession to me, and did not in the slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory; and, that in order to

show me how firm and flawless his faith in the whole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice to

the secret of the Sonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. I remember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me

the Willie Hughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world, and to unlock the secret of

'It is a most tragic story,' I cried; 'but why have you not carried out his wishes?'

Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsound theory from beginning to end,' he

'My dear Erskine,' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you are entirely wrong about the whole matter. It is the

only perfect key to Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete in every detail. I believe in

'Don't say that,' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there is something fatal about the idea, and intellectually there

is nothing to be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assure you the theory is entirely

fallacious. It is plausible up to a certain point. Then it stops. For heaven's sake, my dear boy, don't take up the

'Erskine,' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to the world. If you will not do it, I will. By keeping it

back you wrong the memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most splendid of all the martyrs of

literature. I entreat you to do him justice. He died for this thing, don't let his death be in vain.'

Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by the sentiment of the whole story,' he said. 'You

forget that a thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted to Cyril Graham. His death

was a horrible blow to me. I did not recover it for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. But Willie

Hughes? There is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. No such person ever existed. As for bringing the

whole thing before the world the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by accident. The only proof

of his suicide was contained in the letter to me, and of this letter the public never heard anything. To the

'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,' I answered; 'and if you will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at

'His faith,' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, in a thing that was unsound, in a thing that no

Shakespearean scholar would accept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don't make a fool of

yourself, and don't follow a trail that leads nowhere. You start by assuming the existence of the very person

whose existence is the thing to be proved. Besides, everybody knows that the Sonnets were addressed to Lord

'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up the theory where Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove

'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don't think about Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I

told you anything about it, and very sorry indeed that I should have converted you to a thing in which I don't

'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern literature,' I answered; 'and I shall not rest till I

have made you recognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that Cyril Graham was the most subtle

As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just breaking over London. The white swans were

lying asleep on the polished lake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple against the palegreen sky. I thought of

IT was past twelve o'clock when I awoke, and the sun was streaming in through the curtains of my room in

long slanting beams of dusty gold. I told my servant that I would be at home to no one; and after I had had a

cup of chocolate and a PETITPAIN, I took down from the bookshelf my copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets,

and began to go carefully through them. Every poem seemed to me to corroborate Cyril Graham's theory. I

felt as if I had my hand upon Shakespeare's heart, and was counting each separate throb and pulse of passion.

Two sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the 53rd and the 67th. In the first of these,

Shakespeare, complimenting Willie Hughes on the versatility of his acting, on his wide range of parts, a

range extending from Rosalind to Juliet, and from Beatrice to Ophelia, says to him

What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every

lines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to an actor, for the word 'shadow' had in

Shakespeare's day a technical meaning connected with the stage. 'The best in this kind are but shadows,' says

Theseus of the actors in the MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, and there are many similar allusions in the

literature of the day. These sonnets evidently belonged to the series in which Shakespeare discusses the

nature of the actor's art, and of the strange and rare temperament that is essential to the perfect stageplayer.

'How is it,' says Shakespeare to Willie Hughes, 'that you have so many personalities?' and then he goes on to

point out that his beauty is such that it seems to realise every form and phase of fancy, to embody each dream

of the creative imagination an idea that is still further expanded in the sonnet that immediately follows,

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which TRUTH doth give!

Shakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truth of visible presentation on the stage, adds to

the wonder of poetry, giving life to its loveliness, and actual reality to its ideal form. And yet, in the 67th

Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie Hughes to abandon the stage with its artificiality, its false mimic life

of painted face and unreal costume, its immoral influences and suggestions, its remoteness from the true

Ah, wherefore with infection should he live And with his presence grace impiety,

Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor

It may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, who realised his own perfection as an artist and

his humanity as a man on the ideal plane of stagewriting and stageplaying, should have written in these

terms about the theatre; but we must remember that in Sonnets CX. and CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he

too was wearied of the world of puppets, and full of shame at having made himself 'a motley to the view.' The

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for

my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a

and there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signs familiar to all real students of Shakespeare.

One point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it was days before I struck on the true

interpretation, which indeed Cyril Graham himself seems to have missed. I could not understand how it was

that Shakespeare set so high a value on his young friend marrying. He himself had married young, and the

result had been unhappiness, and it was not likely that he would have asked Willie Hughes to commit the

same error. The boyplayer of Rosalind had nothing to gain from marriage, or from the passions of real life.

The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties to have children, seemed to me a jarring note. The explanation

of the mystery came on me quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious dedication. It will be remembered

Some scholars have supposed that the word 'begetter' in this dedication means simply the procurer of the

Sonnets for Thomas Thorpe the publisher; but this view is now generally abandoned, and the highest

authorities are quite agreed that it is to be taken in the sense of inspirer, the metaphor being drawn from the

analogy of physical life. Now I saw that the same metaphor was used by Shakespeare himself all through the

poems, and this set me on the right track. Finally I made my great discovery. The marriage that Shakespeare

proposes for Willie Hughes is the marriage with his Muse, an expression which is definitely put forward in

the 82nd Sonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection of the boyactor for whom he had

written his greatest parts, and whose beauty had indeed suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying

The children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh and blood, but more immortal children of undying

fame. The whole cycle of the early sonnets is simply Shakespeare's invitation to Willie Hughes to go upon

the stage and become a player. How barren and profitless a thing, he says, is this beauty of yours if it be not

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud

livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then being ask'd where all thy beauty

lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say, within thine own deepsunken eyes, Were an alleating

You must create something in art: my verse 'is thine, and BORN of thee'; only listen to me, and I will

'BRING FORTH eternal numbers to outlive long date,' and you shall people with forms of your own image

the imaginary world of the stage. These children that you beget, he continues, will not wither away, as mortal

Make thee another self, for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

I collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate this view, and they produced a strong impression

on me, and showed me how complete Cyril Graham's theory really was. I also saw that it was quite easy to

separate those lines in which he speaks of the Sonnets themselves from those in which he speaks of his great

dramatic work. This was a point that had been entirely overlooked by all critics up to Cyril Graham's day.

And yet it was one of the most important points in the whole series of poems. To the Sonnets Shakespeare

was more or less indifferent. He did not wish to rest his fame on them. They were to him his 'slight Muse,' as

he calls them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private circulation only among a few, a very few, friends.

Upon the other hand he was extremely conscious of the high artistic value of his plays, and shows a noble

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in

ETERNAL LINES to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and

the expression 'eternal lines' clearly alludes to one of his plays that he was sending him at the time, just as the

concluding couplet points to his confidence in the probability of his plays being always acted. In his address

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st

thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

he cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedy and Comedy for her 'neglect of Truth in

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for 't lies in thee To make him much

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

It is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives to this idea its fullest expression. To

imagine that the 'powerful rhyme' of the second line refers to the sonnet itself, is to mistake Shakespeare's

meaning entirely. It seemed to me that it was extremely likely, from the general character of the sonnet, that a

particular play was meant, and that the play was none other but ROMEO AND JULIET.

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept

stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful wars shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of

masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.

Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and

It was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhere Shakespeare promised Willie Hughes

immortality in a form that appealed to men's eyes that is to say, in a spectacular form, in a play that is to be

For two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out, and refusing all invitations. Every day I

seemed to be discovering something new, and Willie Hughes became to me a kind of spiritual presence, an

everdominant personality. I could almost fancy that I saw him standing in the shadow of my room, so well

had Shakespeare drawn him, with his golden hair, his tender flowerlike grace, his dreamy deepsunken

eyes, his delicate mobile limbs, and his white lily hands. His very name fascinated me. Willie Hughes! Willie

Hughes! How musically it sounded! Yes; who else but he could have been the mastermistress of

Shakespeare's passion, (1) the lord of his love to whom he was bound in vassalage, (2) the delicate minion of

pleasure, (3) the rose of the whole world, (4) the herald of the spring (5) decked in the proud livery of youth,

(6) the lovely boy whom it was sweet music to hear, (7) and whose beauty was the very raiment of

Shakespeare's heart, (8) as it was the keystone of his dramatic power? How bitter now seemed the whole

tragedy of his desertion and his shame! shame that he made sweet and lovely (9) by the mere magic of his

personality, but that was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare forgave him, should not we forgive him

His abandonment of Shakespeare's theatre was a different matter, and I investigated it at great length. Finally

I came to the conclusion that Cyril Graham had been wrong in regarding the rival dramatist of the 80th

Sonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe who was alluded to. At the time the Sonnets were written,

such an expression as 'the proud full sail of his great verse' could not have been used of Chapman's work,

however applicable it might have been to the style of his later Jacobean plays. No: Marlowe was clearly the

was the Mephistopheles of his DOCTOR FAUSTUS. No doubt, Marlowe was fascinated by the beauty and

grace of the boyactor, and lured him away from the Blackfriars Theatre, that he might play the Gaveston of

his EDWARD II. That Shakespeare had the legal right to retain Willie Hughes in his own company is evident

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The CHARTER

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair

gift in me is wanting, AND SO MY PATENT BACK AGAIN IS SWERVING. Thyself thou gayest, thy own

worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision

growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In

But him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force. Willie Hughes became a member of

Lord Pembroke's company, and, perhaps in the open yard of the Red Bull Tavern, played the part of King

Edward's delicate minion. On Marlowe's death, he seems to have returned to Shakespeare, who, whatever his

fellowpartners may have thought of the matter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness and treachery of the

How well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stageplayer ! Willie Hughes was one of those

That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone.

He could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passion without realising it.

In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,

but with Willie Hughes it was not so. 'Heaven,' says Shakespeare, in a sonnet of mad idolatry

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks

In his 'inconstant mind' and his 'false heart,' it was easy to recognise the insincerity and treachery that

somehow seem inseparable from the artistic nature, as in his love of praise that desire for immediate

recognition that characterises all actors. And yet, more fortunate in this than other actors, Willie Hughes was

to know something of immortality. Inseparably connected with Shakespeare's plays, he was to live in them.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can

yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my

gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'erread, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When

There were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes's power over his audience the 'gazers,' as Shakespeare

calls them; but perhaps the most perfect description of his wonderful mastery over dramatic art was in A

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning

paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep

All kind of arguments and questions deep, All replication prompt and reason strong, For his advantage still

did wake and sleep, To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep. He had the dialect and the different skill,

Once I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethan literature. In a wonderfully graphic

account of the last days of the great Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas Knell, tells us that the night before

the Earl died, 'he called William Hewes, which was his musician, to play upon the virginals and to sing.

"Play," said he, "my song, Will Hewes, and I will sing it to myself." So he did it most joyfully, not as the

howling swan, which, still looking down, waileth her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting up his hands and casting

up his eyes to his God, with this mounted the crystal skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue the top of

highest heavens.' Surely the boy who played on the virginals to the dying father of Sidney's Stella was none

other but the Will Hews to whom Shakespeare dedicated the Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself sweet

'music to hear.' Yet Lord Essex died in 1576, when Shakespeare himself was but twelve years of age. It was

impossible that his musician could have been the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. Perhaps Shakespeare's young

friend was the son of the player upon the virginals? It was at least something to have discovered that Will

Hews was an Elizabethan name. Indeed the name Hews seemed to have been closely connected with music

and the stage. The first English actress was the lovely Margaret Hews, whom Prince Rupert so madly loved.

What more probable than that between her and Lord Essex's musician had come the boyactor of

Shakespeare's plays? But the proofs, the links where were they? Alas! I could not find them. It seemed to

me that I was always on the brink of absolute verification, but that I could never really attain to it.

From Willie Hughes's life I soon passed to thoughts of his death. I used to wonder what had been his end.

Perhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 went across sea to Germany and played before

the great Duke Henry Julius of Brunswick, himself a dramatist of no mean order, and at the Court of that

strange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so enamoured of beauty that he was said to have bought for his

weight in amber the young son of a travelling Greek merchant, and to have given pageants in honour of his

slave all through that dreadful famine year of 16067, when the people died of hunger in the very streets of

the town, and for the space of seven months there was no rain. We know at any rate that ROMEO AND

JULIET was brought out at Dresden in 1613, along with HAMLET and KING LEAR, and it was surely to

none other than Willie Hughes that in 1615 the deathmask of Shakespeare was brought by the hand of one

of the suite of the English ambassador, pale token of the passing away of the great poet who had so dearly

loved him. Indeed there would have been something peculiarly fitting in the idea that the boyactor, whose

beauty had been so vital an element in the realism and romance of Shakespeare's art, should have been the

first to have brought to Germany the seed of the new culture, and was in his way the precursor of that

AUFKLARUNG or Illumination of the eighteenth century, that splendid movement which, though begun by

Lessing and Herder, and brought to its full and perfect issue by Goethe, was in no small part helped on by

another actor Friedrich Schroeder who awoke the popular consciousness, and by means of the feigned

passions and mimetic methods of the stage showed the intimate, the vital, connection between life and

literature. If this was so and there was certainly no evidence against it it was not improbable that Willie

Hughes was one of those English comedians (MIMAE QUIDAM EX BRITANNIA, as the old chronicle calls

them), who were slain at Nuremberg in a sudden uprising of the people, and were secretly buried in a little

vineyard outside the city by some young men 'who had found pleasure in their performances, and of whom

some had sought to be instructed in the mysteries of the new art.' Certainly no more fitting place could there

be for him to whom Shakespeare said, 'thou art all my art,' than this little vineyard outside the city walls. For

was it not from the sorrows of Dionysos that Tragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of Comedy, with its

careless merriment and quick replies, first heard on the lips of the Sicilian vinedressers? Nay, did not the

purple and red stain of the winefroth on face and limbs give the first suggestion of the charm and fascination

of disguise the desire for selfconcealment, the sense of the value of objectivity thus showing itself in the

rude beginnings of the art? At any rate, wherever he lay whether in the little vineyard at the gate of the

Gothic town, or in some dim London churchyard amidst the roar and bustle of our great city no gorgeous

monument marked his restingplace. His true tomb, as Shakespeare saw, was the poet's verse, his true

monument the permanence of the drama. So had it been with others whose beauty had given a new creative

impulse to their age. The ivory body of the Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the Nile, and on the

yellow hills of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust of the young Athenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture, and

AFTER three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal to Erskine to do justice to the memory

of Cyril Graham, and to give to the world his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets the only

interpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have not any copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor

have I been able to lay my hand upon the original; but I remember that I went over the whole ground, and

covered sheets of paper with passionate reiteration of the arguments and proofs that my study had suggested

to me. It seemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril Graham to his proper place in literary history, but

rescuing the honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a commonplace intrigue. I put into

No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came over me. It seemed to me that I had given

away my capacity for belief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that something had gone out of me,

as it were, and that I was perfectly indifferent to the whole subject. What was it that had happened? It is

difficult to say. Perhaps, by finding perfect expression for a passion, I had exhausted the passion itself.

Emotional forces, like the forces of physical life, have their positive limitations. Perhaps the mere effort to

convert any one to a theory involves some form of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I was

simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt out, my reason was left to its own

unimpassioned judgment. However it came about, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no doubt that

Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle dream, the boyish fancy of a young man who,

like most ardent spirits, was more anxious to convince others than to be himself convinced.

As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my letter, I determined to go and see him at

once, and to make my apologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning I drove down to

Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in his library, with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of

'You have nothing to regret in your letter,' he said. 'On the contrary, you have done me the greatest service in

'Why not?' he rejoined. 'You have proved the thing to me. Do you think I cannot estimate the value of

'But there is no evidence at all,' I groaned, sinking into a chair. 'When I wrote to you I was under the

influence of a perfectly silly enthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham's death, fascinated

by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder and novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is

based on a delusion. The only evidence for the existence of Willie Hughes is that picture in front of you, and

the picture is a forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter. Whatever romance may have

'I don't understand you,' said Erskine, looking at me in amazement. 'Why, you yourself have convinced me by

your letter that Willie Hughes is an absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Or is all that you

'I cannot explain it to you,' I rejoined, 'but I see now that there is really nothing to be said in favour of Cyril

Graham's interpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. For heaven's sake don't waste your

time in a foolish attempt to discover a young Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a phantom

'My dear Erskine,' I cried, 'not understand it! Why, I feel as if I had invented it. Surely my letter shows you

that I not merely went into the whole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every kind. The one flaw in the

theory is that it presupposes the existence of the person whose existence is the subject of dispute. If we grant

that there was in Shakespeare's company a young actor of the name of Willie Hughes, it is not difficult to

make him the object of the Sonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of this name in the company of

'But that is exactly what we don't know,' said Erskine. 'It is quite true that his name does not occur in the list

given in the first folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in favour of the existence of Willie

Hughes than against it, if we remember his treacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rival dramatist.'

We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say could make Erskine surrender his faith in

Cyril Graham's interpretation. He told me that he intended to devote his life to proving the theory, and that he

was determined to do justice to Cyril Graham's memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged of him, but

it was of no use. Finally we parted, not exactly in anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought

me shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called on him again his servant told me that he had gone to

Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hallporter handed me a letter with a foreign

postmark. It was from Erskine, and written at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it I was filled

with horror, though I did not quite believe that he would be so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The

gist of the letter was that he had tried in every way to verify the Willie Hughes theory, and had failed, and

that as Cyril Graham had given his life for this theory, he himself had determined to give his own life also to

the same cause. The concluding words of the letter were these: 'I still believe in Willie Hughes; and by the

time you receive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie Hughes's sake: for his sake, and for the

sake of Cyril Graham, whom I drove to his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant lack of faith. The

truth was once revealed to you, and you rejected it. It comes to you now stained with the blood of two lives,

It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could not believe it. To die for one's theological

beliefs is the worst use a man can make of his life, but to die for a literary theory! It seemed impossible.

I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate chance had prevented my going to the club

for several days, or I might have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too late. I drove off to my

rooms, packed up my things, and started by the nightmail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable.

I thought I would never arrive. As soon as I did I drove to the Hotel l'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine

had been buried two days before in the English cemetery. There was something horribly grotesque about the

whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at me.

Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the vestibule. When she saw me she came up to me,

murmured something about her poor son, and burst into tears. I led her into her sittingroom. An elderly

We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his motive for committing suicide. It was

evident that he had not told his mother anything about the reason that had driven him to so fatal, so mad an

act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, George left you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized

As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said, 'What a dreadful shock it must have been to

'Knew it for months past!' I cried. 'But why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she have him watched? He must

'Suicide!' he answered. 'Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He died of consumption. He came here to die.

The moment I saw him I knew that there was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and the other was very

much affected. Three days before he died he asked me was there any hope. I told him frankly that there was

none, and that he had only a few days to live. He wrote some letters, and was quite resigned, retaining his

At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture of Willie Hughes in her hand. 'When

George was dying he begged me to give you this,' she said. As I took it from her, her tears fell on my hand.

The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired by my artistic friends. They have

decided that it is not a Clouet, but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history. But sometimes,

when I look at it, I think that there is really a great deal to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of