Part 10

He had met her for the first time when he was a lad of twenty, and she a girl of eighteen. He could see her palpable before him now: her slender girlish figure, her bright eyes, her laughing mouth, her warm brown hair curling round her forehead. Oh, how he had loved her. For twelve years he had waited upon her, wooed her, hoped to win her. But she had always said, "No--I don't love you. I am very fond of you; I love you as a friend; we all love you that way--my mother, my father, my sisters. But I can't marry you." However, she married no one else, she loved no one else; and for twelve years he was an ever-welcome guest in her father's house; and she would talk with him, play to him, pity him; and he could hope. Then she died. He called one day, and they said she was ill. After that there came a blank in his memory--a gulf, full of blackness and redness, anguish and confusion; and then a sort of dreadful sudden calm, when they told him she was dead.

He remembered standing in her room, after the funeral, with her father, her mother, her sister Elizabeth. He remembered the pale daylight that filled it, and how orderly and cold and forsaken it all looked. And there was her bed, the bed she had died in; and there her dressing-table, with her combs and brushes; and there her writing-desk, her bookcase. He remembered a row of medicine bottles on the mantelpiece; he remembered the fierce anger, the hatred of them, as if they were animate, that had welled up in his heart as he looked at them, because they had failed to do their work.

"You will wish to have something that was hers, Richard," her mother said. "What would you like?"

On her dressing-table there was a small looking-glass in an ivory frame. He asked if he might have that, and carried it away with him. She had looked into it a thousand times, no doubt; she had done her hair in it; it had reflected her, enclosed her, contained her. He could almost persuade himself that something of her must remain in it. To own it was like owning something of herself. He carried it home with him, hugging it to his side with a kind of passion.

He had prized it, he prized it still, as his dearest treasure; the looking-glass in which her face had been reflected a thousand times; the glass that had contained her, known her; in which something of herself, he felt, must linger. To handle it, look at it, into it, behind it, was like holding a mystic communion with her; it gave him an emotion that was infinitely sweet and bitter, a pain that was dissolved in joy.

The glass lay now, folded in its ivory case, on the chimney-shelf in front of him. That was its place; he always kept it on his chimney-shelf; so that he could see it whenever he glanced round his room. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at it; for a long time his eyes remained fixed upon it. "If she had married me, she wouldn't have died. My love, my care, would have healed her. She could not have died." Monotonously, automatically, the phrase repeated itself over and over again in his mind, while his eyes remained fixed on the ivory case into which her looking-glass was folded. It was an effect of his fatigue, no doubt, that his eyes, once directed upon an object, were slow to leave it for another; that a phrase once pronounced in his thought had this tendency to repeat itself over and over again.

But at last he roused himself a little, and leaning forward, put his hand out and up, to take the glass from the shelf. He wished to hold it, to touch it and look into it. As he lifted it towards him, it fell open, the mirror proper being fastened to a leather back, which was glued to the ivory, and formed a hinge. It fell open; and his grasp had been insecure; and the jerk as it opened was enough. It slipped from his fingers, and dropped with a crash upon the hearthstone.

The sound went through him like a physical pain. He sank back into his chair, and closed his eyes. His heart was beating as after a mighty physical exertion. He knew vaguely that a calamity had befallen him; he could vaguely imagine the splinters of shattered glass at his feet. But his physical prostration was so great as to obliterate, to neutralise, emotion. He felt very cold. He felt that he was being hurried along with terrible speed through darkness and cold air. There was the continuous roar of rapid motion in his ears, a faint, dizzy bewilderment in his head. He felt that he was trying to catch hold of things, to stop his progress, but his hands closed upon emptiness; that he was trying to call out for help, but he could make no sound. On--on--on, he was being whirled through some immeasurable abyss of space.

* * * * *

"Ah, yes, he's dead, quite dead," the doctor said. "He has been dead some hours. He must have passed away peacefully sitting here in his chair."

"Poor gentleman," said the porter's wife. "And a broken looking-glass beside him. Oh, it's a sure sign, a broken looking-glass."

Portrait of a Lady

By Will Rothenstein

_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_

[Illustration: Portrait of a Lady]

Two Poems

By Edmund Gosse

I--Alere Flammam

To A. C. B.

In ancient Rome, the secret fire,-- An intimate and holy thing,-- Was guarded by a tender choir Of kindred maidens in a ring; Deep, deep within the house it lay, No stranger ever gazed thereon, But, flickering still by night and day, The beacon of the house, it shone; Thro' birth and death, from age to age, It passed, a quenchless heritage;

And there were hymns of mystic tone Sung round about the family flame, Beyond the threshold all unknown, Fast-welded to an ancient name; There sacrificed the sire as priest, Before that altar, none but he, Alone he spread the solemn feast For a most secret deity; He knew the god had once been sire, And served the same memorial fire.

Ah! so, untouched by windy roar Of public issues loud and long, The Poet holds the sacred door, And guards the glowing coal of song; Not his to grasp at praise or blame, Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun, His only pride to tend the flame That Homer and that Virgil won, Retain the rite, preserve the act, And pass the worship on intact.

Before the shrine at last he falls; The crowd rush in, a chattering band But, ere he fades in death, he calls Another priest to ward the brand; He, with a gesture of disdain, Flings back the ringing brazen gate, Reproves, repressing, the profane, And feeds the flame in primal state; Content to toil and fade in turn, If still the sacred embers burn.

II--A Dream of November

Far, far away, I know not where, I know not how, The skies are grey, the boughs are bare, bare boughs in flower: Long lilac silk is softly drawn from bough to bough, With flowers of milk and buds of fawn, a broidered shower.

Beneath that tent an Empress sits, with slanted eyes, And wafts of scent from censers flit, a lilac flood; Around her throne bloom peach and plum in lacquered dyes, And many a blown chrysanthemum, and many a bud.

She sits and dreams, while bonzes twain strike some rich bell, Whose music seems a metal rain of radiant dye; In this strange birth of various blooms, I cannot tell Which spring from earth, which slipped from looms, which sank from sky.

Beneath her wings of lilac dim, in robes of blue, The Empress sings a wordless hymn that thrills her bower; My trance unweaves, and winds, and shreds, and forms anew Dark bronze, bright leaves, pure silken threads, in triple flower.

Portrait of Mrs. Patrick Campbell

By Aubrey Beardsley

_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_

[Illustration: Portrait of Mrs. Patrick Campbell]

The Dedication

By Fred M. Simpson

PERSONS REPRESENTED

Lucy Rimmerton. Harold Sekbourne

## Scene I--The period is 1863

_The sitting-room in_ Lucy Rimmerton's _lodgings. She is seated in front of the fire making some toast._

_Lucy._ There! I think that will do, although it isn't anything very great. [_Rises._] What a colour I must have! Harold says I always manage to toast myself very much better than I do the bread. [_Lights the gas, and begins arranging some flowers on the table._] His favourite flowers; I know he will be pleased when he sees them. How strange it is that he should really care for me!--I, who am so commonplace and ordinary, hardly pretty either, although he says I am. I always tell him he might have done so much better than propose to a poor governess without a penny.--Oh, if only his book proves a success!--a really great success!--how glorious it will be! Why doesn't the wretched publisher make haste and bring it out? I believe he is keeping it back on purpose. What dreadful creatures they are! At first--squabble, squabble, squabble; squabble about terms, squabble about this, another squabble about that, and then, when everything is finally arranged, delay, delay, delay. "You must wait for the publishing season." As though a book were a young lady whose future might be seriously jeopardised if it made its _début_ at an unfashionable time.

[_The door opens, and_ Harold _bursts into the room_.]

_Harold._ It's out, it's out; out at last.

_Lucy._ What, the book! Really! Where is it? Do show it to me.

_Harold._ Do you think you deserve it!

_Lucy._ Oh! don't tantalise me. Have you seen it? What is it like!

_Harold._ It is printed, and very much like other books.

_Lucy._ You are horrid. I believe you have it with you. Have you?

_Harold._ And what if I say yes?

_Lucy._ You have. Do let me see it.

_Harold._ And will you be very good if I do!

_Lucy._ I'll be angelic.

_Harold._ Then on that condition only--There! take it gently. [Lucy _snatches it, and cuts the string_.] I thought you never cut string?

_Lucy._ There is never a never that hasn't an exception.

_Harold._ Not a woman's, certainly.

_Lucy._ Oh! how nice it looks! And to think that it is yours, really and truly yours. "Grace: a Sketch. By Harold Sekbourne." It's delicious! [_Holding the book, dances round the room._]

_Harold._ I shall begin to be jealous. You will soon be more in love with my book than you are with me.

_Lucy._ And why shouldn't I be? Haven't you always said that a man's work is the best part of him?

_Harold._ If my silly sayings are to be brought up in evidence against me like this, I shall----

_Lucy._ You shall what?

_Harold._ Take the book back.

_Lucy._ Oh, will you? I should like to see you do it. [_Holds it behind her._] You have got to get it first.

_Harold._ And what are you going to give me for it?

_Lucy._ Isn't it a presentation copy?

_Harold._ It is the very first to leave the printer's.

_Lucy._ Then you ought not to want any payment.

_Harold._ I do though, all the same. Come--no payment, no book.

_Lucy._ There, there, there!

_Harold._ And there.

_Lucy._ Oh! don't! You'll stifle me. And is this for me; may I really keep it?

_Harold._ Of course you may; I brought it expressly for you.

_Lucy._ How nice of you! And you'll write my name in it?

_Harold._ I'll write the dedication.

_Lucy._ What do you mean?

_Harold._ You shall see. Pen and ink for the author! A new pen and virgin ink!

_Lucy._ Your Authorship has but to command to be obeyed.

_Harold._ [_Sitting down, writes._] It is printed in all the other copies, but this one I have had bound specially for you, with a blank sheet where the dedication comes, so that in your copy, and yours alone, I can write it myself. There.

_Lucy._ [_Looks over his shoulder and reads._] "To my Lady Luce." Oh, Harold, you have dedicated it to me!

_Harold._ Who else could I dedicate it to? although 'tis--

"Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that now It may immortal be."

_Lucy._ It is good of you.

_Harold._ [_Writes again._] "Harold Sekbourne"--what's to-day?--oh, yes, "3rd November, 1863."

_Lucy._ And will people know who the "Lady Luce" is?

_Harold._ They will some day. The dedication in my next book shall be "To my Lady Wife."

_Lucy._ I wonder if I shall ever be that. It seems so long coming.

_Harold._ I don't mind when it is--to-morrow, if you like.

_Lucy._ Don't talk nonsense, although it is my fault for beginning it. And now sit down--no, here in the arm-chair--and you shall have some nice tea.

[_She makes and pours out the tea as Harold talks._]

_Harold._ You won't have to wait long if this proves a success: and it will be one. I know it; I feel it. It isn't only that everybody who has read it, likes it; it's something else that I can't describe, not even to you; a feeling inside, that--call it conceit if you like, but it isn't conceit; it isn't conceit to feel confidence in oneself. Why, look at the trash, the arrant trash, that succeeds every day; you will say, perhaps, that it succeeds because it is trash, that trash is what people want--they certainly get it. But no book that ever had real stuff in it has failed yet, and I feel that--Ha! ha! the same old feeling mentioned above. Don't think me an awful prig, Luce. I don't talk to anybody else as I do to you; and if you only knew what a relief it is to me to let myself go a bit occasionally, you would excuse everything.

_Lucy._ You have a right to be conceited.

_Harold._ Not yet. I have done nothing yet; but I mean to. [_Takes up the book._] I wonder what will become of you and your fellows; what will be your future? Will you one day adorn the shelves of libraries, figure in catalogues of "Rare books and first editions," and be contended for by snuffy, long-clothed bibliomaniacs, who will bid one against the other for the honour of possessing you? Or will you descend to the tables of secondhand book-stalls marked at a great reduction; or lie in a heap, with other lumber, outside the shop-front, all this lot sixpence each, awaiting there, uncared for, unnoticed, and unknown, your ultimate destination, the dust-hole?

_Lucy._ You are horrid. What an idea!

_Harold._ No, I don't think that will be your end. [_Puts down the book._] You are not going to the dustbin, you are going to be a success. No more hack work for me after this. Why, supposing only the first edition is sold, I more than clear expenses, and if it runs to two--ten--twenty editions, I shall receive--the amount fairly takes my breath away. Twentieth thousand; doesn't it sound fine? We shall have our mansion in Grosvenor Square yet, Luce; and that charming, little old house we saw the other day up the river--we'll have that, too; so that we can run down here from Saturday to Monday, to get away from London fog and nastiness. Yes, I am going to be rich some day--rich--in ten years' time, if this book gets a fair start and I have anything like decent luck, I shall be the best known author in England. [_Rises._] The son of the old bookseller who failed will be able then to repay those who helped him when he wanted help, and, more delightful thought still, pay back those with interest who did their best to keep him down, when they could just as easily have helped him to rise. I am going to have a success, I feel it. In a few weeks' time I'll bring you a batch of criticisms that will astonish you. But what is the matter? why so silent all of a sudden? has my long and conceited tirade disgusted you?

_Lucy._ No, not at all.

_Harold._ Then what is it?

_Lucy._ I was only thinking that--[_hesitates_].

_Harold._ Thinking what? About me:

_Lucy._ Yes, about you and--and also about myself.

_Harold._ That is just as it should be, about us two together.

_Lucy._ Yes, but I was afraid----

_Harold._ [_Smiling._] Afraid! what of?

_Lucy._ Nothing, nothing really. I am ashamed that--let me give you some more tea.

_Harold._ No, thanks. Come, let me hear, make a clean breast of it.

_Lucy._ I can't, really; you would only laugh at me.

_Harold._ Then why deny me a pleasure, for you know I love to laugh?

_Lucy._ Well, then--if you become famous--and rich----

_Harold._ If I do; well?

_Lucy._ You won't--you won't forget me, will you?

_Harold._ Forget you, what an idea! Why do I want to become famous? why do I want to become rich? For my own sake? for the sake of the money? Neither. I want it for your sake, so that you can be rich; so that you can have everything you can possibly want. I don't mind roughing it a bit myself, but----

_Lucy._ No more do I: I am sure we might be very happy living even here.

_Harold._ No, thank you; no second pair fronts for me, or, rather, none for my wife. I want you to forget all about this place, as though it had never existed; I want you to only remember your giving lessons as a nightmare which has passed and gone. I want you to take a position in the world, to go into society----

_Lucy._ But, Harold----

_Harold._ To entertain, receive, lead----

_Lucy._ But I could never lead. I detest receiving. I hate entertaining----

_Harold._ Except me.

_Lucy._ I often wonder if I do. You are so clever and I----

_Harold._ Such a goose. Whatever put such ideas into your head? Why, you are actually crying.

_Lucy._ I am not.

_Harold._ Then what is that? [_Puts his finger against her cheek._] What is that little sparkling drop?

_Lucy._ It must be a tear of joy, then.

_Harold._ Which shall be used to christen the book!

_Lucy._ Oh, don't--there, you have left a mark.

_Harold._ It is your fault. My finger wouldn't have done it by itself. Are you going to be silly any more?

_Lucy._ No, I am not.

_Harold._ And you are going to love me, believe in me, and trust me?

_Lucy._ I do all three--implicitly.

_Harold._ [_He kisses her._] The seal of the trinity. [_Looks at his watch._] By jove, I must be going.

_Lucy._ So soon?

_Harold._ Rather; I have to dine in Berkeley Square at eight o'clock, at Sir Humphrey Mockton's. You would like their house, it's a beauty, a seventeenth or eighteenth century one, with such a gorgeous old staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit vulgar--"wool" I think it was, or "cottons," or some other commodity; but his daughter is charming--I should say daughters, as there are two of them, so you needn't be jealous.

_Lucy._ Jealous? of course I am not. Have you known them long?

_Harold._ Oh! some little time. They are awfully keen to see my book. I am going to take--send them a copy. You see I must be civil to these people, they know such an awful lot of the right sort; and their recommendation of a book will have more weight than fifty advertisements. So good-bye. [_Takes his overcoat._]

_Lucy._ Let me help you. But you are going without noticing my flowers.

_Harold._ I have been admiring them all along, except when I was looking at you.

_Lucy._ Don't be silly.

_Harold._ They are charming. Sir Humphrey has some orchids just the same colours; you ought to see them; he has basketsful sent up every week from his place in Surrey.

_Lucy._ No wonder my poor little chrysanthemums didn't impress you.

_Harold._ What nonsense! I would give more for one little flower from you, than for the contents of all his conservatories.

_Lucy._ Then you shall have that for nothing.

_Harold._ Don't, it will destroy the bunch.

_Lucy._ What does that matter? they are all yours.

_Harold._ You do your best to spoil me.

_Lucy._ [_Pins the flower into his button-hole._] Don't talk nonsense. There!

_Harold._ What a swell you have made me look!

_Lucy._ Good-bye; when shall I see you again?

_Harold._ Not until Sunday, I am afraid; I am so busy just now. But I'll come round early, and, if fine, we'll go and lunch at Richmond, and have a good walk across the Park afterwards. Would you like it?

_Lucy._ Above all things, but--but don't spend all your money on me.

_Harold._ Bother the money! I am going to be rich. Good-bye till Sunday.

_Lucy._ _Au revoir_; and while you are dining in your grand house, with lots of grand people, I am going to enjoy a delightful evening here, not alone, as I shall have your book for company. Good-bye.

Six Months elapse between Scene I. and Scene II.

## Scene II--The Scene and Persons are the same

Lucy _is dressed as before; she is seated_. Harold _is in evening dress, with a flower in his button-hole; he stands by the fireplace_.

_Harold._ Well, all I have to say is, I think you are most unreasonable.

_Lucy._ You have no right to say that.

_Harold._ I have if I think it.

_Lucy._ Well, you have no right to think it.

_Harold._ My thoughts are not my own, I suppose?

_Lucy._ They are so different from what I should have expected you to have that I almost doubt it.

_Harold._ Better say I have changed at once.

_Lucy._ And so you have.

_Harold._ Who is saying things one has no right to say now?

_Lucy._ I am only saying what I think.

_Harold._ Then if you want to have the right to your own thoughts, kindly let me have the right to mine. [_Walks to the window._] I can't prevent people sending me invitations, can I?

_Lucy._ You need not accept them.

_Harold._ And make enemies right and left, I suppose?

_Lucy._ I don't want you to do that, and I don't want either to prevent your enjoying yourself; but--but, I do want to see you occasionally.

_Harold._ And so you do.

_Lucy._ Yes, very--perhaps I should say I want to see you often.

_Harold._ And so do I you, but I can't be in two places at once. This is what I mean when I say you are unreasonable. I must go out. If I am to write, I must study people, character, scenes. I can't do that by stopping at home: I can't do that by coming here; I know you and I know your landlady, and there is nobody else in the house, except the slavey and the cat; and although the slavey may be a very excellent servant and the cat a most original quadruped, still, I don't want to make elaborate studies of animals--either four-legged or two. One would imagine, from the way you talk, that I did nothing except enjoy myself. I only go out in the evenings.

_Lucy._ Still you might spare a little time, now and then, to come and see me, if only for half an hour.

_Harold._ What am I doing now? I gave up a dinner-party to come here to-night.

_Lucy._ Do you know it is exactly a month yesterday since you were here last?

_Harold._ I can't be always dangling at your apron-strings.