THE MAN WHO KNEW.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 931, 10 June 1914, Page 8

THE MAN WHO KNEW.

SHORT STORY

There was one subject which Walter nomad was believed to hare at his finger - sod*, and that was Woman. Hehadderoted much time and labour to the study of Woman, and ha gave the results of his observations to the world in a series of little boob, each of which contained a careful analysis of some type of *—"na character. There was » curious sameness about Farrand's work but the masculiua part of the Wnngpubfr admired it greatly, and was flrmly eonriseed of. the accuracy of the author's observations; the mote so because be dealt liberally fa the cynical epigrams, paradoxes, and generalisations which, when directed against the opposite sex, are so dear to the heart of man. It was true that one beard/asi youth had had the presumption to tellFserand Oat the women in his books were like so many dried butterflies, with pins Itojsk through them, and all the bloom brushed off their wings. Bat then every tody knew that bat was not an impartial critic, because bo was dreadfully in lore with a wry delightful woman, only fifteen years Qifipr than bfmsecf. _

Although Ferrand know so much about women, ha was but little addicted to feminine sodaty. BmnouT said that he had been anfatuiiato in his relations with the fair sex, and it was certain that he never felt so complete! v at bis ease or on such good terms with himself as when he sat by the fire in the elnb suwkiag-room, and delivered himself of words of wisdom on the subject of Femininity, its faults, failings, and general unsatisfactariness, while the younger men hung upon his lips, and told each other that the woman wasn't born who could take mold Ferrand. Meanwhile, his books prospered beyond their literary desserts. The heroines wan all creatures of impulse, hysterically emotional, superficially sentimental, con sjaisfllff inconsistent, and impossibly irrational; consequently, they were eulogised by the critics as exquisite and lifelike studies of trap womanhood

One sojamei Fenarjd decided to spend a law weeks at rTartarrifflhad, partly on account of his liver, partly because he thought that among the heterogenous society them MmM he might pick up some useful material for his next book. The morning after his arrival, u he sat under the ohesrnut tees in the Casino gardens, listenicy to the band, he notioed a sudden commotion among a group of students at a neighbouring table. 'Die rotfae Dame,* they were whispering eagerly. 'Da geht die ro the Dame/ Die rothe Dame! The Bed Lady! A good title for a book, thought Ferrand, as he glanced in the direction indicated by the students. For a moment his eyes were abroet sfaafad by th>» glow of colour radiated frcaa a tail lady attired in a scarlet gown, and wearing a toque composed of a single na * e poppy upon her head. It was an audacious costume, the more so because the wearer had red-gold hair of a tint so brilliant that it threw even her poppy head-gear into the shade. Ferrand could not be sure at the first glance whether the lady was beautiful or only startling, for her eye-browa were golden, her eye* bluish-green, and her nose w»s not hvaocent of freckles. But—she possessed the compensating complexion that is ■nmetlnim the complement of such hair and eyes; indeed, as Ferrand gazed at her he involuntarily recalled some of the foolish, tender rhapsodies of the old poets about the lilies) and rosea-or cherries and cream that were supposed to mingle in their ladies' cheeks. There could he no hyperbole in any such companion for the colouring of the 'rothe Dame,' since she 'put out 1 every woman in her neighboaihood as effectually aa a fine Rubens puts Gut the pictures that surround it.

Ferrand decided that he must somehow •outlive to make acquaintance with this new and brilliant 'specimen,' which, with the ardour of the true naturalist, he longed to add to his collection of f«imnin« types. Fortune seemed to favour his design, for the one evening at dinner he found himself seated opposite to the apparition of the morning. She wsa looking radiant in a fhuneeotoared silk blouse, sod her hair glittered like span gold in the gaslight. By her side let as infirm-looking old lady, whom she ■iHiUßSiilt aa Annt Harriet, and to whom she appeared to be a kind and attentive niece.

- *AH pat an far effect,* thought Perrand as be noticed her pretty manner to the invalid. 'Much, attention (he poor old thing would get if they wen dining ale ce.' lbs passing of • menu brought him a few words from the 'rothe Dame.* 'Had he juat arrived? 'Was it Ida first visit to Hastanienhad.?' the usual preliminaries of a table d'hote acquaintance. 1 The anna old commonplaces," he reSected, forgettinjr that bis own replies bad not been partiealarlr new or striking. 'ThedistinBTiubinjr characteristic of the feminine mind is Uok of originality.' In the course of the evening he engaged file bead waiter in conversation, and after inquiring about several of the more unattractive of his fellow-guest i, finally asked .the name of 'the lady in red.' August issfantfy waxed eloquent. She was a Miss Torrena, and the lady with her was her aunt. Mm. Maitiand, They'were both liebeaswurdjge Damon, never gave unnecessary trouble, nor grumbled about their bilk. The Iranian was very beautiful, didn't the Henthink tot It was always a good thing for an hotel when there was a beautiful young lady among the guests, because gentlemen visitors stared longer, and some came to doner from the town.

' An hotel flirt,' sneered Ferrand to himself. 'Just what I ■Knnl/'l have inngmed* The next morning he rose early, and after having dutifully swallowed his two glasses of water at the Quelle, went for a long walk among the chestnut woods that Surround the town. On hu way back he passed through a tiny village, in the middle of which there **"**.* tS n * t J "P™ ■pace and a picturesque old fountain round whose steps the children were at afar. While he was still at some SJSWMBS his eye was caught by a gleam of scarlet which looked doubly vivid against the grey atone of the fountain and the deep green of the trees. As he drew nearer, be perceived that the Bed Lady was seated in the midst of a little group of children, to whom (he seemed to be relating a story. She was speaking slowly and emphatically in rather funny Herman, and as ho passed, he could hear her mj: — - 'The Professor came into the garden one morning, and saw a large nettle making sign* with her leaves to a handsome red pink. She said: *You are so fascinating that I really don't know, how to resist you.' But the Professor doesn't approve of such behaviour, so be tapped the settle on her leaves, which are her fingers. But he only stung himself badly, and since then ho has never ventured to correct a nettle.'

At this the children began to laugh, and the Bed Lady laughed too. ' What dreadful nonsense!' said Ferrand to himself, for he had long since forgotten bJs Hans Anderson, and he fancied that the story was the invention of Jli-s Torreas'a brain. Still, as he walked slowly homeward, he felt a little puzzled and uncertain, for if the Bed Lady was the heartless, frivolous flirt that he had already labelled her, would she care to amuse herself with these dirty little peasant children? His faith in hia own perspicuity was restored no later than the same evening, however; for, happening to" look in at the Casino for half an hour, he was rewarded by the sight of one lightblue officer after another, like a living dancing flame. - During the next few days he was constantly coining across the Bed Lady ; yet at the end of a week ho could not Salter himself that he hid mad? much prnjrr-- in his ■tody of character, for neatl) everyday she appeared ia • new and bewildering" lixht.

In the mornings ha usually saw her sitting in the hotel garden, reading Blair's Sermons to her aunt as demurely as though she had not been tearing through a cotillon only a few hours before; and on Sunday he caught sight of her, dressed for onoe in black, coming out of the little Roman Catholio church. \

1 Superstitious, of course, like all women,' was big inward comment; but the same evening be found a copy of one of Herbert Spencer's works in the reading room, with buss Torrens' name inside.

'So she wishes to pose as a blue-stocking now,' he remarked, as he turned over the leaves and read some of the marginal annotations, which by reason of their acumen, he concluded to be the contribution of a male relation. In the course of his next conversation with Hiss Torrens, he turned the conversation upon the topio of Herbert Spencer and his works, in the hope of finding the young lady at aloes. But she proved to be quite annoyingly well up in the subjeot, and left her inquisitor more mystified than before ; for it was one of the chief articles of his creed that all clever women were plain and badly dressed, and all pretty women silly and frivolous. And what made matters all the more confusing was that there were times when the Bed Lady was quite as frivolous as his heart could desire. She wore the most astounding costumes, kept an everlengthening string of admirers in tow, and was the life and soul of all the entertainments that KJastanienbad could afford.

' How you do enjoy yourself.?' he said one night, half reproachfully, as, flushed and panting after the maddest of German galops, she dropped into a chair at his side. 'Why not?* she asked, a faint shadow coming over her radiant face. ' Life is short —and very precarious.' ' Is that any reason for frittering it away r* he asked severely. * What can a woman do T she returned, with a touch of bitterness. 'Do you think she ought to have a profession r* ' Heaven forbid! he replied devoutly. 'But she might make some good man happy.' ' But suppose she never met the good man, or met him and lost him? What choice has she then but to be considered foolishly frivolous or objectionably strong-minded V 'She might occupy herself with household duties, and visit the poor.' ' Yes,' hinder the servants in their work, and increase the number of able-bodied paupers,' she laughed. ' No, give me ; a good floor and a Viennese orchestra, or " She did not finish her sentence, fur at that moment she was claimed by a light-blue lieutenant for the next dance.

Day by day "Ferrand grew more piqued, interested, bewildered by the chameleonlike creature, who seemed to have as many changes of character as of costume. He was unable to keep his eyes from her when she was present, or bis thoughts from her when she was absent, and yet he could not accuse her of having given him any encouragement, or attempted to flirt with him. She was always pleasant and friendly, but sometimes Ferrand fancied that her eyes wore an expression of pity when they rested upon him. ' Why do you look at me as if you were sorry for me?' he asked her one day, when they had become upon fairly intimate terms. ' Because I am sorry for you,' she replied. • But what makes yon think that I stand in any need of pity f' 'Because I have read your books/ she answered quietly. 'I don't see that my books make me an object of compassion,* he said, surprised to find himself wishing that she had not read the works of which he had once been so proud. ' They have sold very well.' • 1 hadn't considered the matter from * 'commercial point of view,* she said. 'I pitied you because I fancied after reading your books that you had never loved any woman, and I thought that perhaps no woman had ever loved you.' 'What made you think that P he asked, involuntarily wincing under her words. • Because you showed that you knew so little about women. K you had ever really loved, you would have known so much more; and if you had ever been loved, you would have known a little more. As it is, you I describe women from the outside only, and yon generalise about them in the most comical manner. You remind me of a little boy who has been bitten by a dog, or kicked by a donkey, and who writes in his exercise-book 'All dogß bite,' or 'All donkeys kick.' I must admit, however, that you are not more unreasonable and inconsistent than most other male novelists, who study our sex with a mind full of pre-con-ceived ideas, and make their facts square with their theories.'

•Unreasonable! Inconsistent!' he cried, catching at her words. 'Bat those are feminine failings.' * 1 don't believe there is any sex in faults or virtues,' she said. * I mean that it is unreasonable and inconsistent to deny us opportunities of usefulness; to keep us ignorant and inexperienced; to encourage us to occupy ourselves mainly with dress, novels, and thoughts of lovers: and then to reproach us with being idle, vain, useless, and sentimental. For thousands of years you have satirised us for our love of dress and ornament, but when we show a disposition to wear sensible garments in which we can move our limbs freely, you accuse us of a reprehensible desire to imitate men. That is only one specimen out of a thousand of masculine unreasonableness and inconsistency.' Ferrand sat silent. He was thinking of something that bis companion had said at the beginning of their conversation. She had pitied him because she believed him to be ignorant of love. Ha J her surmise been correct? His thoughts wandered back over the past yearn to the time when, as quite a youth, he had for a short period to a girl who had thrown him over for a college friend of his own. The destruction of this early romance had caused him to sat down iu the tablets of his mind the axiom that 'all women are heartless and fickle.' During the next few years a series of temporary attachments of the baser sort had added to his store of knowledge the fact that ' all women are mercenary.' "Weary at length of Bohemian life, he had desired to marry some pleasant, sensible woman who would bear him children and make him a comfortable home. With tbis end in view, he had proposed to a cheerful and not unattractive lady of thirty-tiro, who seemed doomed to wither on the virgin stalk. The foolish creature, however, instead of gratefully accepting his offer, had declared that she was sure he did not really love her, and that she would rather live and die an old mai-i than marry without love. Whereupon Ferrand had eaid to himself, • All women are absurdly romantic,* and had deserted the drawing-rooms of his feminine friends for the smoking-room of his club.

'And so you were sorry for mo when you read my book?' he fiid at length.

'ls that all you have gained from my lecture?" she asked with a laugh. 'lf I had your habit of generating, I ehou'd sav ' All men are egoists- 1

From tho date of that conversation Ferrand regarded the Red Lady in quite a different light. He no longer made any pretence of studying her character, but gave himself up to iho charm that she exercised over him with sudden self-surrender. He haunted her footsteps by day as persistently as she haunted his dreams by night; and the fact that she seemed rather inclined to avoid his society only increased his infatuation.

Matters came to a crisis one evening when be found Miss Torrens sitting alone upon the terrace that overlooked the garden, listening to tho faint music of a distant band.

' I was just saying farewell to Kastanienbad,' she sii.t, glanc'ng up at him with a smile that had a tiuge of regret in it. 'lt has been settled that we start for England early tc-nw.'row morning '

•Ton—yon are going awayf* he stammered. ' I thought you ware to remain another fortnight at least.' * ' Yes, but my aunt has bad news which makes her anxious to return at onoe.'

He was silent for a moment. Tho glory of the moonlight seemed to bar* paled, and the distant muaio grown suddenly discordant. * Ton will let me come and see yon when I return fhe said at length. ' I shall bo in town again the end of next week.' ' I am afraid that it is impossible,' she replied, looking slightly embarrassed. 'I don't live with my aunt, and you eould not corns where I am.

• But won't you let me see yon elsewhere?' he pleaded. 'la the park or at a picturegallery.' 'lgo out so little,' she murmured. 'I fear it could not be managed.* 'I see how it is,' he oried bitterly. 'You thought me good enough for a wateringplace acquaintance, but you don't care to continue the intimacy in town.' 'You ought to know me better than that,' she said reproaohfully. ' The fact is that I see very few people when I am in town, and very few care to see me. I don't think that you would be one of the few if you knew the oiroumstanoes in which I am placed.' ' What can > yon mean f he exclaimed. ' Haven't you seen that my heart and mind are full of you? Don't you know that I think and dream of nothing but you ? Why, I seem to have no life apart from you, and the only hope; the only desire I have left is to win your love.' ' Oh, is it really so?' she said, a ring of genuine pity and'regret in her tones. 'I hoped that, yon only regarded me as a friend. 1 cannot tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened.* ' Why are you bo sorry ?' he asked. ' Because you cannot love me? But you might give me more time in which to try and win you. Don't take away all hope from me for ever.'

' I am sorry because I most take away all hope from yon,' she answered; ' and because I know so well what it is to have a heartache myself. Perhaps I ought to tell yon why what you ask is impossible, why I can never love you or any other man. Five years ago I was engaged to be married, but only a week before our wedding-day my lover died. I don't know whether women in general are inconstant as men say; I only know that I can never love again. •And yet you have always seemed the very incarnation of life and brightness,' he said wouderingly. ~ 'Yes, this is my holiday time,-when for a -few weeks 1 try to laugh and forget. I dare say you set me down as a-heartless flirt; but those blue boys who hover round ma are only playmates, and they understand the rules of the game. But you were different, and since I saw signs that you were in danger 1 have done my best to keep out of your way. Forgive me for having caused you pain.' She held out her hand to him, and as he took it, a tear fell on his own. ' You are crying for me V be said, in low, awed tones, as he gazed incredulously at the wet mark on his hand. ' 1 can't bear to think that 1 have made you suffer,' she murmured. •Don't regret it,' he exclaimed, as he stooped and kissed the tear. ' I don't ; I am glad. The whole world seems suddenly to have changed. Do you know that you are the first woman who has ever been sorry for me, the first woman who has ever shed a tear for me, the first woman who has taught me love? My heart has been starved and withered during all these lonely years, but you have sent tie life-blood through it once again, and I would not, if I could exchange my hopeless love for you for the dead insensibility of the past.' 'Ah, you are better than your books,' she said, as she roso and held out her hand. 'Good-bye. I hope that love and happiness will come to you together some day." ■ . . •Stay,' he cried. 'Before you leave me for ever, won't you tell me who and what you are. I used to fancy that I understood women, but you have always been a beautiful mystery to me. Will you not interpret yourself before we part ?' ' 'You want to know who and what I am,' she answered slowly. ' That is asking a good deal. If I tell you, will you promise never to reveal my secret ?' ' Yes, yes, I promise ; I swear never to breathe it to a soul,' he cried eagerly. 'Then I will tell you,'she said, with the ghost of a smile. She bent towards him till he could feel her breathe upon his cheek, and whispered in his ear, 'I am a woman.'

As soon as his holiday was over Ferrand went back to England and wrote a book. It was called ' The Bed Lady,' and had not the faintest resemblance to any of his earlier. work, for it consisted mainly of a rhapsody upon the virtues and perfections of the heroine, while there was not a sarcasm or a cynicism from beginning to end.' From a literary point ot view it had little merit, being vague and incoherent, a crude impressionist sketch, showing abundance of enthusiasm on the part of the artist, but little judgment, and still less sense of proportion. The men who read it, said that Ferrand had had gone off lamentably and the heroine was quite unlike any woman in real life. The feminine part of the public were no Defter pleased, for they perceived that the Bed Lady was the idealised portrait oi some woman with whom the author was head over ears in love, and a lover's raptures aro never interesting save to the object of them. So the .book sold badly, and the publishers said thoy. hoped Mr. Ferrand would return to his former manner in his next work. But Ferrand replied that he should never write another book, and he kept his word.

a • I . ... About two years after the Kastanienbad episode, half-a-dozen men were sitting round the fire in the smoking-room of the Belles Lettres Club, discussing the plot of the latest problem novel, when Sir James ThorndikO) a recently knighted physician came in. ' Talk about a novel,' he said contemptuously ; T could tell true stories worth a dozen of the rubbishing things that people writo. The only romances nowadays are to bo found in real life.' 'Well, give us a specimen,' said Nril Stratton, the popular author of half -a-score of pessimistic novels. 'Produce your romance.' ' I will,' said the doctor. ' Only to-day I have heard of tho death of the best nurse and the most charming woman in London. Seven years ago she was engaged to be married to a nephew of mine, but the poor follow died of small-pox only a week before the wedding-day. She insisted upon nursing him, and like a fool, I told her she was a born nurse. What must she do but go into training at St. Barnabas, and as soon as sho gets her certificate, volunteers to nurse at the Ea*t London Small-pox hospital. She was just of age, an orphan, with money of her own ; so no one could stop her. For seven years that beautiful young woman lived in the midst of disease and death, except for a fow weeks in tho summer when she went abroad. About a fortnight ago she caught small-pox of a most virulent type, and early this morning she died.' There was a moment's silence. Then one of tho men asked in a low voice : 'Do you mind telling me what her real name was f 'Catherine Torrens; but she was always called Nurse Catherine in the hospital,' replied Sir James. ' Are you going to put her into a book, Ferrand ? You're the man that knows all about women, aren't you?' ' No, not tho man who knows,' said Ferrand, as he got up and walked heavily towards the door. ' Only the man who thought he knew.'— Gsoaaa Pastoh.