VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 49, 5 December 1891, Page 650

VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS.

By

WALTER BESANT,

(In BLACK AND WHITE).

HEN* the Piiest, as v the Rubiicdirects, * took the child in his own hands, holding it dexterously and not like a prentice, or mere curate, unacccustoined to the right handlingofa baby, K. but with a circular sweep of the left so that the head | of the infant lay ? nestled in the bend of the arm and the body was supported by the hand, and the . w right hand was Jj jj „ A free to administer the healing waters of the font, and he said to the child’s sponsors who were her earthly father and her earthly mother, with Aunt Eliza : —

* Name this child.’ To which the godfather, also the father, replied in a clear and intelligible voice: ‘Verbena Camellia Stephanotis.’ He was a short man with stooping shoulders, a broad forehead and meditative eyes. When he had done this part of his duty, knowing that the clerk, as is usual in such cases, would do all the rest, his eyes departed from the situation and went right through the church walls into some far distant place, (n reality they were looking into his fernery, which was under glass about a mile and a half away. Now the Priest was a masterful man who scrupled not to restrain the unbridled sponsor by authority of the church. Once, for instance, he refused to christen a child Judas Iscariot, even though his father was a professed total unbeliever, and therefore expected every allowance. On this occasion, also, he perceived that the proposed names were professional. He, therefore, changed the name by his own authority and without asking the godfather’s consent, to Vera Camilla. He entered these names in the book and showed them to the parents. ‘lt doesn’t matter,’ said the father—* I shall call her what I please.’ In the end he never called her anything at all. * Vera Camilla,’ said her mother. * It’s sweetly genteel.’ ‘ Vera,’ said Aunt Eliza. ‘ Why, it’s a name tit for any lady. Verbenar indeed ! You might as well have called the dear child Ollyock.’ 11. Vera lived in the loveliest cottage ever seen; a cottage such as is sometimes provided for young lovers by a fairy ; it seemed to be of one storey, but there were really two small bedrooms in the two gables—they had sloping sides and just room enough for a bed and a chair and a lookingglass. The cottage was covered all over with climbing plants up to the very chimney ; Virginia creeper, wisteria, clematis, jessamine occupied each its own side or corner, a passion flower held possession of the porch, the lawn before the cottage was trim and neat ; mown and rolled till it was as soft as velvet and as smooth as silk. There were beds in which every kind of Hower grew and nourished ; and iu the background there were flowering shrubs which blossomed, one or other, all the long year round. Tiie household consisted of the girl and her father, her mother now lying not far off. The father, always a meditative man, was entirely absorbed in his profession, and talked of nothing but his plants. He spoke of them as a schoolmaster speaks of his pupils. He recognised promise, but experience taught him to look for disappointment. He knew the temptations and the dangers which beset the vegetable kingdom, their manners and customs, the failings and weaknesses of his plants. Of these things he spoke, and he was unable to speak or to think of anything beside. Did his daughter want anything? What should she want, living in a most beautiful and spacious garden planted with every tree, shrub and flower that will flourish undei the sky in northern London? All day long he was engaged with his Howers; in the evening he went to his club at the tavern. His daughter, therefore saw him only at meals, when he mostly took his food in silence. The cottage looked out upon the lawn, and therefore commanded a view of the great iron gates on the left, and in front the broad gravel road which led to the Ground, and on the right the Ground itself—not a park or a playground or a place of recreation —but the Ground. During the hours when the Ground was used the girl always sat witii her back to the window as though the view displeased her. She had very early contracted this habit and now continued it, though site no longer felt the dislike to the view from the window or to the panorama of those who marched past in order to use the Ground.

The iron gates opened upon the high road, now deserted, though in the old days it had been day and night covered with cans, waggons, stage coaches, carriages and droves of cattle. Now the tramp limped painfully along, or the young London clerk on Saturday afternoon or Sunday rolled swiftly along upon his bicycle. Otherwise the road was deserted save for those who drove (for nobody walked) to the Ground. About ten o'clock in the morning the business and activity

of the day began and continued without pause until the afternoon, when it stopped. At five o’clock the gates were closed. Then Vera had the Ground al) to herself. The business of the day began, and continued, with a procession. Sometimes it was a procession of many vehicles, but generally of no more than three. First there came an Ark with a treasure chest in it, and that so precious that it was covered all over with Howers. Next two carriages followed drawn by black horses and filled with people, who sat bolt upright when anybody was looking, and stuck out their chins with pride at their own respectability. The procession testified to the Family greatness. It is not often that the Family which is, for the most part, an invisible unit, can illustrate its own greatness ; in fact, this is nearly the only function which can serve that purpose. The procession entered the gates and drove slowly past the cottage, where the occupants of the carriages were often disappointed at seeing not the face but the back and the shoulders of a girl. That any one should have so little curiosity as not to turn round and estimate the respectability of a Family 1 The carriages rolled on ; they stopped before a small building where ceremonies were conducted. When these were finished the people came away, but without their treasure. They came away, got into the carriages, and drove away briskly. Not far from the iron gates is the tavern known as the ‘ Fox and Grapes ’; here there is a large room with a comfortable Hie for the reception of visitors. The tavern is famous, to those who use the Ground, for the most sympathetic of all drinks. It is unsweetened, except with lump sugar according to taste, and is taken with hot water. All the mornings long one procession followed another. They were all exactly alike except that sometimes there was a longer following of carriages. Vera heard them pass, but she never looked round. The Ground, in fact, was a cemetery in the West Finchley Hoad, the cemetery of a great London parish ; a large park covering many acres, laid out in Hower-beds, lawns, gravelled walks, trees and shrubs, so that in spring, summer and autumn it is a very lovely garden, and even in winter it is not without its beauty. Among the flower beds and the shrubs lie in rows—row after row—miles of rows —the graves of the dead. Most of them have head-stones ; many have broken pillars, crosses, square tombs, polished granite slabs, little columns planted with flowers. There are legends and epitaphs on these monuments. There is a certain monotony about the epitaphs of London cemeteries. Mostly, to those who real between the lines, they run a follows:— Sacred to the memory of A. 8., who lived seventy years and did nothing worthy of remembrance. He was a sincere and consistent Christian, always horribly afraid of going to Heaven, and quite certain that no one would send him anywhere else. He thought of nothing but money, and he made a little, but not what he had a right to expect. He carried on his affairs to the end without being publicly disgraced. Every Sunday morning, he went to church, and during the rest of the day he feasted. His family, who quarrelled over the division, speak of him no longer, and when his children die he will be as much forgotten as any Early Briton. This stone is erected to the pepetuation of his imperishable memory.

The population of the place, although the Ground has only been opened for thirty years, is a quarter of a million. The Ground does not belong to a parish where men of letters, art, or science live, and there is not one of all this immense multitude whose works survive to continue his name for another generation. When the processions of the day were over, the great gates closed, the chapel locked and the Croquemorts gone, Vera had the place to herself, and could wander about the paths. She knew every part of the cemetery ; in one corner the little bit of coppice left uncleared, in another the two or three apple trees still remaining— remnant of an orchard ; the part of the Ground not yet laid out, covered with long bents and darnel and coarse grass, and the hedge beyond this field where she gathered blackberries in autumn and roses and honeysuckle in June.

She wandered alone about the great silent place in the summer evenings. Long after the sun went down her white figure among the white tombs shone ghostly in the twilight.

She never went anywhere ; her life was wholly spent within these walls. Half-a-mile up the road there was a school where she had learned certain accomplishments which were of little use to her because she seldom read anything and never wrote. She made no friends; there is a certain prejudice attached to one resident in the cemetery ; it is awkward to give a cemetery as your permanent address ; some little odium attaches to any office connected with such an institution. Vera, therefore, had no friends. Other girls go about and see things, they have amusements ; Vera went nowhere. Other girls, again, get a little excitement ami change when they put on their best clothes and go to church. Vera did not go to church. The reason was, not that superiority of intellect which shuts the church door to so many young ladies of the day, but simply because her father consideied that, when you have church and chapel service going on every day, the necessities of the human case are more than met. Between the time when Vera left school and the beginning of this history, a period of two years passed away. That is to say, for two years the girl lived at the gates of the cemetery and went nowhere else except to the row of suburban shops near the school, where she bought the things wanted for her housekeeping. To a girl, almost a child, living thus alone among the tombs, with burials going on all day long, with no friends, no outside world except a long deserted road, life may come to seem like an endless Danse Macabre, a dance of death, a pageant of death. To this place, hither, must all be brought ; it is the universal end. What was the outside world engaged upon all the time? Clearly, she concluded,

undertakery. Some made coffins ; some coffin plates,, handles, ornaments, linings, shrouds; some made black carriages ; some black coats and black frocks ; some were told off to read the service appointed ; the head undertaker was the chief Minister of State ; nothing was regarded but the future occupation of the Ground ; the chief object, in saving money, was to provide for a respectable procession. Life was all death ; clothes, nothing but a sign of mourning ; clergymen, chaplains to cemeteries ; religion, an assurance to the bereft; everything beautiful was intended for nothing but the adornment of the permanent home. I do not say that Vera put all these thoughts into words. Young girls do not formulate their thoughts ; language cannot clothe them : but they assumed this colour and complexion. The cemetery was all she really knew. Perhaps, because everybody who come to the Ground was clothed in black, Vera, with a kind of instinct rather than by protest, dressed always in white. No one would have interfered with her if she' had chosen yellow—but she chose white. Black belonged to the processions. Black belonged to the ladies who came afterwards, sometimes for as much as six months later, with flowers. The black spots moving about among the green graves and the flower-beds in this beautiful garden offended the girl’s eyes. Therefore she wore white ; in winter white flannel and in summer white stuff. She carried a basket and a pair of garden scissors and she went about attending to the flowers of the forgotten graves, those for which there were no longer any mourners to pay the gardener. She was a tall, thin slip of a girl, about sixteen years of age, as yet with little of the womanly figure ; her fair hair abundant hung unconfined except by a ribbon ; her blue eyes were large and serious ; her face was grave ; her very step was serious ; she neither laughed nor sang nor danced as she went along, although she was so young—you see, it checks laughter and singing to remember that, though a quarter of a million may be listening, they cannot reply even with an echo. I read once of a child brought up in a nunnery, one of the austere houses where the sisters dig their own graves, and where the days are for ever cheered by the sound of the knell of the passing bell. Then I remembered Vera. As that cloister child so was Vera. 111. The ties of kinship are less respected on certain social levels than on others. The English family very easily breaks up into separate pieces ; brothers and sisters go their own way, they scatter: if they remain in the same place they quarrel; children who should be cousins know each other no longer; those who get up in the world are too proud to inquire after those who remain down below ; those who are below are too proud to intrude upon those who are up. Family pride, therefore has its uses. Vera’s father, for instance, remained head gardener of the new cemetery. His brother, though this he did not know because he never read any newspapers, was Prime Minister of New South Wales ; another brother, also unknown to him, was a Silver King, and controlled I know not what. He remained. Had he gone abroad as his brothers did, he would have become Botanist to a Colony ; Professor of Botany in some Colonial University ; Fellow of the Royal Society. As it was, he remained at home and was a gardener whose thoughts never travelled beyond his plants. But even at home one may rise. Vera had an aunt—her mother’s, sister—her Aunt Eliza. She, by reason of her husband’s, great success, had climbed to a dizzy height, even to a house in Bedford Square and a carriage. Aunt Eliza’s husband, indeed, was none other than a certain well-known, far famous purveyor in the city. It would be hard indeed if so eminent a citizen should not have his carriage and his house in Bedford Square beautifully furnished, and on Sundays his dinner-parties at three in the afternoon. But Aunt Eliza had well-nigh forgotten the existence of her niece. Her sister was dead; her sister’s husband was gardener to a cemetery ; there was a child. Prosperity makes one acquainted with other prosperous persons ; people who have a good concern in the City cannot remain on intimate terms with cemetery gardeners. Do not blame Aunt Eliza ; ’tis the way of the world. She had not called at the lodge for fourteen years. One day, in leafy May, the laburnum and the lilacs being in full flower, there entered the gates a procession of great length and magnificence, with such waving plumes and such a pile of flowers as denoted respect to success. Evidently a prince in Israel. Vera, sitting in her room with her back to the window, was conscious only of prolonged blackness grating over the gravel. When everything was over, and the mourners were returning to their carriages, one of them, a poitlydameof benevolent aspect, walking beside her husband—’twas he of the great provision shop—whispered, ‘John, I must stay behind and see him, if it’s only for poor Amelia’s sake. Tell them lam staying to see the grave of a friend. You go on and I will get home by myself somehow.’ When the last carriage had passed through the gates, Aunt Eliza opened the door of the lodge. ‘ Goodness gracious 1’ she cried, I suppose you’re Vera. Lord 1 how you’re grown. A young woman, I declare, and a pretty one too. Give me a kiss, my dear. I’m your Aunt Eliza, come for a funeral. Well, to be sure. Why, it’s a pretty room and all, though, of course, one wouldn’t expect to find you sitting on a coffin lid. And where’s your father, my dear ?’ When at last she went away, she held out both hands and kissed her niece kindly. * My dear,’ she said, ‘ its perfectly dreadful to think of a child like you—a big girl too—sitting among the tombs all the while, like as if you were possessed, seeing nobody and talking to nobody and going nowhere. It's enough to make one melancholy mad. You shall come to see us. Johnandme will make you welcome. Look here now, Vera, inydear—l remember when your father wanted to call you Sweet William —or some such name. You come next Saturday afternoon—come early and I’ll get you some pretty things to wear, though white is always becoming, I’ll say that. In the evening we’ll go to the theatre and see my favourite Nina Cazalet; Sunday morning, if it’s fine, we always drive out. Theie's open house for dinner, and the rest of the day spent with such laughing and talking as you never heard. Ugh !’ she shuddered, ‘you cant laugh in a cemetery. That’s right, you’ll come. Don’t let on about the Ground, you know. In a year or two, perhaps, when the young man comes along, you can break it gently. That’s settled then, and I’m glad I came; truly glad lam 1*

IV. A PLACE tilled with people ; the women in lovely dresses, smiling and talking, the men as animated and as happy as custom permits. Bright lights everywhere ; a band playing sweet music ; a curtain painted with girls and young men ; Howers, dances and sunshine : the air charged with the perfume of joy and youth. Vera sat beside her aunt in the front row of the dress circle, her eyes wide open, her lips trembling, her hands trembling, her whole frame tingling with the wonder and novelty of it. Then the curtain drew up, and for three hours Vera was ravished away. The theatre existed no longer; she was not sitting before a stage ; she was looking on, unseen, at fairyland. She saw, for the first time, youth and the happiness of youth ; the joy of being beautiful, the joy of being loved, the joy of living and wooing, the joy of sunshine, the joy of life ; for the first time she felt that yearning for joys unattainable which glorifies youth, though it too often makes that time unhappy. She heard the gospel of joy. When the house laughed she felt as if something jarred. It was as if she was recalled rudely to the actual world. The bell would be tolling next. She looked on gravely, wondering. When the curtain fell between the acts she sighed and gasped, and the tears came into her eyes. When her aunt spoke to her, she replied faintly, because her mind was with the play. Among the company was an actress who took the leading part. To this girl she seemed like a being of whose existence she had never even dreamed. She was young, she was beautiful ; she had a sweet face and a sweet voice, her lips were always smiling, her eyes beamed with happiness and with mirth ; in the play all the men loved her and courted her, in the house the young men clapped their hands for joy whenever she appeared. She was the Queen, the Goddess, the Patron Saint of love and happiness and beauty. Vera followed her as she moved upon the stage ; her carriage, her gestures, her voice, her eyes, fascinated the girl. W hen all was over they came home through the lamplit streets in a hansom. Vera went to bed too much excited to sleep ; happy just to lie and recall the evening, and to see again in imagination the actress who had charmed her with her simple spell and pretence of happiness. On Monday she went home, arriving with the second procession of the day. All the day, all the week, she walked about restlessly; in the evening she wandered in the Ground ; but she avoided the inhabited portion. She had to pass through the graves in order to get to the unused field ; she shuddered as she passed, because her head was filled with a yearning after what she had seen upon the stage. These poor dead people had been taken, perhaps, from such a world of joy—a world where the undertaker is not seen. Only in the far corner of the field did she feel able to give herself up to the thought and recollection of the theatre.

When Saturday came she did a strange thing. First, she made up a bouquet of white flowers, then she wrote a little note and pinned it among the flowers. ‘ From Vera. I love you. If you will let me love you, carry my bouquet.’ She tied up her bouquet in silver paper, and, after tea, at six o’clock, she took her jacket and her hat and went out of the gates and turned down the road in the direction of London. Her father was gone to his club. He would not get home until ten, and she always went to bed at nine. He would not know-.

It was nearly eight o’clock when she arrived at the theatre. She boldly walked in through the crush of the people who weie crowding in, and asked the ticket-taker how she was to convey her flowers to Miss Nina Cazalet. He directed her to the stage-door, where she found no difficulty in sending in her gift. Then she returned to the front of the house. Here she made the discovery that dresscircle seats were seven shillings a-piece, and she had but two shillings in her purse. With this modest sum, however, she found a place in the pit, and sat there, with beating heart, until the curtain rose. Alas ! Nina Cazalet came in without her bouquet, and her heart fell as heavy as lead. Then she reflected that in such a piece the actress could not carry a bouquet. This thought relieved her. Perhaps the actress would make some sign to her: but no sign came. Then she remembered that the actress could not possibly know her by sight, and again she took courage. Finally she surrendered herself to the magic of the piece, and once more lost all consciousness while the comedy was played. The theatre over, she came away. The street was full of people pushing and shouting. Vera stood hesitating. Somebody spoke to her. She turned and walked away. She walked through crowded slums and through deserted streets. No one molested her; she had no fear. She came out at length beyond the houses into the long dark road, stretching north, between hedges. All the way she noticed nothing. Her brain was filled with the voice of the actress, and with her face, and with the magic of her grace, and with the joy, unlike anything ever known on earth, which this sweet white witch poured into the hearts of those who sat at her feet. It was a fine night; the stars were out. The lilac filled the air as Vera turned into the lodge garden. She crept noiselessly upstairs. She opened her window and looked out; she could see the white lines of headstones and of tom bs. ‘ Oh,’ she thought, ‘ did they ever know—those poor things, the dead —that there are places where people do nothing but laugh and sing and are always happy ?’ V. Miss Nina Cazalet sat in her room under the hands of a dresser. As one who entirely realised how much the attractions of a woman are assisted and heightened by art, she generally took the keenest interest in every detail of her stage toilette. This evening she was passive and silent. This queen of joy, at whose presence the clouds of care rolled back, was herself gloomy. A sense of impending misfortune hung over her. She held in her hand a letter which she had read twenty times, and each time with a heavy sigh. It was from her lover. ‘Choose,’ it said, almost in so many plain words, ‘ choose between your lover and your profession. Give up the stage or give up the lover.’ A dreadful alternative. She would have been happy with both, but with one only of the two she would he wretched. How could she give up her lover? how could she give up her art? • Choose,’said her lover; ‘I will await your choice.'

* Something dreadful is going to happen,' she said to her dresser. * Last night I had terrible dreams. I’ve had this letter for three days, and every time I try to answer it I am held back. I cannot answer it. A cruel letter! What has made him write it ?’

‘ Don't think about it till the piece is over.’ ‘No—not till the piece is over.’ Nina sat upright and nerved herself. * I’ve had such a frightful headache all day long—l can hardly drag my limbs. But I shall manage, somehow. ‘Oh !’ she started nervously, ‘ Who is that knocking at the door ?’ It was something tied up in silver paper. Nina tore it ott' impatiently. ‘Always the same,’ she said. ‘Every Saturday for the last two months. Who is Vera, I wonder ?’ She opened the note. ‘Always the same words: “I love you. If you will let me love you wear these flowers.” They are beautiful flowers. Whois Vera?’ She sat up and looked at the writing. The characters were square and almost childish. ‘ Mysterious Vera ! lam haunted by her. Well, I wili find out who she is. Out of curiosity I will wear her flowers to-night. Let her love me? Well, there are not many women who want to love me. As for the men —put the flowers here—they are very pretty.’ The toilette was finished. The orchestra played the last bars, the bell rang, the curtain rose up ; the actress, with glowing cheeks, smiling lips, and bright eyes ran upon the stage while the house rang with cheers. Oh ! who could hope to be as happy and as careless as this godlike creature? —she carried away all who sat in that great house—all, even the poor dressmaker’s drudges in the gallery were rapt and ravished out of themselves, and for three short hours lived in a paradise of song ami happiness and merry carelessness. A witch ! a soceress ! But a white witch, a benevolent kindly witch who used her power for the happiness of the world.

When she appeared upon the stage the young men gasped and drew their breath, and many changed colour, being victims of love the mocker, who fills young men’s hearts with the unattainable. And the girls all murmured ‘Ohl’ with a long sigh of admiration and of envy. In the front row of the pit there sat a young girl. She, at the sight of Nina, turned first red and then pale. She was quite alone, which is unusual in the pit—or any other part of the house —even for older girls. She rose and asked those behind her kindly to make room. She passed out, and did not return.

It was half-past eleven when Nina drove home. She lived alone, save for her maid and her servants, and had a first floor flat in Victoria-street. Her evening's work had been too much for her ; she climbed the stair with difficulty, dragging her limbs and leaning on the balustrade ; her head reeled ; her eyes ached. She opened her door and went into her dining-room. The supper was laid ; the lamp burned low ; the windows were wide open for the warm air of July ; the lamps of the street lighted the room. At the open window sat a figure dressed in white. When Nina entered, the figure rose. It was a girl ; Nina saw that she was very young, and that her eyes were beautiful.

‘My dear,’ she said surprised, ‘ who are you ? And what are you doing in my room ? Unless ’—her eyes wandered—- ‘ unless you are a ghost.’ ‘ I am Vera,’ said the girl. ‘ You are Vera ! Who is Vera? Oh I I remember.’ ‘ You wore my flowers—you will let me love you. Oh !’ the gill caught her hand and kissed it. ‘You are so lovely ; you are so happy ; I have never seen anyone so happy.’ Nina reeled and caught the back of a chair. ‘ This is some dream,’ she said. ‘lam in a delirium. I, happy ? And with this letter in my pocket? You are come to mock me.’

She caught her burning forehead with her hands and sank senseless on the floor. The fever which had been hovering about her all day long seized her - in its strong clutch and held her fast, so that for three long weeks she knew nothing. The papers next day announced, with great concern, that Miss Cazalet was taken ill with some kind of fever. Everybody began to talk about the bad ventilation and the smells of the theatre. Next day, and for many days afterwards, the street was blocked with the carriages of those who came to inquire after the actress. They drove and they walked ; they left cards or they humbly took an answer and walked away. Most of them brought flowers ; Covent Garden was cleared out every morning ; the Parcel Post brought boxes of flowers from all parts of the country ; there were flowers enough to furnish the weapons for a carnival. But the recipient of all this sympathy lay unconscious on her bed revealing to her nurse all the secrets of her heart. What the papers did not know was that by the happiest accident in the world Miss Nina Cazalet had obtained the services of a nurse more devoted, more watchful, more jealous, than even the most scientific sister in the most difficult case of the most dangerous ward. For Vera stayed. VI. ‘ I don’t believe you care a straw what becomes of Vera,' said Aunt Eliza. ‘What? She stays away for three weeks and you never so much as ask where she is.’ ‘ I thought she was with you,’ replied the head gardener. ‘ Nothing of the kind.’ ‘ Where is she, then?’ ‘ Staying with an actress. How she got to know her, however she came to think of it, how in the world—but there’s no sounding the artfulness of a girl.’ ‘ An actress ?’ ‘ Oh, the girl's in good hands ; I will say that. An actress I said. ’Tis none other than Miss Nina Cazalet herself. I’ve been to the house ; she lives in a most beautiful flat. The furniture is finnicking ; but, then, you can’t expect actresses to furnish like plain folk. Finnicking, but pretty. The girl came out to see rue. Nina Cazalet was ill, and Vera is nursing her. She was very short with me when I wanted to know how she got there ; but never mind, some day she’ll tell me. Well, now, I asked her what salary she was to have. Nothing at all. Then I asked her where she took her meals. If she'd lived with the servants I'd have carried her off there and then, I would. But she doesn't. Boards, I understand, with the family, treated like them, has what the others have, diet unlimited, and, so far as I could learn, pudding every day. When Nina Cazalet gets better I shall go and have it ont with her. Meantime, I

think Vera’s a lucky girl, and you ought to be thankful, little as you care.’ ‘ The girl,’ said the gardener, ‘is living with the family, and there’s pudding every day. Of course a growing girl requires pudding ; stimulates the growth, like a little made earth. She's safe and in good hands. In that case—’ His eyes went out into space again. VII. The only man in all London, not counting those who never go to West End theatres, who did not know that Nina Cazalet was ill, was the very same young man who had written that letter. Why had he written it? Why do young men ever write cruel letters to young ladies? It is the inexorable pater. When the pater is poor, the young man does what he likes without the formality of asking peimission : nor does the pater who has nothing to leave expect to be asked. Both are happy, therefore, and should bless their poverty. This young man, unfortunately, had a pater who was rich, and, moreover, had absolute power over his money, which had been ‘ made.’ Oh, the ingenuity of man which makes money, securities, shares, bank notes, gold, silver and bronze out of nothing—just nothing at all ! See him in youth—naked, his hands empty. See him again fifty laters later, laden with the money he lias made. What feat of jugglery, what marvel of science, can compare with this transformation of nothing into everything? ‘ My son,'said pater the maker, ‘ 1 hear nothing but good of this girl. 1 shall not oppose your marriage, because there is no nonsense in your case about marrying beneath you. Yet, with your prospects, you might have made a beginning of family connection. I make only one condition : that she gives up the stage. I can’t have a daughterin law acting every night. lam sure you will acknowledge that lam reasonable. If you marry her without, you will be placed in the ignoble condition of one who lives upon his wife’s earnings.’ Therefore, the young man wrote that letter. He put it as kindly as he could, but he put it plainly, thinking, in his folly, that he had asked a small thing. And he had as yet received no answer. Had he looked at the papers he would have read that his mistress was ill ; had he gone to the club he would have heard the news. But he did neither. He sat in his private room in a Bond-street Hotel waiting for a letter which came not; he roamed the street, melan choly, asking himself why he had been such a fool as to expect that such a girl could possibly prefer such a man as himself, and such a humdrum life as he had to offer her, to the excitement of the stage and the practice of her art. Young men often ask themselves such questions ; but the reply is never satisfactory. Why was I such a fool? Echo replies, ‘ Such a fool.’ How eould I have been such an ass? Another echo, ‘ Such an ass.’ No ; it is never a satisfactory reply. ‘ A young lady, sir, wishes to see you,’ the waiter made this announcement. * Won’t send up her name, sir.’ ‘ A young lady ? No name ?’ ‘Quite young, sir. Child almost. Says you must see her. ’ ‘ Well, let her come up, then.’ A girl dressed all in white stood in the doorway looking curiously at him. Quite a young girl, tall and angular, long fair hair falling down her back ; big blue eyes. And she gazed upon biin standing there, while you might have counted ten. ‘ I am afraid,’ said the youth, ‘ that I do not recollect- ‘ No, you have never seen me before.’ ‘ Why do you look at me so curiously then.' ‘ I was wondering as I came along what kind of man you were. Because either you must be the best man that ever lived for her to love you, or it is a great condescension on her part—and perhaps a great pity and shame and her friends ought to interfere,’ she added, without so much as a comma. ‘ But who are you?’ ‘I can see from your face that it isn’t for your cleverness that she loves you.’ ‘ Who loves me ?’ ‘ And the letter in my pocket proves that it isn’t for your goodness, for only a foolish or a bad young man could write such a letter.’ The young man changed colour. Then he threw himself into a chair. ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ I suppose you will tell me presently who you are and what you want.’ ‘A man who was not foolish, and was good when such a lady as Nina ’ ‘As Nina I’ He sprang to his feet. ‘You come, from Nina ?’ ‘ When such a lady condescended to love you, would be so much honoured that he would ask for her conditions ami not lay down his own. Oh, to make her happy, who every evening makes hundreds of people happy, ami sends them home full of lovely thoughts,ought to be happinessenoughfor any man. But yon—oh I —you dare to make conditions. A great genius is in love with you, and you order her to give up her work. You pretend to love her, and yon ’ Here Vera's eyes overflowed, and her voice choked. ‘Yon come from Nina? Tell me, have you a message —a letter—from her ? Who are you ?’ ‘My name is Vera ; but you do not know me. lam staying with Nina. lam never going to leave her, whatever happens. Never, mind, never.’ She spoke with great firmness and resolution. The young man gazed at her bewildered. ‘ Nina is ill,’ she went on. ‘Nina? 111?’ ‘ She has been ill for three weeks. All the time she has been off her head, and has been talking about you. That is why I have come here.’ ‘ Nina ? 11l ?’ ‘ She has come to herself again, and has left off talking about yon ; that was the first sign by which we knew ' ‘ Nina? 11l ?’ ‘Ami I’ve come about that letter of yours. Here it is. I’ve borrowed it, but I must take it back.' ‘ What am I to do ?* ‘ Do you want to make her get well, or would you rather kill her? Well, then, sit down ami write her another letter.’ ‘ W hat am I to say ?' ‘ You are to say that you withdraw this letter, and that you are truly soriy and ashamed for writing it, and that you humbly beg her pardon for insulting her with such a condition, ami hope she will forgive you. I wouldn’t, if I

were Nina ; but perhaps she will, because she is a great deal better than all other women put together. ’ He sat down obediently, his face Hushed, his hands trembling. He wrote rapidly, covering the four pages. * There,’ he said, * give her that. Tell her—tell her if my life would be of any help to her, I would give her that.’ Vera read the letter without asking permission. Since it concerned Nina’s health and happiness, why not? ‘ Thank you,’ she said, ‘ it looks as if you were really sorry ; of course you ought to be. I daresay she will forgive you and let you come and see her. I will write to you.’ * No—no. I will call—l will call this afternoon. I shall be able to see you at least. ’ Vera turned to go. ‘ Stay,’ he cried ; ‘ you think I have been a brute.’ ‘ I do,’ she replied with the candour of an unspoiled soul. ‘ You don’t understand. I have nothing in the world except my allowance from my father, who is rich. I have no profession, and no way of making money. He allows me to marry Nina only on the condition that she leaves the stage. If she does not, he will disinherit me.’ *ls that all ?’ asked Vera, the unworldly. ‘ You would rather keep the money than Nina? What a lover !’ I know not where she got her experience or theory of love, but this is what she said, with fine contempt in her eyes. * Again you don’t understand. I should then be in the despicable position of a man who lives upon his wife.’ * Why 1 Are you too proud to do something ? I would mow the lawns and sweep up the leaves rather than do nothing.’ ‘ I am not too proud ; I am only too ignorant.' * Would you like to be an under-gardener ?’ asked Vera, thinking of her own possible patronage. He shook his head. ‘ What can you do ?’ ‘ I can do many things, but nothing that I can make into money. I can shoot, I can fish, I can play games, I can ride ’ A happy thought—nay, an inspiration—Hashed across the girl’s mind. She had often seen a cavalcade ride along the road—a troop of half-a-dozen girls with one man, riding. He was their teacher. ‘ Why don’t yon become a riding-master ?’ ‘Eh ?’ The young man started. * Why not ? I could teach riding. I will. 1 cannot live upon Nina’s salary. Tell her, child, that her husband must be independent. Tell her that if she can stoop to a riding master ’ * I will tell her,’ said Vera. VIII. A fortnight later Nina lay on a couch beside the window. She was dressed—she was rapidly getting better. People had left off calling ; there were no more bulletins ; the procession of Howers had ceased to encumber the adjacent roads. She was better, and she was going to take a long summer’s rest at the seaside. At her feet, in a low chair, sat Vera, gravely watching in case she might want anything. ‘ Child,’ said Nina, who had been silent ; ‘ he came here this morning while you were out. Nobody could be kinder. He is quite fixed about becoming a riding-master.’ ‘ You laughed again yesterday afternoon,’ said Vera. ‘ I heard you.’ ‘Did we laugh? You thought I was never going to laugh any more. What can Ido for you Vera? Oh! my dear child, what can I do for you, who have done so much forme? You dragged me back from the jaws of death ; you have given me life again—and my lover again. What can I give you ?’ * Why,’ said Vera, ‘you first showed me what happiness means.’ ‘ I will play to you, dear.’ She rose and went to the piano. ‘ When I am very, very happy—quite happy—l don’t want to talk or to laugh, but to play soft music. People only laugh and make merry because they want to be happy. It is a sign. Did people do not laugh because there is no more happiness to be hoped, and happy people never laugh because they have got all they want. Let me play to you.’ She played for a quarter of an hour, softly. Then she began to talk while she played. ‘ I shall be so happy that laughing and singing will become a burden to me. They are the prelude, you know, only the prelude—like the overture to the play. That is why, when you first knew me, you were so attracted. You were made to expect something which excited and pleased Tou. There is only one kind of happiness in the world, and have it—thanks to you Vera, thanks to you.’ She turned her music-stool and held out her arms. ‘ Child ! You are nothing but a bag of bones and big blue eyes. That is because you have spent yourself in saving me. Now I shall make you grow fat and strong. Vera ’ ‘ Well, Nina ?’ ‘You have told me everything—all about your father and your aunt, who is a dear good soul; but there is one thing you have never told me ; where did you get all those beautiful Howers.' Vera shuddered. Three weeks before she would not have shuddered. ‘ I took them all,’ she said, ‘ from the new-made graves.’

I beg to express my obligat ion to my friend. Mr Charles Brook Held, for the suggestion of the motif of this story.—W.B.