Mad Love

by Julian Hawthorne

Spencer Curtis, as I remember him, was a hollow-cheeked, bright-eyed, excitable young fellow, with soft brown hair, a lock of which was continually falling down over his broad forehead. He could not talk long on any subject without becoming excited; and when he was excited he coughed, and his eager face flushed; he was supposed to have a tendency to consumption. In character he was viewy, enthusiastic, and unpractical, but subject to fits of profound depression, and his enthusiasm was easily discouraged. There was a slender vein of genius in the man, and he occasionally said strangely brilliant things, without seeming to be aware of it. He was given to philosophical speculations, and had written a very eccentric book, treating de omnibus rebus et quibusdam allis, which had been made fun of by most of the reviews, but which contained promise of powers that might have achieved something really new and valuable. But, somehow, we never regarded Curtis as a man who was likely to live long, and perhaps this led us to humor him more than we should otherwise have done. Still, he was a winning and lovable fellow; and some women were very much attracted by him. He himself, however, was extremely shy of female society; and since he had only about three thousand pounds in the world, besides what he could make by his pen, nobody ever dreamed of such a thing as hearing that he was going to be married.

Consequently, I was nothing less than amazed when he burst into my rooms one day, and, seizing me by both arms, looked for a moment in my face, and said,

"Kate Masters has promised to be my wife!"

"Kate Masters? What are you thinking of?" I exclaimed. "Not the heiress?"

Spencer's eyes darkened and his face flushed; he let go my arms.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" he asked, in an aggrieved tone.

"But you took my breath away; besides—"

"Do you suppose I care for her money?"

"My dear fellow, of course not! I only feared the news was too good to be true. I congratulate you with all my heart!"

"Her money is the only thing that troubles me," continued Spencer, dropping moodily into a chair. "I wish she had no more than I have—or nothing at all. Now that I know she cares for me, I am able to make a living for both of us, whatever you may think. And you are the oldest friend I have!"

"You have none that believes more in your ability and honor," I said, for I was sincerely sorry that I had hurt his feelings. "Come, shake hands, old boy, and let us hear all about it."

He finally consented to be appeased, and told me his story—not that there was really very much more to tell. He had been invited out to Colonel Masters' country seat, and of course Kate had been there. They had (as I already knew) met each other a good many times before, and she had once or twice spoken to me of her admiration for Spencer, while he, for his part, had seemed more at ease in her company than in that of most women. But I should as soon have thought of his marrying her as of her marrying the Shah of Persia. However, they were together at her uncle the Colonel's, and in the course of the week they became engaged. Wonders will never cease, especially when there is a woman in the case; and probably this did not seem to Spencer so very wonderful, though of course he regarded himself as the most blessed of mankind.

"It was in the little chalet that it happened," he said, drawing his breath after a sharp fit of coughing. (He had been tramping up and down the room, shoving the chairs about, and talking rapidly.) "You know the chalet?—in that clump of trees at the further end of the lawn, about a quarter of a mile from the house; I had been rambling about the grounds, and came in there quite by chance, supposing it to be empty. But she was there, sitting at the western window, with a book in her lap. She looked round, and when she saw it was I, an expression came into her eyes that—it made me feel the time had come! I had hardly realised how it was with me before; but then, everything explained itself! I began by remarking what a pretty little house it was, and how happy one might be to live in it; and so one thing led to another. At last—oh, she was so heavenly sweet! She said the world might laugh at us, but that I was worth a thousand worlds to her. We walked home with her arm resting on mine; and the new moon was just above the tops of the trees."

"What did the Colonel say to it?" I inquired.

"O, he behaved just as might have been expected," answered Spencer, throwing back the hair from his forehead. "At first he took me to task very severely, and talked about my having abused his confidence, and all that. But I would not allow him to hold that tone with me, and, after a while, we got to talking more reasonably. He said he was Kate's guardian as long as she was under age, and that he could not conscientiously let her marry me until she was beyond his control. Of course that won't be till a year from now. I said that I was prepared to wait, and that I desired all the property should be settled on her. Then he wanted me to promise not to see or correspond with her while the period of probation lasted; but neither Kate nor I would agree to that; and at last it was arranged that there was to be no letters, but that we were to meet once every month. In the end he and I parted very politely. I fancy, though, that he calculates on Kate's changing her mind. If so, he is making a great mistake. I trust in her constancy as I trust in Heaven!"

Now, although I would not for the world have had Spencer suspect it, I must admit that I was a good deal of the Colonel's way of thinking as regarded Miss Masters. I knew something of her. She was a fine, handsome, wholesome girl, with an aristocratic nose, and a complexion like a warm rose leaf; her white teeth sparkled when she laughed, and she had more hair growing on her head than she well knew what to do with. Her voice was pleasant, though rather loud; she rode dashingly to hounds, and was a champion lawn tennis player. But she was not, so far as I was aware, a student of any kind of literature, and the only philosophy that concerned her was how to get the most fun out of the passing moment. I could imagine her enjoying a bit of romance, and playing her part in it very well; but that she should make an imprudent match and stick to it did not seem so likely. Her father and mother, whose only child she was, had been dead some years, and she inherited the whole of that large property, her uncle being her guardian during her minority. It was in her power to make the most brilliant match of the season; and I knew it for a fact that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had made her an offer not three months before. She must have refused him, for he went off to the Ashantee war in despair. But that was no reason why she should fall in love with a man like poor Spencer Curtis; and I had serious doubts whether she intended anything more than a vacation pastime.

My misgivings were not relieved by the discovery that the engagement was for the present to be kept a secret. Spencer had stipulated with the Colonel to be allowed to tell me, because I had known him when he was a boy, and was his most intimate friend; but the rest of the world was to remain uninformed until the day for the wedding was fixed. Miss Master herself did not seem to have objected to this arrangement; and as for Spencer, he declared that he preferred it. If all the world had been as ingenuous as Spencer, no harm would have been done, but, as it was, some miscarriage was at least conceivable. However, I held my peace, and hoped for the best; and when Spencer left me, he was in very good spirits.

For a couple of months all went well; but with the advent of winter Spencer's cough grew worse, and his physician told him he had better go to Madeira if he meant to live. After some hesitation he decided to go. He was to be allowed to write to Kate once a month, and to receive letters from her, since they would not meet until his return.

"It won't be for long, after all," he remarked to me, trying to put a brave face on the matter; "and this will be our last separation. If I have to go to Madeira next year, she will go with me."

He made me promise to keep him informed of Kate's doings while he was away; and so finally off he went, I bidding him farewell on the deck of the steamer with a heavy heart.

Poor Spencer! It was long before I discovered that the promise I had given him would be no agreeable matter to keep. Miss Masters was admirably constant to him for a time, and spoke to me of her devotion to him in terms that I was glad to hear; and I began to repent of the suspicions I had entertained of her. I wrote to Spencer that all was going on well, and that I felt disposed to fall in love with his Kate myself. But one day, while I was chatting with her at an after-dinner reception at Lady Loraley's, she gave a sudden start and an exclamation, and there, behind my shoulder, stood Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney, pale and handsome, with his arm in a sling. He had just been invalided home from Africa, and was a great hero. He spoke to Miss Masters, who received him cordially; and there was nothing for me but to make my bow and move off. They were together the rest of the evening; but I was determined to have one word with her. So, just before I took my departure, I made my way up to her. She was standing shoulder to shoulder with Captain Taverney, listening to the last bars of a song from Madame Semaroff.

When it was over, she turned to exchange an admiring exclamation with the captain, and I took the opportunity to say,

"I have come to bid you good evening, Miss Masters."

"O, good evening," she said, not offering me her hand.

"I am sending a letter to-morrow to our friend in Madeira," I continued; "have you any message?"

She replied, coldly, "I think not, thank you;" but in a moment she added, her cheeks reddening, "Tell him not to be away too long."

I decided not to send my letter to Spencer the next day, but to wait for further developments. Kate was evidently wavering; she wished to be true, but distrusted herself; and, with a woman like her, such distrust is the prelude to surrender. Captain Taverney was very fascinating, and he was on the ground; I knew also that the Colonel would favor his suit. To tell the truth, I myself considered him a much better match than Spencer for the girl; but, things having gone so far as they had, that was neither here nor there. Meanwhile, the aspect of affairs became less and less encouraging; but there was still nothing tangible; these constant visits of Captain Taverney might be merely friendly, and mean nothing; moreover, since Kate's engagement to Spencer was kept secret, the Captain was not to blame. But Kate and the Colonel were to blame; and, after some deliberation, and with great reluctance, I resolved to speak openly with the former. This was about six weeks subsequent to our interview at Lady Lornley's. I was at the opera, and seeing Miss Masters in her box, I presented myself there at the end of the first act.

"I knew I should find you here to-night," I remarked, after she had asked me to sit down beside her.

"Why to-night, particularly?"

"Because it is La Favorita—Spencer's favorite opera. By this time next year he will be sitting here beside you. You expect him back in May, don't you?"

"I suppose so,'' she said, distraitly, leaning away from me and rippling her fan.

"It is a long time for him to have been exiled from you," continued I; "but I hope," I went on, looking at her, "that he will not have been away too long?"

At first I thought she was going to ignore my allusion—evidently she was not thankful to me for making it. But, presently, she seemed to take a resolution; she closed her fan and turned to me, breathing more quickly, and rather pale.

"I suppose Spencer authorised you to act as his representative during his absence—to see that I behaved myself, I mean, and did not forget him?"

"He had no misgivings of that sort, Miss Masters. He told me before he went away that he trusted you as he trusted Heaven. He asked me, as his friend, to keep him informed of your health and happiness ; and that I have done."

"If you have told him that I was happy, you have misled him. I have been very unhappy."

"You have not been without distractions—more than he has had, poor fellow."

"I do not need your sarcasm," she said, hotly. "I have been more sarcastic to myself than you would dare to be; but it is no use. I made a terrible mistake. I don't know how I came to make it. I always knew that Spencer was above me, intellectually and in other ways; but I thought I could grow up to him. I thought more highly of myself than I deserved. Since he has been away I have come back to my own level."

While she was thus confirming my worst fears, I leaned on my elbow on the edge of the box, looking out across the theatre. A young man was standing up in the stalls, directing his opera-glass towards us. I recognised Captain Taverney.

"A very attractive and fashionable level, unquestionably," I observed, with a slight indicative movement of the head.

She looked across and saw him, and the color swept into her face, whether it came from anger or from other passion, I could not tell.

"It is my own level, at all events," she said, with a dignity which commanded some respect; "and the only one in which I could give happiness or feel it."

"I doubt whether beauty has any level, whatever may be the case with its professor," I said getting up; "hence many sorrows and misunderstandings. Have you no regrets?"

"None—to speak of," she replied; and upon that ambiguous answer I bowed and took my departure, passing Captain Taverney in the lobby.

It only remained for me to perform one of the most welcome duties that ever fell to my lot—to write the news to Spencer Curtis. I sent him a long letter; I said everything that I could; but in the course of it the reluctant words had to be spoken; Kate Masters renounced her engagement. I did not think it necessary to mention the name of Captain Taverney. I also dispatched a curt note to Miss Kate, telling her what I had done. I received no reply to it; but the next thing I heard about her was that a marriage had been arranged between her and Captain Taverney. In due course the wedding invitations were distributed, and finally the wedding, at which I did not care to be present, took place. All this time I had heard nothing from Spencer, and his silence began seriously to disquiet me.

By the end of another month, however, two pieces of intelligence reached me. Captain Taverney had been unexpectedly ordered abroad with his regiment, and Spencer Curtis had come back to England raving mad.

Mrs. Taverney did not accompany her husband to India; the regiment was not expected to remain abroad long, and the work it had to do was not consistent with the presence of ladies. She took up her abode with her uncle in the interval. Whether or not she knew of the calamity which had happened to Spencer I cannot say; but I fancy the facts had been concealed, or at any rate, softened to her. She believed him to be ill, and nothing more. I saw the poor fellow once or twice, but he never recognised me. He had every comfort that his condition admitted and that money could procure (for, singularly enough, a relative of his had bequeathed him £18,000 just about the time that he lost his love and reason); but he was dangerously mad, and had more than once attempted to kill his attendant. I asked the physician whether there was any hope of his being cured, upon which that prudent gentleman smiled, and remarked that he had as bad cases as that come round.

The ensuing autumn I went on the continent for a change and recreation, for I missed Spencer more than I should have anticipated—more, perhaps, than if he had been dead. I renewed my acquaintance with Naples and Venice, and Constantinople and Madrid; at last, one spring day, I found myself in Paris. Sitting in a café on the Boulevard, I took up a copy of Galiganni, and read in it that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had died of fever in Bombay. The paragraph added that he left a widow and infant daughter in England.

I returned to London in June. My heart was softened towards Mrs. Taverney, and I wished to renew my acquaintance with her, and to make that of the little child whom its father had never seen. I found her living alone in a small house in Hampstead. It was a lovely spot at that time of year; and London, with its busy season, might have been a hundred miles away for all that could be seen or heard of it. I found Mrs. Taverney looking very handsome in her widow's dress, and the baby was a healthy and energetic little creature, with its mother's eyes and hair. Our talk was friendly and quiet, and mostly kept clear of the things that lay nearest to the heart with both of us; but the two men whom we did not name waited behind our words, and spoke in our silence. Yet I was pained to believe that I detected something in her tone occasionally, indicating that she held poor Spencer to be in some way the origin of her griefs. "If he had never crossed my path, all would have gone well," seemed to be the gist of her feeling. Nothing more unreasonable and unjust could have been imagined; but there is no logic in a woman's suffering. I was confirmed by this in my previous conclusion—that she could never have heard of Spencer's insanity; indeed it was known to very few persons. I was half-minded to tell her of it, then; but on second thoughts it seemed to be best not to assume the responsibility of the revelation; it should come to her from some other source, if at all.

I met Colonel Masters several times in London, and he seemed inclined to renew the cordial relation which had subsisted between us previous to the recent events. At length he invited me to come down with him to his country seat for a couple of days; there were to be a few friends and plenty of quiet and fresh air, nothing elaborate. After some hesitation I agreed to go. A party of us went out by special train, and we found the house and grounds at their loveliest; but in the afternoon some heavy showers came on, compelling us to take shelter indoors. Here we amused ourselves as best we might; but it began to be rather dull, and we looked forward to the time when dinner should be ready. At length, just before the dressing-bell rang, I saw, from the window at which I happened to be standing, a carriage drive up to the door. A lady, dressed in black, got out of it; following her, a maid, with a baby in her arms. It was Mrs. Taverney. She had come in complete ignorance of there being any company in the house; and as she had not faced society since her loss, and there were no ladies among the Colonel's guests, the situation promised to be rather awkward.

She accommodated herself to it very gracefully. She greeted us all with courtesy and composure, and was prevailed upon to preside at the dinner table. After dinner she announced her intention of retiring to the little chalet in the park, where a bedroom had been fitted up. One and all of us were ready to give up our rooms to her, but she refused all offers. She had often before slept in the chalet, and preferred it to the house. Finding her resolute, the Colonel and I accompanied her over there, the maid bringing the child. The clouds had cleared away, and it was now bright moonlight.

The interior arrangement of the chalet was very simple. There were two rooms, each about fifteen feet square, opening into each other. The first of these was the bedroom, and had one large window on the right as you entered. The other room was used as a parlor; it had books, and a writing table, and a sofa in the bay window. Adjoining it was a small chamber, at that time used for lumber. The only entrance to the building was by the front door, which was of solid wood, and could be securely fastened. But the neighborhood was a very quiet one, and such a thing as a burglary had not been heard of for years. After having seen Mrs. Taverney safely into her little hermitage, therefore, we left her there without any apprehensions. The maid went back with us. We locked the door on the outside, it being arranged that the maid was to go over early in the morning to attend to washing and dressing the baby. Mrs. Taverney stood at the open window, and waved her hand in adieu to us as we set off on our homeward journey. Then she closed the window and fastened it.

"It seems rather a lonely place to leave her in," I remarked to the Colonel, as we strolled along over the damp turf, smoking our cigars.

"Bless you, her baby is all the company a mother wants," replied my gallant companion. "As for safety, she couldn't be safer if she was in our house in town. Not but what I wish the poor girl had some better protector than a baby, too!" The Colonel said this with a sigh, and no further words passed between us till our arrival at the house.

I went to my chamber that night about midnight. It was quite warm, and after partly undressing, I sat down at my open window to finish my smoke and enjoy the moon. While thus comfortably engaged, a sound reached my ears that made me start. It was very faint, but was it not a scream? I listened again for a long time, for my thoughts had immediately gone to the distant chalet, from the direction of which the sound had seemed to come. But it was not repeated, and at last I persuaded myself I must have been mistaken, and sought my bed.

Meanwhile, this was what occurred at the chalet.

After putting her baby to sleep, Mrs. Taverney threw off her dress and put on a loose negligee, and, for additional ease, she unfastened her hair and suffered it to fall down over her shoulders and below her waist. She was not sleepy, and purposed reading a while before going to bed. There were no books in the bedroom, so she went into the other room to get one. She did not take her candle with her, for the moonlight was so bright that no other light was needed. The book she selected was Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. After taking it from the bookshelf, she paused a minute or two by the sofa in the bow window, gazing out across the silent landscape. Her thoughts went back to the time, two years ago, when she had sat there with Spencer Curtis at her feet, and he had told her his love. Her bosom heaved sighs, and a deeper look came into her eyes. Poor Spencer! After all, no one had spoken to her of love as he had spoken it. Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? Had he forgotten her? The place seemed full of him. There was the very spot where he had knelt.

A slight sound, which Mrs. Taverney supposed to come from the baby, interrupted her reverie at this point, and she hastened back to the bedside. No; the child slept peacefully, lying on its back, with its little white arms above its head. The mother bent over it lovingly, but feared to kiss it, lest it should awake. She sat down in a chair by the bedside, drew up the small table which held the candle, and was soon deep in the mysteries of Mr. Rochester's establishment. As she sat she faced the door of the inner room; it stood wide open, and by raising her eyes, she could see through to the bay-window. But she presently became so absorbed in her book, that she had eyes for nothing else.

She had been reading for perhaps half-an-hour, when an unmistakable noise from the inner room again put her on the alert. It was a slow pushing sound, and was followed by a faint creak—the door of the little lumber-closet was being opened. That door lay out of the range of her vision, unless she moved, and for the moment, bold-hearted woman though she was, she was powerless to move. The creaking ceased; but, as she listened intently, she fancied she could detect a long irregular breathing. Then a shadow fell across the moonlight that rested on the floor of the inner room.

Mrs. Taverney turned, and extinguished her candle by putting her fingers on the wick. It was the thought of her baby that made her do this. She hoped that, whatever' might happen to her, the baby might not be noticed. The candle being out, she silently arose, and drew the coverlet over the baby's face. Meanwhile, she kept her eyes directed towards the open doorway.

A face was now visible in the other room, its features strongly lighted and blackly shadowed by the moon. It was a man's face, wild and ghastly. A thin and ragged beard and tangled hair, emaciated cheeks and appalling eyes, glittering and restless. In hue and cadaverousness it resembled the face of a dead person; but it was alive, though with no ordinary life. The figure moved so silent that at first Mrs. Taverney thought that it was a spectre; and the idea was strengthened by the shadow of resemblance it bore to some one whom she had known well and had met in that very spot. The figure moved towards the bay-window, and knelt down there, grasping in its arm one of the cushions of the sofa. It pressed the cushion to its breast, and seemed to kiss it passionately. Then, all at once, it broke out into a hurried murmur of strange disjointed words—expressions of love, despair, and entreaty, and her own name incessantly repeated. A horrible oppression made Mrs. Taverney s heart shudder and pause. This was no horrible spectre, but a living man—a madman—and her discarded lover.

If it had not been for her baby she would have dropped fainting where she stood; but as it was, she dared not faint. The thing was unexpected and inconceivable as it was real and terrible. She was shut up, alone and beyond reach of help, with the mad lover whom her own inconstancy had driven to madness. To escape was hopeless; and to remain might be death—not to her only! Her least movement might reveal her presence to him; or at any moment he might turn and see her. Yet to stand there inactive was most intolerable of all. Something she must do, or the suspense would drive her also mad. If she could reach unobserved the door between the two rooms and manage to close it! She believed there was a key in the lock; at all events, it would be better than nothing. She did not wait for the idea to cool, but instantly stepped towards the door. Unfortunately, it opened away from her, towards the inner room. Yet she almost had her hand upon it, when the madman rose from his knees and faced her. Then, without wavering, she did a thing which showed a valiant heart. She walked quickly forwards into the room, and closed the door behind her. She had the madman to herself; but the baby—for the time at least—was safe.

She never knew how long she was closeted there with him, in that fearful companionship; nor did she ever tell what passed between them, save in disconnected hints. Whatever it was, the traces which it left upon her remained permanently. There is reason to suppose that the madman who had been Spencer Curtis did not show uncontrollable violence; but there is reason to believe that, with the hideous unconsciousness of insanity, he made her drink to the last dregs the bitterness of the wrong that she had done him. Perhaps there have been others besides Kate Taverney who had held in their memory the consciousness of an hour which no one else besides their Creator will ever know anything about. I am thought to be of a speculative turn of mind, but I do not care to speculate further in this matter.

But this night was not to pass without a further incident. At about twelve o'clock, according to my reckoning, Kate heard a sound which she had heard many times before with little emotion, but which now severed her heart like a sword. It was the crying of her baby in the next room. She was sitting on the sofa in the window at the time, and she had succeeded in soothing her companion so far, that he was crouching beside her, with his head in her lap. He heard it too, and immediately leaped to his feet with a mad man's suspicious alertness. She tried to restrain him, but horror made her powerless; he broke away from her, opened the door of the bedroom, and went in, she following with stiffened limbs. The child continued its cries; he went to the bed, turned back the coverlet, and caught the infant up in his arms. Then Kate fell down on her knees, and uttered that scream which reached my ears as I sat smoking at my chamber window.

The next morning, when the maid went at the appointed hour to awaken her mistress, she found her kneeling on the floor in front of a haggard-looking creature, who sat in a chair with the baby in his arms. It was sleeping quietly; he was crooning over it, and mumbling loving words to it in a hushing tone. As the amazed woman drew near, Mrs. Taverney turned upon her a face that seemed wrinkled and aged, and said huskily, "Do not disturb them. He thinks the baby is his. He has been very gentle to her. Let them be!" And then, in a moment, she dropped sideways insensible.

From that night Spencer partially recovered from his madness, insomuch that it was not found necessary to send him back to the asylum from which he escaped; but he always persisted in believing the baby to be his own. Mrs. Taverney made arrangements to take charge of him, and they have in a manner lived together ever since. She seems to feel that he belongs to her; and when I visited them the other day, her manner towards him struck me as being exquisitely tender. The little girl was smiling between them.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 29 September 1881, supplement page 2. Originally published in The World.

The Cackle Episode

Author Unknown

People have been talking a good deal about detectives of late; here is a story of one of these heroes who was attached to a Private Inquiry Office.

One morning there walked—or rather tumbled—into an office of the West-End a middle aged, lanky gentleman with disordered hair and a wrinkled forehead, much flushed. He dropped into a chair, and, fanning himself with his hat, exclaimed in a broken voice, "My name is Cackle... I have come about a domestic calamity."

The agent did not require to be told the nature of the calamity. He muttered a word of common place condolence, and inquired whether Mrs. Cackle was aware of her husband's suspicions. The answer was in the negative. At the moment when the scales had fallen from his eyes surprise and consternation had stricken Mr. Cackle dumb. He had not yet recovered from his stupefaction; Mrs. Cackle was, of all women in the world, the one whom he should have suspected last; and what made the whole thing more infamous, was that the villain of the domestic drama was his own best friend—a caitiff named Thompson.

The agent nodded, as though to say that this was a usual feature in such cases. He begged that photographs of Mrs. Cackle and Mr. Thompson might be sent him, then put questions as to the ages, characters, and habits of the two parties. Finally, he requested a £10 note for preliminaries, and promised that in a few days Mr. Cackle should have the consolation of seeing all his doubts made certainties. "Above all," said he, "don't let the lady suspect by word or look."

"Very well. I think I had better go out of town," sighed Mr. Cackle. "I couldn't bear to stay with her under these harrowing circumstances."

"If you could get out of town for a few days, leaving the lady alone, it would much expedite matters," remarked the agent.

"I will go down to Brighton this afternoon then," said Mr. Cackle, and away he went, in a perturbed condition altogether.

The agent called his most trusted detective—a person named Spicer—and put the case of Mrs. Cackle into his hands. Mr. Spicer was a tallish fellow, with military moustache and whiskers turning grey, who looked like a discharged cavalry-sergeant in shabby civilian clothes. In the course of the day he received the photographs promised, and at five o'clock was standing at the Victoria station to see where Mrs. Cackle would go after taking leave of her husband on the platform.

The unfortunate Mr. Cackle soon appeared, with a rug on one arm and a natty little woman on the other. Nothing could have been more tender than the manner in which the sprightly lady embraced her consort at the door of the railway carriage. She saw him comfortably installed, with the rug over his knees, and an evening newspaper in his hands, bade him be careful about draughts, and when the train had started stood among the porters waving her hand quite affectionately till he was out of sight. Then she glanced at her watch, walked out of the station with quick steps, and jumped into a four-wheeled cab. Mr. Spicer followed, at a discreet distance, in a hansom.

Mrs. Cackle first went home; but, as her cab remained at the door, Mr. Spicer waited in his at the corner of the street. The lady was not long before she reappeared, more smartly dressed than before, and the cab again drove away with her. It was a bright, warm evening in July, and the streets of Belgravia, where the Cackles resided, were crowded with showy carriages returned from the Park. The four-wheeler crawled its way to Piccadilly, and in due time reached the St. James' Restaurant. Here, on the pavement, stood a burly gentleman of about five-and-forty, with pepper-and-salt whiskers, a broad white waistcoat, and an eyeglass. Mr. Spicer, as he descended from his hansom, had just time to see him assist Mrs. Cackle from the cab, tuck her under his arm, and conduct her up the staircase.

"Hullo, though!" soliloquised the dectective, as he drew a photograph from his pocket, "this man isn't Mr. Thompson!" He looked intently at the carte and saw the features of a middle-aged gentleman, with a great deal of face-hair, thick lips, and a droll expression of the eyes, like the funny fellows who haunt artists' studios. He had been warned that Mr. Thompson, though not an artist, had the air of a jolly dog, and was one; further, that his beard glowed with the resplendent tints of furbished copper. The gentleman who had invited Mrs. Cackle to dinner was grey, as we have said, and of a demeanour portly and sedate. Mr. Spicer rubbed his left ear, and foresaw that his investigations were going to be more complicated than he had imagined.

As he had taken his tea, he confined himself to drinking a glass of beer at the buffet, and then sauntered up and down the pavement, waiting for the pair to come out. At length the gentleman in the white waistcoat emerged with Mrs. Cackle on his arm, put her into a cab, and shook hands with her through the window. Mr. Spicer left the lady to go her ways, and followed the gentleman, who, lightning a cigar, strolled off towards Pall Mall. Not to waste time in details, it may be said that the portly gentleman repaired to a club, spent two hours there, and, towards midnight, walked off to a house in a street adjoining Berkeley Square, where he let himself in with a latchkey. In the meantime, by feeing a page who loitered on the club stops, the detective had ascertained that this friend of Mrs. Cackle's was a Mr. Jackson, a merchant. Mr. Spicer remembered that Mr. Cackle was also a merchant, and on returning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, he consulted a Post Office Directory, where he found in the commercial part the firm of "Cackle, Thompson, Jackson and Johnson." This was a revelation, indeed.

Next morning he was up betimes. However, he spent a day in profitless waiting, as Mrs. Cackle did not come out till four o'clock. She was still better dressed than the day before, and had herself driven to the Aquarium, were a gentleman in a flaming red beard met her at the turnstile. This time there could he no doubt that the cavalier was Mr. Thompson. He had a jocular sort of wink, and had Mrs. Cackle laughing even before he had paid their admission shillings. The detective followed them, and every time they crossed him in the galleries, he saw Mrs. Cackle lowering her head and putting her handkerchief to her mouth, in convulsions at Mir. Thompson's facetious sayings.

The merry pair dined at the Aquarium, and as with Mr. Jackson, so with Mr. Thompson, the leave-taking took place at the restaurant, but, knowing Mr. Thompson's address, Mr. Spicer followed the lady. Mrs. Cackle went home, and thereupon Mr. Spicer did the same, wondering, as he went, whether it would be Mr. Johnson's turn to-morrow.

Mr. Spicer had not his equal for conducting the preliminaries of a case, but he sometimes made mistakes; and did so on the third day's watching by not going to Belgravia till nearly one o'clock. He had inferred too hastily that Mrs. Cackle was not addicted to matutinal sittings; but, perceiving a footman lolling up the steps of the house, as these creatures seldom do when their mistresses are at home, he guessed that his bird had flown. This was very vexing; but as Mr. Spicer had put on a decent suit of clothes, he presented himself boldly as a visitor, and struck an attitude of surprise on being told that the lady had gone out of town and would not he back till the day after to-morrow—that is Monday.

"Dear me!" said he, looking annoyed, "but I had an appointment. Has Mrs. Cackle gone to join her husband at Brighton?"

"No—o," answered the servant, without addressing him as "Sir," for Mr. Spicer never succeeded in playing the gentleman. "Pray, what sort of an appointment might it be that you had?"

"Well, the truth is I've a bill that wants paying," said the detective, producing half-a-crown, which he had always found the shortest way of extracting information.

"Ah, exactly; well, you had better come again a-Monday," rejoined the footman, with prolonged civility, as he pocketed the coin. "Missus has gone to spend two nights with her aunt at Taplow."

"You are sure it's Taplow?"

"Oh, yes; she told her maid so; and I heard Mr. Johnson allude to it when he came to fetch her."

"Is that Mr. Johnson of the firm?"

"Yes, but he don't attend to the business."

Two hours after this Mr. Spicer was standing on the lawn of Skindle's hotel, at Taplow.

He sat on the grass watching the stream flow under the arches of the bridge, the swans glide by with their broods of grey cygnets, and the skiffs flash about in great numbers, as they wont to do upon a Saturday afternoon.. Presently, as he had expected, a gig came along with Mrs. Cackle in it, seated under an awning and steering. A good-looking young gentleman, in a straw hat and flannels, was quietly sculling and chatting at the same time. Evidently this was poor Mr. Cackle's partner, but of Mrs. Cackle's aunt there was no sign in the boat. Nor was there in the hotel. The detective remained on the lawn till the gig drew up alongside, and the partner gave Mrs. Cackle his hand to help her trip over the seats as she alighted. They betook themselves in company to one of the ground-floor private rooms, and soon were installed at a cosy dinner, with the window-door wide open, so that Mr. Spicer could see Mr. Johnson whispering gallant words into his charmer's ears as she moistened her pretty lips with champagne and laughed in pure gaiety of heart.

This romantic sight recalled Mr. Spicer to the fact that he himself had not dined. After freighting himself with duck and peas in the coffee room, he returned to the garden, and now, the moon being up, the pair were nestling by the railings, and gazing at the river as it hurried by in ripples, sparkling with the silver beams. Mr. Johnson's cigarette filled the air with a mild aroma, and Mrs. Cackle's voice was low and soft as the murmuring waters. Thus they remained side by side till, the night beginning to grow chilly, they returned slowly indoors, and were soon lost to view, for a waiter, who brought them some tea, closed the windows and drew the blinds. Mr. Spicer, having seen enough, bent his steps towards Taplow station, and hied back to town by the last train.

He saw no reason for visiting Taplow again on Sunday, but Monday morning found him waiting at Paddington to meet the up trains. It was that due at eleven which brought Mrs. Cackle and the partner. Mr. Johnson, who had a rose in his button-hole, carried a lady's cloak and dressing-bag; and he picked out her box from the luggage, ordering its removal to a cab. When he had done this and put her into the vehicle, he wished her goodbye with a gentle squeeze of the hand, and went about his business. Now, it so happened that, owing to a little delay in hoisting the box on to the cab-roof, Mr. Johnson, who had struck across the road to find a hansom for himself, was out of sight before the four-wheeler had started, and this appeared to please Mr. Spicer, for, seeing the coast clear, he suddenly acted in a way for which the reader is doubtless not prepared.

"Mrs. Cackle, I believe?" he said, touching his hat, and accosting that astonished lady; and while she stared at him with the grave air of women when surprised, he added, "I am a detective, and should like to say a few words to you in private."

"It must be a mistake," she answered, with the heroic coolness of her sex, though her pink features had turned to wax color.

"No mistake at all; you'll see. Mr. Cackle has employed me to watch you, and I know about Mr. Thompson, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Johnson..." All this was said in a whisper.

"Mr. Johnson! ...It is not true..." faltered Mrs. Cackle, her fortitude giving way for a moment.

"Isn't it. Hear me or not, as you like; but make up your mind quick, for Mr. Cackle will be back from Brighton to-morrow, and I must send in my report."

Mrs. Cackle was out of the cab in a moment, all in a flutter, and walking beside the detective without knowing what she was about.

"It's a question whether you will give me a thousand pounds, ma'am," he said, hard as a nail, and looking her straight in the eyes.

"A thousand pounds!" murmured Mrs. Cackle, as she subsided on to a settee. "Why should I give you that? I've done nothing wrong. My aunt is staying at Skindle's hotel, and I went down to see her. Mr. Johnson accompanied me, because he is one of my husband's friends. If he rowed me on the river, and accepted my invitation to dine, it was because my aunt was confined to her room by a bad headache."

"A frequent complaint with her, that headache, eh, ma'am?" said the detective, with the grin of a churl.

"Well, but I wish you would let me explain," rejoined Mrs. Cackle, recovering boldness and dignity from her very fright. "It is most odious to bring false accusations against me."

"I have nothing to do with accusing you, ma'am. The point is simply whether you wish me to report to your husband how you have spent your time since he left for Brighton?"

Mrs. Cackle heaved a sigh full of agitation. "I cannot give you a thousand pounds," she said. "I haven't the money."

"Oh, but I dare say Mr. Thompson, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Johnson will be happy to lend it to you between them. Think of their feelings when they're brought up in the Divorce Court! What a surprise it will be to them to find they're all in the same boat!" and Mr. Spicer laughed again.

"I will try to get you five hundred pounds," stammered Mrs. Cackle, as if to cut the dispute short. She looked like a hunted animal caught in a trap, and gazed distractedly hither and thither.

"Meet me here at four o'clock," said Mrs. Cackle, in a low voice, and without looking at him; "but if I manage to get you some money, what will you do for me?"

"Anything you order, ma'am. I'll furnish Mr. Cackle with a report which you yourself shall dictate, and we'll put him so completely in a fog that he'll never see clear again."

"Mind you are punctual," was the reply with which Mrs. Cackle dismissed Mr. Spicer, and, slipping through the door which he held open, she returned to her cab. It never occurred to her, so great was her confusion of mind, to glance round and see if she were followed.

The detective followed her, nevertheless, partly because his conscience may have been uneasy, partly because he felt curious to see how Mrs. Cackle would raise his hush-money. He had spent the whole of Sunday in contriving his little plot, and had collected information about Messrs. Thompson, Jackson, and Johnson, so that he knew the social position of each, and how much they were likely to yield under fear of scandal. Grey-whiskered Mr. Jackson was a widower with grown-up children, and could on no account afford to lose his character. It was almost certain that Mrs. Cackle would tap him first. Mr. Thompson had been married five years to a comely but straight-laced wife, and he, too, would doubtless part with his boots sooner than be cited in the D.C.; but, on the other hand, he was a comical fellow, and would probably only be requested to make up as much as Mr. Jackson had been unable to pay. Mr. Johnson was a bachelor, and richer than either of the two others; but then, he was young, handsome, and sentimental, so that it was dubious whether he would be asked for a penny, except under desperate pressure. Thus had Mr. Spicer reasoned, and his conjectures were apparently realised, for Mrs. Cackle proceeded straight to the city office of the firm, and after remaining there an hour, came out with a calmer expression than when she had entered. She drove home, and went nowhere else that day. The detective watched her house till, at half-past three, he saw the footman come out to hail a cab, and a few minutes later Mrs. Cackle issued with her veil down. Mr. Spicer sprang into the hansom which he had kept waiting round the corner, and was whirled off to his rendezvous at Paddington, where he arrived ten minutes before the lady.

Mrs. Cackle had made up her face into a piteous expression, and when she encountered Mr. Spicer she said dolefully: "I am very sorry, I have only been able to obtain five hundred pounds. I have been trying all day to raise the money."

Now this would have been very well if Mr. Spicer had not known that she had only tried in one direction.. Feeling sure that she had obtained the whole amount from Mr. Jackson, and was acting on that astute merchant's advice, he shook his head and said that he could not abate his claim by a sixpence. Mrs. Cackle flushed with anger, and drawing a couple of cheques, one from her purse the other from under her glove, thrust them into his hand, and said, peevishly:—"Well, then, there; but you are ruining me; I consider your conduct most extortionate."

"Thank you, ma'am; business is business," said the detective, coolly, and, unfolding the pink slips, he noticed that they were made payable eight days after date. "H'm, ma'am, they're not payable at sight, I see!"

"Certainly not. I am not going to let you have the money until you have executed my instructions. Here is the account of my doings, which I desire you to insert in your report."

"Exactly, I'll take it home and copy it."

"No; you must copy it here, please, while I hold it."

Mr. Spicer bowed, and, with a secret admiration for so much prudence, began to transcribe into his notebook a minute record extending over eight closely-written sheets of mauve paper. Mrs. Cackle never quailed or reddened while she submitted for inspection this manuscript, which would have done honor to the most skilful writer of fiction—for truth and the contrary were so adroitly mixed up in it as to show that the art of making black look white was one of essentially feminine ken. Mrs. Cackle had taken thought for the morrow as well as for the day, for she had added details of what she meant to do that evening and the next morning. Altogether the document was one which the most sensitive husband would have been happy and proud to peruse.

But one thing both surprised Mr. Spicer, and transported him with respect for the authoress; and this was that Mrs. Cackle had frankly entered the relation of her trip to Taplow, and even mentioned that Mr. Johnson had accompanied her thither. "Why, ma'am," said he, looking up, as he wetted the tip of his pencil, "it cannot be true that you have an aunt at Taplow?"

"Why, of course it is," replied she, opening wide her eyes with a look of childish innocency. "Didn't I tell you so from the first. I repeat that I am the victim of appearances."

"That's what the cat said, ma'am, when they found him with his nose in the cream jug," remarked the detective, who could not help laughing. "However, let me give you a bit of advice, to show that I mean you well—just you turn the tables on Mr. Cackle!"

"On my husband!" muttered the innocent lady, while sparks flashed out of her eyes as from flints.

"Yes, ma'am; and you had better do it for your own sake," observed the detective, in a whisper. "Once a husband's suspicions have been excited, it isn't a report such as this that can allay them for good and all... But if you could catch him tripping, you see, why 'mum' is the word he'll have to stick to as long as he breathes."

"But have you any suspicions of Mr. Cackle?" asked this gentleman's wife, all her features lighting up like those of a lynx going to spring.

"Supposing I have something more than suspicions, eh? Suppose that whilst he leaves you here, in town, Mr. Cackle is cutting his jinks at Brighton?"

"Oh, but that would be abominable!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Cackle, forgetting her own peril in the thought of her outraged affections, and, starting up, she gazed at Mr. Spicer with a countenance on which amazement, ardour for revenge, righteous indignation, and revolt were depicted. Mr. Spicer contented himself with performing a slow wink, and motioned to Mrs. Cackle to be seated. She complied as if the settee were a hot plate, and greatly did she fidget during the next half hour, while she and the detective held an animated colloquy. At length they parted, and Mrs. Cackle stepped away with the air which Judith must have worn when she went off to fetch the sword that was to execute justice on Holofernes.

As for Mr. Spicer, he departed for Brighton by a six o'clock train. But do not infer from that that he had any serious thoughts of finding Mrs. Cackle's husband engaged in anti-conjugal pursuits. In accusing that unfortunate gentleman of cutting his jinks at Brighton, the detective had merely acted in pursuance of a crafty scheme of his own, which had a twofold object—first, to arrest for ever all measures which Mr. Cackle might be disposed to take against Mrs. Cackle; second, to obtain, if possible, another lump of money for himself.

Mr. Spicer had reasoned in this way:—Mr. Cackle's suspicions having begun to march in black hosts, the only way to route them was to arm Mrs. C. with weapons for carrying the war into the enemy's country. This might be done either by convicting Mr. Cackle of some peccadillo against nuptial faith, or, if the man were blameless, by entangling him in the semblance of a peccadillo. Mr. Spicer, being a rogue, took a roguish view of the world, and did not believe much in marital blamelessness; at all events, he thought that most men, when actively spied upon, may be found doing things which they would not care to hear proclaimed from the housetops; and the simplest piece of imprudence on Mr. Cackle's part would be enough to serve his purpose. He lad no intention of exposing the husband to the wife, but he would send some confederate to Mr. Cackle, who would say (as had been said to Mrs. C—), "Your fond partner suspects you, and has had you watched. We have found out this and that; now, if you don't want madam to hear of it, just pay such and such a sum." The payment having been made, the detective would report to Mrs. Cackle that his suspicious of her lord turned out to be groundless; and, meanwhile, the Inquiry Office, having reported to Mr. Cackle that he also had been hunting shadows, the attached couple would live at peace, thenceforth absolved in each other's sight, but yet kept in good behaviour by the consciousness that each would feel of having once incurred the other's suspicions. On the whole, this arrangement, while serving Mr. Spicer's pecuniary ends would undoubtedly conduce to matrimonial harmony.

So, building queer castles in the air, and thinking with much satisfaction of the thousand pounds he had already gotten, the detective arrived at Brighton. It was not yet sunset, and he walked quickly down the platform, intending to go and watch at the Grand Hotel, where he had been told that Mr. Cackle was staying. But Fortune was in love with Mr. Spicer that day, for, as he passed through the ticket office, whom should he behold but Mr. Cackle himself, airily dressed in white summer clothing and engaged in purchasing a ticket for a very personable lady who stood beside him in muslin costume with pink spots. Mr. Cackle stooped to address the ticket clerk, and was saying: "This lady wants to book for St. Leonard; at what station must she change?"

"Heaven and earth!" thought the detective, with excusable ecstasy. "Why St. Leonards is the place where strait-laced Mrs. Thompson is supposed to be staying with her grandmother! The housemaid at Thompson's told me so," and lowering his glance to a coquettish portmanteau, which a porter beside Mr. Cackle was holding, the, detective read on the label: "Mrs. Thompson."

"Well, this is a go!" muttered he, and the smile on his face was a thing to see.

It must be explained here that although Mr. Spicer knew Mr. Cackle by sight, Mr. Cackle did not know Mr. Spicer. The latter had caught sight of the afflicted husband as he left the Inquiry Office, and had subsequently seen him leisurely at the Victoria Station; but Mr. Cackle, having negotiated with the inquiry agent, had not asked to see the detective who was to be employed in his service. Consequently, Mr. Spicer put himself this question: "Shall I tackle the old boy myself as soon as Mrs. Thompson has started, or shall I let the work be done by a 'pal,' with whom I shall have to go 'snags'?" The thoughts of surrendering half his profits to a pal induced Mr. Spicer to do his work for himself, resolving that he would contrive not to let Mr Cackle see him at the Inquiry Office. So when Mrs. Thompson's train had departed, and Mr. Cackle was about to step into a fly with the jaunty air of a husband whose wife is miles and miles away, Mr. Spicer checked him by a dozen words whispered in his ear, and which made Mr. Cackle leap as if he had trod upon the wire of an electric battery.

"It's a foul slander," stuttered he, whilst his eyes stood out like gooseberries. "Why... Why Mrs. Thompson came over from St. Leonards to consult me about... about... important business. She's the purest creature alive..."

"Very strait-laced, I know," responded Mr. Spicer, drily. "That's why she brought her luggage here, and has been staying three days?"

"Who told you, sir, that Mrs. Thompson has been staying here three days?"

"Oh, I know all about you and her, for I've been watching you both for more than three months," said Mr. Spicer, archly. "You're not done a thing since the 1st of April without my knowing it!"

At this Mr. Cackle looked like a man who feels himself lost. A little more and he would have sat down on the fly step and cried. "Why, why, it's infamous that my wife should suspect me," he whimpered, shambling along beside the detective and mopping the moisture from his brow. "It's I who had every reason to suspect her, and I've actually paid to have her watched!"

"Ah, that's what you went to an Inquiry Office about on Thursday. You see I am correctly informed as to your movements. However, I've nothing to do with Mrs. Cackle's conduct—my only business is to tell you that if you don't give me five hundred pounds, Mr. Cackle, I shall be under the painful necessity of telling your good lady what a nice jovial fellow you are when left to yourself."

"Five hundred pounds!" gasped Mr. Cackle. "You expect me to give you that, man? Never, I haven't got it!"

"Very well, then, Sir... It don't matter much to me. I'll go back to town by the next train and see Mr. Thompson..."

"Stop... you shall have the money," muttered Mr. Cackle, faintly. "But mind, I don't give it because I am guilty. Mrs. Thompson and I are innocent as the day. I am only the victim of appearances!"

* * *

The rest of this veracious history is soon told. Mr. Spicer made his report to his employers, and that document, which so honorably acquitted Mrs. Cackle, was duly forwarded to her husband, along with a bill for £20 or so. The lady, on her side, had the gratification of learning that Mr. Cackle's character had triumphantly withstood the ordeal of a searching overhaul, and whatever ulterior proceedings the astute Jackson may have contemplated against Mr. Spicer were abandoned. The result was a perfect domestic reconciliation; and we have much pleasure in adding that both husband and wife steered clear in future of those awkward appearances which may give so much trouble to the pure in heart. As for Mr. Spicer, enriched by his two strokes, he set up a business of his own, and is much consulted to this day by those in matrimonial misfortune. 

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 21 April 1881, supplement page 2.

Bill Bowker's Triumph

Author Unknown

BLISSFUL END OF A COLLIER'S COURTSHIP. 

William descended to the pump in the back yard, and had a wash in the half-light of 4 o'clock, and Selina got out of bed and took sly peeps at him through her tears. William, his ablutions over, went out for a dreary stroll, past the Hilly piece, and over Stevenson's hills, and down Jacob's ladder, and Dead Man's lane, and on to the brook-side again. There, on June bridge, he stood and watched the eddies circle around the great stones, and found that negative and bewildered comfort which trouble always finds in running water. Meanwhile Selina had gone back to bed and had there renewed her tears, and was finding some comfort in running water also. And at the moment when William stood upon June bridge, Abraham Gough, in a suit of flannels, was making his way to the day-shift in the Strip-and-at-it. Lest you should find yourself too much disturbed by the phrase, let me explain that the Strip-and-at-it was a coal mine, so named, by its inmates, from the cant phrase of some "doggy" or ganger. "Now, lads, strip and at it."

Poor William regretted his holiday and longed for the hour when work should begin again. He beguiled the heavy hours of the day by the composition of woebegone verses, whereof fortune has preserved a fragment, which I here embalm:

The sun that shines so bright above
Knows naught about my wrongful love;
The birds that sing in Wigmore Lane
Bring nothing to my heart but pain.
It is a very dismal thing
That in my ears the birds do sing,
While my Selina has gone off
To walk with Mr. Abraham Gough. 

William's muse was in the right. It is a very dismal thing to the wounded heart, grown egotistic through its pain, that nature should seem out of sympathy with it—that the sun should shine and the birds should sing, just as brightly and as merrily as though Selina were still true and gentle.

William took his humble meal of bread and cheese and his pint or so of beer at a little public-house in the aforesaid lane, and then strolled home again, still very miserable, but a trifle soothed by the verse-making process. He was due at the mine at 6 o clock, and an hour before that time he was upstairs exchanging his Sunday costume for the work-day coaly flannels, when he became conscious of a bustle in the street. Looking through the window, he beheld men running hatless and coatless, and unbonneted, unshawled women scurrying along as fast as their feet could take them. Everybody ran in one direction, and in the crowd he caught a moment's glimpse of Selina and her father. The girl's face was white with some strong excitement, and there was a look of the wildest imaginable fear in her eyes. Both hands were pressed to her heart as she ran. A Black country collier's instinct in a case like this is pretty likely to be true. William threw his window open, and cried to the hurrying crowd:

"Where is it?"

"At the Strip-an'-at-it," some familiar voice called out as the straggling crowd swept by.

"What is it?" he cried again.

"Shaft on fire," cried another voice, in answer; and in a second the street was clear.

William Bowker dashed down stairs and hurled himself along the street.

"Anybody down?" he gasped, as he turned the corner and passed the hindmost figure in the hurrying mass. The woman knew him.

"For God's sake, lend me thy hand Willyyum," she gasped in answer. "My Joe's in."

He caught the shrivelled little figure in his great arms as though the old woman had been a baby, and dashed on again. Ay, the tale was true! There belched and volleyed the rolling smoke! There were hundreds upon hundreds of people already crowded on the pit mound and about the shaft, and from every quarter men and women came streaming in, white-faced and breathless. William set his withered burden down, and pushed through to the edge of the shaft. There was water in the up-cast, and the engines were at work full power. Up came the enormous bucket and splashed its 200 or 300 gallons down the burning shaft, and dropped like a stone down the up-cast, and after a long, long pause came trembling and laboring up again, and vomited its freight again and dropped like a stone for more.

"Yo' might just as well stand in a ring an' spit at it," said Bowker, with his face all pale and his eyes on fire. "Get the stinktors up and let a man or two go down."

"Will yo' mak' one, Bill Bowker ?" said a brawny, coal-smeared man beside him.

"Yis, I wull," was the answer, given in a bulldog's growl.

"I'll mak' another," said the man.

"An' me," "An' me," "An' me," cried a dozen more.

"Rig the bowk, somebody," said the love-lorn verse-maker, taking at once and as by right the place he was born for. "Bill—Joe—Abel—Darkey—come wi' me."

The crowd divided and the five made for the offices, and found there in a row a number of barrel-shaped machines of metal, each having a small hose and a pumping apparatus attached to it. They were a new boon from the generous hand of science—a French contrivance, as the name affixed to each set forth—"L'Extineteur." Each of the men seized one of these and bore it to the edge of the shaft, the crowd once more making way. A bucket, technically called "a bowk," some two feet deep and eighteen inches wide, was affixed to the wire rope which swung above the burning shaft. The self-appointed leader asked for flannel clothing. A dozen garments were flung to him at once. He wrapped himself up like a mummy and bound a cotton handkerchief over his face. Then with the machine strapped securely across his shoulder, he stepped one foot in the bucket and laid a hand upon the rope. A man ran forward with a slender chain, which he passed rapidly round the volunteer's waist, and fixed to the rope which supported the bowk. Another thrust an end of rope into his hand and stood by to reeve out the rest as he descended. Then came the word, "Short, steady." The engine panted, the rope tightened, the clumsy figure, with the machine bound about it, swung into the smoke, and in a death-light stillness, with here and there a smothered gasp, the man went down. His comrade at the edge dribbled the rope through his coal-blackened fingers as delicately as though it had been a silken thread. Then came a sudden tug at it, and the word was flashed to the engine-room, and the creak of the wheel ceased and the gliding wire rope was still. Then, for a space of nigh a minute, not a sound was heard, but every eye was on the rope, and every cheek was pallid with suspense, and every heart was with the hero in the fiery depths below.

Then came another warning tug at the rope, and again the word flashed to the engine-room. The wheel spun round, the rope glided, quivered, stopped, the figure swung up through the smoke again, was seized, lowered, landed. When his comrades laid hands upon him, the flannel garments fell from him in huge blackened flakes, so near to the flames had he been. He cast these garments from him, and they fell, half under, at his feet. Then he drew off the handkerchief which bound his face, and, at the godlike, heroic pallor of his countenance, and the set lips and gleaming eyes, women whispered pantingly, "God bless him!" and the breath of those bold fellows was drawn hard. Then he reeled, and a pair of arms like a bear's were round him in a second. In two minutes more he was outside the crowd, and a bottle of whisky, which came from nobody knew where, was at his lips as he lay upon the ground, and two or three women, ran for water. And while all this was doing, another man, as good as he, was swinging downward in the blinding smoke. So fierce a leap the flames made at this hero, that they caught him fairly for a moment in their arms, and when he was brought to the surface he hung limp and senseless, with great patches of smoldering fire upon his garments, and his hands and face cracked and blackened. But the next man was ready, and when he, in turn, came to the light, he had said good-bye to the light for ever in this world. Not this, nor anything that fear could urge, could stay the rest. There were five-and-thirty men and boys below, and they would have them up or die. With that godlike pallor on their lips and cheeks, with those wide eyes that looked death in the face, and knew him, and defied him—down they went! I saw these things, who tell the story. Man after man defied that fiery hell, and faced its lurid, smoky darkness undismayed, until, at last, their valor won the day.

The love-born William had but little room in his heart for superfluous sentiment as he laid his hand upon the wire rope and set his foot in the bowk again. Yet just a hope was there—that Selina should not grieve too greatly if this second venture failed and he should meet his death. He was not, as a rule, devotionally inclined, but he whispered inwardly, "God be good to her." And there at that second he saw her face before him—so set and fixed that in its agony of fear and prayer it looked like marble. The rope grew taut, he passed the handkerchief about his face again, and with the memory of her eyes upon him, dropped out of sight. The man at the side of the shaft paid out the slender line again and old hands watched it closely. Yard after yard ran out. The great coil at his feet snaked itself, ring by ring, through his coaly fingers.. Still no warning message came from below. The engine stopped at last and they knew that the foot of the shaft was reached. Had the explorer fainted by the way? He might, for all they knew above, be roasting down below that minute. Even then his soul, newly released, might be above them.

Through the dead silence of the crowd the word flashed to the engine-room. The wheel went round and the wire rope glided and quivered up again over it. There was not a man or woman there who did not augur the same thing from the tenser quiver of the rope, and when, at last, through the thinner coils of smoke about the top of the shaft, the rescuer's figure swung with the first of the rescued in his arms, there was heard the sound of infinite pathos—a sigh of relief from 20,000 breasts—and dead silence fell again.

"Alive?" asked one, laying a hand on Bowker's arm. Bill nodded and pushed him by, and made his way toward that marble face, nursing his burden still.

"Seliner," he said quietly, "here's your sweetheart."

"No, no, no, Bill," she answered. "There's only one man i' the world for me, Bill, if ever he forgives me an' my wicked ways."

Cheer and cheer of triumph rang in their ears. The women fought for Bill Bowker, and kissed him and cried over him. Men shook hands with him and with each other. Strangers mingled their tears. The steel rope was gliding up and down at a rare rate now, and the half-suffocated prisoners of the fire were being carried up in hatches. Selina and her lover stood side by side and watched the last skipful to the surface.

"That's the lot," yelled one coal-smeared giant as the skip swung up. Out broke the cheers again, peal on peal. William stood silent, with the tears in those brave eyes. The penitent stole a hand in his.

"Oh, Bill," she whispered, "you didn't think I wanted him?"

"What else did you think I fetched him out for?" queried William, a smile of comedy gleaming through the manly moisture of his eyes.

She dropped her head upon his breast, and put both arms around him, and neither she nor he thought of the crowd in that blissful moment when Mr. Bowker's courtship ended, and soul was assured of soul.

Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 23 December 1880, supplement page 2

The Bunch of Violets

Author Unknown

 It was a stormy night in June. The fair weather of many weeks had been followed by a tempest of more than ordinary severity, and the elements seemed resolved to prove that their previous mildness should not be taken as a sign of continuous inactivity. Amid the blinding rain, the howling wind, the constant rolling of the thunder, and the flashing of the lightning, a man sat bare-headed and unmoved. For in his own mind there raged a tempest greater than that of Nature. Big drops rolled down his face other than those from the clouds; his form was shaken, but not by the blast; and his groaning could be heard above the cracking of the branches and the sighing of the leaves. In his hand he held a withered bunch of violets. And, in truth, his case was passing pitiful. He had been happy—too happy; and, without warning, the cup of happiness had been dashed from his lips. Before him stretched the future—a vast sea of doubt and care, with no beacon of hope to illumine its troubled waters. And of the past there remained to him only the bitter sweet memories of happiness, fled for ever with the fragrance of the flowers at which he gazed. The story connected with them was neither long nor uncommon. Cyril Dare loved Violet Romaine; Violet Romaine said she loved Cyril Dare, and on this stormy day in June they were to have been married. Only a week ago she had given him the violets.

"They are my flowers," she said. "You must keep them for this little while till you keep me for ever.''

And he had kept them next his heart, and she—well, she had quietly left him for another ere the week was over, without explanation or good-bye. Yet this miserable man loved her better than ever. "A fool, an ass, an idiot," so said everyone who knew him and her.

The scene changes. A great ship is lying like a log on the ocean, doomed to destruction, though the sea is smooth as glass, and no storm has borne her down. The clouds of smoke rising from her hold tell the terrible tale. Efforts, gigantic efforts, have been made to save the vessel, but they are useless, and despair settles down on every countenance. In a few hours at most the Empress of the East will have sunk beneath the wave, almost within sight of land. She is on her passage from India, and on her deck crowd the passengers, some white with terror and speechless, some nervous and noisy, some cursing, some praying, but most with that blank look which means so much and yet tells so little. There are old men who have come back to die in their native land, middle-aged men who are returning to spend the fortunes they have realized, young men who have been looking forward to meeting fathers, mothers, wives, or sweethearts. And, worse still, there are women and children. The captain of the ship stands in earnest conversation with his officers and a knot of passengers; the crew, consisting of English and Lascars, tired and begrimed with smoke, are whispering moodily together a little way off. At length the captain speaks decisively, "There is no help for it. It must be done."

"Then," says an old, white-haired man next him, "there is no hope."

"There is none," is the decided reply.

Meanwhile, jets of flame are bursting from the hatchways, and a roaring sound can be plainly heard by all. The captain addresses the crowd—"Passengers and crew of the Empress of the East, I regret to inform you that in less than two hours the ship will founder."

Some of the crew cry, "'To the boats!" The captain draws a revolver from his breast, and says—

"The first man who touches even a rope without my orders dies by my hand." Then he continues, "It is impossible to save the lives of all—we have not boats to hold them."

A smothered groan rises from the audience, but the captain goes on unmoved—

"I have, therefore, consulted with my officers and other gentlemen, and we have decided on the course to be pursued. All the women and children will first be lowered into the boats." As he speaks, there is a general rush by the ship's company to the davits, but by each boat stand two officers, pistol in hand. The skipper, after a moment's pause, continues—

"We are two hundred and fifteen men on board. The boats will only hold one hundred and fifty. Sixty-five, of whom one will be myself, must therefore" here his voice quivers in spite of his self-possession— "perish with the ship."

On this a wild shout half yell, half wail— bursts from the men around him.

"Silence!" he shouts, "silence, and hear me! It will be decided by lot—those who go and those who stay." He turns to the chief officer by his side, "Mr. Peterson, give me the papers."

Mr. Peterson hands him a basket containing a number of small folded pieces of paper. There is a dead silence. The captain says—

"There are two hundred and fifteen numbers in this basket. Each man in turn will draw one. All below one hundred and fifty will be received in the boats, all above will stay—with me. My own number is one hundred and fifty. In the meantime, Mr. Peterson, see that my instructions are carried out. The passengers and ship's company will draw turn and turn about."

Then rises a fresh uproar. There are entreaties, prayers, expostulations, menaces imprecations. The captain is unmoved. He holds open his basket, and says, "Draw," while Mr. Peterson reads aloud from a roll of names. As each one takes the fatal slip, his number is recorded. And the scene is so dreadful that no pen could describe it, no tongue tell it.

There are three pieces of paper remaining in the basket.

"Major Dare!" calls Mr. Peterson.

A bronzed soldier approaches and takes his lot.

"One hundred and thirty-six," says Mr. Peterson.

"Abraham Brown!"

"One hundred and twenty-three."

The last number lies in the basket.

"Captain Hall!"

"One hundred and sixty-three," is the fatal answer; and a woman's shriek tells that the captain is very dear to someone on board.

They are, all things considered, wonderfully calm, these men about to die; and they watch the preparations for the salvation of others with almost mechanical rigidity. In fact they are stunned by their situation.

Major Dare is standing by the wheel awaiting his turn to be summoned, for two of the boats have already been lowered. A woman, pale and tearful, but very beautiful, approaches him. She is Violet Hall, once Violet Romaine, now Captain Hall's wife,

"I want to speak to you," she says.

"Well?"

"Save my husband, Cyril Dare," she sobs hysterically.

"I—I cannot," he answers.

"You loved me once," she whispers, "and —"

"I love you still," he interrupts hoarsely. "I shall always love you."

"Then save him," she pleads; "Save him for my sake "

"How?" he cries, wildly. "How?"

She hesitates, but only for a second, as Mr. Peterson's voice is heard summoning the elect to be saved.

"Give him your number," she wails; "and you—take his."

Then she sinks at his feet, not daring to meet his eye.

He is for a brief space dumbfounded at the splendid audacity of her request. Then the great fact forces itself upon him. She wishes him to give his life for his rival's. He looks at her lying inanimate before him. That look decides his answer. Life itself is as nothing when weighed against her agony.

"Be it so," he murmurs. Then raising her tenderly, he gives her one pure kiss upon the brow and leaves her in a trance. He finds Captain Hall crouched in the paddle-box, with one of his children clambering on his knee.

"Hall," says Major Dare, "let me look at your number."

The Captain gives it, groaning.

"Curse it!" he hisses, "my usual luck. What do you want it for?'" he adds, fiercely.

"I think there is some mistake," replies Cyril. "There, I thought so. Why, my dear fellow, your number is 136 not 163. I congratulate you."

Hall looks at him stupidly, and then at the paper. He cannot (and never will) understand the matter. He is about to speak, but Dare has gone back to where he left Mrs. Hall. She has recovered from her swoon, and is leaning against the side of the vessel.

"Violet," says Cyril, quietly, "I have done your bidding. He is saved."

She gazes at him, and repeats mechanically—

"He is saved—and you?"

Cyril smiles sadly as he answers—

"Lost—for you."

And as he speaks she forgets everything— the fire, fear of death, hope of safety. She sees only Cyril Dare, and the whole great force of his great love bursts upon her soul, tearing aside the selfish barrier of her own nature, rending the ties of her wedded life, and leaving him victor in the fight which has been fought between them. She would tell him all this, but she is speechless, and it is too late now. Her name is called, but she does not move.

Cyril says, "Go, my darling."

The spell is broken, and tears fall fast as she kneels before him.

"Forgive me!" she cries; "forgive me! I love you!"

They call her name again.

Cyril grasps her in his arms and carries her to the gangway.

"Good-bye," he whispers; "good-bye for ever, my own darling."

She cannot answer: she is past that.

Then they lower her into the boat beside her husband and children. And he, standing on the deck of the sinking ship, does not regret his sacrifice.

* * *

Pieces of charred wreck are being washed on to the beach of a Cornish fishing village. They are all that remains of the good ship "Empress of the East." And among the bodies cast upon the strand is one identified as that of Major Cyril Dare. Round his neck is found a chain suspending a large gold locket containing neither ringlet nor portrait, only the dry fragments of what was once a bunch of violets. Each year, on the anniversary of the shipwreck, a lady, prematurely grey, comes to lay a wreath of "her own flowers" on his grave overlooking the restless wave. By the villagers she is taken for a sister or a cousin, but her secret no one knows.

This is her punishment.

Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 18 November 1880, supplement page 2