The Autobiography of a Slander

Published：2026-07-29 18:09:03 Source: crib toys for 12 months under 100 dollars Author: Montessori Materials

Transcribed from the 1890 Longmans,best weighted stuffed animals for 2 year olds Green, and Co. edition byDavid Price, email [email protected]

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER

by
EDNA LYALL

authorof ‘donovan’‘we two’ ‘in the golden days’
‘knight errant’ etc.

Trust not to eachaccusing tongue,
   As most week persons do;
But still believe that story false
  Which ought not to be true

Sheridan

NEW EDITION
(thirty-ninth to forty-firstthousand)

london
longmans, green, and co.
and new york: 15 east 16^thstreet
1890

All rights reserved

DEDICATED
TO ALL
WHO IT MAY CONCERN

MY FIRST STAGE

At last the tea came up, and so
With that our tongues began to go.
Now in that house you’re sure of knowing
The smallest scrap of news that’s going.
We find it there the wisest way
To take some care of what we say.

Recreation.  Jane Taylor.

I was born on the 2nd September, 1886, in a small, dull,country town.  When I say the town was dull, I mean, ofcourse, that the inhabitants were unenterprising, for in itselfMuddleton was a picturesque place, and though it laboured underthe usual disadvantage of a dearth of bachelors and a superfluityof spinsters, it might have been pleasant enough had it not beena favourite resort for my kith and kin.

My father has long enjoyed a world-wide notoriety; he is not,however, as a rule named in good society, though he habituallyfrequents it; and as I am led to believe that my autobiographywill possibly be circulated by Mr. Mudie, and will lie about ondrawing-room tables, I will merely mention that a mostrepresentation of my progenitor, under his nom dethéatre, Mephistopheles, may be seen now in London,and I should recommend all who wish to understand his characterto go to the Lyceum, though, between ourselves, he stronglydisapproves of the whole performance.

I was introduced into the world by an old lady named Mrs.O’Reilly.  She was a very pleasant old lady, the wifeof a General, and one of those sociable, friendly, talkativepeople who do much to cheer their neighbours, particularly in adeadly-lively provincial place like Muddleton, where the standardof social intercourse is not very high.  Mrs. O’Reillyhad been in her day a celebrated beauty; she was now grey-hairedand stout, but still there was something impressive about her,and few could resist the charm of her manner and the pleasanteasy flow of her small talk.  Her love of gossip amountedalmost to a passion, and nothing came amiss to her; she liked toknow everything about everybody, and in the main I think herinterest was a kindly one, though she found that a little bit ofscandal, every now and then, added a piquant flavour to thehomely fare provided by the commonplace life of theMuddletonians.

I will now, without further preamble, begin the history of mylife.

* * * *

“I assure you, my dear Lena, Mr. Zaluski is nothing lessthan a Nihilist!”

The sound waves set in motion by Mrs. O’Reilly’swords were tumultuously heaving in the atmosphere when I spranginto being, a young but perfectly formed and most promisingslander.  A delicious odour of tea pervaded thedrawing-room, it was orange-flower pekoe, and Mrs. O’Reillywas just handing one of the delicate Crown Derby cups to hervisitor, Miss Lena Houghton.

“What a shocking thing!  Do you really meanit?” exclaimed Miss Houghton.  “Thank you, creambut no sugar; don’t you know, Mrs. O’Reilly, that itis only Low-Church people who take sugar nowadays?  But,really, now, about Mr. Zaluski?  How did you find itout?”

“My dear, I am an old woman, and I have learnt in thecourse of a wandering life to put two and two together,”said Mrs. O’Reilly.  She had somehow managed to ignoremiddle age, and had passed from her position of renowned beautyto the position which she now firmly and constantly claimed ofmany years and much experience.  “Of course,”she continued, “like every one else, I was glad enough tobe friendly and pleasant to Sigismund Zaluski, and as to hisbeing a Pole, why, I think it rather pleased me thanotherwise.  You see, my dear, I have knocked about the worldand mixed with all kinds of people.  Still, one must drawthe line somewhere, and I confess it gave me a very painful shockto find that he had such violent antipathies to law andorder.  When he took Ivy Cottage for the summer I made theGeneral call at once, and before long we had become very intimatewith him; but, my dear, he’s not what I thoughthim—not at all!”

“Well now, I am delighted to hear you say that,”said Lena Houghton, with some excitement in her manner,“for it exactly fits in with what I always felt abouthim.  From the first I disliked that man, and the way hegoes on with Gertrude Morley is simply dreadful.  If theyare not engaged they ought to be—that’s all I cansay.”

“Engaged, my dear!  I trust not,” said Mrs.O’Reilly.  “I had always hoped for somethingvery different for dear Gertrude.  Quite between ourselves,you know, my nephew John Carew is over head and ears in love withher, and they would make a very good pair; don’t you thinkso?”

“Well, you see, I like Gertrude to a certainextent,” replied Lena Houghton.  “But I neverraved about her as so many people do.  Still, I hope shewill not be entrapped into marrying Mr. Zaluski; she deserves abetter fate than that.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs.O’Reilly, with a troubled look.  “And the worstof it is, poor Gertrude is a girl who might very likely take upfoolish revolutionary notions; she needs a strong wise husband tokeep her in order and form her opinions.  But is it reallytrue that he flirts with her?  This is the first I haveheard of it.  I can’t think how it has escaped mynotice.”

“Nor I, for indeed he is up at the Morleys’ prettynearly every day.  What with tennis, and music, and riding,there is always some excuse for it.  I can’t thinkwhat Gertrude sees in him, he is not evengood-looking.”

“There is a certain surface good-nature abouthim,” said Mrs. O’Reilly.  “It deceivedeven me at first.  But, my dear Lena, mark my words: thatman has a fearful temper; and I pray Heaven that poor Gertrudemay have her eyes opened in time.  Besides, to think of thatlittle gentle, delicate thing marrying a Nihilist!  It istoo dreadful; really, quite too dreadful!  John would neverget over it!”

“The thing I can’t understand is why all the worldhas taken him up so,” said Lena Houghton.  “Onemeets him everywhere, yet nobody seems to know anything abouthim.  Just because he has taken Ivy Cottage for four months,and because he seems to be rich and good-natured, every one isready to run after him.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. O’Reilly, “weall like to be neighbourly, my dear, and a week ago I should havebeen ready to say nothing but good of him.  But now my eyeshave been opened.  I’ll tell you just how itwas.  We were sitting here, just as you and I are now, atafternoon tea; the talk had flagged a little, and for the sake ofsomething to say I made some remark about Bulgaria—not thatI really knew anything about it, you know, for I’m nopolitician; still, I knew it was a subject that would make talkjust now.  My dear, I assure you I was positivelyfrightened.  All in a minute his face changed, his eyesflashed, he broke into such a torrent of abuse as I never heardin my life before.”

“Do you mean that he abused you?”

“Dear me, no! but Russia and the Czar, and tyranny anddespotism, and many other things I had never heard of.  Itried to calm him down and reason with him, but I might as wellhave reasoned with the cockatoo in the window.  At last hecaught himself up quickly in the middle of a sentence, strodeover to the piano, and began to play as he generally does, youknow, when he comes here.  Well, would you believe it, mydear! instead of improvising or playing operatic airs as usual,he began to play a stupid little tune which every child wastaught years ago, of course with variations of his own. Then he turned round on the music-stool with the oddest smile Iever saw, and said, “Do you know that air, Mrs.O’Reilly?”

“Yes,” I said; “but I forget now what itis.’”

“It was composed by Pestal, one of the victims ofRussian tyranny,” said he.  “The executioner didhis work badly, and Pestal had to be strung up twice.  Inthe interval he was heard to mutter, ‘Stupid country, wherethey don’t even know how to hang!’”

“Then he gave a little forced laugh, got up quickly,wished me good-bye, and was gone before I could put in aword.”

“What a horrible story to tell in a drawing-room!”said Lena Houghton.  “I envy Gertrude less thanever.”

“Poor girl!  What a sad prospect it is forher!” said Mrs. O’Reilly with a sigh.  “Ofcourse, my dear, you’ll not repeat what I have just toldyou.”

“Not for the world!” said Lena Houghtonemphatically.  “It is perfectly safe withme.”

The conversation was here abruptly ended, for the page threwopen the drawing-room door and announced ‘Mr.Zaluski.’

“Talk of the angel,” murmured Mrs. O’Reillywith a significant smile at her companion.  Then skilfullyaltering the expression of her face, she beamed graciously on theguest who was ushered into the room, and Lena Houghton alsoprepared to greet him most pleasantly.

I looked with much interest at Sigismund Zaluski, and as Ilooked I partly understood why Miss Houghton had been prejudicedagainst him at first sight.  He had lived five years inEngland, and nothing pleased him more than to be taken for anEnglishman.  He had had his silky black hair closely croppedin the very hideous fashion of the present day; he wore theostentatiously high collar now in vogue; and he tried to besedulously English in every respect.  But in spite of hiswonderfully fluent speech and almost perfect accent, therelingered about him something which would not harmonise with thatideal of an English gentleman which is latent in mostminds.  Something he lacked, something he possessed, whichinterfered with the part he desired to play.  The somethinglacking showed itself in his ineradicable love of jewellery andin a transparent habit of fibbing; the something possessed showeditself in his easy grace of movement, his delightful readiness toamuse and to be amused, and in a certain cleverness and rapidityof idea rarely, if ever, found in an Englishman.

He was a little above the average height and very finelybuilt; but there was nothing striking in his aquiline featuresand dark grey eyes, and I think Miss Houghton spoke truly whenshe said that he was ‘Not even good-looking.’ Still, in spite of this, it was a face which grew upon mostpeople, and I felt the least little bit of regret as I looked athim, because I knew that I should persistently haunt and harasshim, and should do all that could be done to spoil his life.

Apparently he had forgotten all about Russia and Bulgaria, forhe looked radiantly happy.  Clearly his thoughts wereengrossed with his own affairs, which, in other words, meant withGertrude Morley; and though, as I have since observed, there aretimes when a man in love is an altogether intolerable sort ofbeing, there are other times when he is very much improved by thepassion, and regards the whole world with a genial kindlinesswhich contrasts strangely with his previous cool cynicism.

“How delightful and home-like your room alwayslooks!” he exclaimed, taking the cup of tea which Mrs.O’Reilly handed to him.  “I am horribly lonelyat Ivy Cottage.  This house is a sort of oasis in thedesert.”

“Why, you are hardly ever at home, I thought,”said Mrs. O’Reilly, smiling.  “You are the lionof the neighbourhood just now; and I’m sure it is very goodof you to come in and cheer a lonely old woman.  Are yougoing to play me something rather more lively to-day?”

He laughed.

“Ah!  Poor Pestal!  I had forgotten all aboutour last meeting.”

“You were very much excited that day,” said Mrs.O’Reilly.  “I had no idea that your politicalnotions—”

He interrupted her

“Ah! no politics to-day, dear Mrs. O’Reilly. Let us have nothing but enjoyment and harmony.  See, now, Iwill play you something very much more cheerful.”

And sitting down to the piano, he played the bridal march from‘Lohengrin,’ then wandered off into an improvisedair, and finally treated them to some recollections of the‘Mikado.’

Lena-Houghton watched him thoughtfully as she put on hergloves; he was playing with great spirit, and the words of theopera rang in her ears:—

For he’s going to marry Yum-yum, Yum-yum,
And so you had better be dumb, dumb, dumb!

I knew well enough that she would not follow this moraladvice, and I laughed to myself because the whole scene was sucha hollow mockery.  The placid benevolent-looking old ladyleaning back in her arm-chair; the girl in her blue gingham andstraw hat preparing to go to the afternoon service; the happylover entering heart and soul into Sullivan’s charmingmusic; the pretty room with its Chippendale furniture, itsæsthetic hangings, its bowls of roses; and the sound ofchurch bells wafted through the open window on the soft summerbreeze.

Yet all the time I lingered there unseen, carrying with me allsorts of dread possibilities.  I had been introduced intothe world, and even if Mrs. O’Reilly had been willing toadmit to herself that she had broken the ninth commandment, andhad earnestly desired to recall me, all her sighs and tears andregrets would have availed nothing; so true is the saying,“Of thy word unspoken thou art master; thy spoken word ismaster of thee.”

“Thank you.”  “Thank you.” “How I envy your power of playing!”

The two ladies seemed to vie with each other in making prettyspeeches, and Zaluski, who loved music and loved giving pleasure,looked really pleased.  I am sure it did not enter his headthat his two companions were not sincere, or that they did notwish him well.  He was thinking to himself how simple andkindly the Muddleton people were, and how great a contrast thislife was to his life in London; and he was saying to himself thathe had been a fool to live a lonely bachelor life till he wasnearly thirty, and yet congratulating himself that he had done sosince Gertrude was but nineteen.  Undoubtedly, he was seeingblissful visions of the future all the time that he replied tothe pretty speeches, and shook hands with Lena Houghton, andopened the drawing-room door for her, and took out his watch toassure her that she had plenty of time and need not hurry tochurch.

Poor Zaluski!  He looked so kindly and pleasant. Though I was only a slander, and might have been supposed to haveno heart at all, I did feel sorry for him when I thought of thefuture and of the grief and pain which would persistently dog hissteps.

MY SECOND STAGE

Bear not false witness, slander not, nor lie;
Truth is the speech of inward purity.

The Light of Asia.

In my first stage the reader will perceive that I was acomparatively weak and harmless little slander, with merely thattaint of original sin which was to be expected in one of suchparentage.  But I developed with great rapidity; and Ibelieve men of science will tell you that this is always the casewith low organisms.  That, for instance, while it takesyears to develop the man from the baby, and months to develop thedog from the puppy, the baby monad will grow to maturity in anhour.

Personally I should have preferred to linger in Mrs.O’Reilly’s pleasant drawing-room, for, as I saidbefore, my victim interested me, and I wanted to observe him moreclosely and hear what he talked about.  But I receivedorders to attend evensong at the parish church, and to haunt themind of Lena Houghton.

As we passed down the High Street the bells rang out loud andclear, and they made me feel the same slight sense of discomfortthat I had felt when I looked at Zaluski; however, I went on, andsoon entered the church.  It was a fine old Gothic building,and the afternoon sunshine seemed to flood the whole place; eventhe white stones in the aisle were glorified here and there withgorgeous patches of colour from the stained glass windows. But the strange stillness and quiet oppressed me, I did not feelnearly so much at home as in Mrs. O’Reilly’sdrawing-room—to use a terrestrial simile, I felt like afish out of water.

For some time, too, I could find no entrance at all into themind of Lena Houghton.  Try as I would, I could not distracther attention or gain the slightest hold upon her, and I reallybelieve I should have been altogether baffled, had not the rectorunconsciously come to my aid.

All through the prayers and psalms I had fought a desperatefight without gaining a single inch.  Then the rector walkedover to the lectern, and the moment he opened his mouth I knewthat my time had come, and that there was a very fair chance ofvictory before me.  Whether this clergyman had a toothache,or a headache, or a heavy load on his mind, I cannot say, but hisreading was more lugubrious than the wind in an equinoctialgale.  I have since observed that he was only a degree worsethan many other clerical readers, and that a strange anddelightfully mistaken notion seems prevalent that the Bible mustbe read in a dreary and unnatural tone of voice, or with a sortof mournful monotony; it is intended as a sort of reverence, butI suspect that it often plays into the hands of my progenitor, asit most assuredly did in the present instance.

Hardly had the rector announced, “Here beginneth theforty-fourth verse of the sixteenth chapter of the book of theprophet Ezekiel,” than a sort of relaxation took place inthe mind I was attacking.  Lena Houghton’s attentioncould only have been given to the drearily read lesson by a verygreat effort; she was a little lazy and did not make the effort,she thought how nice it was to sit down again, and then themelancholy voice lulled her into a vague interval of thoughtlessinactivity.  I promptly seized my opportunity, and in amoment her whole mind was full of me.  She was an excitable,impressionable sort of girl, and when once I had obtained anentrance into her mind I found it the easiest thing in the worldto dominate her thoughts.  Though she stood, and sat, andknelt, and curtseyed, and articulated words, her thoughts wereentirely absorbed in me.  I crowded out the Magnificat witha picture of Zaluski and Gertrude Morley.  I led her throughmore terrible future possibilities in the second lesson thanwould be required for a three-volume novel.  I entirelyeclipsed the collects with reflections on unhappy marriages; tookher off viâRussia and Nihilism in the Stateprayers, and by the time we arrived at St. Chrysostom had becomeso powerful that I had worked her mind into exactly the conditionI desired.

The congregation rose.  Lena Houghton, still dominated byme, knelt longer than the rest, but at last she got up and walkeddown the aisle, and I felt a great sense of relief andsatisfaction.  We were out in the open air once more, and Ihad triumphed; I was quite sure that she would tell the firstperson she met, for, as I have said before, she was entirelytaken up with me, and to have kept me to herself would haverequired far more strength and unselfishness than she at thatmoment possessed.  She walked slowly through the churchyard,feeling much pleased to see that the curate had just left thevestry door, and that in a few moments their paths mustconverge.

Mr. Blackthorne had only been ordained three or four years,and was a little younger, and much less experienced in the waysof the world, than Sigismund Zaluski.  He was a goodwell-meaning fellow, a little narrow, a little prejudiced, alittle spoiled by the devotion of the district visitors andSunday School teachers; but he was honest and energetic, and as aworker among the poor few could have equalled him.  Heseemed to fancy, however, that with the poor his work ended, andhe was not always so wise as he might have been in Muddletonsociety.

“Good afternoon, Miss Houghton,” heexclaimed.  “Do you happen to know if your brother isat home?  I want just to speak to him about the choirtreat.”

“Oh, he is sure to be in by this time,” saidLena.

And they walked home together.

“I am so glad to have this chance of speaking toyou,” she began rather nervously.  “I wantedparticularly to ask your advice.”

Mr. Blackthorne, being human and young, was not unnaturallyflattered by this remark.  True, he was becoming wellaccustomed to this sort of thing, since the ladies of Muddletonwere far more fond of seeking advice from the young andgood-looking curate than from the elderly and experiencedrector.  They said it was because Mr. Blackthorne was somuch more sympathetic, and understood the difficulties of the dayso much better; but I think they unconsciously deceivedthemselves, for the rector was one of a thousand, and the curate,though he had in him the makings of a fine man, was as yetaltogether crude and young.

“Was it about anything in your district?” heasked, devoutly hoping that she was not going to propound somedifficult question about the origin of evil, or any other obscuresubject.  For though he liked the honour of being consulted,he did not always like the trouble it involved, and he rememberedwith a shudder that Miss Houghton had once asked him his opinionabout the ‘Ethical Concept of the Good.’

“It was only that I was so troubled about something Mrs.O’Reilly has just told me,” said Lena Houghton. “You won’t tell any one that I told you?”

“On no account,” said the curate, warmly.

“Well, you know Mr. Zaluski, and how the Morleys havetaken him up?”

“Every one has taken him up,” said the curate,with the least little touch of resentment in his tone. “I knew that the Morleys were his special friends; Iimagine that he admires Miss Morley.”

“Yes, every one thinks they are either engaged or on thebrink of it.  And oh, Mr. Blackthorne, can’t you orsomebody put a stop to it, for it seems such a dreadful fate forpoor Gertrude?”

The curate looked startled.

“Why, I don’t profess to like Mr. Zaluski,”he said.  “But I don’t know anything exactlyagainst him.”

“But I do.  Mrs. O’Reilly has just beentelling me.”

“What did she tell you?” he asked with somecuriosity.

“Why, she has found out that he is really aNihilist—just think of a Nihilist going about loose likethis, and playing tennis at the rectory and all the goodhouses!  And not only that, but she says he is altogether adangerous, unprincipled man with a dreadful temper.  Youcan’t think how unhappy she is about poor Gertrude, and soam I, for we were at school together and have always beenfriends.”

“I am very sorry to hear about it,” said Mr.Blackthorne, “but I don’t see that anything can bedone.  You see, one does not like to interfere in these sortof things.  It seems officious rather, andmeddlesome.”

“Yes, that is the worst of it,” she replied, witha sigh.  “I suppose we can do nothing.  Still, ithas been a great relief just to tell you about it and get it offmy mind.  I suppose we can only hope that something may puta stop to it all—we must just leave it tochance.”

This sentiment amused me not a little.  Leave it tochance indeed!  Had she not caused me to grow stronger andlarger by every word she uttered?  And had not theconversation revealed to me Mr. Blackthorn’s one vulnerablepart?  I knew well enough that I should be able to dominatehis thoughts as I had done hers.  Finding me burdensome, shehad passed me on to somebody else with additions that vastlyincreased my working powers, and then she talked of leaving it tochance!  The way in which mortals practise pious frauds onthemselves is really delightful!  And yet Lena Houghton wasa good sort of girl, and had from her childhood repeated thecatechism words which proclaim that, “My duty to myneighbour is to love him as myself . . . To keep my tongue fromevil-speaking, lying, and slandering.”  What is more,she took great pains to teach these words to a big class ofSunday School children, and went, rain or shine, to spend twohours each Sunday in a stuffy school-room for that purpose. It was strange that she should be so ready to believe evil of herneighbour, and so eager to spread the story.  But myprogenitor is clever, and doubtless knows very well, whom toselect as his tools.

By this time they had reached a comfortable-looking, red-brickhouse with white stone facings, and in the discussion of thearrangements for the choir treat I was entirely forgotten.

MY THIRD STAGE

Alas! such is our weakness, that we often morereadily believe and speak of another that which is evil than thatwhich is good.  But perfect men do not easily give credit toevery report; because they know man’s weakness, which isvery prone to evil, and very subject to fail in words.

Thomas ÀKempis.

All through that evening, and through the first part of thesucceeding day, I was crowded out of the curate’s mind by ahost of thoughts with which I had nothing in common; and though Ihovered about him as he taught in the school, and visited severalsick people, and argued with an habitual drunkard, and worked athis Sunday sermon, a Power, which I felt but did not understand,baffled all my attempts to gain an entrance and attract hisnotice.  I made a desperate attack on him after lunch as hesat smoking and enjoying a well-earned rest, but it was of noavail.  I followed him to a large garden-party later on, butto my great annoyance he went about talking to every one in thepleasantest way imaginable, though I perceived that he waslonging to play tennis instead.

At length, however, my opportunity came.  Mr. Blackthornewas talking to the lady of the house, Mrs. Courtenay, when shesuddenly exclaimed:—

“Ah, here is Mr. Zaluski just arriving.  I began tobe afraid that he had forgotten the day, and he is always such anacquisition.  How do you do, Mr. Zaluski?” she said,greeting my victim warmly as he stepped on to the terrace. “So glad you were able to come.  You know Mr.Blackthorne, I think.”

Zaluski greeted the curate pleasantly, and his dark eyeslighted up with a gleam of amusement.

“Oh, we are great friends,” he saidlaughingly.  “Only, you know, I sometimes shock him alittle—just a very little.”

“That is very unkind of you, I am sure,” said Mrs.Courtenay, smiling.

“No, not at all,” said Zaluski, with the audacityof a privileged being.  “It is just my littleamusement, very harmless, very—what you callinnocent.  Mr. Blackthorne cannot make up his mind aboutme.  One day I appear to him to be Catholic, the nextComtist, the next Orthodox Greek, the next a convert to theAnglican communion.  I am a mystery, you see!  Andmysteries are as indispensable in life as in aromance.”

He laughed.  Mrs. Courtenay laughed too, and a littlefriendly banter was carried on between them, while the curatestood by feeling rather out of it.

I drew nearer to him, perceiving that my prospects bid fair toimprove.  For very few people can feel out of it withoutdrifting into a self-regarding mood, and then they are theeasiest prey imaginable.  Undoubtedly a man like Zaluski,with his easy nonchalance, his knowledge of the world, hisgenuine good-nature, and the background of sterling qualitieswhich came upon you as a surprise because he loved to makehimself seem a mere idler, was apt to eclipse an ordinary mortallike James Blackthorne.  The curate perceived this and didnot like to be eclipsed—as a matter of fact, nobodydoes.  It seemed to him a little unfair that he, who hadhitherto been made much of, should be called to play secondfiddle to this rich Polish fellow who had never done anything forMuddleton or the neighbourhood.  And then, too, SigismundZaluski had a way of poking fun at him which he resented, andwould not take in good part.

Something of this began to stir in his mind; and he cordiallyhated the Pole when Jim Courtenay, who arranged the tennis, cameup and asked him to play in the next set, passing the curate byaltogether.

Then I found no difficulty at all in taking possession of him;indeed he was delighted to have me brought back to his memory, hepositively gloated over me, and I grew apace.

Zaluski, in the seventh heaven of happiness, was playing withGertrude Morley, and his play was so good and so graceful thatevery one was watching it with pleasure.  His partner, too,played well; she was a pretty, fair-haired girl, with soft greyeyes like the eyes of a dove; she wore a white tennis dress and awhite sailor hat, and at her throat she had fastened a cluster ofthose beautiful orange-coloured roses known by the prosaic nameof ‘William Allan Richardson.’

If Mr. Blackthorne grew angry as he watched Sigismund Zaluski,he grew doubly angry as he watched Gertrude Morley.  He saidto himself that it was intolerable that such a girl should fall aprey to a vain, shallow, unprincipled foreigner, and in a fewminutes he had painted such a dark picture of poor Sigismund thatmy strength increased tenfold.

“Mr. Blackthorne,” said Mrs. Courtenay,“would you take Mrs. Milton-Cleave to have anice?”

Now Mrs. Milton-Cleave had always been one of thecurate’s great friends.  She was a very pleasant,talkative woman of six-and-thirty, and a general favourite. Her popularity was well deserved, for she was always ready to doa kind action, and often went out of her way to help people whohad not the slightest claim upon her.  There was, however,no repose about Mrs. Milton-Cleave, and an acute observer wouldhave discovered that her universal readiness to help was causedto some extent by her good heart, but in a very large degree byher restless and over-active brain.  Her sphere was scarcelylarge enough for her, she would have made an excellent head of anorphan asylum or manager of some large institution, but her quietcountry life offered far too narrow a field for her energy.

“It is really quite a treat to watch Mr. Zaluski’splay,” she remarked as they walked to the refreshment tentat the other end of the lawn.  “Certainly foreignersknow how to move much better than we do: our best players lookawkward beside them.”

“Do you think so?” said Mr. Blackthorne. “I am afraid I am full of prejudice, and consider that noone can equal a true-born Briton.”

“And I quite agree with you in the main,” saidMrs. Milton-Cleave.  “Though I confess that it israther refreshing to have a little variety.”

The curate was silent, but his silence merely covered hisabsorption in me, and I began to exercise a faint influencethrough his mind on the mind of his companion.  This causedher at length to say:

“I don’t think you quite like Mr. Zaluski. Do you know much about him?”

“I have met him several times this summer,” saidthe curate, in the tone of one who could have said much more ifhe would.

The less satisfying his replies, the more Mrs.Milton-Cleave’s curiosity grew.

“Now, tell me candidly,” she said at length. “Is there not some mystery about our new neighbour? Is he quite what he seems to be?”

“I fear he is not,” said Mr. Blackthorne, makingthe admission in a tone of reluctance, though, to tell the truth,he had been longing to pass me on for the last five minutes.

“You mean that he is fast?”

“Worse than that,” said James Blackthorne,lowering his voice as they walked down one of the shady gardenpaths.  “He is a dangerous, unprincipled fellow, andinto the bargain an avowed Nihilist.  All that is involvedin that word you perhaps scarcely realise.”

“Indeed I do,” she exclaimed with a shockedexpression.  “I have just been reading a review ofthat book by Stepniak.  Their social and religious views areterrible; free-love, atheism, everything that could bring ruin onthe human race.  Is he indeed a Nihilist?”

Mr. Blackthorne’s conscience gave him a sharp prick, forhe knew that he ought not to have passed me on.  He tried topacify it with the excuse that he had only promised not to tellthat Miss Houghton had been his informant.

“I assure you,” he said impressively, “it isonly too true.  I know it on the best authority.”

And here I cannot help remarking that it has always seemed tome strange that even experienced women of the world, like Mrs.Milton-Cleave, can be so easily hoodwinked by that vaguenonentity, ‘The Best Authority.’  I am inclinedto think that were I a human being I should retort with anexpressive motion of the finger and thumb, “Oh, you know iton the best authority, do you?  Then thatfor yourstory!”

However, I thrived wonderfully on the best authority, and itwould be ungrateful of me to speak evil of that powerful thoughimaginary being.

At right angles with the garden walk down which the two werepacing there was another wide pathway, bordered by high closelyclipped shrubs.  Down this paced a very differentcouple.  Mrs. Milton-Cleave caught sight of them, and so didcurate.  Mrs. Milton-Cleave sighed.

“I am afraid he is running after Gertrude Morley! Poor girl!  I hope she will not be deluded into encouraginghim.”

And then they made just the same little set remarks about thedesirability of stopping so dangerous an acquaintance, and theimpossibility of interfering with other people’s affairs,and the sad necessity of standing by with folded hands.  Ilaughed so much over their hollow little phrases that at last Iwas fain to beat a retreat, and, prompted by curiosity to know alittle of the truth, I followed Sigismund and Gertrude down thebroad grassy pathway.

I knew of course a good deal of Zaluski’s character,because my own existence and growth pointed out what he wasnot.  Still, to study a man by a process of negation istedious, and though I knew that he was not a Nihilist, or afree-lover, or an atheist, or an unprincipled fellow with adangerous temper, yet I was curious to see him as he reallywas.

“If you only knew how happy you had made me!” hewas saying.  And indeed, as far as happiness went, there wasnot much to choose between them, I fancy; for Gertrude Morleylooked radiant, and in her clove-like eyes there was thereflection of the love which flashed in his.

“You must talk to my mother about it,” she saidafter a minute’s silence.  “You see, I am stillunder age, and she and Uncle Henry my guardian must consentbefore we are actually betrothed.”

“I will see them at once,” said Zaluski,eagerly.

“You could see my mother,” she replied. “But Uncle Henry is still in Sweden and will not be in townfor another week.”

“Must we really wait so long!” sighed Sigismundimpatiently.

She laughed at him gently.

“A whole week!  But then we are sure of eachother.  I do not think we ought to grumble.”

“But perhaps they may think that a merchant is nofitting match for you,” he suggested.  “I amnothing but a plain merchant, and my I people have been in thesame business for four generations.  As far as wealth goes Imight perhaps satisfy your people, but for the rest I am but aprosaic fellow, with neither noble blood, nor the brain of agenius, nor anything out of the common.”

“It will be enough for my mother that we love eachother,” she said shyly.

“And your uncle?”

“It will be enough for him that you are upright andhonourable—enough that you are yourself,Sigismund.”

They were sitting now in a little sheltered recess clipped outof the yew-trees.  When that softly spoken“Sigismund” fell from her lips, Zaluski caught her inhis arms and kissed her again and again.

“I have led such a lonely life,” he said after afew minutes, during which their talk had baffled mycomprehension.  “All my people died while I was stilla boy.”

“Then who brought you up?” she inquired.

“An uncle of mine, the head of our firm in St.Petersburg.  He was very good to me, but he had children ofhis own, and of course I could not be to him as one ofthem.  I have had many friends and much kindness shown tome, but love!—none till to-day.”

And then again they fell into the talk which I could notfathom.  And so I left them in their brief happiness, for mytime of idleness was over, and I was ordered to attend Mrs.Milton-Cleave without a moment’s delay.

MY FOURTH STAGE

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!

R.Browing.

Mrs. Milton-Cleave had one weakness—she was possessed byan inordinate desire for influence.  This made her alwayseagerly anxious to be interesting both in her conversation and inher letters, and to this end she exerted herself with unwearyingactivity.  She liked influencing Mr. Blackthorne, and sparedno pains on him that afternoon; and indeed the curate was a gooddeal flattered by her friendship, and considered her one of themost clever and charming women he had ever met.

Sigismund and Gertrude returned to the ordinary world just asMrs. Milton-Cleave was saying good-bye to the hostess.  Sheglanced at them searchingly.

“Good-bye, Gertrude,” she said a littlecoldly.  “Did you win at tennis?”

“Indeed we did,” said Gertrude, smiling. “We came off with flying colours.  It was a loveset.”

The girl was looking more beautiful than ever, and there was atell-tale colour in her cheeks and an unusual light in her softgrey eyes.  As for Zaluski, he was so evidently in love, andhad the audacity to look so supremely happy, that Mrs.Milton-Cleave was more than ever impressed with the gravity ofthe situation.  The curate handed her into her victoria, andshe drove home through the sheltered lanes musing sadly over thestory she had heard, and wondering what Gertrude’s futurewould be.  When she reached home, however, the affair wasdriven from her thoughts by her children, of whom she wasdevotedly fond.  They came running to meet her, friskinglike so many kittens round her as she went upstairs to her room,and begging to stay with her while she dressed for dinner. During dinner she was engrossed with her husband; but afterwards,when she was alone in the drawing-room, I found my opportunityfor working on her restless mind.

“Dear me,” she exclaimed, throwing aside thenewspaper she had just taken up, “I ought to write to Mrs.Selldon at Dulminster about that G.F.S. girl!”

As a matter of fact she ought not to have written then, theletter might well have waited till the morning, and she wasover-tired and needed rest.  But I was glad to see her takeup her pen, for I knew I should come in most conveniently to fillup the second side of the sheet.

Before long Jane Stiggins, the member who had migrated fromMuddleton to Dulminster, had been duly reported, wound up, andmade over to the Archdeacon’s wife.  Then the tiredhand paused.  What more could she say to her friend?

“We are leading our usual quiet life here,” shewrote, “with the ordinary round of tennis parties andpicnics to enliven us.  The children have all beenwonderfully well, and I think you will see a great improvement inyour god-daughter when you next come to stay withus”—“Oh dear!” sighed Mrs. Milton-Cleave,“how dull and stupid I am to-night!  I can’tthink of a single thing to say.”  Then at length Iflashed into her mind, and with a sigh of relief and a littlerising flush of excitement she went on much more rapidly.

“It is such a comfort to be quite at rest about them,and to see them all looking so well.  But I suppose one cannever be without some cause of worry, and just now I am veryunhappy about that nice girl Gertrude Morley whom you admired somuch when you were last here.  The whole neighbourhood hasbeen dominated this year by a young Polish merchant namedSigismund Zaluski, who is very clever and musical and knows wellhow to win popularity.  He has taken Ivy Cottage for fourmouths, and is, I fear, doing great mischief.  The Morleysare his special friends, and I greatly fear he is making love toGertrude.  Now I know privately, on the very best authority,that although he has so completely deceived every one and hasmanaged so cleverly to pose as a respectable man, that Mr.Zaluski is really a Nihilist, a free-lover, an atheist, andaltogether a most unprincipled man.  He is very clever, andspeaks English most fluently, indeed he has lived in London sincethe spring of 1881—he told me so himself.  I cannothelp fancying that he must have been concerned in theassassination of the late Czar, which you will remember tookplace in that year early in March.  It is terrible to thinkof the poor Morleys entering blindfold on such an undesirableconnection; but, at the same time, I really do not feel that Ican say anything about it.  Excuse this hurried note, dearCharlotte, and with love to yourself and kindest remembrances tothe Archdeacon,

“Believe me, very affectionately yours,

“GeorginaMilton-Cleave.

“P.S.  It may perhaps be as well not to mentionthis affair about Gertrude Morley and Mr. Zaluski.  They arenot yet engaged, as far as I know, and I sincerely trust it mayprove to be a mere flirtation.”

* * * *

I had now grown to such enormous dimensions that any one whohad known me in my infancy would scarcely have recognised me,while naturally the more I grew the more powerful I became, andthe more capable both of impressing the minds which received meand of injuring Zaluski.  Poor Zaluski, who was sofoolishly, thoughtlessly happy!  He little dreamed of thefate that awaited him!  His whole world was bright and fullof promise; each hour of love seemed to improve him, to deepenhis whole character, to tone down his rather flippant manner, toawaken for him new and hitherto unthought-of realities.

But while he basked in his new happiness I travelled in myclose stuffy envelope to Dulminster, and after having been tossedin and out of bags, shuffled, stamped, thumped, tied up, andgenerally shaken about, I arrived one morning at DulminsterArchdeaconry, and was laid on the breakfast table among otherappetising things to greet Mrs. Selldon when she camedownstairs.

MY FIFTH STAGE

Also it is wise not to believe everything youhear, not immediately to carry to the ears of others what youhave either heard or believed.

Thomas ÀKempis.

Though I was read in silence at the breakfast table and notpassed on to the Archdeacon, I lay dormant in Mrs.Selldon’s mind all day, and came to her aid that night whenshe was at her wits’ end for something to talk about.

Mrs. Selldon, though a most worthy and estimable person, wasof a phlegmatic temperament; her sympathies were not easilyaroused, her mind was lazy and torpid, in conversation she wasunutterably dull.  There were times when she was painfullyconscious of this, and would have given much for the ceaselessflow of words which fell from the lips of her friend Mrs.Milton-Cleave.  And that evening after my arrival chanced tobe one of these occasions, for there was a dinner-party at theArchdeaconry, given in honour of a well-known author who wasspending a few days in the neighbourhood.

“I wish you could have Mr. Shrewsbury at your end of thetable, Thomas,” Mrs. Selldon had remarked to her husbandwith a sigh, as she was arranging the guests on paper thatafternoon.

“Oh, he must certainly take you in, my dear,” saidthe Archdeacon.  “And he seems a very clever,well-read man, I am sure you will find him easy to talkto.”

Poor Mrs. Selldon thought that she would rather have had someone who was neither clever nor well-read.  But there was nohelp for her, and, whether she would or not, she had to go in todinner with the literary lion.

Mr. Mark Shrewsbury was a novelist of great ability. Some twenty years before, he had been called to the bar, and,conscious of real talent, had been greatly embittered by theimpossibility of getting on in his profession.  At length,in disgust, he gave up all hopes of success and devoted himselfinstead to literature.  In this field he won the recognitionfor which he craved; his books were read everywhere, his namebecame famous, his income steadily increased, and he had thepleasant consciousness that he had found his vocation. Still, in spite of his success, he could not forget the bitteryears of failure and disappointment which had gone before, andthough his novels were full of genius they were pervaded by anundertone of sarcasm, so that people after reading them were moreready than before to take cynical views of life.

He was one of those men whose quiet impassive faces revealscarcely anything of their character.  He was neither tallnor short, neither dark nor fair, neither handsome nor thereverse; in fact his personality was not in the least impressive;while, like most true artists, he observed all things so quietlythat you rarely discovered that he was observing at all.

“Dear me!” people would say, “Is MarkShrewsbury really here?  Which is he?  I don’tsee any one at all like my idea of a novelist.”

“There he is—that man in spectacles,” wouldbe the reply.

And really the spectacles were the only noteworthy thing abouthim.

Mrs. Selldon, who had seen several authors and authoresses inher time, and knew that they were as a rule most ordinary,hum-drum kind of people, was quite prepared for her fate. She remembered her astonishment as a girl when, having laughedand cried at the play, and taken the chief actor as her idealhero, she had had him pointed out to her one day in RegentStreet, and found him to be a most commonplace-looking man, thevery last person one would have supposed capable of stirring thehearts of a great audience.

Meanwhile dinner progressed, and Mrs. Selldon talked to anempty-headed but loquacious man on her left, and racked herbrains for something to say to the alarmingly silent author onher right.  She remembered hearing that Charles Dickenswould often sit silent through the whole of dinner, observingquietly those about him, but that at dessert he would suddenlycome to life and keep the whole table in roars of laughter. She feared that Mr. Shrewsbury meant to imitate the greatnovelist in the first particular, but was scarcely likely tofollow his example in the last.  At length she asked himwhat he thought of the cathedral, and a few tepid remarksfollowed.

“How unutterably this good lady bores me!” thoughtthe author.

“How odd it is that his characters talk so well in hisbooks, and that he is such a stick!” thought Mrs.Selldon.

“I suppose it’s the effect of cathedral-townatmosphere,” reflected the author.

“I suppose he is eaten up with conceit and won’ttrouble himself to talk to me,” thought the hostess.

By the time the fish had been removed they had arrived at astate of mutual contempt.  Mindful of the reputation theyhad to keep up, however, they exerted themselves a little morewhile the entréeswent round.

“Seldom reads, I should fancy, and never thinks!”reflected the author, glancing at Mrs. Selldon’s placidunintellectual face.  “What on earth can I say toher?”

“Very unpractical, I am sure,” reflected Mrs.Selldon.  “The sort of man who lives in a world of hisown, and only lays down his pen to take up a book.  Whatsubject shall I start?”

“What delightful weather we have been having the lastfew days!” observed the author.  “Real genuinesummer weather at last.”  The same remark had beentrembling on Mrs. Selldon’s lips.  She assented withgreat cheerfulness and alacrity; and over that invaluable topic,which is always so safe, and so congenial, and so ready to hand,they grew quite friendly, and the conversation for fully fiveminutes was animated.

An interval of thought followed.

“How wearisome is society!” reflected Mrs.Selldon.  “It is hard that we must spend so much moneyin giving dinners and have so much trouble for so littleenjoyment.”

“One pays dearly for fame,” reflected theauthor.  “What a confounded nuisance it is to wasteall this time when there are the last proofs of ‘WhatCaste?’ to be done for the nine-o’clock postto-morrow morning!  Goodness knows what time I shall get tobed to-night!”

Then Mrs. Selldon thought regretfully of the comfortable easychair that she usually enjoyed after dinner, and the tenminutes’ nap, and the congenial needle-work.  And MarkShrewsbury thought of his chambers in Pump Court, and longed forhis type-writer, and his books, and his swivel chair, and hisfavourite meerschaum.

“I should be less afraid to talk if there were notalways the horrible idea that he may take down what onesays,” thought Mrs. Selldon.

“I should be less bored if she would only be her naturalself,” reflected the author.  “And would nottalk prim platitudes.”  (This was hard, for he hadtalked nothing else himself.)  “Does she think she isso interesting that I am likely to study her for my nextbook?”

“Have you been abroad this summer?” inquired Mrs.Selldon, making another spasmodic attempt at conversation.

“No, I detest travelling,” replied MarkShrewsbury.  “When I need change I just settle down insome quiet country district for a few months—somewhere nearWindsor, or Reigate, or Muddleton.  There is nothing to mymind like our English scenery.”

“Oh, do you know Muddleton?” exclaimed Mrs.Selldon.  “Is it not a charming little place?  Ioften stay in the neighbourhood with theMilton-Cleaves.”

“I know Milton-Cleave well,” said theauthor.  “A capital fellow, quite the typical countrygentleman.”

“Is he not?” said Mrs. Selldon, much relieved tohave found this subject in common.  “His wife is agreat friend of mine; she is full of life and energy, and does animmense amount of good.  Did you say you had stayed withthem?”

“No, but last year I took a house in that neighbourhoodfor a few months; a most charming little place it was, just fitfor a lonely bachelor.  I dare say you remember it—IvyCottage, on the Newton Road.”

“Did you stay there?  Now what a curiouscoincidence!  Only this morning I heard from Mrs.Milton-Cleave that Ivy Cottage has been taken this summer by aMr. Sigismund Zaluski, a Polish merchant, who is doing untoldharm in the neighbourhood.  He is a very clever,unscrupulous man, and has managed to take in almost everyone.”

“Why, what is he?  A swindler?  Or a burglarin disguise, like the House on the Marshfellow?”asked the author, with a little twinkle of amusement in hisface.

“Oh, much worse than that,” said Mrs. Selldon,lowering her voice.  “I assure you, Mr. Shrewsbury,you would hardly credit the story if I were to tell it you, it isreally stranger than fiction.”  Mark Shrewsburypricked up his ears, he no longer felt bored, he began to thinkthat, after all, there might be some compensation for thiswearisome dinner-party.  He was always glad to seize uponmaterial for future plots, and somehow the notion of a mysteriousPole suddenly making his appearance in that quiet countryneighbourhood and winning undeserved popularity rather took hisfancy.  He thought he might make something of it. However, he knew human nature too well to ask a directquestion.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he said, becoming allat once quite sympathetic and approachable.  “Idon’t like the thought of those simple, unsophisticatedpeople being hoodwinked by a scoundrel.”

“No; is it not sad?” said Mrs. Selldon. “Such pleasant, hospitable people as they are!  Do youremember the Morleys?”

“Oh yes!  There was a pretty daughter who playedtennis well.”

“Quite so—Gertrude Morley.  Well, would youbelieve it, this miserable fortune-hunter is actually eitherengaged to her or on the eve of being engaged!  Poor Mrs.Milton-Cleave is so unhappy about it, for she knows, on the bestauthority, that Mr. Zaluski is unfit to enter a respectablehouse.”

“Perhaps he is really some escaped criminal?”suggested Mr. Shrewsbury, tentatively.

Mrs. Selldon hesitated.  Then, under the cover of thegeneral roar of conversation, she said in a low voice:—

“You have guessed quite rightly.  He is one of theNihilists who were concerned in the assassination of the lateCzar.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed MarkShrewsbury, much startled.  “Is itpossible?”

“Indeed, it is only too true,” said Mrs.Selldon.  “I heard it only the other morning, and onthe very best authority.  Poor Gertrude Morley!  Myheart bleeds for her.”

Now I can’t help observing here that this must have beenthe merest figure of speech, for just then there was acomfortable little glow of satisfaction about Mrs.Selldon’s heart.  She was so delighted to have“got on well,” as she expressed it, with the literarylion, and by this time dessert was on the table, and soon thetedious ceremony would be happily over.

“But how did he escape?” asked Mark Shrewsbury,still with the thought of “copy” in his mind.

“I don’t know the details,” said Mrs.Selldon.  “Probably they are only known tohimself.  But he managed to escape somehow in the month ofMarch 1881, and to reach England safely.  I fear it is onlytoo often the case in this world—wickedness is apt to besuccessful.”

“To flourish like a green bay tree,” said MarkShrewsbury, congratulating himself on the aptness of thequotation, and its suitability to the Archediaconaldinner-table.  “It is the strangest story I have heardfor a long time.”  Just then there was a pause in thegeneral conversation, and Mrs. Selldon took advantage of it tomake the sign for rising, so that no more passed with regard toZaluski.

Shrewsbury, flattering himself that he had left a goodimpression by his last remark, thought better not to efface itlater in the evening by any other conversation with hishostess.  But in the small hours of the night, when he hadfinished his bundle of proofs, he took up his notebook and,strangling his yawns, made two or three brief, pithy notes of thestory Mrs. Selldon had told him, adding a further developmentwhich occurred to him, and wondering to himself whether“Like a Green Bay Tree” would be a selling title.

After this he went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just, orthe unbroken sleep which goes by that name.

MY SIXTH STAGE

But whispering tongues can poison truth.

Coleridge.

London in early September is a somewhat trying place. Mark Shrewsbury found it less pleasing in reality than in hisvisions during the dinner-party at Dulminster.  True, hischambers were comfortable, and his type-writer was as invaluablea machine as ever, and his novel was drawing to a successfulconclusion; but though all these things were calculated to cheerhim, he was nevertheless depressed.  Town was dull, the heatwas trying, and he had never in his life found it so difficult tosettle down to work.  He began to agree with the Preacher,that “of making many books there is no end,” andthat, in spite of his favourite “Remington’sperfected No. 2,” novel-writing was a weariness to theflesh.  Soon he drifted into a sort of vague idleness, whichwas not a good, honest holiday, but just a lazy waste of time andbrains.  I was pleased to observe this, and was not slow totake advantage of it.  Had he stayed in Pump Court he mighthave forgotten me altogether in his work, but in the soft luxuryof his Club life I found that I had a very fair chance of beingpassed on to some one else.

One hot afternoon, on waking from a comfortable nap in thedepths of an armchair at the Club, Shrewsbury was greeted by oneof his friends.

“I thought you were in Switzerland, old fellow!”he exclaimed, yawning and stretching himself.

“Came back yesterday—awfully badseason—confoundedly dull,” returned the other. “Where have you been?”

“Down with Warren near Dulminster.  Deathly dullhole.”

“Do for your next novel.  Eh?” said the otherwith a laugh.

Mark Shrewsbury smiled good-naturedly.

“Talking of novels,” he observed, with anotheryawn, “I heard such a story down there!”

“Did you?  Let’s hear it.  A nice littlescandal would do instead of a pick-me-up.”

“It’s not a scandal.  Don’t raise yourexpectations.  It’s the story of a successfulscoundrel.”

And then I came out again in full vigour—nay, withvastly increased powers; for though Mark Shrewsbury did not addvery much to me, or alter my appearance, yet his graphic wordsmade me much more impressive than I had been under the managementof Mrs. Selldon.

“H’m! that’s a queer story,” said thelimp-looking young man from Switzerland.  “I say, havea game of billiards, will you?”

Shrewsbury, with prodigious yawn, dragged himself up out ofhis chair, and the two went off together.  As they left theroom the only other man present looked up from his newspaper,following them with his eyes.

“Shrewsbury the novelist,” he thought tohimself.  “A sterling fellow!  And he heard itfrom an Archdeacon’s wife.  Confound it all! the thingmust be true then.  I’ll write and make full inquiriesabout this Zaluski before consenting to theengagement.”

And, being a prompt, business-like man, GertrudeMorley’s uncle sat down and wrote the following letter to aRussian friend of his who lived at St. Petersburg, and who mightvery likely be able to give some account of Zaluski:—

Dear Leonoff,—Some very queer stories areafloat about a young Polish merchant, by name Sigismund Zaluski,the head of the London branch of the firm of Zaluski and Zernoff,at St. Petersburg.  Will you kindly make inquiries for me asto his true character and history?  I would not trouble youwith this affair, but the fact is Zaluski has made an offer ofmarriage to one of my wards, and before consenting to anybetrothal I must know what sort of man he really is.  I takeit for granted that “there is no smoke without fire,”and that there must be something in the very strange tale which Ihave just heard on the best authority.  It is said that thisSigismund Zaluski left St. Petersburg in March 1881, after theassassination of the late Czar, in which he was seriouslycompromised.  He is said to be an out-and-out Nihilist, anatheist, and, in short, a dangerous, disreputable fellow. Will you sift the matter for me?  I don’t wish todismiss the fellow without good reason, but of course I could notthink of permitting him to be engaged to my niece until thesecharges are entirely disproved.

With kind remembrances to your father,

I am, yours faithfully
Henry Crichton-Morley.

MY SEVENTH STAGE

Yet on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning flash, a word,
Bearing endless desolation
On its blighting wings, I heard;
Earth can forge no keener weapon,
Dealing surer death and pain,
And the cruel echo answered
Through long years again.

A. A.Procter.

Curiously enough, I must actually have started for Russia onthe same day that Sigismund Zaluski was summoned by his uncle atSt. Petersburg to return on a matter of urgent business.  Ilearnt afterwards that the telegram arrived at Muddleton on theafternoon of one of those sunny September days and found Zaluskias usual at the Morleys.  He was very much annoyed at beingcalled away just then, and before he had received any reply fromGertrude’s uncle as to the engagement.  However, aftera little ebullition of anger, he regained his usual philosophictone, and, reminding Gertrude that he need not be away fromEngland for more than a fortnight, he took leave of her and setoff in a prompt, manly fashion, leaving most of his belongings atIvy Cottage, which was his for another six weeks, and to which hehoped shortly to return.

After a weary time of imprisonment in my envelope, I at lengthreached my destination at St. Petersburg and was read by DmitryLeonoff.  He was a very busy man, and by the same postreceived dozens of other letters.  He merelymuttered—“That well-known firm!  A most unlikelystory!”—and then thrust me into a drawer with otherletters which had to be answered.  Very probably I escapedhis memory altogether for the next few days: however, there Iwas—a startling accusation in black and white; and, aseverybody knows, St. Petersburg is not London.

The Leonoff family lived on the third storey of a large blockof buildings in the Sergeffskaia.  About two o’clockin the morning, on the third day after my arrival, the wholehousehold was roused from sleep by thundering raps on the door,and the dreaded cry of “Open to the police.”

The unlucky master was forced to allow himself, his wife, andhis children to be made prisoners, while every corner of thehouse was searched and every book and paper examined.

Leonoff had nothing whatever to do with the Revolutionarymovement, but absolute innocence does not free people from thepolice inquisition, and five or six years ago, when the Searchmania was at its height, a case is on record of a poor lady whosehouse was searched seven times within twenty-four hours, thoughthere was no evidence whatever that she was connected with theNihilists; the whole affair was, in fact, a misunderstanding, asshe was perfectly innocent.

This search in Dmitry Leonoff’s house was also amisunderstanding, and in the dominions of the Czarmisunderstandings are of frequent occurrence.

Leonoff knew himself to be innocent, and he felt no fear,though considerable annoyance, while the search was prosecuted;he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses when, withouta word of explanation, he was informed that he must take leave ofhis wife and children, and go in charge of the gendarmes to theHouse of Preventive Detention.

Being a sensible man, he kept his temper, remarked courteouslythat some mistake must have been made, embraced his weeping wife,and went off passively, while the pristav carried away a bundleof letters in which I occupied the most prominent place.

Leonoff remained a prisoner only for a few days; there was nota shred of evidence against him, and, having suffered terribleanxiety, he was finally released.  But Mr.Crichton-Morley’s letter was never restored to him, itremained in the hands of the authorities, and the night afterLeonoff’s arrest the pristav, the procurator, and thegendarmes made their way into the dwelling of SigismundZaluski’s uncle, where a similar search was prosecuted.

Sigismund was asleep and dreaming of Gertrude and of hisidyllic summer in England, when his bedroom door was forced openand he was roughly roused by the gendarmes.

His first feeling was one of amazement, his second, one ofindignation; however, he was obliged to get up at once and dress,the policeman rigorously keeping guard over him the whole timefor fear he should destroy any treasonable document.

“How I shall make them laugh in England when I tell themof this ridiculous affair!” reflected Sigismund, as he wassolemnly marched into the adjoining room, where he found hisuncle and cousins, each guarded by a policeman.

He made some jesting remark, but was promptly reprimanded byhis gaoler, and in wearisome silence the household waited whilethe most rigorous search of the premises was made.

Of course nothing was found; but, to the amazement of all,Sigismund was formally arrested.

“There must be some mistake,” he exclaimed,“I have been resident in England for some time.  Ihave no connection whatever with Russian politics.”

“Oh, we are well aware of your residence inEngland,” said the pristav.  “You left St.Petersburg early in March 1881.  We are well aware ofthat.”

Something in the man’s tone made Sigismund’s heartstand still.  Could he possibly be suspected of complicityin the plot to assassinate the late Czar?  The idea wouldhave made him laugh had he been in England.  In St.Petersburg, and under these circumstances, it made himtremble.

“There is some terrible mistake,” he said. “I have never had the slightest connection with therevolutionary party.”

The pristav shrugged his shoulders, and Sigismund, feelinglike one in a dream, took leave of his relations, and wasescorted at once to the House of Preventive Detention.

Arrived at his destination, he was examined in a brief,unsatisfactory way; but when he angrily asked for the evidence onwhich he had been arrested, he was merely told that informationhad been received charging him with being concerned in theassassination of the late Emperor, and of being an advancedmember of the Nihilist party.  His vehement denials werereceived with scornful incredulity, his departure for Englandjust after the assassination, and his prolonged absence fromRussia, of course gave colour to the accusation, and he wasordered off to his cell “to reflect.”

MY TRIUMPHANT FINALE

Words are mighty, words are living;
Serpents with their venomous stings,
Or bright angels crowding round us,
With heaven’s light upon their wings;
Every word has its own spirit,
True or false, that never dies;
Every word man’s lips have uttered
Echoes in God’s skies.

A. A.Procter.

My labours were now nearly at an end, and being, so to speak,off duty, I could occupy myself just as I pleased.  Itherefore resolved to keep watch over Zaluski in his prison.

For the first few hours after his arrest he was in a violentpassion; he paced up and down his tiny cell like a lion in acage; he was beside himself with indignation, and the blood leaptthrough his veins like wildfire.

Then he became a little ashamed of himself and tried to growquiet, and after a sleepless night he passed to the oppositeextreme and sat all day long on the solitary stool in his grimabode, his head resting on his hands, and his mind a prey to themost fearful melancholy.

The second night, however, he slept, and awoke with a steadyresolve in his mind.

“It will never do to give way like this, or I shall bein a brain fever in no time,” he reflected.  “Iwill get leave to have books and writing materials.  I willmake the best of a bad business.”

He remembered how pleased he had been when Gertrude had oncesmiled on him because, when all the others in the party weregrumbling at the discomforts of a certain picnic where theprovisions had gone astray, he had gaily made the best of it andransacked the nearest cottages for bread-and-cheese.  He setto work bravely now; hoped daily for his release; read all thebooks he was allowed to receive, invented solitary games, began anovel, and drew caricatures.

In October he was again examined; but, having nothing toreveal, it was inevitable that he could reveal nothing; and hewas again sent back to his cell “to reflect.”

I perceived that after this his heart began to fail him.

There existed in the House of Preventive Detention a system ofcommunication between the luckless prisoners carried on by meansof tapping on the wall.  Sigismund, being a clever fellow,had become a great adept at this telegraphic system, and hadstruck up a friendship with a young student in the next cell;this poor fellow had been imprisoned three years, his soleoffence being that he had in his possession a book of which theGovernment did not approve, and that he was first cousin to awell-known Nihilist.

The two became as devoted to each other as Silvio Pellico andCount Oroboni; but it soon became evident to Valerian Vasilowitchthat, unless Zaluski was released, he would soon succumb to theterrible restrictions of prison life.

“Keep up your heart, my friend,” he used tosay.  “I have borne it three years, and am still aliveto tell the tale.”

“But you are stronger both in mind and body,” saidSigismund; “and you are not madly in love as Iam.”

And then he would pour forth a rhapsody about Gertrude, andabout English life, and about his hopes and fears for the future;to all of which Valerian, like the brave fellow he was, repliedwith words of encouragement.

But at length there came a day when his friend made no answerto his usual morning greeting.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

For some time there was no reply, but after a while Sigismundrapped faintly the despairing words:—

“Dead beat!”

Valerian felt the tears start to his eyes.  It was whathe had all along expected, and for a time grief and indignationand his miserable helplessness made him almost besidehimself.  At last he remembered that there was at least onething in his power.  Each day he was escorted by a warder toa tiny square, walled off in the exercising ground, and wasallowed to walk for a few minutes; he would take this opportunityof begging the warder to get the doctor for his friend.

But unfortunately the doctor did not think very seriously ofZaluski’s case.  In that dreary prison he had patientsin the last stages of all kinds of disease, and Sigismund, whohad been in confinement too short a time to look as ill as theothers, did not receive much attention.  Certainly, thedoctor admitted, his lungs were affected; probably the suddenchange of climate and the lack of good food and fresh air hadbeen too much for him; so the solemn farce ended, and he was leftto his fate.  “If I were indeed a Nihilist, andsuffered for a cause which I had at heart,” he telegraphedto Valerian, “I could bear it better.  But to be kepthere for an imaginary offence, to bear cold and hunger andillness all to no purpose—that beats me.  Therecan’t be a God, or such things would not beallowed.”

“To me it seems,” said Valerian, “that weare the victims of violated law.  Others have shown tyranny,or injustice, or cruelty, and we are the victims of theirsin.  Don’t say there is no God.  There must be aGod to avenge such hideous wrong.”

So they spoke to each other through their prison wall as menin the free outer world seldom care to speak; and I, who knew nobarriers, looked now on Valerian’s gaunt figure, and bravebut prematurely old face, now on poor Zaluski, who, in his wearyimprisonment, had wasted away till one could scarcely believethat he was indeed the same lithe, active fellow who had playedtennis at Mrs. Courtenay’s garden-party.

Day and night Valerian listened to the terrible cough whichcame from the adjoining cell.  It became perfectly apparentto him that his friend was dying; he knew it as well as if he hadseen the burning hectic flush on his hollow cheeks, and heard thepanting, hurried breaths, and watched the unnatural brilliancy ofhis dark eyes.

At length he thought the time had come for another sort ofcomfort.

“My friend,” he said one day, “it is tooplain to me now that you are dying.  Write to the procuratorand tell him so.  In some cases men have been allowed to gohome to die.”

A wild hope seized on poor Sigismund; he sat down to thelittle table in his cell and wrote a letter to theprocurator—a letter which might almost have drawn tearsfrom a flint.  Again and again he passionately asserted hisinnocence, and begged to know on what evidence he wasimprisoned.  He began to think that he could die content ifhe might leave this terrible cell, might be a free agent oncemore, if only for a few days.  At least he might in thatcase clear his character, and convince Gertrude that hisimprisonment had been all a hideous mistake; nay, he fancied thathe might live through a journey to England and see her onceagain.

But the procurator would not let him be set free, and refusedto believe that his case was really a serious one.

Sigismund’s last hope left him.

The days and weeks dragged slowly on, and when, according toEnglish reckoning, New Year’s Eve arrived, he couldscarcely believe that only seventeen weeks ago he had actuallybeen with Gertrude, and that disgrace and imprisonment had seemedthings that could never come near him, and death had been afar-away possibility, and life had been full of bliss.

As I watched him a strong desire seized me to revisit thescenes of which he was thinking, and I winged my way back toEngland, and soon found myself in the drowsy, respectable streetsof Muddleton.

It was New Year’s Eve, and I saw Mrs. O’Reillypreparing presents for her grandchildren, and talking, as shetied them up, of that dreadful Nihilist who had deceived them inthe summer.  I saw Lena Houghton, and Mr. Blackthorne, andMrs. Milton-Cleave, kneeling in church on that Friday morning,praying that pity might be shown “upon all prisoners andcaptives, and all that are desolate or oppressed.”

It never occurred to them that they were responsible for thesufferings of one weary prisoner, or that his death would be laidat their door.

I flew to Dulminster, and saw Mrs. Selldon kneeling in thecathedral at the late evening service and rigorously examiningherself as to the shortcomings of the dying year.  Sheconfessed many things in a vague, untroubled way; but had any onetold her that she had cruelly wronged her neighbour, and helpedto bring an innocent man to shame, and prison, and death, shewould not have believed the accusation.

I sought out Mark Shrewsbury.  He was at his chambers inPump Court working away with his type-writer; he had a fancy forworking the old year out and the new year in, and now he was inthe full swing of that novel which had suggested itself to hismind when Mrs. Selldon described the rich and mysteriousforeigner who had settled down at Ivy Cottage.  Most happilyhe laboured on, never dreaming that his careless words had doomeda fellow-man to a painful and lingering death; never dreamingthat while his fingers flew to and fro over his dainty littlekeyboard, describing the clever doings of the unscrupulousforeigner, another man, the victim of his idle gossip, tappeddying messages on a dreary prison wall.

For the end had come.

Through the evening Sigismund rested wearily on histruckle-bed.  He could not lie down because of his cough,and, since there were no extra pillows to prop him up, he had torest his head and shoulders against the wall.  There was agas-burner in the tiny cell, and by its light he looked round thebare walls of his prison with a blank, hopeless, yet wistfulgaze; there was the stool, there was the table, there were theclothes he should never wear again, there was the door throughwhich his lifeless body would soon be carried.  He looked ateverything lingeringly, for he knew that this desolate prison wasthe last bit of the world he should ever see.

Presently the gas was turned out.

He sighed as he felt the darkness close in upon him, for heknew that his eyes would never again see light—knew that inthis dark lonely cell he must lie and wait for death.  Andhe was young and wished to live, and he was in love and longedmost terribly for the presence of the woman he loved.

The awful desolateness of the cell was more than he couldendure; he tried to think of his past life, he tried to live onceagain through those happy weeks with Gertrude; but always he cameback to the aching misery of the present—the cold and thepain, and the darkness and the terrible solitude.

His nerveless fingers felt their way to the wall and faintlyrapped a summons.

“Valerian!” he said, “I shall not livethrough the night.  Watch with me.”

The faint raps sounded clearly in the stillness of the greatbuilding, and Valerian dreaded lest the warders should hear them,and deal out punishment for an offence which by day they wereforced to wink at.

But he would not for the world have deserted his friend. He drew his stool close to the wall, wrapped himself round in allthe clothes he could muster, and, shivering with cold, kept watchthrough the long winter night.

“I am near you,” he telegraphed.  “Iwill watch with you till morning.”

From time to time Sigismund rapped faint messages, andValerian replied with comfort and sympathy.  Once he thoughtto himself, “My friend is better; there is more power inhis hand.”  And indeed he trembled, fearing that thesharp, emphatic raps must certainly attract notice and put an endto their communion.

“Tell my love that the accusation wasfalse—false!” the word was vehemently repeated. “Tell her I died broken-hearted, loving her to theend.”

“I will tell her all when I am free,” said poorValerian, wondering with a sigh when his unjust imprisonmentwould end.  “Do you suffer much?” he asked.

There was a brief interval.  Sigismund hesitated to tella falsehood in his last extremity.

“It will soon be over.  Do not be troubled forme,” he replied.  And after that there was a long,long silence.

Poor fellow! he died hard; and I wished that those comfortableEnglish people could have been dragged from their warm beds andbrought into the cold dreary cell where their victim lay,fighting for breath, suffering cruelly both in mind andbody.  Valerian, listening in sad suspense, heard one morefaint word rapped by the dying man.

“Farewell!”

“God be with you!” he replied, unable to check thetears which rained down as he thought of the life so sadly ended,and of his own bereavement.

He heard no more.  Sigismund’s strength failed him,and I, to whom the darkness made no difference, watched himthrough the last dread struggle; there was no one to raise him,or hold him, no one to comfort him.  Alone in the cold anddarkness of that first morning of the year 1887, he died.

Valerian did not hear through the wall his last faint gaspingcry, but I heard it, and its exceeding bitterness would have mademortals weep.

“Gertrude!” he sobbed. “Gertrude!”

And with that his head sank on his breast, and the life, whichbut for me might have been so happy and prosperous, wasended.

* * * *

Prompted by curiosity, I instantly returned to Muddleton andsought out Gertrude Morley.  I stole into her room. She lay asleep, but her dreams were troubled, and her face, onceso fresh and bright, was worn with pain and anxiety.

Scarcely had I entered the room when, to my amazement, I sawthe spirit of Sigismund Zaluski.

I saw him bend down and kiss the sleeping girl, and for amoment her sad face lighted up with a radiant smile.

I looked again; he was gone.  Then Gertrude threw up bothher arms and with a bitter cry awoke from her dream.

“Sigismund!” she cried.  “Oh,Sigismund!  Now I know that you are dead indeed.”

For a long, long time she lay in a sort of trance ofmisery.  It seemed as if the life had been almost crushedout of her, and it was not until the bells began to ring for thesix o’clock service, merrily pealing out their welcome ofthe new year morning, that full consciousness returned to heragain.  But, as she clearly realised what had happened, shebroke into such a passion of tears as I had never beforewitnessed, while still in the darkness the new year bells ranggaily, and she knew that they heralded for her the beginning of alonely life.

And so my work ended; my part in this world was playedout.  Nevertheless I still live; and there will come a daywhen Sigismund and Gertrude shall be comforted and the slandererspunished.

For poor Valerian was right, and there is an Avenger, in whomeven my progenitor believes, and before whom he trembles.

There will come a time when those self-satisfied ones, whosehands are all the time steeped in blood, shall be confronted withme, and shall realise to the full all that their idle words havebrought about.

For that day I wait; and though afterwards I shall be finallydestroyed in the general destruction of all that is unmitigatedlyevil, I promise myself a certain satisfaction and pleasure (afeeling I doubtless inherit from my progenitor), when I watch theshame, and horror, and remorse of Mrs. O’Reilly and therest of the people to whom I owe my existence and rapidgrowth.

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