A Lodger in Maze Pond

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room,with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning inAugust he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, thereentered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded byall the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingeringnewspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, andshuddered.The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolutionas his kindly nature permitted.'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbableman.'Dying?'Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept abouthim. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in themorning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do youthink?''Very possibly.''A remarkable man, that--a most remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale'sthe other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded oneof Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing. Certainly most brillianttalk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort offantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he isa great friend of yours?''Oh, we have known each other for a long time.''Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of thehospitals--that kind of thing.''Yes, he's at Guy's.'To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went toglance at the Times. He read the news concerning the great physician.Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.By midday he was at London Bridge. He crossed to the Surrey side, turnedimmediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaultedthoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like themouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed intogloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lampsgave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most ofthem occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed overindeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays andwaggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and abovethundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed ofinfinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases,packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. Acurve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; tillmidway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a suddenappeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one whoshould have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificentplane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrastswhich are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those whowander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave ofcommerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quainttumbling roofs--and byways little frequented.The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a shortnarrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the mostpart of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medicalstudents. At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.'Mr. Shergold isn't in, sir,' she said at once, anticipating his question.'But he will be very soon. Will you step in and wait?''I think I will.'As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room onthe first floor. The girl followed him.'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things,' she said, speakingrapidly and with an air. 'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't getup till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters. Did he know as you wascomin', sir?''No; I looked in on the chance of finding him, or learning where he was.''I'm sure he'll be in about half-past twelve, 'cause he said to me as hewas only goin' to get a breath of air. He hasn't nothing to do at the'ospital just now.''Has he talked of going away?''Going away?' The girl repeated the words sharply, and examined thespeaker's face. 'Oh, he won't be goin' away just yet, I think.'Munden returned her look with a certain curiosity, and watched her as shebegan to clink together the things upon the table. Obviously she esteemedherself a person of some importance. Her figure was not bad, and herfeatures had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of thelower orders,--the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fatand chronic perspiration. Her complexion already began to show a tendencyto muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth. Indress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaboratearrangement; she had dirty hands.Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden hadno leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, hedrew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual manwho has outlived youthful follies.He stepped over to the lodger's bookcase. There were about a hundredvolumes, only a handful of them connected with medical study. Seeing avolume of his own Munden took it down and idly turned the pages; itsurprised him to discover a great many marginal notes in pencil, and anexamination of these showed him that Shergold must have gone carefullythrough the book with an eye to the correction of its style; adjectiveswere deleted and inserted, words of common usage removed for others whichonly a fine literary conscience could supply, and in places even thepunctuation was minutely changed. Whilst he still pondered this singularmanifestation of critical zeal, the door opened, and Shergold came in.A man of two-and-thirty, short, ungraceful, ill-dressed, with features aslittle commonplace as can be imagined. He had somewhat a stern look, and onhis brow were furrows of care. Light-blue eyes tended to modify the all butharshness of his lower face; when he smiled, as on recognising his friend,they expressed a wonderful innocence and suavity of nature; overshadowed,in thoughtful or troubled mood, by his heavy eyebrows, they became deeplypathetic. His nose was short and flat, yet somehow not ignoble; his fulllips, bare of moustache, tended to suggest a melancholy fretfulness. Butfor the high forehead, no casual observer would have cared to look at him asecond time; but that upper story made the whole countenance vivid withintellect, as though a light beamed upon it from above.'You hypercritical beggar!' cried Harvey, turning with the volume in hishand. 'Is this how you treat the glorious works of your contemporaries?'Shergold reddened and was mute.'I shall take this away with me,' pursued the other, laughing. 'It'll beworth a little study.''My dear fellow--you won't take it ill of me--I didn't really mean it as acriticism,' the deep, musical voice stammered in serious embarrassment.'Why, wasn't it just this kind of thing that caused a quarrel betweenGeorge Sand and Musset?''Yes, yes; but George Sand was such a peremptory fellow, and Musset such avapourish young person. Look! I'll show you what I meant.''Thanks,' said Munden, 'I can find that out for myself.' He thrust the bookinto his coat-pocket. 'I came to ask you if you are aware of your uncle'scondition.''Of course I am.'When did you see him last?''See him?' Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely. 'Oh, to talk with him, about amonth ago.''Did you part friendly?''On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunatelyhe didn't know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name,and in a kind way.''Capital! Hadn't you better walk in that direction this afternoon?''Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that Iam hovering about him.''All the same, go.'Shergold pointed to a chair. 'Sit down a bit. I have been having a talkwith Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it's far fromcertain that I shall go on with medicine.''Far from certain!' the other assented, smiling. 'By the bye, I hear thatyou have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale's not longago.''Well--yes--why not?'Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,--Shergold seemedunable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and keptglancing nervously towards the door.'I was delighted to hear it,' said his friend. 'That's a symptom of health.Go everywhere; see everybody--that's worth seeing. They got you to talk, Ibelieve?''Who has been telling you? I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I hadshivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some onebrought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of whichI wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there's a pleasure in talkingto intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clevergirls, by Jove! And Mrs. Peter Rayne--do you know her?''Know of her, that's all.''A splendid woman--brains, brains! Upon my soul, I know no such delight aslistening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful. Ishake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course theworld never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lotsof grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What awretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads,however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people mylife has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!''My boy,' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effecton a certain day nine years ago?''Don't talk of it,' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. 'We'llnever look back at that.''Your room is stuffy,' said Munden, rising. 'Let us go and have lunchsomewhere.''Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in thedissecting-room.'The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady'sdaughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to passinto the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.'Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?'Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl. Shergold did not look at her,but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question. Then, ina friendly voice, he said--'No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening.' And he went onhurriedly.'Cheeky little beggar that,' Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.'Oh, not a bad girl in her way. They've made me very comfortable. All thesame, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes.'It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty hefound himself launched upon the world, with a university educationincomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, alittle less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to goforward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry wasa Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. Hegot a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which waspublished and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful daywhen he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to bemarried. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall,pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at atobacconist's shop, where she served. He was going to marry her onprinciple--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youthwho has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew intoa rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to beshaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him duringconversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and hewould not betray it. She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her.The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.With the results which any sane person could have foretold. The marriagewas a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attemptedsuicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court. His relative, thedistinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now cameforward with counsel and assistance. Happily the only child of the unionhad died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamationof rights, was so weary of her husband that she consented to a separation.But in less than a year the two were living together again; Mrs. Shergoldhad been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellowwould have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold'sresistance. He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himselfonce more abandoned, and reduced to get his living as a solicitor's clerk.His uncle had bidden him good-bye on a postcard, whereon was illegiblyscribbled something about 'damned fools.'He bore the burden for three more years, then his wife died. One night,after screaming herself speechless in fury at Shergold's refusal to go withher to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling receivedfatal injuries.The man was free, but terribly shattered. Only after a long sojourn abroad,at his kinsman's expense, did he begin to recover health. He came back andentered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold'ssatisfaction. His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to liveupon--a very small sum. By degrees some old acquaintances began to see him,but it was only quite of late that he had accepted invitations from peopleof social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house. The hints of hisstory that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women,and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began togive him fair play. All modern things were of interest to him, and hisknowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talkwhich had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did notunderstand it. Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke withnerve and confidence. In days of jabber, more or less impolite, thisappearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totallyunaffected, could not but excite curiosity. Lady Teasdale, eager for theuncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with hisneighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouragedhim with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; sheresolved to make him a feature of her evenings. Fortunately, his kindredwith Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdalewhispered it among matrons that he would inherit from the wealthy doctor,who had neither wife nor child. He might not be fair to look upon, buthandsome is that handsome has.And now the doctor lay sick unto death. Society was out of town, but LadyTeasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did notforget her protege; she waited with pleasant expectation for the youngman's release from poverty.It came in a day or two. Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprisingnewspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would passto Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle'sprofession. This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a lineto his friend, to ask if it was true. In reply he received a mere postcard:'Yes. Will see you before long.' But Harvey wanted to be off to Como, andas business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought MazePond. Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; shestood looking keenly in his face, her eyes smiling and yet suspicious.'Mr. Shergold in?' he asked carelessly.'No, he isn't.' There was a strange bluntness about this answer. The girlstood forward, as if to bar the entrance, and kept searching his face.'When is he likely to be?''I don't know. He didn't say when he went out.'A woman's figure appeared in the background. The girl turned and saidsharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold.''I'll go upstairs and write a note,' said Munden, in a rather peremptoryvoice.The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evidentdisinclination. As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed. Hewent up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with otherrequisites for writing, and then he stood for a moment as if in meditation.'Your name is Emma, isn't it?' he inquired, looking at the girl with asmile.'Yes, it is.''Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk. Your mother won'tmind, will she?' he added slyly.The girl tossed her head.'I don't see what it's got to do with mother.' She closed the door, but didnot latch it. 'What do you want to talk about?''You're a very nice girl to look at, Emma, and I've always admired you whenyou opened the door to me. I've always liked your nice, respectful way ofspeaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day. What has putyou out?'Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened theutmost keenness of suspicious observation.'Nothing's put me out, that I know of.''Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully. Perhaps'--hepaused--'perhaps Mr. Shergold is going to leave?''P'r'aps he may be.''And you're vexed at losing a lodger.'He saw her lip curl and then she laughed.'You're wrong there.''Then what is it?'He drew near and made as though he would advance a familiar arm. Emmastarted back.'All right,' she exclaimed, with an insolent nod. 'I'll tell Mr. Shergold.''Tell Mr. Shergold? Why? What has it to do with him?''A good deal.''Indeed? For shame, Emma! I never expected that!''What do you mean?' she retorted hotly. 'You keep your impudence toyourself. If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to marry me--sothere!'The stroke was effectual. Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but herecovered himself before a word escaped his lips.'Ah, that alters the case. I beg your pardon. You won't make troublebetween old friends?'Vanity disarmed the girl's misgiving. She grinned with satisfaction.'That depends how you behave.''Oh, you don't know me. But promise, now; not a word to Shergold.'She gave a conditional promise, and stood radiant with her triumph.'Thanks, that's very good of you. Well, I won't trouble to leave a note.You shall just tell Shergold that I am leaving England to-morrow for aholiday. I should like to see him, of course, and I may possibly lookround this evening. If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think heought to have given me a chance of congratulating him. May I ask when it isto be?'Emma resumed an air of prudery, 'Before very long, I dessay.''I wish you joy. Well, I mustn't talk longer now, but I'll do my best tolook in this evening, and then we can all chat together.'He laughed and she laughed back; and thereupon they parted.A little after nine that evening, when only a grey reflex of daylightlingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy'sHospital waiting. He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertainedthat his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probablystill from home. In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of thedeceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a messagefor delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pondbetween nine and ten.At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of LondonBridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent. Munden movedforward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly.'Ha! how glad I am to meet you, Munden! Come; let us walk this way.' Heturned from Maze Pond. 'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago. Soglad I have met you here, old fellow.''Well, your day has come,' said Harvey, trying to read his friend'sfeatures in the gloom.'He has left me about eighty thousand pounds,' Shergold replied, in a low,shaken voice. 'I'm told there are big legacies to hospitals as well.Heavens! how rich he was!''When is the funeral?''Friday.''Where shall you live in the meantime?''I don't know--I haven't thought about it.''I should go to some hotel, if I were you,' said Munden, 'and I have aproposal to make. If I wait till Saturday, will you come with me to Como?'Shergold did not at once reply. He was walking hurriedly, and making ratherstrange movements with his head and arms. They came into the shadow of thevaulted way beneath London Bridge Station. At this hour the great tunnelwas quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; oneor two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, andfrom the far end came a sound of children at play.'You won't be wanted here?' Munden added.'No--no--I think not.' There was agitation in the voice.'Then you will come?''Yes, I will come.' Shergold spoke with unnecessary vehemence and laughedoddly.'What's the matter with you?' his friend asked.'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose. Let's get on. Let us gosomewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show adecent sobriety; but what was the old fellow to me? I'm grateful to him.''There's nothing else on your mind?'Shergold looked up, startled.'What do you mean? Why do you ask?'They stood together in the black shadow of an interval between two lamps.After reflecting for a moment, Munden decided to speak.'I called at your lodgings early to-day, and somehow I got into talk withthe girl. She was cheeky, and her behaviour puzzled me. Finally she made anincredible announcement--that you had asked her to marry you. Of courseit's a lie?''To marry her?' exclaimed the listener hoarsely, with an attempt atlaughter. 'Do you think that likely--after all I have gone through?''No, I certainly don't. It staggered me. But what I want to know is, canshe cause trouble?''How do I know?--a girl will lie so boldly. She might make a scandal, Isuppose; or threaten it, in hope of getting money out of me.''But is there any ground for a scandal?' demanded Harvey.'Not the slightest, as you mean it.''I'm glad to hear that. But she may give you trouble. I see the thingdoesn't astonish you very much; no doubt you were aware of her character.''Yes, yes; I know it pretty well. Come, let us get out of this squalidinferno; how I hate it! Have you had dinner? I don't want any. Let us go toyour rooms, shall we? There'll be a hansom passing the bridge.'They walked on in silence, and when they had found a cab they drovewestward, talking only of Dr. Shergold's affairs. Munden lived in theregion of the Squares, hard by the British Museum; he took his friend intoa comfortably furnished room, the walls hidden with books and prints, andthere they sat down to smoke, a bottle of whisky within easy reach of both.It was plain to Harvey that some mystery lay in his friend's reserve on thesubject of the girl Emma; he was still anxious, but would not lead the talkto unpleasant things. Shergold drank like a thirsty man, and the whiskyseemed to make him silent. Presently he fell into absolute muteness, andlay wearily back in his chair.'The excitement has been too much for you,' Munden remarked.Shergold looked at him, with a painful embarrassment in his features; thensuddenly he bent forward.'Munden, it's I who have lied. I did ask that girl to marry me.''When?''Last night.''Why?''Because for a moment I was insane.' They stared at each other.'Has she any hold upon you?' Munden asked slowly.'None whatever, except this frantic offer of mine.''Into which she inveigled you?''I can't honestly say she did; it was entirely my own fault. She has neverbehaved loosely, or even like a schemer. I doubt whether she knew anythingabout my uncle, until I told her last night.'He spoke rapidly, in a thick voice, moving his arms in helplessprotestation. His look was one of unutterable misery.'Well,' observed Munden, 'the frenzy has at all events passed. You have thecommon-sense to treat it as if it had never been; and really I am temptedto believe that it was literal lunacy. Last night were you drunk?''I had drunk nothing. Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I am a foolabout women. I don't know what it is--certainly not a sensual or passionatenature; mine is nothing of the sort. It's sheer sentimentality, I suppose.I can't be friendly with a woman without drifting into mawkishtenderness--there's the simple truth. If I had married happily, I don'tthink I should have been tempted to go about philandering. The society of awife I loved and respected would be sufficient. But there's that need inme--the incessant hunger for a woman's sympathy and affection. Such ahideous mistake as mine when I married would have made a cynic of most men;upon me the lesson has been utterly thrown away. I mean that, though I cantalk of women rationally enough with a friend, I am at their mercy whenalone with them--at the mercy of the silliest, vulgarest creature. Afterall, isn't it very much the same with men in general? The average man--howdoes he come to marry? Do you think he deliberately selects? Does he fallin love, in the strict sense of the phrase, with that one particular girl?No; it comes about by chance--by the drifting force of circumstances. Notone man in ten thousand, when he thinks of marriage, waits for the idealwife--for the woman who makes capture of his soul or even of his senses.Men marry without passion. Most of us have a very small circle for choice;the hazard of everyday life throws us into contact with this girl or that,and presently we begin to feel either that we have compromised ourselves,or that we might as well save trouble and settle down as soon as possible,and the girl at hand will do as well as another. More often than not it isthe girl who decides for us. In more than half the marriages it's the womanwho has practically proposed. She puts herself in a man's way. With her itrests almost entirely whether a man shall think of her as a possible wifeor not. She has endless ways of putting herself forward without seeming todo so. As often as not, it's mere passivity that effects the end. She hasonly to remain seated instead of moving away; to listen with a smileinstead of looking bored; to be at home instead of being out,--and she ismaking love to a man. In a Palace of Truth how many husbands would have toconfess that it decidedly surprised them when they found themselves engagedto be married? The will comes into play only for a moment or two now andthen. Of course it is made to seem responsible, and in a sense it isresponsible, but, in the vast majority of cases, purely as an animalinstinct, confirming the suggestion of circumstances.''There's something in all this,' granted the listener, 'but it doesn'texplain the behaviour of a man who, after frightful experience inmarriage--after recovering his freedom--after finding himself welcomed bycongenial society--after inheriting a fortune to use as he likes--goes andoffers himself to an artful hussy in a lodging-house.''That's the special case. Look how it came to pass. Months ago I knew I wasdrifting into dangerous relations with that girl. Unfortunately I am not arascal: I can't think of girls as playthings; a fatal conscientiousness inan unmarried man of no means. Day after day we grew more familiar. She usedto come up and ask me if I wanted anything; and of course I knew that shebegan to come more often than necessary. When she laid a meal for me, wetalked--half an hour at a time. The mother, doubtless, looked on withapproval; Emma had to find a husband, and why not me as well as another?They knew I was a soft creature--that I never made a row aboutanything--was grateful for anything that looked like kindness--and so on.Just the kind of man to be captured. But no--I don't want to make out thatI am their victim; that's a feeble excuse, and a worthless one. The averageman would either have treated the girl as a servant, and so kept her at herdistance, or else he would have alarmed her by behaviour which suggestedanything you like but marriage. As for me, I hadn't the common-sense totake either of these courses. I made a friend of the girl; talked to hermore and more confidentially; and at last--fatal moment--told her myhistory. Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of mylife. Can you conceive such folly?'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in thehouse one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. Iknew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I waslonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one whowould give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning aconversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were stilltalking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I caredfor Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me.But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyedthat evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that Istand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk withthem; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes tothinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years ofsqualid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to lifeon a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offeringmarriage--making love--to a girl such as those I meet in the big houses.''You will outgrow that,' said Munden.'Yes, yes,--I hope and believe so. And wouldn't it be criminal to denymyself even the chance, now that I have money? All to-day I have beentortured like a soul that beholds its salvation lost by a moment's weaknessof the flesh. You can imagine what my suffering has been; it drove me intosheer lying. I had resolved to deny utterly that I had asked Emma to marryme--to deny it with a savage boldness, and take the consequences.''A most rational resolve, my dear fellow. Pray stick to it. But you haven'ttold me yet how the dizzy culmination of your madness was reached. You saythat you proposed last night?''Yes--and simply for the pleasure of telling Emma, when she had acceptedme, that I had eighty thousand pounds! You can't understand that? I supposethe change of fortune has made me a little light-headed; I have been goingabout with a sense of exaltation which has prompted me to endless follies.I have felt a desire to be kind to people--to bestow happiness--to share myjoy with others. If I had some of the doctor's money in my pocket, I shouldhave given away five-pound notes.''You contented yourself,' said Munden, laughing, 'with giving apromissory-note for the whole legacy.''Yes; but try to understand. Emma came up to my room at supper-time, and asusual we talked. I didn't say anything about my uncle's death--yet I feltthe necessity of telling her creep fatally upon me. There was a conflict inmy mind, between common-sense and that awful sentimentality which is mycurse. When Emma came up again after supper, she mentioned that her motherwas gone with a friend to a theatre. "Why don't you go?" I said. "Oh, Idon't go anywhere." "But after all," I urged consolingly, "August isn'texactly the time for enjoying the theatre." She admitted it wasn't; butthere was the Exhibition at Earl's Court, she had heard so much of it, andwanted to go. "Then suppose we go together one of these evenings?"'You see? Idiot!--and I couldn't help it. My tongue spoke these imbecilewords in spite of my brain. All very well, if I had meant what another manwould; but I didn't, and the girl knew I didn't. And she looked at me--andthen--why, mere brute instinct did the rest--no, not mere instinct, for itwas complicated with that idiot desire to see how the girl would look, hearwhat she would say, when she knew that I had given her eighty thousandpounds. You can't understand?''As a bit of morbid psychology--yes.''And the frantic proceeding made me happy! For an hour or two I behaved asif I loved the girl with all my soul. And afterwards I was still happy. Iwalked up and down my bedroom, making plans for the future--for hereducation, and so on. I saw all sorts of admirable womanly qualities inher. I was in love with her, and there's an end of it!'Munden mused for a while, then laid down his pipe.'Remarkably suggestive, Shergold, the name of the street in which you havebeen living. Well, you don't go back there?''No. I have come to my senses. I shall go to an hotel for to-night, andsend presently for all my things.''To be sure, and on Saturday--or on Friday evening, if you like, we leaveEngland.'It was evident that Shergold rejoiced with trembling.'But I can't stick to the lie.' he said. 'I shall compensate the girl. Yousee, by running away I make confession that there's something wrong. Ishall see a solicitor and put the matter into his hands.''As you please. But let the solicitor exercise his own discretion as todamages.''Damages!' Shergold pondered the word. 'I suppose she won't drag me intocourt--make a public ridicule of me? If so, there's an end of my hopes. Icouldn't go among people after that.''I don't see why not. But your solicitor will probably manage the affair.They have their methods,' Munden added drily.Early the next morning Shergold despatched a telegram to Maze Pond,addressed to his landlady. It said that he would be kept away by businessfor a day or two. On Friday he attended his uncle's funeral, and thatevening he left Charing Cross with Harvey Munden, en route for Como.There, a fortnight later, Shergold received from his solicitor acommunication which put an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness.That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubledconscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all hisdoing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of hisweakness.'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and isgoing to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much asfive thousand pounds,--it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidentlyencouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have thesatisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. Myhopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--il fumo in aere ed in aquala schiuma!'Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemedto disdain reply.'Your advice?''What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- doher worst!'Shergold winced.'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.''Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!''I must raise the offer--''By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her twohundred and fifty.''But the scandal--the ridicule--''Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom andsave your life.''That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, hewent upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunkin a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And whenthe next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, awaiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started forLondon,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean todo is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of that istoo much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a fewdays.'The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter fromShergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that thewriter was 'about to be married,' and that in less than a week he wouldhave started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did notreply; indeed, the letter contained no address.One day in November he was accosted at the club by his familiar bore.'So your friend Shergold is dead?''Dead? I know nothing of it.''Really? They talked of it last night at Lady Teasdale's. He died a fewdays ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wifecabled to some one or other.'

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *