If Only etc. by Francis Clement Philips and Augustus Harris

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"I am," she said with a sort of feverish eagerness, "no more of a
lady now than I was then. I am just what I used to be when I made you
ashamed of my ignorance and my mistakes. But if I were pure, if I had
never been divorced, if I were standing here your faithful wife,
would you be glad?"

"Hush! You are paining yourself and me."

"Jack!"

"For God's sake be still!"

She fell on her knees beside him.

"Jack, say you would be glad."

"If you had never left me, if you had remained my faithful wife,
heaven knows that I should be a happier man!"

Bella burst into tears and sobbed convulsively, then pressed her
handkerchief to her mouth. It was bright with blood when she withdrew
it.

"Oh, be careful of yourself," said John Chetwynd, terribly moved;
"you must do what I advise."

"I'll try. I wonder why you should care one way or the other. It is
more than I deserve--you make me so sorry and ashamed. I shall never
see you any more, shall I?"

"I cannot."

"No; I understand, I ought not to ask you. Well, good-bye. There is
my address if you should take a notion to come. It is only a six
months' engagement over here, and if I'm not long for this wicked
world, I may not live to finish it. Keep my card. If one day you
should feel that you could come--just once. You don't hate me?"

"Hate you? No."

"I dare not ask you to forgive; but I begin to know and feel what my
action towards you really meant. Jack, see I am on my knees. Forgive
me!"

"I do. I forgive. If I was hard to you; if, as you say, I expected
and exacted too much from you, may God forgive me."

The tears were still raining down Bella's cheeks.

"Kiss me, Jack."

He shrank back. "You must not ask me that. I cannot."

"Is it that you despise me so utterly?"

"No, no; you don't understand. I--"

"Kiss me."

"Why do you make me speak? I am going to be married again. I kissed
her--a young girl--in this room half an hour ago. I could not outrage
her trust in me."

A sort of stung expression came into the face of the kneeling woman
and she staggered to her feet.

"You are going to take another wife! My God! I never thought--I never
dreamt. It seemed so--so--impossible. I hope she will make you
happier than I did."

"Oh, hush, hush!"

"She is one of your own class--a lady? What is her name?"

"I would rather not mention it. Give me your hand and let us part in
peace."

"Tell it me," she pleaded. "What name do you call her by?"

"Ethel."

"Ethel and Bella. Ah, Ethel is far the nicer name. We didn't think
once that you would ever be telling me you were going to be married
to someone else, did we? It feels queer, and it hurts me--a little, I
think. Good-bye, Jack. I see now why you could not kiss me--it would
not be right of you. She is a young girl and she might find it hard
to forgive you if she knew. I am going. You used to have a bell on
your table, I recollect, with a little white knob that you pressed
when Mary was to go to the hall door. Do you use it still? Oh, I see.
Let me press it instead of you, may I? I sha'n't feel so much as if
you were turning me out. Good-bye." She said the word lingeringly,
tenderly. "Say 'Bella' once again, for the sake of old times."

Jack Chetwynd took the slender trembling hand in his with God knows
what of anguish and pity stirring at his heart.

"Good-bye--Bella."

And the door fell to.

She was gone.

He could hear her hollow cough as she passed down the tesselated
corridor.

CHAPTER VI.

It was two days later. Sir John Chetwynd sat in his big easy chair
with an open letter before him. "We are surprised to have seen and
heard nothing of you," wrote the Duchess; "more especially as after
the few words we had in private upon a certain important matter, I
fully anticipated an early visit from you. But such a busy man as
yourself and one so much in request, both socially and
professionally, must not be judged by the rules which govern the
common herd, I suppose; at the same time (although I assure you she
has not said a word upon the subject) I can say that dear Ethel feels
herself a wee bit neglected. You must have been _professionally_
engaged last night, I presume, since we were obliged to dine without
you and go to see Sarah Bernhardt alone."

He had spent the whole evening in his consulting rooms, totally
forgetting his promise to escort his _fiancee_ and her mother to the
theatre.

Well, he would see them both on the morrow and make his peace, and
then--he dropped his head on his hands and fairly groaned. It was
useless to argue with himself, to bring commonsense to bear upon the
point, to count up the advantages to be derived from this union with
Lady Ethel; look at it which way he would, the fact remained the
same, that he had no longer the remotest desire to marry again.

The knowledge had certainly come tardily, but not the less surely.

He did not, he told himself, love Lady Ethel as a man should love the
wife of his bosom. Middle-aged, worn, and unemotional though he might
be, he knew that he was yet capable of a much deeper feeling than she
had evoked and he had wakened to a realisation of this since he had
again seen Bella.

He was no fool; he was, on the contrary, a shrewd, clever,
quick-witted man of the world and it was impossible to shut his eyes
to the trouble. He thought of Bella as she was when he had first
married her; he recalled their courtship, her pretty half shy, half
tender ways--the girlish prettiness which time had turned into shame.

She had left a scrap of lace on his table for her throat or her
veil--Heaven knew what--and his eyes grew blurred and dim as he gazed
at it. He repeated mentally phrases which had fallen from her,
piecing them together and trying to weave the pattern of her life out
of the fragments.

She had changed pathetically. She had acquired the manner that her
sister used to have, and which he had so strenuously objected to--the
slangy, devil-may-care tone, the total absence of which in the old
days had made his little sweetheart so conspicuously different from
her environment. She wore now the impress of evil, from her Regent
Street hat to her Paris gown. Manifestly she had risen in her
vocation, but he knew that her salary alone had never supplied the
costume or the rings, and his heart ached.

That night he sat at the Duchess of Huddersfield's table facing his
_fiancee_, and for the first time he wondered if sang-froid or
perfect equanimity were all that a man such as himself might desire.
She was, as Bella had put it, "One of his own class--a lady," which
she had never been, poor Bella! but he did wonder just a little how
much of real heart beat under the dainty laces that shrouded Lady
Ethel's bosom. He had reflected once and not so long ago that that
portion of a woman's anatomy was superfluous, but he wavered in his
belief now. He could stake his professional honour, his hopes of
eternity--of--everything--on the absolute purity of this girl;
nothing would ever tempt Lady Ethel to swerve ever so little from the
path of rectitude and decorum. The cold, proud patrician face spoke
for itself, and yet--he was in a brown study when the voice of his
prospective mother-in-law brought him out of the clouds.

"And now," she said in a significant tone and with a glance full of
meaning, "now I suppose you young people have lots to talk about, and
will forgive me if I run away."

And the silken draperies swept themselves across the floor and the
door closed softly upon her Grace.

Ethel lay back in a low, lounging chair with a big ostrich feather
fan in her hand, and she looked up expectantly into her lover's face.
There was nothing else for it, and he took the plunge valiantly--and
with precisely the correct amount of maidenly hesitancy, Lady Ethel
named a day for their marriage. And then--somehow there seemed
nothing more to be said; each sat silent.

Sir John felt rather than saw his companion yawn behind her fan, and
realised desperately that he must break the silence.

"Ethel," he said gently; "I am old compared with yourself, and grave
and sad even beyond my years; are you sure I can make your future
happy?"

She looked at him with a good deal of surprise, and a frown puckered
her smooth brow.

"Why not? Why should we wish for rhapsodies and commonplace
love-making? We can leave all that to the Chloes and Daphnes of a
by-gone age. It would be boring to the last degree. One must take
pleasure just as much as sorrow, with a certain amount of equanimity.
If there is one thing more than another that I hate, it is to be
ruffled. Emotion of any sort ages a girl so terribly."

The sword would never wear out the scabbard so far as Lady Ethel was
concerned! He doubted if she were capable of any great depth of
feeling. But he did not say now as he would have done a week ago--"So
much the better;" he no longer felt that it was altogether desirable.

He looked at her more scrutinisingly than he had ever done before,
and for the first time he told himself that the beautifully moulded
mouth was hard and unloving, and that the chin spoke of self-will and
an amount of resolution unusual in such a young girl.

He hastened to change the subject.

"You would like to visit Switzerland or Italy?" he asked.

"No; I don't care for scenery much, or nature! I like human nature
best; it is much more interesting, I consider. I should prefer Paris
or Vienna."

"Then Paris or Vienna let it be, by all means," he hastened to reply,
and Lady Ethel smiled, well pleased.

"Mamma," said Sir John's _fiancee_ an hour or two later, when mother
and daughter were alone. "Do you know who Mrs. Chetwynd was?"

"My dear Ethel, it is much better that subject should not be
discussed."

"I don't agree with you. Since I am going to marry John it can only
be right and proper that I should be made aware of every detail
connected with his former marriage."

When Lady Ethel adopted that tone, her mother knew by past experience
that it was a saving of time and temper to yield.

"I only know that she was beneath him in position--a dancer, I
believe, and she ran away with someone else. Really providential, I
consider; it must have been a happy release for poor Sir John."

"He was plain Mr. Chetwynd."

"Yes; but already very popular. It was exceedingly fortunate that he
did not get his baronetcy earlier, for had he done so, she would
probably have refused to be faithless."

"I wonder if he felt her desertion much?"

"The world says not; they had lived unhappily for some time before,
and the general impression was that he did not care in the least."

"But you spoke of her to him when he asked your consent to our
marriage?"

"Yes, Ethel, I did; I referred to it as delicately as possible, of
course. I believe I said, 'your early misfortune,' or something to
that effect."

"And what did he say?"

"Well, he spoke very nicely; he said he was aware that it added to
the disparity between a man in his position and my daughter."

"And you?"

"I believe I replied that because a bad woman had caused him misery
and suffering in the past, it was no reason why he should not win and
hold the love of a good girl, and that because of the sorrow he had
endured, I felt the more assured in trusting my child's happiness
into his keeping."

"That was sweet of you, mother; but did it not occur to you that
there was just--a little risk?"

"How?"

"I don't think that John is a man who would forget easily."

"Good Heavens, child! what do you mean? you cannot doubt the
sincerity of his protestations of affection for you, surely?"

Her daughter laughed.

"I certainly do not wish him to be more demonstrative, mother dear;
love-making is the most boring process imaginable; but still, I
should prefer, I must confess, that there was no under-current of
feeling for wife number one."

"You amaze me, Ethel, by suggesting such a horrible idea. The woman
may be dead for anything I know; at all events, she left England
before he obtained his divorce, and no one has heard anything of her
since. It is extremely improbable that she will ever return to this
country."

But in this, as we know, the Duchess was in grave error.

At that very moment Bella was sitting by the open piano in her cosy
apartments in a street off the Strand, idly striking a note here and
there and humming the air of a new song; but her cough, which was
incessant, made singing almost out of the question.

"I believe I'm getting worse," she cried, rising and flinging herself
on the sofa, "I'm sure I was not so bad as this three months ago--not
so bad when--he never came. Ah! why should he? How could I expect it?
Perhaps to-day may have been his wedding day! Come in."

The door opened noisily, and Saidie Blackall, very much over-dressed
and distinctly rouged and made up, entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs.
Doss, looking precisely the same as on that memorable night when they
had been the innocent cause of so much trouble to Bella's husband.
The old music-hall singer and his wife had lost no time in looking
her up when she returned from the States, and were really
well-meaning, kindly folk.

"Hallo, Bella, you look done up!"

"I am," admitted the girl wearily. "It was as much as I could do to
pull through to-night, and I have got a beastly new song to tackle."

"I don't like your cough, my dear," said Mrs. Doss, looking
distressed; "it shakes you to bits."

"I've got a little more cold, I fancy; but I'll be all right in a day
or two."

"You're not looking the thing--I saw you from the front
to-night--and--well, I guess it was a bit of a heffort to sing at
all, eh?"

Bella turned quickly and looked sharply into Mr. Doss's face.

"If you have got anything disagreeable to say, don't be afraid, out
with it. I suppose you have jumped to the notion that I'm dying?"

She tried to laugh, but it was a piteous attempt, and ended in a fit
of coughing which left her white and trembling in every limb.

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Doss, compassionately; "you must not
excite yourself; we will do the talking, and you keep quiet."

Bella lay back on her cushions, weak and exhausted, and when the
Dosses at length went away she gave a sigh of relief.

"What did they come for to-night?" she said thoughtfully.

"Well, Bella, Doss had heard a bit of bad news and thought it as well
to put you on your guard; but finding you like this put it out of his
head, I suppose."

"Bad news? What do you mean? He's not married, is he?"

Saidie stared at her.

"Not that I know of--why, he would have you to-morrow; you know that
as well as I do! you are treating him in a rough way; there's no
mistake about it."

Bella fell back again relievedly.

"Oh, you're talking about Charlie, are you?" she said.

"Who should I be talking about? There isn't no one else as wants to
make an honest woman of you, is there?"

The shaft fell short of its mark. Bella did not even wince.

"Well, it strikes me, my girl, you'll have to fall in with his
views," Saidie continued presently; "for if what has come to Doss's
ears is true, you'll be out of a berth before you can say Christopher
Columbus."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"The management are getting dissatisfied, and we know what that
means."

The pale face flushed poppy red.

"They can't help themselves," she said eagerly. "I have a contract
for six months. They cannot cancel it, you must know they can't, and
it's not very likely I shall allow myself to be played fast and loose
with as the fancy takes them."

"But if you're not able to fulfil your share of the contract--"

"Who says I am not?" cried Bella fiercely. "Old Robertson is a fool,
and if he thinks I'm going to put up with any hanky-panky, he's jolly
well mistaken. Let him try it on, that's all! I should immediately
take steps to enforce my rights, the law is on my side, that's clear
enough."

"I don't know! You heard what Doss said--about how you looked from
the front; and others have got their eyesight as well as him, and can
see you are not well and not--"

"Not fit to sing--that's what you are driving at?"

Saidie was silent.

"I tell you I will sing. Nothing and no one shall stop me. I shall
just defy them all, and go on, and there's no law in England to stop
me."

"If you are not a goose, Bella, I never saw one! What in all the
world keeps you on the boards, I cannot see. Here's a man come over
from N'York with the intention of marrying you; a man who is earning
his hundred dollars a week, and you turn up your nose at him. I can't
understand you. You seemed proud enough of him a week or two back;
but now all on a sudden, for no earthly reason, you show him the cold
shoulder."

"I suppose I can please myself," answered Bella, and her lip
quivered, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"I wish to God I had never left--Jack," she said weakly.

Whereupon Saidie gave her what she was pleased to call a "piece of
her mind" as to the insane folly of any such speech, the result of
which was that Bella wept and coughed herself into a state of
collapse, and had to be carried off to bed.

Things did not mend. Bella persisted, ill though she was, in
appearing night after night in public until at length what Saidie had
predicted came to pass, and she received a formal notice cancelling
her engagement at the Empire on the ground of the extreme delicacy of
her health.

Mr. and Mrs. Doss happened to be with her at the time she received
the notice, and Bella partially appealed to them.

"You will help me, won't you? You won't allow them to impose upon me
so shamefully. They have no right to do it. It's infamous--'annul my
engagement' indeed! They shall find out who they are dealing with. It
would be ruin for me, it would simply spoil my career. I shall go
down at once and see Robertson. It's a likely thing that I'm going to
sit down calmly and quietly and accept my dismissal. Not if I know
it. I'll give Robertson beans."

"I wouldn't do it if I were you," said Mrs. Doss quietly.

"Not do it; what do you mean? You must be dreaming. It is the only
thing to be done."

And now Mr. Doss, obeying a pathetic glance of his better half, put
in his oar.

"Be a bit patient; wait and see how things turn out; don't do
anything in a 'urry--that's our advice--the old gal's and mine."

"Yes, take things heasy, I say," chimed in the "Rabbit Queen."

"I don't see what there is to wait for. Show me what is to be gained
by waiting, and I will consider it."

"Well, Bella; Doss here will tell you what we was thinking of; he
puts things clear like."

"What was in our mind was to talk the thing over first. Allus talk
the matter well over, was my motto as a boy. It saves a peck o'
bother and a deal o' doing. Don't flare out about it, but take it
gently and conversational."

"Fussing over things won't make you no better," echoed Mrs. Doss.
"Lor', bless me, didn't I have a sister what killed herself fussing!
Fussed herself into the grave, she did! And might have been here,
leastways in Camberwell--alive and hearty at this minute."

"The question is--am I too ill to fulfil my engagement? and I say
'no,'" cried Bella, angrily.

"And me, the missis and me--we says, certainly you are, and so
heverybody says. You want a thorough rest, and then you will pick up
again."

"That may be your opinion; it is not mine! you may talk till
doomsday; you won't convince me. I may surely be allowed to be the
best judge of my own state of health. I shall not wait a day--not an
hour. I'm going at once down to Robertson to have the matter out with
him."

The distressed pair exchanged glances, and then Mrs. Doss said in a
coaxing way, "If you must go, you will let me come with you, my
dear."

Bella hesitated.

"If you're on my side and mean to stick up for me, all right; but if
you're going to hum and haw and look grave, and take the part of the
management, you had best stay away."

Mrs. Doss tucked Bella's arm within her own and trotted upstairs to
the bedroom, where Bella arrayed herself in total silence, and her
friend, beyond a vigorous sigh or two, was mute also.

Mr. Robertson was disengaged, and the ladies were at once ushered
into his presence.

"Now then," began Bella, dashing into her subject, "I have come to
know what all this means. You cannot dismiss me at a moment's notice,
and you know it just as well as I do. Ain't you satisfied with me?"

"Perfectly. It is no question of that sort--but in your present state
of health you are not up to your work, and there was no other
alternative."

"Oh!" said Bella disagreeably, "does anybody else say I am not up to
work except you?"

"My dear Miss Blackall, I regret that this has been necessary. I am
exceedingly sorry that we brought you over from America and then are
compelled to terminate your engagement so soon, but in your present
condition--"

Mr. Robertson flung out his hands with an eloquent gesture.

"Well, look here; I'll give up my dance--that does shake me a bit,
I'll grant; but you must let me sing the new song--you really must;
I'm a nailer at it and I'll wrap up! My cough will soon go: give me
another chance!"

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her eyes were
sparkling--she really did not look so very ill this morning; perhaps
after all, things had been exaggerated. Mr. Robertson wavered. Bella
was quick to see her advantage and to press it.

"Withdraw your notice," she said, "and let me come on for one song
only for a week or two."

"It would really be better, I think, if you were to have an entire
rest for a month or so."

"Yes, for someone else to step into my shoes! Thank you for nothing."

"I will pay you a fortnight's salary in lieu of longer notice; and if
you are desirous of returning to your friends in the States, perhaps
something might be arranged."

"I have no friends here or there," said Bella simply; "my profession
is all I have."

"Well, well, we'll give it a week's trial. If at the end of that time
you are sufficiently recovered to do your work properly, well and
good; but if not, you must really consider your engagement at an
end."

All this time Mrs. Doss had said nothing. Bella had talked so volubly
and so fast, there had really been no chance of getting in a word;
and when the manager rose to his feet to intimate that the interview
was at an end, there was nothing to be done but to follow Bella out
into the street.

"There!" she cried triumphantly, "I told you I would bring him to his
senses. You saw how soon he caved in. It is not a question of my
health at all; you may bet your bottom dollar I have an enemy, but I
flatter myself I've routed him."

Her breath was coming in gasps and she spoke with difficulty. Now
that the excitement was over and the necessity for bearing up at an
end, there came the reaction.

"I think I had better go home and lie down," she said, "or I shall
not be at my post to-night, and I must, you know, I must."

"Poor child, I could fairly have cried," said kindly Mrs. Doss to her
spouse after Bella had been safely escorted home.

"I'm not satisfied with you, old girl," said Mr. Doss, shaking his
head mournfully. "I can't 'elp thinking you might ha' managed things
better. If Bella Blackall goes on a singing at the Hempire, you mark
my words, she'll sing herself into 'eaven."

CHAPTER VII.

A week went by slowly: the hours crept like snails, and yet the days
were surely slipping away, bringing nearer and nearer the one which
was to give Sir John Chetwynd his second wife.

He had hardly seen Lady Ethel since the evening when she had yielded
a coy assent to his not (it must be confessed) very amorous request
that she would fix an early day for their nuptials, and his state of
mind was anything but an enviable one. If ever a man was torn two
ways, halting between prudence and worldly consideration on one side
and the force and power of a love which he had honestly believed was
laid for ever in its grave, that man was Sir John. The idea of seeing
Bella again did not occur to him for some days, but when it fastened
on him he could not shake it off. It was stronger than himself. He
excused his temptation by the condition of her health, though in his
heart of hearts he knew well enough that this was not sufficiently
critical to serve for a reason.

Twice he seized his hat with the intention of going to her, then laid
it aside, angry and disgusted with his own weakness.

His profession no longer occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of
every other topic. He sat for hours buried in the newly awakened
memories that that one brief glimpse of her had conjured up, unable,
unwilling to rouse himself.

And then he made a compromise with his own weakness and irresolution.
He would not go to Cecil Street, since by so doing he would be
offering a tacit insult to the woman he had pledged himself to marry,
but he would, he must see Bella, himself unseen and his presence
unsuspected, and this he could effect easily by going to the Empire.

The notion pleased him, and that self-same evening he carried it out.

Bella was worse. She could no longer deceive herself. It was only by
a superhuman effort that she could pull herself together sufficiently
to sing the one song which was all her part consisted of now.

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