If Only etc. by Francis Clement Philips and Augustus Harris

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After she had got into her pretty sea-green skirts of lace and tulle
and shimmering silk, like so much sea foam, she had to lie still and,
let the poor over-strained lungs and heart recover themselves, and
then, when the summons came she called up a smile to her wan face and
pluckily did her best.

But that night she looked up at Saidie after the last ribbon was in
its place.

"I'll have to throw up the sponge, after all," she said wearily; "it
is beyond me. They are right and I was wrong,--I must have a rest."

Saidie muttered something in reply, but when the door closed upon her
sister, she sighed.

"She _is_ bad; there is no denying it," remarked the dresser, who was
busily stroking out the roses which were to garland Saidie's dress.
"It gives me a turn every time I see her go on the stage."

"She looks worse than she really is," returned Saidie; "sometimes she
is as brisk and lively as you like--she so soon gets tired."

"She is a tidy sight worse than 'tired,' and it strikes me her voice
was weak like to-night. Did you notice it, Miss?"

"Oh, she varies so. I guess she would be as right as any of us the
moment she was on the boards."

Nevertheless, although she was not going to confess it, Saidie was
troubled and uneasy. There was something in Bella's face she had not
seen before, and it frightened her--a little. She stood at the wings
with a quick-beating heart, but the next moment laughed at her own
fears.

Bella was singing her very best. Not a falter in the clear, bell-like
tones, and her face was smiling and radiant.

And then--her eyes fastened themselves on a box in the grand tier;
with a scared expression she shrank back a little, and her lip
quivered, but with a mighty effort she controlled herself and caught
up the refrain again--carolled a word or two, faltered, swayed
helplessly, uncertainly forward, and fell headlong on the stage.

They were round her in a second, lifting her gently and tenderly. Her
head had fallen back and a thin stream of blood was welling over the
laces at her bosom.

"She is dead!" cried Saidie. "Oh, will someone fetch a doctor,
quick!"

But almost before the words were spoken he was there, and when Bella
opened her eyes they fell on the grave, anxious, kindly face of the
man whose wife she had been.

"Jack! Jack! is this--the end?"

"Hush--no--no! Keep still--perfectly still--you must not move."

"I am not--in pain--a little dizzy--nothing more, and my head feels
light."

"Drink this and don't talk. As soon as you are a little recovered we
will go home."

"Home! Jack!"

Oh, the wistful look in the deep blue eyes--the prophetic droop about
the perfect mouth! It was almost more than he could bear.

"I will go with you myself if you will do what I tell you, keep
absolutely quiet--your life depends upon it."

She looked up tremulously.

"I don't care--a--cent _now_," she whispered.

She bore the journey to Cecil Street better than they could hope, and
the bleeding from the lungs had ceased.

Downstairs Saidie expressed a wish to remain all night with her
sister.

"She ought not to be left," she said.

"Most decidedly she must not be left," replied Sir John--"I intend
remaining with your sister."

"You! Well, this beats all, upon my word!"

So great was Miss Blackall's surprise that when she found herself
ousted from the position of head nurse and the door metaphorically
closed upon her, she had not a word to say, but called a hansom and
had herself driven to Bayswater, where she had been living since her
mother's death, now nearly a year ago.

"And I used to think he didn't amount to a row of pins," she murmured
with an odd sort of penitence. "Well, I guess I was wrong, that's
all."

Through the long hours of that never-ending night John Chetwynd
watched by Bella's bedside. For the most part, she lay mute and
inert, but towards morning she grew restless.

"I must talk," she cried excitedly--"to see you sit there and to
think--to remember--oh! if only I had run straight, Jack--I don't
think I was meant for this, do you?"

He had no words with which to answer her. He folded his arms across
his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The
folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket
full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table.
On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house
flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a
penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of
chalk.

She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he
held them tightly in his own--rings and all.

She was never meant for the life she had chosen!

His heart felt breaking.

The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos
in her regretful cry--the past with its load of gall and shame and
misery--which could never be obliterated. Never!

"Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I
thought--I feared--I was going to die; if I had there was no one to
care but--Saidie."

"Do you not think what it would mean to--me?"

The words broke from him against his will.

"To--you, Jack! then you care--still!"

"Care!"

He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was
breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum
without.

Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in
them--and then the lids fell over them.

"I feel strangely weak--but--so--happy, Jack," she said. Her breath
came more easily and she slept.

Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour,
grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his
consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving
word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for
another night's vigil.

"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the
little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her.
"She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"

"I am afraid to say--it depends so much on what recuperative power
she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."

"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again,
I suppose?"

"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.

At that moment came a smart tap at the door.

"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.

"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too
late. The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man
walked in.

"Miss Blackhall--how unkind to deny me admittance. You must know how
fearfully anxious I am. How is she?"

"There's the doctor--ask him."

The stranger turned eagerly.

"This is not serious, I trust. She was always delicate, but--it is
wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over."

For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.

Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella? He forced
himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a
string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew
what he was saying.

"If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more,
poor darling," he said brokenly. "I suppose I can go in, eh?"

His hand was on the door--John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.

"No one must see her," he cried excitedly. "I absolutely forbid it.
It would be most dangerous--most improper."

The two men looked into each other's faces for the space of several
seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an
impatient word. "Absurd! As if I could do her any harm," he said.
"Well, I will be round again later in the day," he added with a nod
to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.

"Who is that man?" asked Sir John sternly.

Saidie shrugged her shoulders.

"You shall tell me--what is he to Bella?"

"He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many
knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his
wife."

And there was silence--a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly
his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts--facts
stripped of false adornments--naked, convincing.

Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.

She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed
his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the
fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the
struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.

She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in
the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and
she smiled happily, contentedly.

Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.

"No--no," cried Bella vehemently; "send him away. I don't want to see
him."

"But he is so anxious, dear."

"Is he?--poor Charlie! Tell him I am in no pain, and I should like to
think he will never quite forget me."

"He will never do that," said Saidie, going away with her message but
half satisfied, and Bella turned a flushed cheek to her pillow.

And then, for the second time, John Chetwynd asked, "Who is that
man?"

And Bella tried feebly to tell him. He had been attached to her for a
long time, and had come over with her from the States.

"And you--did you mean to marry him, Bella?"

"I had thought of it--it seemed suicidal to say no to such an offer,
and then I--oh, Jack, when I saw you I knew I could never love any
other man!"

He poured out a draught and held it to her trembling lips.

"I feel so strangely weak," she said; "you are going to marry Ethel,
and I am nothing to you now?"

John Chetwynd drew her close to him, so that the tired head rested on
his shoulder with the sweet familiarity of long ago.

"Listen," he said. "I have been a coward, frightened of the truth.
The world was dearer to me than happiness, or I thought so, and I
hesitated, afraid of its contempt. But amid my weakness was one
thought, one impulse, which no amount of worldly prudence or
consideration could stifle, and Bella--my wife--that was my love for
you."

"Jack, Jack, is it true?"

"I have loved you always, through all my life, you and no other. I
see now how hard I must have seemed to you and how wild and
unreasonable I was in my expectation from you and how at last it
drove you from my side. The shame of it is not more yours than mine.
We both erred, we both sinned; but I was older and should have been
wiser; the burden of it should fall on me. The world is nothing to me
now--less than nothing. Let us take up life where we broke it off.
Give me back the past, which held for me all of happiness I have ever
known."

She lay with a smile of peace upon her face, both hands clinging to
his.

"I have communed with myself and thought it well out, and I believe
that to bind my life, with its memories of you, to the girl to whom I
am engaged, would be a cruel wrong and an injustice to her. She
deserves a better fate, and I honestly feel that the rupture will not
grieve her much. We will remarry, you and I. I will take you away
from England, I will guard and cherish you, and in my love for you,
you will grow stronger. Oh! my darling, my darling, if you knew what
life has been to me since you went; how I have blamed myself,--I who
ought to have shielded you against yourself, and have been a moral
backbone to your weakness. Then as time went on I persuaded myself
that I had succeeded in putting you out of my heart,--that I had
forgotten you,--and then--you came back to me, and the past leapt
living from the years that had no power to bury it, and I knew that
you were more to me than honour or fame or anything the world held.
Hence-forth I will be so gentle with you, so tender--so loving."

"Will you--kiss me--Jack?"

She had gradually pulled herself upright on the pillows.

"Will you kiss me--and say--once more, as you used to--'God bless
you--wifie'?"

Their lips met and clung together.

"God bless you--wifie."

And there was silence, a long silence, broken by a gasp, a sigh, and
a gentle unloosening of the clasping arms.

"Bella--Bella--speak to me, my beloved."

But the passionate cry fell on ears that heard not.

The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels'
wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death.

* * * * *

ONE CAN'T ALWAYS TELL.

_From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford
Street, Park Lane_.

YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 15th, 1901._

Dearest Amy,

Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather
is perfect, and I am having a very good time. Jack's mother is on
board, and is really devoted to me. I am a lucky girl to have such a
sweet mother-in-law in prospective. She is the dearest old lady in the
world. The wedding has been decided upon for the last week in
September, so I suppose that I shall have to come back to town before
very long to see about my trousseau.

There is really nothing so bewildering to anyone who sees it for the
first time as the exquisite order and dainty perfection of a yacht in
which its owner takes a pride, and can afford to gratify his whim. And
this is the case with Jack. The deck shines like polished parquet. The
sails and ropes are faultlessly clean, and Jack says that the masts
have just been scraped and the funnel repainted. The brass nails and
the binnacle are as perfectly in order as if they were costly
instruments in an optician's window. There is a small deck cargo of
coal in white canvas sacks, with leather straps and handles. And there
is the deck-house with its plate-glass windows and velvet fittings and
spring-blinds.

Soon after I arrived I went down into the engine-room, where I saw
machinery as scrupulously clean as if it were part of some gigantic
watch which a grain of dust might throw out of gear. On the deck are
delightful P. and O. lounges with their arms doing duty for small
tables. All around the wheel and upon the roof of the deck-house, and
here and there on stands against the bulwarks, there are ranged in
pots, bright red geraniums contrasted with the yellow calceolaria, and
the deliriously scented heliotrope. Altogether, everything is charming.

We go delightful trips every day, and it doesn't matter whether there
is a favourable wind or not, as Jack's is a steam yacht. We have slept
on board except one night when it was rather rough, and then Mrs.
Vivian and I stayed at the South Western Hotel.

Altogether I am enjoying myself more than I have ever done in my life.
Jack is an angel and adores me, the darling.

Fond love,
From your affectionate
ROSE.

P.S.--There is a Mrs. Tenterden, a widow, coming down to the yacht on
Thursday to stay for a few days. Mrs. Vivian tells me that she is very
good-looking.

_From the Same to the Same._

YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 22nd, 1901._

Dearest Amy,

We are still here. Mrs. Tenterden, the lady I spoke about in my last
letter, arrived here on Thursday.

I hate her! I hate her!! I hate her!!!

You will doubtless wonder why I, who am, as a rule, a quiet, harmless
little dove, should indulge in such sinful feelings, but you will cease
doing so when I tell you the truth.

Mrs. Tenterden has set her cap at Jack! He has--I know it--fallen
under the spell of the enchantress. And she is an enchantress. She is a
woman of about thirty, tall, fair, with striking features, lovely eyes,
and the most superb complexion I have ever seen. The best complexion I
ever recollect was that of a peasant girl's at Ivy Bridge in
Devonshire, but hers was nothing to compare with Mrs. Tenterden's. It
is perfect. I can say no more.

Then she is extremely amusing, being a brilliant talker (for I heard
Jack say so) and very witty (for he is constantly laughing at the
things she says, and which for the most part I don't understand).

But this I know, that since her advent I have changed from the happiest
girl in the world into one of the most miserable.

Mrs. Tenterden is the widow of Colonel Tenterden, who was a brother
officer of Jack's father, Colonel Vivian. Her husband died in India
about six months ago, and she has lately returned to England. Jack had
never seen her before, but Mrs. Vivian, who knew her as a young girl,
asked her down here.

She has made a dead set at Jack, and I feel (I can't help it) that he
has fallen a captive to her bow and spear, for his manner towards me
has entirely changed. He is not my darling, loving Jack, at all, but
merely a polite friend.

Mrs. Vivian must be blind not to see what is going on. But I cannot
enlighten her, and what am I to do? Do give me your advice, dear Amy?

Ever your affectionate
ROSE.

_From Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.

ALFORD STREET.
TUESDAY.

My dearest Child,

Just got yours. You ask my advice, and to use a phrase of my brother
Tom's, "I give it you in once." Don't be a little goose and bother your
pretty little head. I am older than you, and I understand women of the
Mrs. Tenterden type. They amuse men for a time, and very often take
them captive, but in nineteen cases out of twenty the prisoner escapes.
In other words, they are not the women who men care to marry. Fancy
your Jack, for instance, preferring a _rusee_ garrison hack, like Mrs.
Tenterden, to your own sweet self. It is absolutely ridiculous.

Do nothing and say nothing. Don't worry yourself and all will come
right. The temporary infatuation will pass away, and Mr. Vivian will
love you all the better afterwards. You will see if I am not right.

So be comforted, darling Rose.
Ever your loving
AMY.

_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_, 170A, _Ebury Street,
S.W._

YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
_July 23rd_, 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

I promised to let you know how I got on, and to write as soon as there
was anything to write about. So here goes. I am on board Jack Vivian's
yacht, and a ripper it is. That is to say, I am on the yacht in the
day, but sleep at the South Western Hotel. I hate sleeping on board a
yacht, and never do so if I can help it. It may benefit one's
health--daresay that it does--but I do like to take my rest on shore.
Well, now, as to my news. I have made a great impression on Mr. Vivian.
He is the easiest man to deal with I ever met in my life, and he is as
putty in my hands. That stupid girl, Miss Dacre, to whom he is supposed
to be engaged--I say supposed because he does not seem to be quite
clear about it himself--hasn't got a chance with me. What Jack Vivian
could have ever seen in her I can't guess. She is the usual type of
English Miss who can say "Papa and Mamma," and that is about all. I can
see that she loathes me, and I don't wonder at it. But I am perfectly
charming to her, and affect not to notice her palpable dislike.

Mrs. Vivian--Jack's mother--seems not to have the remotest idea how
matters are shaping, and fondly imagines that her beloved son is going
to marry Miss Dacre. My dear Lily, as the Americans say, "it will be a
cold day in August before that event comes off." The fact is that Jack
pays her only the slightest attention and is absolutely engrossed with
me. If I, therefore, don't pull off this _coup_ I deserve to be hanged.
When I have actually landed my fish I shall take my departure for a day
while he breaks matters off with mademoiselle. You may not perhaps
approve of this, but I know what I am about.

More in a day or two.

Ever yours,
ALICE.

_From Mrs. Montague Mount to Mrs. Tenterden_.

170A, EBURY STREET,
_24th July_ 1901.

DEAREST ALICE,

I was much interested in your letter. Needless to say that I wish you
the success that you are sure to attain. One word of advice. If I were
you, while you are at Southampton, I should manage to be a good deal
more at the hotel than you appear to be. You cannot have much
opportunity for conversation on board the yacht, but at the hotel you
can have Mr. Vivian all to yourself. And you can easily make excuses to
get off the yacht, and as he is evidently so _epris_, he will follow
you to the hotel, when you will have him more or less at your mercy. I
shall be longing to hear how the plot thickens.

With fond love,
Believe me,
Your devoted friend,
LILY.

_From Mrs. Tenterden to Mrs. Montague Mount_.

_July 29th,_ 1901.

DEAREST LILY,

Thanks for yours. My dear child, I have taken your excellent advice and
am very glad that I did so. Your plan of campaign has proved most
successful. I have had Jack with me for hours in the smoking room at
the hotel, where the ladies staying in the hotel as well as the men
always resort. It is a large room and affords ample opportunity for a
_tete-a-tete_. Of these opportunities I have availed myself to the
fullest possible extent. And with what result, you will naturally ask?
With the result, my dear, of making this man absolutely mad about me.
He has become an utter imbecile. _C'est tout dit_. His incoherent
raving would only bore you, so, like the kindhearted little person I
am, I spare you this infliction. Suffice it to say that he is mine body
and soul. I say nothing about his fortune, because that naturally goes
with the other two.

Let me thank you sincerely for your wise counsels,

And, believe me,
Ever affectionately yours,
ALICE.

_Miss Amy Conway to Miss Rose Dacre_.

ALFORD STREET.
THURSDAY.

DEAREST ROSE,

I have been anxiously expecting to hear from you, but you have not sent
me a single line. I say "anxiously," not that I really feel the least
anxiety about you, being perfectly positive, as I am, that all will be
right. But, my dearest girl, I am so deeply interested in this affair
that, of course, I am anxious to hear how matters are going on. And you
are a very naughty child not to have written to me before. Repair your
sin of omission as soon as possible, and let me have a full account of
all your proceedings.

With much love,
Yours ever,
AMY.

_From Miss Rose Dacre to Miss Amy Conway,_ 30, _Alford Street, Park
Lane_.

YACHT "MARIE,"
COWES.
_August 2nd_, 1901.

DEAREST AMY,

Pray forgive me for not having written sooner. But as the French say,
_tout savoir est tout pardonner._ And having been for many days in the
depth of despair, worried out of my life, and half dead with anxiety, I
have not really been able to put pen to paper. But now all is changed,
and I am able to address you with a light heart.

I am sure, Amy, that you will be longing to know why, and for this
reason I will not for a moment leave you a victim to the most terrible
ailment that can attack our sex--unsatisfied feminine curiosity.

Two days ago we were still at Southampton, and it was proposed that
after lunch we should take a little trip down the river Hamble--a river
which runs into Southampton Water. Well, we started--Jack, and a friend
of his, Captain Cleland, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Tenterden, and myself. All
went well for about an hour, when a breeze sprang up which soon
developed into half a gale. At least I understood the captain of the
yacht to say so. I didn't mind it in the least, but Mrs. Vivian, poor
old lady, was dreadfully ill and nervous, and though I did all I could
to comfort and reassure her, it was not of much use. As for Mrs.
Tenterden, she absolutely collapsed. In abject terror she uttered
incoherent cries, and no one could make out what she wished to be done.
Jack seemed very upset and tried to soothe her as well as he could, but
it was all to no effect, and indeed she once turned on him just like a
virago, saying,

"I never wanted to come on your horrid yacht, but you would make me,
and see what has happened to me now."

Poor Jack--I call him "Poor Jack" although he has behaved like a very
naughty boy--seemed to wince, but made no reply.

Eventually we arrived opposite the village of Hamble, and there the
anchor was weighed--if that is the right expression. Jack suggested
that the three ladies, including myself, should go ashore in the dingey
and stay at the hotel. Mrs. Vivian said that she did not want to do
this, and Mrs. Tenterden positively refused.

"Do you think that I am going to risk my life that jim-crack boat?" she
asked. "I am not quite an imbecile. Though I think I must be after all,
otherwise I should not have come on this idiotic cruise."

Jack again made no reply, but there was something in his face that told
me that he was becoming disillusioned.

Shortly after that he sent the skipper and a boy ashore, who returned
with some marvellous looking lobsters and a huge crab. It seems that
this place is famous for its shell-fish, and I can only say that I
never tasted anything more delicious than the crab in question.

Mrs. Vivian managed to eat a little dinner, but Mrs. Tenterden retired
to her cabin and contented herself with some soup.

I for my part, ate a most capital dinner, and I fancied that Jack
seemed sorry for the way he has been treating me lately; treatment
which I should never have put up with, except from a man whom I love so
devotedly--a man whom I meant to rescue (selfishly, I admit) from that
siren's clutches. In all I have done I have been guided by your advice,
and therefore to you remains all the credit, coupled with the life-long
devotion of your little friend.

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