If Only etc. by Francis Clement Philips and Augustus Harris
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Francis Clement Philips and Augustus Harris >> If Only etc.
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Well, we slept on board the yacht, and the morning brought its
revelations.
Mrs. Tenterden was not present at breakfast, and came on deck very
late. And only imagine, my dear, how she had changed. That beautiful
pink complexion that I had admired so much, and even envied, had
disappeared altogether. Her face was of a greyish hue, and possessed no
shade of pink. Those beautiful pencilled eyebrows seemed to have
strangely altered, and to have unaccountably thinned down. The charming
woman-of-the-world manner had entirely disappeared, and, later on, when
we descended to the cabin, at luncheon time, Mrs. Tenterden cast
furtive and certainly not reassuring glances at the little mirror
hanging there.
I confess that at first I was a wee bit sorry for her, but after all,
this Nemesis was thoroughly deserved, and when I saw the impression
that the metamorphosis had made on Jack--the darling goose can't
conceal his feelings--I must own to having been overjoyed.
"The Enchantress" left for London the same evening, looking in her war
paint quite a different being. But this made no difference, for Jack, I
need scarcely say, had evidently altered his mind.
Since her departure, everything has gone back to its old state. Jack,
poor fickle boy, is devotion itself, and I have not thought proper to
resist his entreaties to consent to an immediate marriage. You will not
blame me, darling, will you?
Ever your affectionate and
Happy friend,
ROSE.
SONGS.
AFTER VICTOR HUGO, ARMAND SILVESTRE, CHARLES ROUSSEAU AND THE VICOMTE
DE BORELLI.
DARLING ARISE.
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
Pretty one, tho' the morning is breaking
Thy lattice is fasten'd close
How is it that thou art not waking
When awake is the rose?
Darling, arise! for I am he
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.
Nature loud at thy lattice is beating:
I am Day says the morning above
I am music the bird sings repeating,
And my heart cries "I am Love."
Darling, arise! for I am he,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee,
Thy lover who sighs and sings to thee.
ROSE.
(VIELLE CHANSON DU JEUNE TEMPS.)
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
I never thought at all of Rose,
As Rose and I went through the dell,
We fell a talking I suppose,
But yet of what I cannot tell.
Pebbles below and mosses over,
Rippled a cool and limpid rill;
Nature lay sleeping like a lover
In the embrace of the woods so still.
Shoes and stockings off she slipped,
And with her sweetly innocent air
Into the stream her feet she dipped,
Yet I never saw her feet were bare.
I only talked, the time beguiling
As we wandered, she and I;
And sometimes I saw her smiling,
But now and then I heard her sigh.
Only her beauty dawned on me
When silent woods were left behind,
"Never mind that now!" said she
And now I shall always mind.
REGRETS.
(AFTER CHARLES ROUSSEAU.)
Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!
Vain regrets for misspent powers,
Wasted chances, faded flowers,
Vex my lonely spirit sore.
Had I only known before!
Let me cherish in my sadness
Those fair days of youth and gladness!
Moments of delightful madness
Gone, alas, for evermore!
TOO LATE.
(PEINE D'AMOUR.)
(AFTER ARMAND SILVESTRE.)
When your hand was laid upon mine
'Twas in painful dread that I grasped it,
For some hesitation malign,
Made tremble the fingers that clasped it.
When you turned your forehead so near,
'Twas in painful dread that I kissed it,
For some cruel prompting of fear
Made me timidly seek to resist it.
Ah!--and my life thenceforward approved
Sorrow's bitterness had o'ercome me,
I only knew how I loved
The day that had taken you from me.
IF THERE BE A GARDEN GAY.
(S'IL EST UN CHARMANT GAZON.)
(AFTER VICTOR HUGO.)
If there be a garden gay
Man has not molested,
Where blaze through the summer day
Flowers golden crested,
Where tallest lilies grow,
And honeysuckles blow
There, oh there I fain would go
Where thy foot, thy foot has rested!
If there be a rosy dream
By true love invested,
Where all things delightful seem
Close together nested
Where soul to soul may tell
The joy they know so well
'Tis there, oh there I fain would dwell
Where thy heart, thy heart has rested.
THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSES.
(ENVOI DE ROSES.)
(AFTER VICOMTE DE BORELLI.)
Oh, if the fairest of these roses
With its red lips to thee shall tell
Such things as language knows not of,
As in thy bosom it reposes,
Then keep it well
It is my love!
But if the sweetest of the roses
With its red lips shall silent be,
And only seek instead the bliss
Which thy delightful mouth discloses,
Return it me
It is my kiss!
LOVE WENT OUT WHEN MONEY WAS INVENTED.
"You're a very foolish man, John," said my sister Ruth. "You're worse
than foolish. A man never gets any happiness by marrying out of his
station."
"You may be right," I answered, "but after all I have something to
offer. I am rich, and Marie is poor. I admit that she is a patrician
and that I am a plebeian. But money, after all, counts for something,
especially in these days. I don't see how Marie can spend a very happy
existence now, but I am determined to make her life a dream of
happiness. You will see, my dear Ruth, that my marriage will be a
success."
"I think not," replied my sister, "and I therefore give you my warning
before it is too late. If you don't heed it and decide on marrying Miss
Dalmayne, I shall naturally do any little thing in my power to
endeavour to prove that I have been a false prophetess; but, mark my
words, John, I shan't succeed. And, to tell you the truth, my dear
brother, I tremble for the future."
"You're a sweet little silly goose," I answered. "You let your
affection for me run away with your better judgment. Why in heaven's
name should I not be happy with Marie? She is beautiful, and I admit
that it was her rare beauty that first commended her to me, and she has
a sweet nature and character; and after all, goodness of character
outweighs even good looks. Then, too, she is very clever and bright,
and altogether she is exactly the sort of girl calculated to make a man
happy."
"I hope that I may be wrong, and that you may be right, John," said
Ruth; "but I don't think that I am wrong, and, of course, time will
only show. At present we need say no more. Your mind is evidently made
up, and I shall urge nothing further to prevent you from following your
own inclinations. But in the time to come, don't forget that your
sister warned you." And with that last shaft Ruth left the room.
My name is John Gardner, my age is thirty-six, and I am what is
generally known as "a self-made man." But had I really had the making
of myself I should have endeavoured to produce a different being. I
recollect at the grammar school in Cambridgeshire, where I received a
plain education, hearing one of the masters, Mr. Ruddock, mention a
Greek proverb, "Know thyself," and advise the boys in his form to act
upon the advice given by the Greek sage who pronounced these words. I
was not, as a rule, struck with much that fell from Mr. Ruddock's lips,
for he was a dull, stupid, and pompous man, possessing much more force
of manner than of character. But I did take this advice to heart and
endeavoured to act up to it, with the result that I know as much about
my own uninteresting self as most other human beings know about
themselves.
Well, this is how I appear in my own eyes. A strong, healthy man with
an active disposition, and capable of, and a lover of hard work. A
blunt manner, and with an entire absence of tact in anything in which
strict business is not concerned. I know that I am truthful, for, in
addition to a natural hatred of lying which I must have inherited from
my dear parents, I have always recognised the fact that in business and
in everything else the truth always pays the best. During the sixteen
years that I have devoted to business I have endeavoured to act
squarely and fairly with everyone with whom I have been brought in
contact, and I may say without conceit that I have earned a good name
in addition to the three hundred thousand pounds that I have been able
to save.
I have never got on particularly well with the other sex, partly, I
suppose, from my manners, which, to say the least, are not attractive,
and partly to the fact that up to the time I met Marie Dalmayne I have
never cared for a woman. I came across the girl that I have grown to
love so well in this fashion. I am interested in a West Australian mine
to the extent of about a hundred thousand pounds, and am one of the
three partners who control the concern. One of them is a member of the
great City house of Bleichopsheim, and the other is Mr. Ross, a wealthy
iron-master. It was at the latter's house in St. James's Square that I
met my fate.
I took Miss Dalmayne down to dinner, and I think that my heart went out
to her from the first. I found her clever and sensible, and with
apparently little of the frivolity which characterises most of the
young women with whom I have been brought in contact. Her conversation,
if not absolutely brilliant, was at any rate bright and amusing, and
possessed a considerable amount of shrewdness.
Miss Dalmayne was about twenty-three, tall and fair,' possessing a
perfect figure and the most beautiful and expressive hazel eyes. Her
hair was nut brown with a warm reddish sun-kissed glint, and her
features were regular and aristocratic. Her smile was delightful. In
short, I fell in love.
Next morning I ascertained from Adam Ross full particulars in reference
to Miss Dalmayne. She is the only daughter of the Honourable George
Dalmayne, and is related to many of the highest English families. Mr.
Dalmayne and his wife are not well off, and the former is very much in
debt and has taxed the generosity of my friend Ross to a very
considerable extent. The Dalmaynes live in a small house in Eaton
Terrace. They have only one other child, and that is a son who is in
the Army and is at present with his regiment in India.
There are some people that one feels one can confide in in matters of a
delicate nature, and there are others to whom one could never open
one's mouth. Now, Ross and I have been friends for ten years, during
which time we have never had the least difference. He is a man
absolutely to be trusted. I told him during this interview what a deep
impression Miss Dalmayne had made upon me. He said that he did not in
the least wonder at it, for she was greatly admired, and added that if
it were not for her father she would no doubt have made a brilliant
marriage already. I told my friend that I cared nothing about her
father, that I was not marrying him but his daughter--that is to say,
if I were fortunate enough to induce her to become my wife.
"I don't think that there is much fear of a failure," answered Ross,
"old Dalmayne is looking out for a rich husband for Marie. Indeed, in a
confidential mood one day recently he told me almost as much himself.
And he is not likely in a hurry to find one so rich as yourself."
"Well, I shall call upon him to-morrow," said I, "and ask his
permission to speak to his daughter."
"I wish you every success, my dear friend," said Ross, "and I have no
doubt as to the result of your interview. And I don't see why you
should not be very happy. After all, as you say, you are not marrying
the father. You are marrying Marie, who is a very high-principled girl,
who is beautiful, who is accomplished, and who would, I am certain, do
everything to make her husband happy."
And so it was settled, and next morning I called on Mr. Dalmayne.
Mr. Dalmayne, a tall, aristocratic man of about sixty, received me with
great cordiality. Whether Ross, who had dined with him on the previous
night, had mentioned anything of my matter to him I don't know, but the
old gentleman did not seem to be the least surprised when I told him
what the object of my visit was.
"Mr. Dalmayne," said I, "you will doubtless be wondering why I have
called to see you"--Mr. Dalmayne's face assumed a sphinx-like
expression--I will not keep you waiting for an explanation. The truth
is that I have fallen in love with your daughter. Our mutual friend
Adam Ross can tell you all about me, and I don't think that his report
would be an unfavourable one. My position is this. I have saved three
hundred thousand pounds, which produces an income of about twelve
thousand a year. And I am making at least another twenty thousand a
year from my share of our mine and other sound enterprises. Should you
permit me to address Miss Dalmayne, and should I be happy and fortunate
enough to induce her to become my wife, I should propose to settle two
hundred thousand pounds upon her for her exclusive use."
"Your proposals are most generous," said Mr. Dalmayne, "and do you
credit. But in matters of this kind I should never dream of attempting
to control my daughter. You have, however, my full permission to speak
to her, and if she is willing to marry you, you both have my full
consent. My wife shares my views entirely. Marie is out with her mother
at the present moment, but she will be in all the afternoon, and if you
will call about four I will see that you have the opportunity for which
you are seeking."
I thanked Mr. Dalmayne most cordially and promised to return in the
afternoon. When I again arrived at Eaton Terrace I was shown into the
drawing-room, where I found Mrs. and Miss Dalmayne and a sister of Mrs.
Dalmayne's. Tea was brought in, and shortly afterwards the visitor took
her departure. A few minutes later Mrs. Dalmayne made some excuse for
leaving the room, and I was left alone with Marie. My heart had beaten
hard from excitement as I had knocked at the door, but strange to say I
felt no nervousness now. I plunged into the matter that brought me
without delay. I told Miss Dalmayne of the wonderful effect produced
upon me by her beauty and charm, and in the fewest words possible I
asked her to be my wife, promising that she would never repent it.
"You have done me a great honour," said Miss Dalmayne, "but I must have
a little time to think over what you have said and to consult my
parents. You shall hear from me at latest the day after tomorrow."
I shortly afterwards took my leave, and departed buoyed up by the
strong hope that the desire of my heart would be obtained.
Nor was I disappointed. On the day she had promised I received a letter
from Miss Dalmayne saying that she was willing to accept me, but
frankly confessing that she had no love for me as yet, though admitting
that she liked me. "If," she continued, "you are willing to take me on
this understanding, I am ready to be your wife."
Needless to say I was willing to accept these terms, and three months
afterwards we were man and wife.
It was in the month of July that we were married, and we went to
Aix-les-Bains for the honeymoon. A few days previously Mr. Dalmayne
asked me to lend him a thousand pounds, which I did cheerfully, for
after what my friend Ross had told me I was fully prepared for such a
request.
My wife had never been to Aix before, and seemed to amuse herself very
much. She played a little at the tables, and with a considerable amount
of success. I must admit that she was very kind to me, and though of
course I easily saw that I did not at present possess her real
affection, I was not discontented, and hoped for the time to come when
we should be all in all to each other. We had met very few
acquaintances at Aix, for it was not a good season as far as English
visitors were concerned, owing to attacks on our country and Government
by the French papers. But when we had been there about three weeks a
Captain Morland came upon the scene. Captain Morland, who was an
officer in the Grenadier Guards, had known my wife since she was a
child. They seemed very pleased to see each other again, but there was
a certain sadness that I noticed in the young officer's manner. He had
just been invalided home from South Africa, where he had been on active
service during the time with which my narrative deals. He was a
handsome young man, tall and well built, and with kind and expressive
blue eyes. He was singularly reticent as to his exploits during the
war, though I heard from a friend of his who was with him at Aix that
he had been mentioned in despatches and had been recommended for the
D.S.O. He was a man to whom the merest chance acquaintance was certain
to take a fancy. I am bound to say that I did so myself, and I hope
that in what I am calmly relating I shall not be considered to have
intentionally failed to do him justice.
It was the second week in August, and as the weather was very hot, my
wife and I had determined to leave Aix and go to Trouville for a little
sea air and bathing. Three days before our departure I returned to the
hotel to dress for dinner. I was just going through the corridor when I
heard voices in our sitting-room. They were the voices of my wife and
Captain Morland.
I don't think that I am naturally a mean man, but I was mean enough to
listen on this occasion.
"You mustn't blame me, Hubert," said my wife, "we were all on the verge
of ruin, and I was bound to marry him."
"How could you consent to do such a thing? You don't care for him in
the least."
"No," said my wife; "nor shall I ever do so if I live for fifty years.
I care for no one but you. But I shall always do my duty to my husband,
who is a kind and good man and lives entirely for me."
"If he died, you would marry me?" asked Captain Morland.
"Of course I would, and, as the children's storybooks say, 'live
happily ever afterwards.' But don't let us discuss deplorable
futurities."
This was enough for me. I saw, now that it was too late, how wise my
sister Ruth had been, and how foolishly I had acted. There was nothing
to be done, however, to remedy matters, in view of the words spoken by
my wife, and words which breathed of truth. I went out quietly into the
garden of the hotel and came back a few minutes later. I asked Captain
Morland to dine with us, and he accepted my invitation. I carefully
watched him and my wife during the evening, and clearly saw that the
case was hopeless from my point of view.
On the morrow I made my will, and left everything to my wife with the
exception of fifty thousand pounds for my sister Ruth. I then wrote the
little history of my mistake, and am posting it from the top of Mont
Revard to my friend Ross, and have asked him to act as he thinks best.
It is hard to die, but, in my position, it is still harder to live.
Having set my entire affections in one direction, and having been
hopelessly unsuccessful, there is only one thing to be done, and that
is to end matters. And I shall end them to-night.
* * * * *
Extract from an Aix-les-Bains newspaper:--
"The body of a rich Englishman, named Gardner, who was staying at the
Hotel de l'Europe, was found lying at the bottom of the precipice
between Aix and Mont Revard. It is, of course, pure conjecture how the
unfortunate gentleman met his fate, but no foul play is suspected, as
his money and valuables were found upon his body. We anxiously await
developments. The police are maintaining a strict reserve."
* * * * *
A PUZZLED PAINTER.
WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH THE LATE SIR AUGUSTUS HARRIS.
CAST.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY, an Artist.
MRS. TEMPENNY, his Wife.
CHARLES SYLVESTER, an Artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER, his Wife.
ROSALINE, a Model.
HENRICH SCHERCL, an Art Dealer.
ROBERT ADDISON, a Sporting Man.
SARAH ANN, a Maid-of-all-Work.
SUSAN, Parlourmaid at the Tempenny's.
GROGGINS, a Sheriff's Officer.
A PUZZLED PAINTER.
ACT I.
(SCENE I. TEMPENNY'S _Studio Doors R.L. and in Flat. As Curtain rises a
knocking is heard at D.R_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY (_off_).
Rembrandt--Rembrandt!
(_Door opens, enter_ MRS. TEMPENNY; _followed by_ MRS. SYLVESTER.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see
you--we will wait.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
_My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never
work again all day.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than
Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his
studio. I wonder where he has gone.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Gone to have a drink, I daresay.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Adelaide!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so
often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic
feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Why that sigh?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).
Heigh ho!
MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).
Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Eugenia!
(_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Aren't you happy, Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody
else, but we were girls at school together.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_).
Do tell me all about it.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am jealous.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Of whom?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know--of his
life to-day, which is too circumspect to be sincere.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_).
But--but Rembrandt's life is also circumspect.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Poor child.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You pity me?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband
who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears--
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rembrandt's models _do_--.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Wear--?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Plenty!
MRS. SYLVESTER (_gloomily_).
Clothes sometimes cover a multitude of sins. They are no guarantee.
Rosaline wore them!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rosaline?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You have not heard of Rosaline?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
No. A model?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
A serpent!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
The wretch. Pretty of course?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Serpents are always pretty. One day, not long after we were married, I
came across her photograph--I was tidying up an old desk of Charles', a
photo, my dear, with an inscription that left no doubt what their
relations had been. I tore it up before his face; and for a time,
excepting for the girlish illusions he had shattered, that was an end
of the matter.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But only for a time?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_impressively_).
Two years ago I went into his studio, and found her there.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Horrible.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You may well say so. She was sitting on a table drinking brandy and
soda as bold as brass. Of course he swore that he needed her for a
picture he was going to work on--and, I don't know, perhaps it was
true. Still considering what had been, her presence there was an
outrage, and I shall never forget the quarrel there was between Charles
and me. That was the last I have seen of Rosaline--she went flying.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
And was it the last that Mr. Sylvester has seen of her?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
So far as I know. But there is always the lurking, horrid doubt. You
know now why I am not the light-hearted girl you remember, and why I
distrust artists as a class.
_Pause_.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_meditatively_).
I don't see why you should distrust Mr. Tempenny because Mr. Sylvester
is not steady.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Are you quite contented?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
No--we are too hard up, but I believe Rembrandt loves me, and I love
him.
MRS. SYLVESTER (_heavily_).
Poor child.
(_Enter_ REMBRANDT TEMPENNY _door in flat. He wears long
hair, and a brown velveteen jacket, and is smoking a short pipe_.)
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Eugenia? And Mrs. Sylvester? Why, bless my soul, how nice, what a
surprise! Don't move--don't. (_Stands peering at them with his hands
over his eyes._) What a charming effect of light on your profile, Mrs.
Sylvester--how rich--how transcendental! Glorious! (_Comes down._)
Well, well, well, and so you ladies have come to pay me a visit. Can I
offer you anything?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
I called on Mrs. Tempenny to inquire whether you would dine with us
to-night, and she said she could not answer without consulting you.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You have no engagement, Rembrandt?
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
I am quite at liberty, Eugenia, quite. I shall be most pleased and
delighted. (_Aside._) Another confoundedly dull evening, I know!
(_Aloud._) Sylvester is well?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Sylvester is always well.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY.
Happy Sylvester! Myself, I am a wreck.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
I want some money, Rembrandt.
REMBRANDT TEMPENNY (_disconcerted._)
Eh? Oh! (_To_ MRS. SYLVESTER.) And working hard I have no doubt.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I believe so--he is out all day.
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