Wessex Tales

ldren, had rambled along theshore, and Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by themilitary-looking hall-porter'By Jove, how far you've gone! I am quite out of b

wn her. 'Yes,' she said, 'you've been such a long time. I wastired of s

y andcomfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy andunc

fraid; hut I can light on nothin

and nurse to continue their r

sidered hiswife's likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she considered hissordid and material. The husband's business was that of a gunmakerin a thriving city northwards, and his soul was in that businessalways; the lady was best characterized by that superannuated phraseof elegance 'a votary of the muse.' An impressionable, palpitatingcreature was Ella, shrinking humanely from d

thers teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she hadclosed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached thereflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon someobject in

ess and want ofrefinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate andethereal emotions in imaginative occ

s of Ella's cast of soul, and is too often acause of heartache to the possessor's male friends, ultimatelysometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured man,with a brown beard; he had a ponder

the porch. It had its number in the row, but,being rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulouslydistinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though everybody elsecalled it 'Thirteen, New Parade.' The spot was

d the rooms. She informed themthat she was a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstancesby t

the house; but,it being small, there would not be acc

occupiedpermanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season prices,it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the year round,and was an extremely nice and interes

e further. Hardly had they satdown to tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, hadbeen so

on't inconvenience him in th

d he cares more to be herewhen the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and thesea washes over the Parade, and there's not a soul in the place,than he does now

session of the house nextday, and it seemed

en to their outdoor amusements on the sands,settled herself in more completely, examining

been the young bachelor's,she found furnitur

evious occupanthad not conceived the possibility that any incoming person of theseason's bringing could care to look ins

books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to have ag

somewhat. He is a poet--yes, really a poet--and he has a little income of his own, whic

O, I did no

ge. 'Dear me!' she continued; 'I know hisname very well--Robert Trewe--of course I do; an

e formerlimpidity and sparkle seemed departing in the stagnation caused bythe routine of a practical household and the gloom of bearingchildren to a commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with amasculine pseudonym, had appeared in various obscure magazines, andin two cases in rather prominent ones. In the second of the latterthe page which bore her effusion at the bottom

ty on thequestion of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as awoman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sortof reason for doing the contrary in her case; t

an ingenious, luxuriantrather than finished. Neither symboliste nor decadent, he was apessimist in so far as

imes, when feeling outran his artistic speed,perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed

d him, and her inabilityto touch his level would send her into fits of despondency. Monthspassed away thus, till she observed from the publishers' list thatTrewe had coll

manuscript to the few that had seen the light, forshe had been able to get no great number into print. A ruinouscharge was made for costs of publicati

d than it might have done if she had been domesticallyunoccupied. Her husband had paid the publisher's bill with thedoctor's, and there it all had ended for the time. But, though lessthan a poet of h

fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his ownverse was among the rest. Though quite fam

ome trivial service, and inqu

erpredecessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps onhis rooms even when he's not here: the soft air of this place suitshis chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He i

kind-hearted pe

ind-hearted .

m,Mrs. Hooper," he'll say, "though I don't know how you should find itout." "Why not take a little change?" I ask. Then in a day

s is a sensitive

walked up and down the roomrehearsing it; and the floors being so thin--jerry-built houses, youknow, thou

conversations about therising poet as the

ttention to what she h

on the wall-paper behind the

able to conceal a rush oftender curiosity a

r of a woman who knewthings, 'are the very

most of them out, but

all lest he shouldforget it by the morning. Some of these very lines you see here Ihave seen afterwards in print in

yes!

imparted. Anindescribable consciousness of personal interest rather thanliterary made her anxious to read the inscription a

and where thecouples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other'sarms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for himto take her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thrivingmanufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of hissojourn here, the life, external at leas

rivalsome of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. Thepersonal element in the magnetic attraction exercised by thiscir

to her at everymoment; but he was a man she had never seen, and that all that movedher was the instinct to s

rvived, except in the form of fitful friendship,any more than, or even so much as, her own for him; and, being awoman of very living ardours, that requ

e-and-seek in a closet,whence, in their exc

fantasy, Ella went later in theafternoon, when nobody was in that part of the house, opened theclose

. 'Would it might inspire me toriv

e thatcoat, and HIS brain had worked under that hat at levels of thoughtshe would never reach. The consciousness of her weakne

t the

he closet here,' she said, 'and put them on in af

away? We

who mightherself have nourished a half-tender regard for

sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon tolook up some book

O y

eet Mr Trewe then, if yo

cret delight, and went

t I have gone about a good deal and left you withoutmuch to amuse you. Perhaps it'

the moment. The time for setting outdrew near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting.

said to herself. 'I can't be

hanged her mind about wishing tosail.

soft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of theGreen Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for th

it, and shebecame impatient. The books were in the ro

erson waiting at t

e's gone long ago

per came i

she said. 'Mr. Trewe

ard him kno

ot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just beforelunch to say I needn't get an

ing was her erratic littleheart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wetstockings, and ran

--the gentleman who livedhere?' She was getti

mental frame on the mantelpie

l Duke and Duch

He belongs rightly to thatframe, which I bo

ose strangers that are

hey had no frame, and Royalties are moresuitable for letting furnished than a private young man. If youtake 'em out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am, he

dsome?' she

so. Some, perh

she asked, w

-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a veryelectric flash in his eye when he look

old i

n yourself, ma'am; about t

emotional women begin tosuspect that last love may be stronger than first love; and shewould soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when atleast the vainer ones of

, whohad gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his frie

uriousness of fancy in which this young woman was anadept, on learning that her husband was to be absent that night shehad refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and opening thepicture-frame, preferri

ssionate curiosity shenow made her preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garmentsand putting on her dre

to the light, opened the back,took out

ead. The large dark eyes, described by thelandlady, showed an unlimited capacity for misery; they looked outfrom beneath well-shaped brows as

tenderest tone: 'And it's YOUwho've so

into thought, till hereyes filled with tears,

th a nervous lightnes

ner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts andfeelings as well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts a

ate with the real me thanWill is, after all,

edgeupon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay. Then she scannedagain by the light of the candle the half-obliterated pencillings onthe wall-paper beside her head. There they were--phrases, couplets,bouts-rimes, beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in t

encil in it. Yes,the writing was sideways, as it wo

et's world,'Forms more real than l

oubt they had often beenwritten up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp,in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps never. And now herhair was draggi

tep came uponthe stairs, and in a moment she heard her

where

to let her husband know what she had beendoing, she slipped the photograph under th

Marchmill. 'Have you a headache?

headache,' said she. '

ime after all, and Ididn't want to make another da

I come do

. I want to get out at six o'clock to-morrow ifI can . . . I shan't disturb you by my

ovements, Ella softly pushed th

t ill?' he asked,

only

t.' And he stoope

g to himself: 'What the deuce is thisthat's been crackling under me so?' Imagining her asleep hesea

amned!' her hu

dear?'

are awak

DO you

I suppose. Iwonder how it came here; whisked off the t

yesterday, and it mus

of yours? Bless hi

ohear him ridiculed. 'He's a clever man!' she said, with a tremor i

who occupied two of these roomsbefor

now, if you've

me when she showed

and be off. I shall

-day, dear. Mind the childr

quired if Mr. Trewe were lik

his day week to stay with afriend near he

ich had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that heand his family would ha

a week longer?' she pl

t is getting

ht leave me and

ou! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out ourtime in North W

olutely attached. Yet she determined to make a last effort; andhaving gathered from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonelyspot n

know. And if he did live there, howcould she call upon him? Some women might have the assurance to doit, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She might haveasked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the

he children stay ontill the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she feltherself able to get home with

passed, and Tre

, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beamsupon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows ofwire--these things were her accompaniment:

r taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She had hardlygot back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the newnumber of her favourite magazine, which must have been writtenalmost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it containedthe very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wallpaper by the bed,and Mrs. Hoope

ated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy'sverse, he recalled the name as being one he had seen attached tosome very promising

le,as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; fo

ten to her withhis own hand from that very room she k

the best of her pieces, which he very kindlyaccepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did hesend her any of his own in return

attering little voicetold her that, were he

ssary. A friend of her husband's, theeditor of the most important newspaper in the city and county, whowas dining with them one day, observed during their conversa

d requesting him to bring withhim, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance shewas anxious to make. The answer arrived after some few days. Hercorre

self throughthe lattice," she thought ecstatically. "And, lo, the winter ispast, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth,the time of the singing of birds is come, and

nfinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material,having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style justthen in vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, whichhad been obtained by Ella

ir introductory words hadbeen spoken. 'Trewe

then he said he could

es with knapsacks, you know;

e's not

he asked me to ma

off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in herspe

the turnpike roa

actually gone

The truth is, he's a little bit depressed justnow, and doesn't want to see anybody. He's a very good fellow, anda warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; hethinks too much of things. His poetry is rathe

'N

the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that,though he can stand a fair attack, he can't stand lies that he'spowerless to refute and stop from spreading. That's just Trewe'sweak point. He lives so much by himself

mpathy here! Has he neversaid anything a

--perhaps a relative of yours, het

like Ivy, d

w that he took any g

in his

ems--so far as

t away she went into thenursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissingthe children,

she wanted, and nothimself. He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy thesociety of Ella's husband, who also

e following paragraph:-'SUICIDE OF A POET'Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years asone of our rising lyrists, committed suicide

ably noticed in these pages for the extraordinarygamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subjectof a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the -- Review. It issupposed, though not certainly known, tha

een blessed with a mother, or a sister, ora female friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might havethought it worth while to continue my present existence. I havelong dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you know, and she,this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; theimaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in somequarters, there is no real woman behind the title.

hen rushed into the adjoiningchamber an

ivering lips: 'O, if he had only known of me--known of me--me! . . . O, if I had only once met him--only once; andput my hand upon his hot forehead--kissed

d! God is a jealous God; and that

her fantasy even now, though it could neverbe substantiated -'The hour which might have been,

Marchmill had seen inthe papers the sad account of the poet's death, and having been, asMrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stayat Coburg House, she would

portrait and secured it in herprivate drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon an

ing up from his newspaperon one of these occa

se is

ead!' she

'W

just now, unless you insist!' shesa

all

refusing? I will t

atter in the le

articular; andwhen he had got down to his factory in

me ofpoems in his wife's hand of late, and heard fragments of thelandlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenan

d went on with his dailyaffairs. By this ti

o know where they were laying him took possessionof the sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her husbandor any one else might think of her ec

ng given the same information tothe s

nurse took him privately aside, and hinted thather mistress's sadness during the past few

whither he was bound he also started off, telling them not tosit up fo

e flys were few and cheap. He asked the way tothe Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked, but thekeeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody withinthe precincts. Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness hadnow become intense; and he found some

the soil wastrodden, beheld a crouching object bes

ofthis unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a marriedwoman with three children and a fourth coming, should go los

id not

far between you and h

insult

any more of this sort

well,' s

esent sorry condition, he took her to amiserable little coffee-house close to the station, whence theydeparted early in the morning, travelling almost withou

only toofrequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have beencalled pining. The time was approaching when

ll get over it this ti

reboding! Why shouldn't i

am going to die; and Ishould be glad, if i

And

,' she murmured, with asad smile. 'And you'll

king still about that--p

I am not going to getover my illness this time,

essary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat andwell. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:-'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that--about you know what--that time we visited Solentsea. I can't tellwhat possessed me--ho

offin sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said any

n truth, like most hus

adnot shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerni

hed todestroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on alock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of

on his knee,held the lock of hair against the child's head, and set up thephotograph on the table behind, so that he could closely compare thefeatures each countenance presented. The

ed Marchmill. 'Then sheDID play me false wi

week in August . . . t

t away, you poor little br

18