mr. j. watson crieff was assistant editor of the ‘charing cross chronicle,’ an evening newspaper devoted to smart writing and the conservation of church and state. he was a hard-working scotchman, with no pretensions to literary attainments, but honourably connected with journalism in many ways. he was not a regular theatre-goer, still less a professed critic, but he sometimes, as on the present occasion, went to see a shakespearian performance, and wrote about it afterwards honestly and well.

passing along the strand, he led his friend down a street running at right angles to the banks of the thames, and soon entered the dingy building where the harum-scarums were accustomed to hold high festival. proceeding upstairs, he entered a large room, at one end of which was a fire and a silver grill, presided over by a man-cook dressed in white. the room was becoming crowded by men of all degrees and ages, clean-shaven actors and hirsute journalists having the preponderance, and more than one greeted crieff by name. he soon found a table, and ordered a plain supper for himself and friend. a loud chatter filled the air, and every one was talking of the débutante at the parthenon. among the other faces around him sutherland at once recognised the very young gentleman and the lean man in the muffler whom he had heard discoursing at the theatre saloon.

‘it’s all right,’ said crieff quietly. ‘the jury are bringing in an unanimous verdict of “successful.” i think i shall abuse her in the “chronicle” just to show i’ve a mind of my own.’

‘if you do, i’ll call you out!’

‘there’s abrahams the manager, button-holing day of the “sun,” and rolling his eyes in well-feigned enthusiasm. if you watch him, you’ll see him take the jury seriatim, and go through the same performance with every one of them. i thought so! he’s ordering champagne.’

‘who is that gentleman?’ asked sutherland, glancing towards the next table, where a little bald-headed man, surrounded by many admiring friends, was trifling with the cruet. sutherland had recognised the individual who, in the saloon of the theatre, had introduced the little anecdote of his amours in constantinople.

‘what, don’t you know him? that’s lagardère, of the “plain speaker.”’

‘indeed! a journal, i presume?’ ‘the journal of the period, based upon the new principle of extenuating nothing and setting down everything in malice. lagardère can tell you to a nicety where la perichole buys her false teeth, how much money mrs. harkaway spangle pays her washerwoman weekly, and when any given leader of society is likely to pawn her diamonds or elope with her cook. you know tennyson’s lines—

a lie which is all a lie can be met with and fought with outright,

but a lie which is half a truth is a harder matter to fight!

lagardère has achieved the complete art of so mingling truth and falsehood together that it is impossible even for himself to distinguish the one from the other. what wine will you take?’

‘none. i am a water drinker.’

‘still! well, you thrive upon the crystal draught. hallo, what’s lagardère romancing about now?’

as he spoke the gentleman in question was leaning back in his chair, and in his peculiar drawl, to the edification of his immediate friends and admirers, speaking as follows:—

‘when i was with the army in schleswig-holstein, the hereditary duke of schlagberg-schwangau lived in the same hotel, and there was an english girl stopping with him, disguised as a young officer. the duke laid a wager that this girl would smoke more cigars than i could in the course of twelve hours. bismarck, who dropped in by accident, held the stakes. we began at six p.m. and smoked on till four in the morning, when the girl gave in and had to be carried off to bed. i mention the fact because she was exactly the same height as the girl who acted to-night.’

‘impossible! can’t be the same!’ said some one, feebly.

‘can’t say, i’m sure. but it’s the same sort of face, and the girl, when you provided her with champagne, used to recite splendidly.’

‘how long was this ago, lagardère?’ asked crieff, leaning over towards the other table.

‘about twelve years. the date is fixed in my memory, because it was the year i fought the duel with the austrian general at vienna.’

crieff smiled.

‘and if,’ he said, ‘we put down miss vere’s age at four-and-twenty (i believe she’s scarcely twenty-two), she must have been, at the period you name, exactly twelve years old.’

a general laugh greeted this retort; but the journalist was not at all disconcerted.

‘you see these sort of women are all so much alike,’ he drawled. ‘i’ve seen the same type of face in the harem at stamboul, among the nautch-dancers of india, and at the jardin mabille.’

sutherland, who had with difficulty kept his temper during this little scene, now turned his dusky eyes full on lagardère.

‘what do you mean by these sort of women?’

lagardère shrugged his shoulders.

‘what i meant was simply this, sir. just as we recognise in certain faces the jewish physiognomy; just as we see in certain religious orders the ascetic or separatist experience; just as in another way we distinguish the blood of the racehorse, or the breed of the greyhound, so we recognise in a certain type of women the type of the hetairai. the type is so uniform on the stage that if we take up a whole album of theatrical beauties, we shall find the features of a family, the characteristics of twin sisters.’

‘am i to understand,’ said sutherland, still retaining his self-possession, ‘that in miss vere you recognise the type of woman without virtue?’

‘certainly,’ drawled lagardère. ‘observe, i am making no personal accusation. if the lady is a friend of yours——’

sutherland rose to his feet.

‘and if she is, mr. lagardère, since that is your name——’

‘why, then, i envy your luck, that’s all.’ returned lagardère, with an ugly smile; and there was a general laugh.

sutherland’s hands came down, and they were clenched as if for a blow; but crieff placed a warning hand upon his arm, and drew him away.

‘don’t excite yourself/ he said. ‘it’s only lagardère.’ ‘the man is insufferable.’

‘everybody knows that.’

‘he deserves to be horsewhipped.’

‘bless you, he has been horsewhipped over and over again; i think he rather likes it, and whenever it occurs he publishes a full account in his own journal. come, you’re no match for him, with his poisoned shafts. he’d find out the weak point in your armour at once. come to the smoking-room, and have a cigar.’

as they crossed the room together, they heard the voice of lagardère beginning again, with its usual drawling monotony—

‘i say, day, who’s the fire-eater with crieff? he reminds me of a man who once threatened to thrash me at st. petersburg. it began at a card-party, where four of us were playing—the grand duke nicolas, prince necrolowski, old gortschenkoff, and myself.’

they heard no more. sutherland strode on to the smoking-room, which was almost empty, and threw himself into a seat. his face was convulsed, and his frame shook with agitation.

‘my dear sutherland, you’re exciting yourself for nothing. what is miss vere to you?’

‘she is this much,’ said sutherland, ‘that if i thought it would serve her i would kill that man like a dog.’

‘kill lagardère! ridiculous! why, he’s excellent fun.’ ‘crieff, don’t talk like that—it’s not worthy of you. you know that man is a villain.’

‘upon my word, i don’t think so.’

‘what!’

‘he only talks as most men do when actresses are in question, and i assure you he is a man of experience.’

‘experience!’ echoed sutherland bitterly. ‘yes, he has rolled in the shambles like the rest of us; he has polluted his body and his soul, and because he knows pollution, he dares to speak of one who is perhaps a martyr, and is, to him, an angel to a devil. well, you are right, he only talks like the rest. crieff, when i think of what that man is, of what most of us are, i hate my life, i wish i had never been born.’

‘if you go on like this, old fellow, i shall think you are in love.’

‘with my own ideal, yes. with that woman, though she almost realises it, no.’

‘i’m glad to hear it,’ said crieff, earnestly. ‘you’re too good stuff to be wasted on an actress.5

‘there again. you, too, sneer at one whose soul you cannot comprehend. crieff, neither you nor i am worthy to tie that woman’s shoestrings. grant that her life has been evil—i’ll not believe it, but assume it for the moment—what she has been society has made her. if she has fallen, it has been through the lusts of our accursed sex; and even now, her divine face, in its almost supernatural sorrow and sweetness, rebukes our lusts and puts our wicked experiences to shame. oh, we men, we men! we who talk of purity, and seek it in our mothers and our wives! what are we? what are our lives? sinks of foul passion, privileged by society and protected by the spirit of the law. i tell you, until a man’s life is as pure as he would have the life of the woman he loves, he has no right to throw one stone at the most fallen woman in the world.’

there was silence for the space of some minutes. the two men smoked their cigars—sutherland looking at vacancy, crieff watching his face. the latter broke silence first.

‘there’s more in this than you’ve yet told me. are you sure you have seen miss vere to-night for the first time!’

‘i am not sure.’

‘you know her?’

‘no, but she is the ghost of a woman i once saw.’

another pause, then crieff spoke again.

‘i tell you what, the best thing you can do is to make her acquaintance. shall i ask abrahams to introduce you?’

to his friend’s surprise, sutherland turned upon him a look of the uttermost consternation, and then said in a low voice—

‘not yet.’