Miss Milne and I. A story ... Third edition

Front matter

LOVE LETTERS OF FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN EDITED BY J. T. MERYDEW 2 Vols. Demy 8vo. WITH TWENTY-EIGHT l'OKTKAITS, 30s. ' A dangerous book to open. It fascinates you, and will not let you go.' — Sunday Times. ' The book is full of interesting and amusing reading, and can hardly fail to be a popular addition to the libraries.' — Pall Mall Gazette. ' Full of hearts and darts, from all sorts and conditions of renowned people, from the great Duke of Marlborough to Peg Woffington ; from Warren Hastings to Beau Brummell, and from Tom Hood to Mary Woollstoncraft.'— Daily Telegraph. •These handsome volumes are full of amusement and interest.' — Stan dard. 'The book is the product of a happy idea, and csnnot fail to find many readers. Almost any love letters invite interest and curiosity; those of famous men and women have a peculiar attraction.' — Scotsman. 'The varied examples of amatory correspondence which Mr Merydew has collected are of a nature to please all tastes.' — People. 'All the emotions us mind, heart and soul, are clearly marked and represented in those volumes.

Surprise, interest, attachment and jealousy ; affection, folly, suspicion and despair ; faith, loyalty, seif-sacrifice and devotion — these and many other mental conditions so often hidden are here fully revealed. '—Daily Chionicle. ' In selecting specimens from the vast stores of letters written by famous or notorious men to famous or notorious women, and vice versa, Mr Merydew has been guided chiefly by a desire to reprint the most interest ing. . . . There is much that cannot fail to be a source of delight in these volumes. ' — Morning Post. ' Many of the letters are interesting. . . . The volumes are entertaining.' — Literary World. REMINGTON' & CO.. 18 Henrietta Street. Covent Garden Some Press Opinions upon the first Two Editions of 'MISS MILNE AND I.' 'The character of Miss Milne in this clever, sensational story is decidedly original The ideas inspired by her supposed dual nature are woven into an exciting tale with more than ordinary skill.' — Morning Post. 'This is an evenly-flowing story, carefully worked out on a well ordered plan, and full of strong characterisation, which catches firm hold on the reader's memory. ' — People. 'Singular freshness and abundance of incident.

As a study of female character it deserves to rank highly, and at the same time the originality of the plot makes it both interesting and entertaining. The author introduces some highly romantic Australian scenes, and opens up ques tions of strange depth and subtlety concerning the love of a woman who has been bitterly and irremediably wronged. Such a story must necessarily have a tragic ending, and this is adroitly and pathetically led up to.' — Daily Chronicle. 'A powerful work, and one quite out of the common. It is not often such a character as Miss Milne is found within the covers of a modern novel. Mr Caffyn is a powerful delineator of character, and 'Miss Milne and I ' would make a \ery remarkable drama. There is not a dull page throughout the book. ' — St. Stephen's Review. '"Miss Milne and I" comes as a welcome relief to the artificial style and unhealthy tone of the cheap fictionmongery of the day.

Preface

TO THIRD EDITION. I hate prefaces. Life is too short to admit of them, and, withal, a book wisely written explains itself and needs no introducing ; but in the case of this effort of my own the strangely discordant voices of my confused reviewers is sufficient proof that nijbook is not w-isely written, and justifies me in offering one word of explanation. Maj7 I pause here to say that the perusal, morning after morning of these strangely diversified opinions has con vinced me that the review of a book after all is a far more accurate picture of the reviewer's mind than of the thing reviewed. This rule applies with double force in the cases of books that, like

PREFACE.

VIII ' Miss Milne and I,' have, for the sake of contrast — of shadow, to be now and then somewhat realistic. Among the many glands of the body the same diversity of capacity exists, from the same current of blood, the one gland will excrete thoughts while another selects the waste material. It is so with the critics ; they have their affinities. I am not complaining ; the mere fact that, although only ten per cent, of my reviews prove other than complimentary ; yet all failed to see the purport and excuse of ' Miss Milne and I,' is sufficient proof that the incapacity lay with the author. My book has no hero. His cowardism and incapacity are intentional shadows designed that the tragedy of Miss Milne may stand out in bolder relief, and she, poor girl, may be 'far away from a pious and puny life,' but she is not of my making.

She lived, suffered and was murdered of environments, over which she had no control. In the most pathetic sentence in the English language, Chas. Lamb says : T have let the wheel of fate roll over me, and I have not complained.' The wheel of fate went over Miss Milne, and the tragedy is not lessened by the fact that she raised her impotent arm against the overwhelming torrent of nature's cruelty. MANNINGTON CAFFYN.

Chapter I

I had been sitting for six long weeks behind my door-plate, waiting for the patients that, in the first hopeful days of my new venture, were most confidently looked for. Contrary to everyone's advice, I had decided upon making a practice in preference to buying one, but so far they, the patients, were conspicuous by their absence. Through the musty blind of my consulting-room window I watched the crowds pour into the gin shop at the corner, and the more or less heavily laden sneak cautiously but courageously into the pawn-shop opposite ; but no ring came to gladden my heart, and if an accident occurred, it was sure to be at the other end of the street. But still I sat on. A It was, I say, the end of my first six weeks, the longest and weariest six weeks I had ever passed. Each hour dragged out its sixty minutes, and each minute saw the death of a hope, until now of all hope I was nearly bankrupt ; and as I sat there with my feet on the fender, my pipe unlighted in my hand, I reviewed for the hundredth time the position of affairs, and endeavoured to form some new and less ambitious plan of life.

What new plan of life I should have found had I continued my reflections, I am unable to say, for as I was in the midst of them the consulting-room bell gave out at length its first wild peal. The instantaneous result was simply indescribable. The good old soul who kept house for me, nay, did everything from cooking to praying for me, and who shared to the fulness of her warm old heart in all my hopes and fears, hastened to smoothe the hair and clothes of the Buttons, and hurry him to the door. He — the Buttons — assumed a dignity and importance that I shall never forget, while I rushed to my bedroom to put on my frock coat and call up my professional attitude. When I entered the ' insulting room,' as the Buttons persisted in calling my well-arranged sanctum, I found a tall slender girl standing there, with clear cut, well pronounced features, a pro minent chin and large luminous eyes having dark shadows beneath.

She was dressed in a dark grey waterproof that fitted her perfectly, a hat of the fashion of two years ago, and a pair of much mended slate coloured kid gloves. Her manner was quiet but thoroughly self-possessed ; she rose as I entered, and told me that she kept a tobacco and paper shop in Arlington Street, close by. She had she said, been far from well of late, and would be glad if I would give her something that would enable her to get through her work. Upon sounding her chest I found that she was suffering from pleurisy, and advised her to go home, and to bed for a day or two, adding that if she continued to get about in her present condition, she would probably have a severe illness. The following day I visited her at her little shop. at the back of which was a small apartment that did duty as a sleeping, sitting and eating room.

I found her lying on the sofa breathing painfully and heavily, and as I asked automatically tho stock questions, and at the same time took in the contents of the room, I rapidly realised that I had anything but an ordinary case or an ordinary patient to deal with. The girl's manner, the neatness of her dress, the perfect cleanliness of the tiny room, the character of the few books on the shelf, which were partly theological, and partly well-chosen novels, contrasted most markedly with the startling absence of every comfort, nay, almost every necessity of life. Having given all necessary directions and prescribed the necessary medicine, I rose to go, and as I did so, asked if she would allow me to send her a bottle of some wine I had, that I thought applicable to her case. She thanked me, and from that day until she had recovered, not wine only, but soup and other necessaries were daily supplied her from my house.

In a fortnight she was quite herself again and bus}7 in her little shop. From that date the whole aspect of my practice was changed ; the surgery bell got no prolonged rest; the old housekeeper became exultant; the Buttons found the place anything but the sinecure he had at first anticipated, and I, from the crest of the rising wave, saw a great professional career just ahead of me. But the strangest part of this strange turn events had so suddenly taken, was that every patient, or nearly every patient, could be traced either directly or indirectly to my friend in Arling ton Street. ' Miss Milne, sir, ' many of them would say, ' has advised me to consult you with reference to my child's health ; Miss Milne tells me, sir, that you are great on joints.' I called several times to thank her for the ener getic way in which she was more than repaying me for my efforts to be of service to her.

I ordered my morning paper and tobacco from her, and often ran in to see if I could in any way forward her interests, but every effort and offer were firmly but gratefully declined. She would look up with a sad, but unaffected smile, and assure me in a perfectly natural way that there was nothing that I could do beyond what I was doing, that would in any way lighten her burden. The nature of the strange circumstances that had combined to bring a girl of such manners, good looks, and evidence of past respectabilitj7 into such a poverty-stricken position, was to me a constant source of wonderment. I made her the centre of a hundred plots, and the heroine of a score of romances, but all from the shallows of my own imagination, for she neither by direct nor indirect allusion gave me the slightest clue to her past.

But one Saturday morning, when I called to pay my weekly bill, all my well and laboriously worked out day-dreams of her were dispelled by the sudden appearance of a beautiful little golden headed child upon the scene. He was about two years of age, and when I entered was shouting for his mother to come and see a house he had built from the packets of cigarettes he was playing with, as he sat upon the counter. For the first time the equanimity of my my sterious friend was entirely upset. She blushed as she entered, to the very roots of her hair, and in a very confused way stammered out : ' This little fellow is a nephew of mine, Doctor, and I have adopted him and taught him to call me mamma ; he is a great comfort to me in my loneliness.' For a second neither of us spoke, but in that second every possible solution of this new mystery, this little golden-headed mystery (that was already playing with my watch chain), rushed through my mind.

I came out of my maze confident of but one thing, and that one thing was that in calling the little fellow her nephew she had lied. I could only stammer, ' What a lovely child ! ' Then I proceeded to business and soon left her. A week subsequently I was hurriedly sent for to see ' Miss Milne's nephew.' I went at once and found the bright little fellow in a fit of convulsions, which turned out to be the premonitory symptoms of a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs, that kept him hanging between life and death for many days. Miss Milne was standing over him, wringing her hands with an intensity of emotion that was altogether unaunt-like, and from that moment I was confirmed in my conviction that the child was her own. When I called to see my little patient the next day, I found the inflammation firmly established, and having altered his prescription, I despatched her to a neighbouring room to borrow some boiling O O -__> water, that we might make a poultice for the little fellow's chest.

Directly she left, the thought struck me that very likely there was no material to be had whereon to spread the linseed, and seeing a bundle of clothing on a top shelf, I proceeded to unpack it, hoping to find something suitable. On how minute a thread a destiny may hang ! ' Throw a stone,' said an old scientist, ' and j7ou alter the earth's axis.' I pull down a bundle of apparently old clothing, and I ruin two lives. This fateful bundle was loosely wrapped up in a piece of black lining material, from the corners of which peeped out what I had taken to be some old calico, but I had no sooner untied the parcel than I found, first a white lawn surplice, then an ex quisitely worked stole, an Oxford hood, a long black cassock, and a photograph of the gentleman who had evidently owned, and been photographed in, this costume.

When Miss Milne returned, she found me statins into this, to me, inexplicable collection of mysteries. She started back with an exclamation of painful astonishment, and then, instantly recovering her self, she said, with no betrayal of the emotion that was welling from every pore of her : ' I have got the water you require. Is there anything more I can get, Doctor ? ' I thanked her, and said I wanted an old piece of stuff whereon to spread my linseed, and had been turning over what I had mistaken for a bundle of old linen. ' You will find nothing there that is suitable,' she said with assumed composure, ' but this handkerchief may do.' And together we made and applied the poultice. I am no believer in the external influences of will, thought-reading, mesmerism, and the mam other fads of the semi-educated, but somehow as I leaned over the table to spread the hot poultice, and listened to her breath that came and went hurriedly, I became almost overpowered with the consciousness of forces repellent and repellently attractive that were closing in upon me and about to lead me — how and by what methods God knew — whither God knew.

That night I went to bed tired and weary with my dayful of cares. I fell into a troubled sleep, and ' when all the house was mute ' I dreamed horrible dreams of Miss Milne. Once she, with her arms around my neck, was with irresistible force dragging me to the edge of a precipice, over the heights of which we fell together down — down — down — until at last we reached the bottom, and I awoke with a start, bathed in perspiration, to find the room dimly lighted and the weird shadows lingering most persistently in the horrible shapes my dream had lent them. I fell asleep again to dream of her with her still Madonna-like face — but now surrounded with a halo, standing upon a beautiful sunlit shore, and beckoning to me to wade through the quagmire that separated us, and join her. I have no power to resist, and desperately I rush in and wade on and on, and sink deeper and deeper, her face the while losing its halo and beauty, and assuming an expres sion absolutely Satanic, until at last I sink amid echoes of her laughter, so horrible that they must have shocked the very devils themselves.

And so the weary night dragged through. Morning came to find me tired and haggard, and without a single peg of an excuse upon which I could in my wideawake moments hang my trouble. I have never before attempted any record of my experiences, and as for novel writing, or even novel reading, I have been blessed with neither time nor inclination in that direction, and the thought has just struck me, that I might be laying myself open to the charge of endeavouring to take my readers to the giddy heights of conjecture, only to be dropped at last into the barren plains of the commonplace. To guard against this it would be as well perhaps to take them at once into my confidence, by recording the confession, if I may so style it, made to me the night following the horrible night I have tried to describe.

I had called to see how my little patient was progressing, and finding him better I was about to leave, when Miss Milne asked me if I could spare a few moments in which she would tell me 'some thing of her past life which she would like me to know.' With this request I need scarcely say I willingly complied. I don't know what goes to tlie making of a dramatic scene, but the memory of that night has convinced me that externals have little to do with it. I was here in that carpetless room, with its one candle, its slowly dying fire, its clean, cold poverty. The street sounds, but a smothered hum, and the only noises really audible, the loud tick of the cheap clock on the mantelpiece, that with the self-assertion that always accompanies small worth, sang without ceasing its monotonous song, ' Great cry, little wool.

Great cry, little wool,' and the child's rapid, oppressed breathing — I say there was unfortunately- nothing in these surroundings to make the scene, as far as externals went, anything but extremely commonplace and unromantic. But the horrors of the preceding night of nightmares, the many day-dreams that I had woven around this woman seated opposite me, her sad luminous eyes and classical profile, her very attitude, sitting as she was with hands loosely clasped on her knees, and staring through the fire into the past ; but above all — for we see in all things that which we bring with us the capacity for seeing — my own inner indefinable consciousness that somehow this woman's life and mine had been woven together by the fates into something desperate, either divine or diabolical — these were, in truth, the conditions and surroundings of a drama soon to unfold itself.

Chapter II

Miss Milne began bv telling me that her father o _/ o was a small farmer in Blankshire, and as he was poor and blessed with a large family, of which she was the eldest, it was her father's wish that she should earn her own livelihood. With this object in view, she had applied for and obtained a situation in a large drapery estab lishment at the west end of London, where she was not only very happy but very successful. Four months after her entry into this establish ment she caught cold, and her persistent cough awakened the anxieties of the proprietor, who forthwith sent her to a leading physician. After making a careful examination of her chest, the physician told her that if she had been in a position to spend the coming winter in the south of France, her recovery would be easily ensured ; but as it was, she would have to take the greatest possible care of herself to prevent a spread of the fatal disease that had already taken some considerable hold upon her lungs.

A few weeks subsequent to her visit to him, the same physician was consulted by Lady M , who was suffering from exactly the same symptoms, and whose wealth rendered a stay abroad an easy matter. As the latter was leaving the consulting room, the kind-hearted old doctor said, 'If you do decide to go to Italy, Lady M , I would take it as a great privilege to be allowed to recommend a girl to you as lady's maid, to whom the voyage would be an unspeakable boon.' Lady M who was notorious for her high church proclivities and her great philanthropy, readily agreed, and it was arranged that Miss Milne should call upon her the following morning. The interview ended by her being engaged, and in a few weeks they started for Mentone, and together wandered through the south of France and Italy. In the early summer months they returned to England, Miss Milne at Lady M 's request still holding her position as lady's maid.

The position was an easy one and exactly suited to her requirements, the only, to her, objectionable condition being that every member of the house hold was expected to attend matins each morning at the little church in the park, and confession once a week. The clergyman of this little church was paid entirely by Lady M , and his whole time was taken up in fulfilling the requirements of a high church ritual. ' One morning,' said Miss Milne, and here her voice was lowered and became if possible sadder, ' I had finished my work, and as it was the morning for confession I set out for the church to fulfil this, at first to me a terrible task, but now a comforting duty. As I entered, the clergyman, the Rev. John Carlosso, who though of English education was an Italian nobleman, poor but of extremely ancient lineage, about thirty years of age, and exceptionally gentlemanly and clerical in his manner, was pacing up and down the aisle. ' Upon seeing me, he hurried into the confessional, while I hastened to divest myself of my load of little sins.

His voice carried more than usual comfort to me, and I left the little recess, hallowed by many memories, with a light step and my heart solemnly glad. When I reached the church door, to my astonishment I found my confessor had gone round the other wray and was awaiting me in the porch. On his face he carried the evidence of great excitement, and his manner was altogether unlike anything I had noticed in him before, but notwithstanding his emotion, he asked me with perfect self-command if I would mind stepping into the vestry a moment, as he had something of importance he was anxious to communicate to me. 'Mechanically I walked in, and he, closing the door, took a chair and placing it exactly and closely in front of mine, sat down. He paused as though to collect himself, and then taking a deep breath, he blurted out, " Miss Milne, I love you," then clasping one of my hands between both of his, again, " I love you." ' He then bounded from his chair, and apparently regretting this expression of his passion, folded his arms across his breast and for a second or two paced the room in silence ; then suddenly stopping in front of me, and, I felt, looking at my bent head, in a voice far more self-contained, he said, "The church of my fathers, the church of my own boy hood, nay, the articles of my present faith as I read them, invoke, insist upon celibacy in a priest.

But, Miss Milne," he continued, " I am human. I have fought hard and long against this weakness. until I am no longer able to continue the battle." Then sinking on his knees before me and taking both of my hands in his, and wringing them in the depth and strength of his passion, he poured forth, with a fervour begotten of his nationality, the story of his love and his fight against it. When he had finished his terrible story, I asked in a voice far less audible to me than the throbbings of my own heart : " What do you wish me to do ? " He asked me under some pretext to go to Brixton, and he would follow and meet me there. " The day follow ing we will be married and then— and then — '" here Miss Milne folded her face in her hands and con tinued : ' He drew such a picture of our after life, its sweets, its love, its happy contentment, that I too being human, consented.

The following day we were married at Brixton. and that day saw the last of all happiness and all hope in my life. ' We took two rooms in a quiet street in Brixton, and I had not been married twenty-four hours, before I found that in my husband there were two men, distinct and utterly dissimilar, the clergyman that I had known and the husband that I had yet to learn. The one had all the capacity for making men and women, especially women, love and revere him ; in the other was combined every attribute that goes to the making of bad men. ' I lived with him for two months. The greater part of his time was, of necessity, expended in clerical duty ; he would return once or twice a week, and when he came in he would often kiss me and that quite fondly ; then he would put off his clerical suit and put on a suit of tweed, and with the change of clothes the whole man would alter as if by magic' Miss Milne looked up from the fire and added : ' You may know, sir, something of the science of this sudden change of character, but I only know that it happened — and the horrors of it.' Miss Milne here paused for several seconds, and T, unable from conflicting emotions to speak, allowed the silence to assert itself ; presently she looked up, and taking one glance at the sick child, continued. ' One afternoon, to me a very terrible afternoon, my husband was away on duty and I had dressed for a walk, when a ring came at the bell, and the servant told me a lady wanted to see me.

I asked that she might be shown up ; in a few moments a woman of middle-age and cast-iron features, followed by three young children, was shown into the room. When the door was closed, she turned to me and in a fearful voice that I can never forget asked, "Who do you call yourself? " I stared at her blankly for a moment and then, thinking perhaps that she was tipsy, I said as kindly as I could, "I am Mrs Carlosso; can I do anything for you ? " " Yes, " she said with an awful sneer, " you can clear out as sharp as ye like. I am Mrs Carlosso, that man's wife," (pointing to a photograph), "and these 'ere are his children. Ah," she continued, " I see you are a bit flumergasted, so I'll leave j7e to clear out and I'll be back in an hour and 'ope to find ye gone ; " then looking round the room as though taking stock : " 'Twill be better to live 'ere than nowhere, even with 'im ; now then, children, out ye go — ye needn't sleep in the park to-night any'ow."

As she left the room she looked round the door and at me, adding, as a parting thrust, " Pius chap, ain't 'e ? " ' When I heard the hall door bang, I rose to my feet and automatically packed my box, I say auto matically, because as I have read somewhere that a wire may be made so hot that it will pass through living tissue without giving pain, so I know that some troubles are too great to be appreciated, too heavy to be felt. Into my box I put everything of value that it would hold. It was wrong, very wrong perhaps, but I had no money, and was led by the instincts of self-preservation, and ' — here she glanced at the sleeping child — 'coming re sponsibility. From that day to this I have lived as best I could. My father, whose anger can never be appeased, set me up in this little shop on condition that I never applied or spoke to him or any member of the family again. ' There,' she said, with a sigh of relief, as she finished her sad story, ' I have told you my history, the history of a ruined life, that would have ended long ago but for my child there.