The Sin and the Woman. A study from life

Front matter

The Sin a?id The Woman. The Sin & The Woman A Study from Life. BY DEREK VANE. " Jouissance ! Jouissance ! que de vies je donncrais pour toi ! " REMINGTON & COMPANY, LIMITED. LONDON AND SYDNEY. MDCCCXCIII. All Rights Reserved. Printed uy Remington and Co., Limited, 15, King Street, Covent Garden, London, W.C. To Eleanor. If I have done you less than justice, forgive me. If I have failed to win sympathy and understanding, if not love, for you, believe that it is the power that is lacking — not the will. The Sin and The Wo?nan.

Prologue

. " Out of that narrow thoroughfare of right, Around which orb the stars, one starlit night My soul, as if obeying some command, Went wildly wandering in an unknown land.' Eleanor Monroe sat alone in the darkness, thinking. She had reached a crisis in her life. It might have been dimly foreseen, no doubt, three years ago, when she first faced the world on her own account, but now it was there — no longer in the distance, no longer merely a possibility, but an almost overwhelming reality — and if anything were to be done, it must be done speedily. Things could no more go on in the old way ; the limit had been touched. She had drawn the solitary armchair the room v, could boast close up to the little fire, and with her feet on the fender and her hands clasped in her lap, she lay thinking over the past, her head resting against the red woollen antimacassar which adorned the back of the horsehair chair.

She thought of herself as a child sitting in a pretty, faded little room, with the blinds down, and with a rough, but kindly, maid-of-all-work opening the door with elaborate caution from time to time and asking in a high-pitched whisper, " How do you find yourself, Miss Eleanor ? Now, don't cry, there's a dear. They're better off, you know." After which she would retire with an audible sob and her apron to her eyes, leaving the lonely child still sitting on the little couch with its delicate cretonne, which had lost its freshness, and the lace and ribbon antimacassars which looked tumbled and soiled. Eleanor remembered that the kind-hearted maid of-all-work and the doctor and the charwoman, who came in to assist with the last sad offices to the dead, had all thought her strange and unnatural — " Not a child as I should like to have," the char woman had openly remarked — because she had sat there in such stony silence, neither weeping nor making demands upon anyone's sympathy, although her father and mother lay in the room above dead of a malignant disease, which had stricken them down within a few hours of one another.

She remembered, too, how little their opinion or their averted looks had troubled her, while she sat gazing with unseeing eyes out into the darkened room, her brain capable of but one thought— that the father she had worshipped, the proud, reserved man who had shown more of his real nature to his little daughter than to anyone else in the world, was lost to her for ever. That the pretty, foolish mother, who had fondled her at times and neglected her at others, would never take her in her arms again — never complain in her pettish, childish way that her skin was so dark and her hair so black, so different from her own pink and-white fairness, and so unsuited to the fripperies with which she would have liked to adorn her. And with this one thought beating in on her brain and her heart lying like a stone in her breast, they — -the commonplace, kindly men and women — had called her unfeeling, because she had not cried !

Eleanor smiled a little even now when she thought of it. Then she remembered the day when the slow, measured tramp down the stairs and the heavy, black-robed burdens borne aloft on the men's shoulders, had brought home to her, with a sudden, swift realization, the fact that it was all true, not a dreadful dream, as she had sometimes thought, and B — that this was the end. How she had sprung up and rushing out into the little hall had stopped the men who bore the larger burden, and with a wild cry of " Papa ! papa ! " had tried to seize the heavy fringe that hung from the funeral pall, but, instead, falling down under the feet of the bearers, a little black figure with a white, deathlike face, was carried back senseless into the room. When, some hours later, she recovered con sciousness, a lady, who told her that she was her father's sister, but who bore no resemblance to that beloved face, was sitting by her side.

She evidently strongly disapproved of her having been so long unconscious of her presence, and remarked that she hoped she was now sufficiently recovered to listen to what she had to say, as her time was valuable. She had then gone on to state that she was prepared, out of the goodness of her heart — for she did not recognise any tie of relationship, her father having forfeited any claim on his family by marrying beneath him — to charge herself with her support and education for the next six years, that is, until she was seventeen years of age, by which time she would be in a position to earn her own ''ving. She had founded an Orphanage for the reception of twelve destitute children of gentle birth and as, at the present time, there was a vacancy among these small favourites of fortune — who were brought up on strictly Presbyterian principles and with whom infinite pains were taken to make the world appear as joyless a place as possible — she should be elected a member of the happy band.

Eleanor could not yet think of those six years without a shudder. Of the dreary life and the yet more dreary orphans, with whom, as a rule, the system of education pursued produced most satis factory results, crushing out all youthful brightness and exuberance, and encouraging dulness and apathy, or deceit and hypocrisy. If she had escaped more lightly than her companions, it was because she had once known something better, and, as it was, more harm had been done her than she fterself was aware. On her seventeenth birthday she had an inter view with her aunt, when she was informed that a situation had been found for her in a small, highly select scholastic establishment, where, in return for some instruction to the junior pupils, she would receive finishing lessons in various accomplish ments, which would fit her, later on, to take a better position.

There she remained four years. It was a dull, hard life, but it was a relief to the Orphanage. The aristocratic pupils treated her with indifference or scarcely concealed contempt ; they might have been more amiable had she shown herself more conciliating, but her spirit was as haughty as theirs, so her life was a more or less isolated one, destitute of love or sympathy, and only her interest in her studies and her craving for knowledge kept her from despair. The masters lauded her as one of their most promising pupils, and in her favourite pursuits, at least, she had no rivals. Then the day came when the cramped, loveless life weighed upon her beyond longer endurance, and having matured the plans she had been form ing for some time, she gave notice to Lave. When the news of this insubordination reached her aunt's ears, that lady wrote to say that she " washed her hands " of her.

With a nature that could show such black ingratitude, she shuddered to have any farther communication. At the same time, being strictly honest, she enclosed Eleanor a cheque for which was all her parents had left behind them, and expressed a pious, though not very hopeful, wish, that she might not meet with the punishment she deserved. Eleanor remembered with what a thrill of delight, in which there was not a touch of doubt or fear she had gone out alone into the world. How, with much inward satisfaction, though with a judicial outward calm, she had settled down in her present abode — a bed and sitting-room combined in Hart Street, Finsbury Park — and set to work to put her scheme into execution. She would give lessons in music and singing, or anything else, for so many hours, and the rest of the day she would — write !

Yes, that was the grand idea, the pivot on which everything else had turned. Her masters had praised her composition ; she herself was conscious of the power to express fluently and easily much of what she thought and felt — why should she not make a name for herself as others had done ? So she advertised for pupils, and went through the daily drudgery — drudgery to her, for she had no taste for teaching — with scrupulous honesty, secur ing herself thereby a certain small sum weekly, and flying, like a bird released from its cage, to her beloved manuscript as soon as she was free ; writing often far into the night, scarcely feeling the need of rest or food. And it had all been of no use. It had all ended in this. Gradually her literary work had absorbed more and more of her time, becoming a passion, than which none is stronger ; old pupils had dropped off, and she had not cared to look for new ones.

She had had several short stories accepted by different magazines, and this had encouraged her to hope and work on, and about six months ago she had settled down to write a novel, her first long work. This had taken up nearly all her time, and she had been willing that it should, unhesi tatingly making use of what was left of the — it had been reduced by various emergencies — to allow herself free play. " I will give myself this one chance," she had said. " If there is anything in me, it will come out in this book, and I shall get my feet on the first rung ofthe ladder, at least. If there is nothing — well, I shall not have any cause of complaint, I shall have had my chance. And — and," with a little laugh, " though I could not face a course of slow starvation, I could face — Waterloo Bridge."

She was tired of waiting, tired of her colourless life, and she thought herself strong enough to risk everything upon one throw, and to abide by the result. A fortnight ago her book was completed, and she had sent it to a well-known London publisher, a man highly respected in the literary world, saying she would call in two weeks' time to learn the result. And to-day she had gone up. She had been accorded an interview by the courteous principal, who informed her, as she sat down before him — calm and composed now the fateful moment had arrived, though she had scarcely slept the previous night, and had made the journey to town almost in a dream — that, though it was not his habit to see authors who were unknown to him, he had made an exception in her favour, as he had been unusually interested in her work.

Those words had made her heart beat high with hope, but it was suddenly chilled when he went on to remark that although, undoubtedly, the story showed great promise, it was crude and disappointing in parts, as was natural in a first attempt, and he regretted that he must decline to undertake its publication. W'hat he should advise was, that she should put it on one side and start something else ; in a second story she could remedy the faults he had pointed out in the first, and he would be happy to consider it when finished. Eleanor had been thankful for the veil that covered her face, for the room swam round her for a moment, and the great man's voice sounded far off; then with all the force of her strong will she steadied herself and asked whether he thought any other publisher would be likely to consider her story more favourably than he had done ?

He was afraid not, he had replied ; an author had usually great difficulty in getting a first work accepted. The public taste was so capricious, and publishers, naturally enough, did not care about running un necessary risks. As a matter of fact, though he never recommended such a course, many authors paid for the publication of their first work themselves. It was often the only way of bringing their name before the public. Would it be worth her while, she had asked again, supposing she had the means, to do the same ; to bring out her story herself? It might be, he had replied ; the story was an uncommon one, undoubtedly, and contained some really powerful scenes. If it happened to hit the public fancy, it would very likely be a great success. In his capacity, unfortunately, he added with a shrug of the shoulders, he had been obliged to consider the other side as well.

Then she rose from her chair, and thanking him for his kindness, took up the rejected manuscript and left the room. Of what use to linger ? There was nothing more to say. This man's honesty and judgment stood above reproach, she knew; she was content to accept his decision as final. She would not go that wearying round from publisher to publisher, only to be told the same story. If she had had the money she would have launched her book herself, conscious, as no one else could be, of all she had put into it — of her own life and soul that breathed from its pages, and trusting that what was so strongly and simply human might touch an answer ing chord in the world at large. But that was out of the question. Only £5 stood between her and — What? She sat trying to pierce the shadows that seemed gathering closer round her ; trying to picture her self as cold and lifeless, as having done with the world — she, through whose veins the blood rushed swift and strong ; she, who had never known what it was to live.

It was hard to step out of the twilight into the darkness without ever having known the beauty and warmth of the noonday. " If I had only lived," she murmured to herself, " if I had only lived for a year, for one month even, I should not mind so much ! But I never have. It has been the barest existence to me always. Why should I seek to prolong it ? Let it go. And yet it is hard lines — it is hard lines." She told herself that if her manuscript had been unhesitatingly condemned and treated as of no account, she could have put it on one side without a murmur. But to be told that it held within it a possibility of success — of 'great success,' had he ot said ? — and not to be able to give it the chance, to place it before the British public and let it stand the test, that was more than she could suffer with patience.

" I think," she said to herself with a little harsh laugh, " I think that if the Devil were to come to me now, as he came sometimes to people in the old legends, and were to offer me success and honour in exchange for my immortal soul, I am afraid — I am really afraid I should close the bargain ! To enjoy — just for a little while to live— with every pulse of one's being, with every force of one's nature ! The fullest and richest life would not be too full or rich for me. I have been starved all these years. Since I have been old enough to know all that life may mean, I have been but the merest looker-on at others' happiness. To enjoy, as I know it is in me to enjoy," stretch ing out her arms with an involuntary gesture, her face lighting up into a strange, dark beauty, her eyes shining with passion and despair — " Ah ! whatwould I not give for that ?

And, "her armsdrop ping slowly to her side, " I am shut out from it all — shut out. Others, with not half my capacity for enjoyment, with not half my keen zest of life, sit down to a full table, while I — while I must fight among the crowd for the crumbs that drop from their careless fingers ! I will make an end of it ; the game is not worth the candle. I have struggled on, unaided, alone, for three years ; I will struggle no longer. ' Write another book,' he said. Write another book ! Oh, yes, it would be so easy with the three wolves waiting outside the door for me ! ' Three gaunt, grim wolves that hunt for me, Three gaunt, grim wolves there be, And one is Hunger, and one is Sin, And one is Misery.' " No ; best make an end of it before the wolves break in. I have no claim on anyone ; none have any claim on me, I will slip out of it all — as quietly as I can, to spare my landlady's feelings.

But I cannot settle anything to-night, my head feels so strange. I must sleep a little first." She staggered to her feet, holding on to the mantelpiece, for she was faint and exhausted from over-excitement and want of food, and as she stood there steadying herself a moment, she heard the hall-door open and steps coming up the stairs. She listened mechanically, as we often in moments of intense excitement listen to trivial things. "It is old Mr. Hunt," she thought ; " he is late," peering at the clock and seeing that it was close on eleven. " He has been out collecting his rents, I suppose." He was the only other lodger in the house beside herself, and her landlady had sometimes regaled her with stories of his wealth and meanness. He owned various streets of small houses in the neigh bourhood, and was in the habit of collecting his own rents and, where he could basely do so, of making himself as objectionable to his unfortunate tenants as possible.

It was the first of the month and Eleanor guessed his errand correctly enough. She heard him pass her door and go into his bed room, which was next her own. No one else slept on this landing ; Mrs. Smith, the landlady, occupy ing a room on the ground floor. " To think," she mused to herself vaguely, "that he should have so much while I have nothing. What use does he make of it ? What good is he in the world ? If a part of it — just a small part o it were mine instead of his, what a difference it would mean ! And if I were rich and famous I would remember the unlucky ones ; I would strive to do a little good in the world. Supposing, just suppos ing " she went on after a few moments, the pupils of her eyes dilating, " that he had lost that little black bag of his to-night — I know he had it with him for I heard him put it down on a chair just now — and I had found it, should I have thought it wrong, knowing to whom it belonged, to keep the contents ?

I think not ; I really think not." She seemed to be weighing the matter calmly and judicially. " I should not care to take it for anything but my book, but I should hold myself justified for that. If it brought me success I would repay him ; if not, I should have no remorse on his account. He has stamped all that is human out of him, he has no claim to be treated as a fellow-creature. He is a machine for collecting gold, that is all ; for his idol he would commit any meanness, inflict any misery in his power. It would be but justice if some trouble came upon him in return. Why should he go free while others are tried and tortured beyond endurance ? " A sudden unreasoning hatred filled her heart against him, as she stood there gazing down into the dying fire. Presently, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, moving mechanically, like one in a dream, she went slowly towards the door.

A few words she had heard flashed through her brain, standing out, as it were, in letters of fire, and changed pas sive resentment into sudden action. " He keeps the key of his safe under his pillow at night," her landlady had said at the con clusion of one of her stories — " under his pillow." Eleanor was no longer capable of reasoning or thinking. Physically and mentally exhausted, she had arrived at the stage when despair and misery make most things possible. " It is my life against a little of his gold," she murmured to herself. " Why should I hesitate ? " Softly turning the handle, she stood a moment in the dark passage outside, listening. There was no sound in the house, but as she stood there a clock in a room below faintly struck the hour of mid night. Rousing herself at the sound, she turned towards the closed door at the end of the passage, and stooping down, listened intently.

She could hear the sound of steady breathing inside and knew that the old man must be asleep, exhausted probably by his long tramp. Noiselessly turning the handle she went in. A night-light was burning dimly and she saw the faint outline of the bed and the safe standing on a table at the side. He had no doubt emptied the contents of the black bag into it before undressing. She congratulated herself on having struck on such a favourable opportunity. Moving closer to the bed, she stood looking down a moment at the quiet sleeper. Little fear of his awaking, he was sleeping so soundly. Slipping her hand gently under his pillow, she touched the key almost at once, and drew it out. She inserted it in the lock of the safe and it turned noiselessly, the little door swinging slowly back. Three canvas bags stood on the upper shelf.

She untied the string round the neck of one and saw the gleam of gold. She did the same with the two others, for she did not want to make any mistake, and saw that the contents were the same. As far as she could guess from that casual glance, each bag contained between £4.0 and That was enough for her purpose. She took the bags out and laid them on the table, and locking the safe turned to replace the key under the pillow. But she started back with a low, gasping cry. The old man was lying with his eyes wide open, looking at her. He had evidently only just woke up, and on his face was an expression of bewildered rage and fear and horror. In another moment he would recover his senses and call for help. Powerless to move, powerless to do anything but gaze back into those fierce, hungry eyes, she stood there — waiting.

In another moment he drew himself up in bed, stretched a long skinny hand out towards her — she never forgot the sight of that long, lean, yellow hand, with the claw-like nails, the fingers curved ready to clutch her arm — and his lips moved. Waiting for the cry that she knew was coming — the cry that should rouse the house, she stood there, making no effort to escape. Then, while yet his lips were open to call for help, while his fierce accusing eyes still held her, suddenly, with awful swiftness, a change came over his face. For an instant he threw up his head, gasping for breath, then he fell back on the pillows — a dead man. Not realising at first what had happened, what that shapeless, huddled mass in the bed meant, still listening for the cry for help, Eleanor stood there, stricken into a passive, stony composure.

Then c as he neither spoke nor moved, it flashed upon her what it had all meant — that grey, awful change, the fierce struggle for breath, the sudden silence, before which she unconsciously trembled — flashed upon her that she was saved, and saved as by a miracle. The blood rushed back to her heart, and she drew a deep breath. Feeling the key still clutched between her fingers, she threw it down on the table and snatching up the money that was put ready, she turned and fled, without a backward glance. She reached her own room and mechanically closed and locked the door behind her, and still with the same noiseless, dreamlike movements, put the money away in a place of safety. Then carefully replenishing the fire, she wrapped a thick shawl round her head and shoulders and threw herself down on the hearth-rug ; crouching close up to the fender, as though she could not have warmth enough. At first she shuddered convulsively now and again from head to foot, but this gradually passed away and she fell into a heavy sleep. '9

Chapter I

" Who calleth thee, Heart ? World's Strife, With a golden heft to his knife ; World's Mirth, with a finger fine That draws on a board in wine Her blood-red plans of life ; World's Gain, with a brow knit down ; World's Fame, with a laurel crown Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown." " It is not a bad programme," said the Rev. Adrian Walmesley, as he somewhat dubiously con templated a sheet of paper upon which he had been busily writing for the last few minutes, "but I am afraid it is not a very good one, either. There is nothing fresh, and I hear," with an amused laugh, " that at the last Penny Reading, one of my youthful parishioners remarked that they were ' the same old lot.' I don't know what he will say this time ; it really makes me quite nervous." Madge Harvey joined in the laugh.

C — " I wish I could help you," she said, " but, unfortunately, I cannot. I am so very mediocre that I don't think your outspoken boy would stand me even as a change." " You play very nicely," said Adrian Walmesley a little uncertainly. " Don't you think you could give us a pianoforte solo ? " " No, indeed, I could not," she replied with unmistakable decision. " I should not be able to play a note when I got on the platform. I am horribly nervous, though, perhaps, you are not aware of it." " Well, I should scarcely have said it was one of your failings," he said, looking at her kindly and even a little tenderly as she faced him from the opposite side of the table. His eyes lingered unconsciously on the pic turesque head with its waving brown hair, which in the sun was more gold than brown ; on the fair smiling face, glowing with life and health, which if not strictly beautiful, was young, and fresh, and sweet ; on the soignee toilet ; on the pretty dimpled hands lying clasped on the table.

His eyes lingered a moment restfully on all these, because he had a keen sense of such things, because he was a beauty-lover at heart, though he had elected to take up his abode in a poor London parish, where he was surrounded by all that was commonplace and unlovely ; by much that was even hideous and vile. And he had never repented his voluntary exile, never once looked back with a sigh at the fair path in which he might have walked, though, being only human, it sometimes happened that when, as now, surrounded by all the signs of wealth and refined taste and tete-a-tete with Madge Harvey, his starved artistic sense would assert itself, and he unconsciously paid tribute to the beauty of purple and fine linen. A man, very human, and so knowing how to reach the weak, erring hearts among which he lived ; a man with an infinite patience and pity for the errors of others, but whose own ideal was set in the clouds.

A hard taskmaster to himself. Madge, conscious of that lingering look and the softened light in his eyes, but misinterpreting it a little, felt her own colour rise, and rushed hastily into conversation. " I wonder," she said, " I wonder whether Miss Monroe would come to the rescue ? It has just occurred to me that she might." " Miss Monroe ? " he queried. " Yes. But of course you don't know about her. I have not had time to tell you all our adventures yet. I mean Eleanor Monroe, the celebrated authoress, who wrote ' Reaping the Whirlwind,' the book that made such a sensation early in the year, you remember. Auntie and I met her when we were away, at a funny little village in the Black Forest. It was getting late for tourists, and she was almost the only person left in the hotel. She was very reserved at first, and I don't suppose we should ever have got beyond formal courtesies, but one day when I was out auntie was taken ill, and Miss Monroe was so kind to her.