Evening Star Newspaper, July 4, 1896, Page 17

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JULY SLL OC EN PART I. Shallow people are apt to think that mere recreation and amusement are the principal ends of social meetings and so- + Olal intercourse, and that when a man goes to a party be goes in the hope of enjoying himself, without ulterior objects. To have penetrated beneath this superficial judg- ment ccnstituted, in a philosophical view, the chief distinction of Booby Baines. He rerceived—or at least acted as if he per- celved—that scciety was, when properly treated, at once the fairest and the most fruitful fleld for a young man’s activity. Other men worked from 10 to 6 and played from 6 to midnight or so much later as seemed good to them. Baines dallied with the hours of daylight, the scene of his Galliance being the offices of the board of trade, and tolled strenuously from dinner time till returning dawn. The hours were lorg, but the work was congenial, and it was done in the spirit of an enthusiast. ‘To Baines an invitation to dinner was the voice of conscience, and a card for a re- ception the finger of duty. The flesh might be weary and desire might fail, but he went still to his long “at homes,” and the Gances followed Such devotion did not go without its re- ward. If you stroke the most scornful cat with pati in time the cat will purr. Baines stroked society, and in due course scciety purred. Thus {t fell out that the Joe Ba of the little vicarage In Here- fordshire, the Booby Baines of Rugby and Cambridge—for Rugby originated, an Cambridge, to its disgrace, adopted the riba a me—ble omed forth into the M J. Addington B a young man of in- ply regarded awing rooms and possessed of an jace in houses of high repute. watched the process ift marveled at the were so simple, ent. Mr. Baine: 1 to perfection the principle mony of nature. z so this evening, ie tying his : Homer say hings in his heart. The thoughts random; first he admired the “sit” then the arch of his nose, his chin; next he hum- ‘y and smiled WO" ter. nes, finite and graceful culture, h in a at the ection tin in his latest part; for Boo eat French- man. In the m! cement he ¥ on the table, and t he was very | dura and mount his coun- | Baines; he could | he got. But his face was a pleasant house } ng. Mrs. Swayne per- | but one can} stood him, of Mr. could n THE RARE GOOD FORTUNE OF BOOBY BAINES. BY ANTHONY HOPE. (Copyright, 1896, by Anthony Hope Hawkins.) for » half by un- | her on the she asked. “t think I did,” smiled | ton Ww the sort of ee u, Mr. Baines?” pursued der the professor's tion. reflectively—because it led explanation— elf to the school ook a wider range.” | tened. She shot a tri-| t the unconscious pro- ou couldn't drudge, I expect,” she said, | almost fo! y. i | | | “L sup; not. I went in for literature and so on. “And of thing “J-I don’t remember, Miss Swayne. then I think I developed rather late. ‘Oh, of course,” she exclaimed, cheerful “When you went to Cambridge, | ere there no prizes for that sort And {| st during the time there I rried everything before you?" - | no examinations in my eried Addi jo great indignantly. things in the Mr. Baines, that you something they to show them what rou know. But it was all me to London?" came to Lone . what is i about examine m—just could ¢ did you Tt When at the you know.” . yes; I managed that, Mis hot, though.” uu fail before then?” she asked. It was the stupidest —the civil serv- Swayne. any of your subjects | hed Mr. Baines, with hing against vody to know m afraid . Miss Swayne.” They will know some smiled erlously. omes e, with a u got far in ‘Oh, no: nothing but just the idea.” “Won't you tell me what it’ Ge . Baines st is a long with some pause. Addie apparent pvance: “I think Professor Marti observed, is a perfectly honest Baines. uu must have mistaken me, Mr. ly—no, I really do not b that he has a bath reguiariy.” Addington Baines laughed; but we may be allowed to regret this proof of the power of prejudice. For Professer Martin not enly had a bath, but painfully shampooed himself with an electrie brush every mi ing of his life. It is very dangerous to of- fend young ladies; they so often say what they would like to be true, preferriz harmony of conception to a It will be perceived that Baii Sway sand Addie e were already on terms of some in- timacy, inasmuch as she had been trusted ith his great secret. To one other person ly had this honor been accorded—the aforesaid Tom But Tom knew more than Mis: ayne. He knew what it was to be called, and he had tried to under- stand what it was to be about. He had also in his heart prayed that it might never come into being at all, and had, most hypocritically, supported Baines’ scruples conceraing its publication. These scruples were due, not to a doubt whether the work weuld be good enough for the public, but to a fear lest it should be too good. Publi- cation seemed almost to stain the virgin in- nocenve of Baines’ genlus, and he talked longingly of the superior delight of a pri- vate circulation among choice spirits. Cax- con eagerly seconded the opinion, thinking that the choice spirits would be such as Baines himself, and might possibly admire the work. But Miss Swayne’s influence grew stronger; needs must when beauty | all original and, drives. He started on the composition of the great work, he grew sensible of the charms of authorship, he dropped hints to an admir- Baines’ scruples were overcome. ing and expectant world. Yet a pleasant mystery hung over his labors, and the title, when revealed, was not very enlightening to the uninitiated. The book, when writ ten, was to be called “Stress and Striving,’ and it was understood that it would claim attention by reason of its style no less than of its matter. Therefore, rapid progress could not be expected; every facet of the diamond must be polished. Besides, poor Baines was in such request. And then the Lorrid board of trade consumed so much of his time! At this point the engagement of Miss Swayne and Mr. Addington Baines’ was an- nounced urbi et orbi. ~ * * . . e 18 . In the marriage service no mention oc- curred of “Stress and Striving.” Yet the writing of it was as certain a part of the contract as anything else. Baines knew that, Addie knew it, by now the world knew it. Yet months had passed and “Stress and Striving” made very little way. Addie won- Miss Swayne Made Room for Him. dered why, and her wonder could find but answer. “The beard of trade!’ she ied, in concentrated scorn and hatred. Who could write a great book when his time was consumed and his genius debased by the board of trade? Baines’ patient tol- eration inflamed her anger. He admitted that he could hardly do anything at the book; his days went at that unendurable place, his evenings were given to Addie; soctety claimed its share. Tom Caxton, be- ing by, smiled covertiy. Addie raised’ her large edmiring eyes to her husband's face. a sudden gleeful smile broke out on her ps. “Addington,” said she, confidence in himself. him, anyhow.” =~ Caxton’s smile vanished. “hasn't enough ell, I believe in He detected something dangerous in the speech. “Whi do you want him to do now, Mrs. he asked, with an uneasy laugh. it a little while and you'll see. Oh, I'm quite sure it's the right thing. Yes, I'm sure. It was soon too late to ask whether it was the right thing or not, for {t was past done. Baines’ protests were weak, his resistance short. To his own perfect contentment, to his wife's great joy, to Tom Caxton’s {l- limitable dismay, a month later he walked out of the offices of the board of trade a free man, free to devote his life to the book, the master of his time and his brain. “Phew! muttered Tom Caxton over his newspaper article. PART II. as he was released from bondage, he did what he hai never done before—he set mself resolutely and manfully to his He ceased trifling with his subject; he bought a stock of paper and began to write. Addie uscd to equip him with pens and books of reference, and then steal silently away on tiptoe, her smile bright with exultant hope, her last kiss having given benediction to the noble work of the day. And Addington Baines was left alone, to tackle “Stress and Striving.” rfully he started, doggedly he went A strange, terrible thing began to hap- He found that he composed very and with great difficuity. An in- jus doubt made its way into his brain, slowly st and urdermined his self-confidence. In conversation he had seemed to himself xery original; when he came to set down is the its and to read up his books, he fcund that much which he had held to be legally his own was his only by lawless appropriation. In a word, he Eegan to Wonder whether he had anything to say. This suspicioa would selze him cruelly in moments of fatigue or depression; then he despairingly threw down his pen, and, lay- ing his tired head between his hands, went so far as to wish himself back at the board of trade. At any rate, one was not ex- pected to be an original genius at the board of trade. Then Addie’s light step would come tripping along the passage; the pen was seized again, and, when she came in, he feigned to have paused only for a mo. ment (that was necessary because the ink was dry) in order to crystallize his thoughts into an aphorism, or his attack into an epi- gram. And she would ask to hear the last written chapter over again. To her it was for his sake, all brilliant. Her ready homage reinstated him in his geod opinion of himself. He was happy again till she left him face to face with the remorseless pen and paper, the pen that seemed to cry mockingly: ‘Use me,” and the paper that jeered him with its “fill me if you ean.” Now, when a pretty girl with eight hun- dred pounds a year—a most aggravating cireumstance—has married a man more on the strength of his brains than of anything else, and when he, yielding readily to her persuasions, has abandoned his means of making any additicn to the said income in order to give his genius full scope and opportunity, It needs some moral courage in the husband te go to the wife and tell her that the basis of their respective ac- tions was altogether unsound and falla- ious, that he is not a genius, that no t of scope is of avail when there is nothing to enjcy it, that, in fact, the soon- er he gets back to some honest’ work and leaves his paper staining the better. Yet this uninviting task seeemed to lie before Booby Baines at the moments when his despondency got the better of him and he was tempted to throw up the cards. But he would not despair yet, he told himself, “Addington,” anid enough confidence in himself.” she, “hasn't seeking comfort, that his was only the self-distrust, the nervousness, which, as he had so often heard, accompanied. and indicated real power. He would be sure of success, or he would not publish. Tom Caxton should read the book; he would trust Tom Caxton’s judgment in anything. But it was too scon to despair, and he dared not face Addie. So he toiled away at his oars, pulling his boat through the rough sea and keeping up a cheerful air of confidence befcre his wife. There were commendable points in the behavior of Booby Baines at this time; for he was very far indeed from being a happy man. Tom Caxton saw thet, but he could not help. The only moral which his reflective mind found itself able tc draw was that if a man is comfortably assured of his own ability, still more if his friends are kind enough to indorse his opinicn, it is but doubtful wis- dom to put the matter to the proof: it is tco much iike selling conscls in order to invest in a gold mine. Poor Tom Caxton was not a happy man either when he heard that he was to read the book and pronounce the authoritative verdict which must decide whether it should be given to the world or not. And when, in the fullness of time, the manuscript ar- rived at his lodgings, he flung it impattent- ly on the table. It made a bulky roll of fair white paper, covered with Addie’s ay clear handwriting, and neatly tied with green ribbon. : “What's that?” asked Prof. Martin, who had looked in to smoke a pipe. “Baines’ book,” answered Tom, curtly. es got to read it and give an opinion on It “Tt is quite sure,” observed the profe: sor, in a tone of dispassionate certainty, “to be an uncommonly bad book. What's it about?” “He says,” growled Tom, “that it’s a reasoned protest against the unrest of mod- ern life.” “The man might as well protest against the law of gravitation,” declared the pro- fessor. “If I were you I wouldn’t read it.” “I must. He relies on my opinion.’ “You mean he'll follow it?” ‘Yes; if I tell him to, he'll suppress it.” ‘How very unusual! He must be modest at bottom.” ‘Poor old Booby, I’m afraid he’s rather nervous about it.’’ ‘I was very nervous,” said the professor, ‘when a polished my book on ‘The Phan- tasm of Individuality.’ “T’ve never read it,” said Tom. “You have read it. You're only trying to annoy me, because you're annoyed with Baine: “Well, then, I have read it. I say, pro- fessor, there's going to be a baby at the Baines’!”" “If he never did anything worse than that!’ murmured the professor. “And Booby says that a favorable verdict from me will quiet dear Addie’s mind and— and conduce, you know.” “Good heavens! And if it’s unfavorable?” Caxton shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Make it favorable, anyhow,” suggested the professor, in unscrupulous benevolence. “I coulin’t The old chap trusts me.” “Then what do you propose to do, Mr. Caxton?” “If it’s unfavorable, I think we must wait till dear Addie’s state of mind is not such a vital matter.” e The professor made his exit with a shrug. Caxton sat down to the bulky roll of manuscript. “At least it’s legibl said he with a sigh of relief; and he lit his pipe. It was very legible, for much love had gone to the copying of it, and love breeds care. Alas, that it cannot give brains. Yes, it was legible. That said, all was Ba) No other commendation was in hon- esty possible. The book contained poor Booby’s views on life, and art in relation to life, and both of them in ¢clation to heaven knows what besides. At its rare best, It was tolerably sensible commonplace; at its worst, it was bedizened with silly conceits and given over to the unutterable weariness of missfire paradcx. As a whole, it was rambling, forceless, devoid of vitality. On that day and the next Caxton read it hon- estly through and through, hoping that there might be found one brand—a few Pages, enough, maybe, for an article in a minor monthly—which he could consclen- tiously snatch from the burning. There was And Then Steal Silen Tiptoe. nothimg. He communicated the result to the professor, who had the curiosity to call and ask how things were going on. “Of course there isn’t,” said the profes- sor, placidly. “So I must massacre the innocent!” “You'll tell him not to publish “Oh, he mustn't at any price, even if he could.” “And Mrs. Baines?’ asked the professor. “He must tell her himself. That's not my affair.” At this moment a servant entered and handed Caxton a telegram. It was from Baines, and said: “Addie very ill. Can you come and bring book?” Caxton threw it across to the professor and put on his hat. “The event going wrong, guessed the professor. “I suppose so. Now, why can’t a good chap like old Booby be allowed a quiet fe?” “I haven’t the answer to that about me,” sald the Professor. . . ly Away on I suppose,” Ca . . The houses of Vanessa terrace, where Mr. and Mrs. Baines lived, are not large, but they are new and fresh, and their architecture shows at least a craving after beauty; they suggest to the passer-by cul- tivated tastes, a couple of neat maidser- vants, and an income short of four figures. The rooms inside No. 12 were pretty and dainty, full of curiously chosen trumpery, and decked with the last conceits of ar- tistic upholstery. A room is right to hint the views and fancies of its occupants; it is a mistake when it crams their dogmas down a visitor's throat. Perhaps the Baines’ rooms were open to criticism on this ground, but neither wife nor husband knew it; the rooms were simply the only possible sort of rooms—so said Addie, quot- ing Addington. It Was From Baines. But today the little house, to which Cax- tcn drove in a fast hansom, was out of humor with itse! The hush and fearful hurry of sudden ‘sickness were upon it, seeming things too real and heavy for its toylike nattiness. Somehow Caxton felt sorry for the little house, as well as for the owners of it. But he hoped that the greater trouble might rob his own bit of bad news of some of its sting. A man had no business to think of his book at such a time. True, but what if his wife insisted on thinking of it for him? Ruefully shak- ing his head, Tom Caxton rang the bell softly. He was conducted upstairs, and led into a small sitting room. It was fan- tastic and over-bedecked, like the rest; it looked as if it might be Addie’s boudoir, and from the subdued sounds which reach- ed his ear Caxton thought that it must be next docr to the room where the poor little sick woman lay. He sat down, concealing “Stress and Striving” under his coat as if it were the body of an infant he had mur- dered. In a minute or two Addington Baines came in. There were tears in his eyes, and he held his handkerchief, crushed to a ball, in his left hand. Caxton went to him holding out his hand, the roll of manu- script clutched in the other under his coat. “My dear boy,” said he; “I hope to God—" “Thanks, Tom. Yes, we hope now.’ “Was it—?” “Premature—yes. Poor darling, she’s ter- ribly weak!” “And the child?” asked Caxton. “We hope it will live—a boy, Tom.” ‘There was a pause. A vague, awkward embarrrassment trammeled Caxton. He did, not know whether he ought to say more about mother end child—or, if he ought, what more—or whether he was expected to bring forward the subject of the book. At last Baines relieved him. Passing a hand across his eyes he said: “I asked you to come, old fellow, be- cause the book's’ cn Addie’s mind. By Jove, she seems te think more about that tgan’ anything else.” “What, naw—sbout the book now: “Yes. You see she thinks she’s dying,” exclaimed Baines, with a choke in his voice. “God forbid!” “And she says she'd be happler if you just told her that the book was good. She believes in your opinion just as much I do, you know. “Ts there immediate danger?” asked Cax- ten. ‘No, I think not, if she could rest. But she’s fretting, and we must—we should like, I mean—to stop that {ff you can, you know, old fellow.” § ; Then the unscrupulous counsel of the | professor came with strong temptation be- fore Tom Caxton’s mind. The. course it urged was easy; it would at leagt postpone the task that had become so terribly difi- cult. But Booby Baines’ eyes gaught his friend’s in appealing confidence, and Cax- ton determined that he would yot lle. He took the manuscript from its hiding place under his coat and laid it on, the table. Baines, perhaps, read something in his face, for he came up to him gnd put a hand on his shoulder. 5. “Come, out with it, old fellow,.’ said he. “Let me have it straight.” PART OI “I think it's hardly in your jn Caxton, with eyes on the ground and hands thrust obstinately into his trousers pockets. Baines drew back a Step. A cu- rious sound, a sort of moan,,,broke low from his lips, and he spoke in @ whisper. “I knew it. I knew ft. With every line I wrote I knew it better. It—it won't do at all, old fellow?” “No, it won't do.” Caxton spoke now in his usual curt and rather hard tones. It was well to have the thing over now and as soon as possible. His words should be sharp and decisive. “It won't do at all,” he said. “You musn’t think of publishing it. Nobody weuld publish it for you. You'd have to waste your own money, and look a fool at the end.” Baines sat dovn at the table and began to fumble with the knot of green ribbon that tied the neatly copied sheets together. The sound of a low voice and the soft tread of a careful foot came through the wall from the next room. “Can nothing be done with it?” asked Baines, his nervous fingers still at work. Caxton’s manner grew gruffer with every fresh assault on his pity. “It's hopeless, quite hopeless,” he said brusquely. Baines buried his face in his hands for @ moment, moaning. “How skall I tell her? How shall I tell her I'm a fool? She believed in me s0.”" “A man isn’t a fool because he can’t write a book,” said Caxton; but his tone expressed no conviction that Baines was not a fool. “I'm a fool,” said Booby, savagely. Then he wailed again: “And, God help me, Addic will know it now.” “Look here, don’t talk about it to her till she’s all right again.” As he spoke there was a knock at the docr, and a servant came in. “Please, sir, Mrs. Baines has heard Mr. Caxton’s voice and wants him to come in at cnce.” “To come in?” cried Baines, jumping up. “Walt a minute, he added to Cax- ton, and passed quickly into the next room. Caxton was left alone with the body of his victim. He walked to the window and stood looking out, a frown on his brow. “I wish the devil’I was out of this,” he muttered to himself. In a moment Ba‘nes was back, bis face full of alarm. He stood by the door and ‘oned. ‘Come along,” he said. “The doctor and he turned thinks you'd better come, again to go to the bed room. “But what shall I say?” whispered Cax- ton, in helpless anger, as he followed. They were by the bedside, Baines having made no answer to the whispered appeal: indeed, he seemed dazed, and looked at Caxton with a vacant stare. Addie lay on the bed, very pale, breathing quickly, and her eyes were alight with excitement; on the other side of the bed stood the doctor. “Have you read it?” she asked, meving her hands toward Caxton and fixing her e on him. Yes," he answered, bending over her. ve read it, Mrs. Baines.” ‘And what—what?” she sald, faintly. Caxton pressed her hand. The doctor's eyes were upon him, but he could not be sure what they meant to tell him. Baines had fallen on his knees by, the bedside nd his face was hidden in the covet : The interval that passed ,before Cay ton heard his own voice seemed very long, and when it came it said something that it hardly meant to say. ‘Splen, he said, pressing, Addie's hand again an ling. “Splendid?” she echoed. ple nid 2” Baines suddenly rz the coverlet hold of C. ised his head from he put out his hand to catch xton, and his lips opened to, speak. Caxton leant heavily on hig shoul- der and kept him down where he ‘was, on “And what—what?” she snid, faintly. his knees by the bed; and, looking across at the doctor, who made no sign or ges- ture, he said agai “Splendid, Mrs. Baines, simply splendid! It wi!l make him famous and you must make haste and get well and see the fun." “Ah! murmured Addie, in a long, luxu- ricus sigh of utter relief, ‘as she sank hack erd loosed her hold on Caxton’s hand. “Thanks, Mr. Caxton; oh, thanks! Add- ington, dear Addington!” Caxton drew back. The impassive doc- tor was motionless. Baines rose to his feet and bent over his wife, taking her arms and putting them round his neck. He kissed her, and the men heard her “My clever darling, oh, my clever Her husband kissed her again and disengaged her arms from about him. Now, I think you two had better leave us,” said the doctor. Caxton was rejoiced to obey. The doctor came with him to the door; he did not look at Caxton, nor Cax- ton at him, and no remark was made until the door of the bed room was closed and Baines and Caxton were outside together. Then Caxton said: 5 “She'll do all right now, I hope, old fel- low Baines walked into the little boudoir without replying, and sat down again by the table where “Stress and Striving” lay. Caxton stood on the hearthrug gazing drearily about the room and through the window at the opposite house. But he could not endure the silence; an impulse to justify himself came upon him, yet {t was to himself rather than to Booby Baines that his excuses were addressed. “It would have killed her to tell her now,” he said. Baines made no answer; he was looking at the manuscript. “When she’s strong again it won't mat- ter, will it? She'll make nothing of it then, will she? Still Baines was silent, and Caxton turn- ed to him, asking, half angril: “Well, I was right, wasn't 17 “Yes, you were right,” said Baines. “I couldn't have done It. Then, suddenly, in a fit of weak peevish passion, he caught up the fairly written roll. Caxton, starting, took one hasty step toward him, but then he arrested his motion, and stood looking. Their eyes met for en instant; then Baines, putting all his strength into his hands, tore-the-roll full across the middle, and flungsét from him into the grate, where a bright, fire burnt. “Is that right?” he asked, savagély, rude- ly, as thovgh Caxton were to tame for all the trouble. ear) Caxton nodded, and, taking }:is hat, pre- pared to go. The fire, which had up in_a brighter blaze ‘to welcome “ and Striving,” was growing, du! as the sheets blackened and lay in inky flakes on the top of the coals. “She'll die, too,” cried Baines, In a sud- den whisper. ’ “She'll die, tog!” “No, no. She'll be all oa nas you'll see she'll be all right now. od-bye, old fellow, ard good luck. A wifg’s more than a book, you know.” > Baines sat looking into thg ifiye, which was well-nigh choked by ldjergpn layer of black flaky stuff, on whid written characters could still be -tra juddenly he sprang up and seized a pi Stirring the fire, he raised a blaze ‘tya€ charred what of white had remained, while the black fluttered up the chimney or out into the fender. The room smeit strong of burnt paper. Caxton edged uncomfortably toward the door. Baines returned to his seat and sat down, resting his head on his arm. Presently he put up the other arm also, and Caxton saw that he was crying softly. He passed through the doorway, and shut the door gently behind him. 7 Humanly speaking, as the old phrase runs, there could be little doubt that the lie told by ‘Tom Caxton and allowed by Addington Baines had something to do with saving Mrs. Baines’ life. The doctor admitted to having considered her condition so critical that the least thing might be decisive one way or the other, and: was inclined to be of cpinion—the doctor was a cautious man and did not love positive assertions—that the Scale had just been turned the right way by what he called the spring ni 8 about Mr. Baines’ wor! Hs id not, of course, ictitlous the good tid- know how entirely had been; he suspected that Caxton’ enthusiasm had been somewhat strength- ered by the circumstances under which the verdict had to be given; but he supposed that it was only a question of emphasizing @ genuine conviction. Neither had he noticed a smell of burnt paper; so that to this day he is rather puzzled at the non- appearance of “Stress and Striving” in the rare moments when he finds time to think about other people's business. The recovery was long and slow. For more than two months the possibility of re- lapses forbade any sense of security, and made a return to the path of truth a danger- ous cruelty. Caxton kept away from the house; he had done his part, and he left the rest to Baines. And Baines, a beginning having been made for him, did not shrink from following it up. He invented the back- ground necessary for every successful false- hood, and, having accepted the principal, Was not so foolish as to haggle over acces- sories. So he let his wife talk about the dead book, and, on occasion, seconded her talk with his own. Moreover, his over- whelming joy at Addie’s recovery, and at the progress made by the baby, enabled him to perform his duty with a fair show of cheerfulness, and almost to put on one side the thought of the inevitable disclosure that waited for him in the future. For a time it seemed as though this same healthy Joy would be strong enough to heal the sore ‘wound of humiliation and the sad certainty of self-knowledge for which the ill-fated book was responsible. But delay could not last forever. Addie was convalescent, indeed, nearly well; she was to go out soon, and as soon as she went out and met her friends she would most certainly talk about “Stress and Striving.” She had already begun to ask what was being done with the book, and to fret over the blindness or dilatoriness of imaginary publishers. It was time to open her eyes to the true fate of the unlucky work, and Baines, finding her sitting before the very grate that had been its tomb, nerved him- self for the task. PART Iv. “Feeling pretty strong, Addie, dear?” he asked, taking a chair near hers. “Oh, I'm really quite well now. I shall go out tomorrow.” “Equal to a talk on—on business?” “Of course, dear. But 1s anything the matter?” “No; it's about that book of mine, the one Caxton—” “Oh, Addington, is it out? Will it be out soon? Oh, I shall love to see it in print!” “No, dear, it’s not put. I—I don’t think it will ever come out.” He spoke and held his breath. “Not come out!” she cried. “Surely they aren't as stupid as that? Do they want you to pay? Well, we will pay.” r “It's not that, Addie. I haven't asked Baines Sat L anybody to publish it. Do you remember what Caxton said when you were {lI?” “Why, yes, Garling. It was so nice of Mr. Caxton. You know how I always liked htm, and tt made me so proud and Baines happy Poor Booby but stuck to his task. “I want to tell you,” he said, “that it wasn’t quite true.” “What, not true that your book was good? Oh, Addington, what a modest young man!” And she laughed merrily. “I'm quite serious, dear, I’m sorry to say. The book was really not—” “I'd rather have Mr. Caxton’s opinion,” interrupted Addie, with a confident smile. “He's a better judge than you are, sir.” “I'm trying to tell you Caxton’s opinion, Addie,” said Baines, in mild, but honest persistence. “But he told me himself. He said the book was splendid.” “Yes, my desr, but you were very ill, and he thought, and I thought, too, that it was Letter—’ “Well?” said Addie, sitting up straight in her chair. “To tell you what you wanted to hear, even if it wasn’t true,” he went on, his eyes on the fire. “Oh, Addington,” she whispered, with a sudden gasp of apprehension. “Now, dear, wouldn’t you have fretted terribly if you'd been told that the book was—wasn’t so good as you hoped? I was afraid, Addie—I mean Caxton was afraid.” “So ‘you told Mr. Caxton to—to put it strongly?” “Well, he did it himself. I let him do it, I thought it was right, Addie.” “Oh, dear, I'm sorry. No, I won't be angry! But did he think it was not so good as—as it ought to be?” “Addie, he thought it was very bad— very bad.” groaned, he “Equal to a talk nm business “And he told me what wasn't true “He—we meant it well, dear,” Baines. “T think it was a liberty pleaded she said, with not in you, dear. “Oh, be didn’t like anything. He said that it was utterly hopeless and that I mustn't publish it; he said nobody would have it.” The truth was now out. Baines had turned his eyes away from his wife's face and sat waiting for the blow. But a long pause followed, and then Addie said: “How does he know? I never liked his dcgmatic way of talking.” “I'm afraid he’s a pretty good judge,” murmured Baines, disconsolately. “So, you haven't tried to get it publish- ed yet “No, dear. In fact—" “Mr. Caxton isn’t everybody, Addington. I'm sure it’s awfully gocd. Don't be dis- couraged, my dear. You are just a little bit easily discouraged, you know. You must take somebody ele’s opinion. Yes; you must. Now do. Don’t shake your head like that.” “TI can’t,” seid Baines, “Way not?” Another long pause followed. Then Booby Baines whispered: “The book’s destroyed.” she cried, in sudden horror. 0 you mean to say——” He—we thought it best.” repeated Addie, incredu- ‘that that man took upon himself to burn your book?” “No; I burnt it,” said Baines; he was de- termined to be honest. “On his advice?” “Well—" ‘On his advice, Addington?” “He did advise it.” - “And it all burnt—all of it, dear?” “Yes, Addie. Don’t cry, Addie! It’s no great ings.” i “What a shame! What a shame! To come when you were in trouble about—me, and tell ycu to burn it! Oh, how shame- full” “Really, Addie, you’re wronging Caxton, indeed. you are. I sent for him, you know, and quite agreed with him. Addie put out her arm to him and made htm draw his chair closer to hers. 4, 1896-TWENTY-FOUR PAGES. 17 “Poor dear! she said. “You weren't yourself that day; he took a cruel advan- tage of you.” by sm Cling, he had nothing to gain y— “Well, at any rate, he was most reckless —and thovghtlees—and conceited, What a value he must put on tis own opinion!” “Addie, dearest!” “Now, tell me, Addington, do you really ask me to believe that there was no good in the bock? Romemter how we liked it when we read it together!” Baines said nothing. He remembered it; it came beck to him somehow. “Am I—I who know hew clever you are— to believe that? Why, it was a beautiful boo! “No, no; it wasn’t up to much,” pro- tested Baines; but now he smiled timidly at his wife. “Ah, you may say so, but I shan’t be- Meve my clever boy is—a stupid. Was there nothing you lked ycurself? Now, think!” He begar te yield to the sweet, loving flattery. “Ot course,” he said, “although it was bad as a whole, it y have had a good thing her. and there. . “Ot course, it had—here, there and every- where! Oh, I wonGer how he dared! I shall let him know what I think about it! “My darling, he acted with my full ap- Provel. In fact, I burnt it myself.” “Your approval! I suppose you were thinking more about me and baby than the book, weren't you?” Baines could not say no to this question, and she went on, triumphantly: “Of couse you were. I see it all! Oh, the conceit of some men! Now, Addington, “The book would have done nothing but harm.” Jes about the chapter on ‘The New aight!’ Alas for the eternal resurrections of seif- approval! “Perhaps that wasn’t as bad as the rest, d Booby Baines. So bad! It was beautifu! about—what was it? Rest. “There was an working out—' “Oh, bother the working out!” Gaines. ‘Now, aren't you sorry Baines had begun to be a little sorry. “I thought it best not to risk a fail- ure, dear,” he pleaded. You thevght! Mr. enough to thirk “Anyhow, Addie, you mustn't be an; vith Caxton. He meant it most kindly h, that’s what officious people always And that one Oh, yes—‘Zest in idea in that, but the ried Mrs. Caxtcn was kind , indeed. He may have been ay have been! Now, don’t you think was? Now, wasn’t he?" Weil, dear, I could hardly consider the iatter calmly then.” should think not, with me lying half deed! Aren't you sorry now?” There was no escaping it. trust revived his own ory painted His wife's confidence; mem- the dull-hued book in bri eclors. Neither to her, nor to hims could ke persist in his ascetic denial of merit to his work. “II am half sorr; he said. “But we must be just to Caxten. “I am just,” declared Addie, “and it’s all his fault. ever, ol And I love you more than ar Addington. You must write it in!" “I could indeed, I couldn't,” he cried, in swift terror; for the vision of those barren, torturing hours before his desk rose to his eyes. “Oh, of covrse, you feel that now,” said she, sooth ‘But some day you'll feel different. Some day, won't you, dear?” And Addington Baines said: “Well, per- haps, some day ” . . . . . * 28 6 When Addie put it like that the pro- fessor could not deny that possibly she might be right. “My dear young lady, nobody 1s infal- lible except “professors,” said he. “Cax- ton’s got a sound judgment, though.” “You never did justice (o my husband's abilities.” said she, reproachfully. “Now, that’s too bad! My pursuits are so different from his that—” “Well, and what does Mr. Caxton know about those things Addington writes on? Now, professor, would you burn another man’s book?” “Not without his consent,” said the pro- fessor. “And would you ask his consent when his wife was almost dying, and he was utterly upset “There, I'm not going to get into trouble by defending the fellow. to look efter himself.” “In your He's big enough heart you think he was my dear lady, I know nothing about It. “I asked him to come here today. ecing to tell him what I think about it.” The professor pulled out his watch with burlesque anxiety. “I think I'll be going,” said he. appointment.” The professor went, and presently Tom Caxton came. He greeted Addie with the excessive and unnatural urbanity of a man who knows that he is going to be scolded; it is like a dog's cringing wag of the tail when the whip comes in eight. Addie plunged into the subject at once, and with- out giving him an opportunity of speaking indulged in er. eloquent rebuke of his hasti- thoughtlessness, levity and self-as- nee, “Well, Mr. Caxton,” she asked, at last, “have you nothing to say?” = rm “T’'ve an PART V. “I am incorrigible, Mrs. Baines,” he an- swered. “I still think I was right.” She raised her hands in a gesture of despairing astonishment. “The book,” he went on, “would have done nothing but harm to your husband's reputation. “But I read It, and it was splendid.” “Well, you know, my opinion was asked, not offered—and I could only give it. His talents are not In that direction.” “You think he has no talents at all, I suppose?” she asked, bitterly. "its use arguing about it. If Adding- Baincs Was in His Arm Chair at the Table. himself can’t convince you, I can’t.” dxiington? Why, he agrees with me ‘Agrees with you?” cried Caxton, in- credulously. “Yes. He Mtterly regrets yielding to your opinion in a moment of—well, when he wasn't himself.” “Impossible! He fully acquiesced in my opinion—he said he had anticipated it. Is he in, Mrs. Baines’ Addington’s presence was secured. When he heard why he was wanted, he laid his hand gently on Addie’s shoulder. “She's too zealous for me, Caxton,” said he. “Tt's a charming fault in a wife,” said Caxton, with a grim smile, “but in bare gustice to myself I had to cite you as a witness.” Baines glanced uneasily at his wife and said nothing. “You quite agreed In what I said and advised,” urged Caxton. “Oh, yes, I did, Certainly I agreed. Yes, Addie, I agreed. “And your own judgment went with it?” added Caxton. “Yes, yes. At the time, at least. I thought—I still think—that the book was— had faults.” “They could have been remedied, clared Addie, decisively. “Perhaps, dear,” said Booby Baines ‘per- haps not. Caxton did his best for me.” te de- “You seem to have changed your views rather,” cemarkel Caxton, | Baines threw a glance at him—it seemed @ confidential glance—a glance of private appeal ell,” he sald, “I was a bit down then, old chap, Addie was ill anntind all that, zon know.” “Just as I said,” interpolated Addie, drumming @ neat foot on the floor. ‘IT daresay you were right, Caxton,” 8 went on; “ 2 Uttle bit hasty ot DeTnADS We were Just Caxton smiled and, turning to Addie, said: ‘My witness is not very satisfactory, Mrs. es. wit all shows.” said Addie, “how care- be in assuming responsi- ful we ought to Hility. es “Yes, husband nor wife seemed - cern the point of his remark. "They were standing together now. Addie’s left hand m Baines’ arm, an her right tance arm and she held out ‘We won't charitably. quarrel about it,” she said ae — i thomeht I ought to tell , in case you sont <p Hos ever do the same “I think you may feel easy abo it tl ”. sald Caxton. “I've had my enon” — Yes,” said she, in simple acquiescence. “And,” sh ds “he' v" keane fe added, “he’s going to write it Addington, you've all your time 3 ince yor of trade" you got rid of that horrid board Booby Baines fergetting his own wrongs in pity nate began to apologize for him. sit down and weit n Thing We emetution te wal time,” said he. oe pee Vell, and Addington’s got the u yeu think he hasn abe lashed ‘out, ae ey, “And when it ts done again and Cuicee we shall see who was right, Mr. “I'm sure I hope I shall be y wrong,” said he. as he exchanged get a cold shake of the hand with Mrs. Baines. Then he bade Booby farewell; the hunted lcok was still in Booby’s eyes. He had all his time now, he had left the board of trade (was it really so horrid?) and he could set to work at once to rewrite “Stress and Striving” under the lively and con- stant ebcouragement of an admiring wife. ‘One is sometimes glad to be a bachelor,” said Tom Caxton to himself, car elf, as he walked The world was not let ito the whole Secret of the inassacre of “Stress and Striving.” The professor knew, but he was Giscreet. Caxton was not likely to tell, end the Baines treated the incident as though it had never been, Yet it leaked cut—who can tell how?—that the great Dart of the book had been written and then Gestroyed by its author. Caxtor.’s share in the transaction was not mentioned, and Mrs. Baines was not unkind enough to ex- pose him; thus the way was left clear for the natural inference. The inference was Guly drawn, and the admirers of Mr. Baines wearied not in praisirg an artist Whose regard for perfection. was so scrup lous as to lead him to destroy the work of menths, and set to again on a blank sheet. Booby Baines himself said little, but he ewned to having found faults in the firat draft. This admission was enorzh: tho version was now authorized, and admir- irg sympathy watched the ‘conscient author as he set to work again. Yes, he set to work again, in helpless bondage to his loving wife, in loathing despair of the task. There seemed no avoiding it and no per- forming it, and Addie was more che and confident than ever. She laughed Away doubts, and was sturdy in refusing to regret the lost board of trac But toward Caxion her bearing was cold and her mai stern. Now, in those days a certain eminent per- son put himself at the head of a movement for the promotion of culture in the masses of the people sums were rais at b aud a couple of baronetcies were under- stood to be an offer for a prize. Prof. Martin, be hichly distinguished in quite another line, was invited on to the general committee, ani, being an energetic man, took a large part in founding the first of the great buildinges, the College of Art in the Old Kent road. “And when the College of Art was neaily finished Mr. Tom Cax- ton began to be most assiduous in calling on Prof. Martin. In vain the professor de- clared that he had no influence with the eminent person or with the general com- mittce. Caxion knew better. In vain the professor plecded that public interests alone could be regarded in the appointment of a secretary to the College of Art in the Old Kent road. Again Caxton knew better. “It's on-my ccnscience, professor,” he urged. “Think of the poor beggar sitting down to that job all over again The professor thought of it, and his face softened. “After all,” he observed, “he is supposed to know something about art.” A week after, the general committee having met under the presidency of the eminent persoa, and Prof. Martin having brought forward a certain candidate for the office of secretory, Tom Caaton again drove in a fast hansom to Vanessa Ter- race. The little house was itself again; its windows were decked with flowers; a perambulator stood in the hall. Addie Baines ran out to meet the visitor. “Oh, is it you, Mr. Caxton?” she sald, drawing herself up. “Yes. Where's Addington? I must see him. I've got an important messege for him.” “He's in the study writing. Come along.” For the Importance hinted in Caxton’s manner overcame her dislike of him. ‘They entered the study. Baines was in his armchair at the table. He was leaning back when the door opened, but in an in- stant he sat upright, seized a pen, pulled a Wank sheet of paper into position before him, and then looked round with a startled air, “I'm afraid we're interrupting you, dear,” said Addie. “It doesn’t matter,” he answered eager- iy ‘Please stay Then Tom Caxton told the news—how that the appointment of secretary to the College of Arts was at the disposal of Mr, J. Addington Baines in case he should think fit to accept it. “And,” said Tom, “I consider the offer an uncommonly high compliment to you.” Baines’ eyes sparkled. Since the revela- tion concerning “Stress and Striving” he had been ill at ease in living entirely on Addie’s money, and four hundred a year is just a comfortable addition to eight hun- dred. “It would be most congenial work,” said he. “It would give me a real scope Addie looked a little doubtful. “Would it leave him time to go on with his own work?” said she, with a gesture toward the table and the papers strewn upon it “Well said Tom, “that’s the Mrs. Baines. The work will be v: and will take his whole time. Inc committee will expect the sc vote his entire energies to the wi he “Oh!” cried Addie, in dismay. be able to get on with Striving!’ You must consider ington, For a moment Caxton trembled; he burn- ed to stir Baines up to a stroke for free- dom. He exchanged a glance with him. Bai understood it; he rose and took Addie’s arm in his. “Yes,” said he, “I'm sorry for that. I may get a little spare time for it; but, any- how, I think it’s my duty to accept. T can be of use in this new position, and I mustn't think only of my own fi And he suddenly put out his ot? and clasped Caxton’s hand, and said, a sudden, genuine outburst of delight Jove, I am glad, old fellow!” Addie looked a little puzzled, sald: “Well, it is @ prominent position, isn’t but she it And Tom Caxton said, very gravely, that it was. Booby Baines turned to the writing table. He opened a drawer, and with a dexterous sweep of his hand shot all the papers into it. Then he closed the drawer with a bang, and said, with the happiest smile: “No more work today! You'll lunch, Tom?” And Tom stayed to lunch; and they talk- ed about the baby, and the College of Art, and what could be done with another four hundred a year. And Addie’s was the only voice raised in regret. “I'm afraid,” said she, “that it means the end of the book—for ever so long, at least.” “Well, I told you there was that draw- back,” said Tom Caxton. The servant had gone, and they three were alone. Disregarding Caxton’s pres- ence, Addie rose and went round to her husband. She kissed him on the cheek and sald: stay to ever mind, darling. People know that you could do it if you liked, and I know it best of all.”. And this.was the rare good fortune of Booby Baines. (The end.)