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the wife of a poor curate of high moral principles, would the same

result have been secured? The fever that had robbed her of her beauty



and turned her thoughts inward had been the result of sitting out on

the balcony of the Paris Opera House with an Italian Count on the



occasion of a fancy dress ball. As the wife of an East End clergyman

the chances are she would have escaped that fever and its purifying



effects. Was there not danger in the position: a supremely beautiful

young woman, worldly-minded, hungry for pleasure, condemned to a life



of poverty with a man she did not care for? The influence of Alice

upon Nathaniel Armitage, during those first years when his character



was forming, had been all for good. Could he be sure that, married to

Nellie, he might not have deteriorated?



Were Alice Blatchley to marry an artist could she be sure that at

forty she would still be in sympathy with artistic ideals? Even as a



child had not her desire ever been in the opposite direction to that

favoured by her nurse? Did not the reading of Conservative journals



invariablyincline her towards Radicalism, and the steady stream of

Radical talk round her husband's table invariably set her seeking



arguments in favour of the feudalsystem? Might it not have been her

husband's growing Puritanism that had driven her to crave for



Bohemianism? Suppose that towards middle age, the wife of a wild

artist, she suddenly "took religion," as the saying is. Her last



state would be worse than the first.

Camelford was of delicate physique. As an absent-minded bachelor with



no one to give him his meals, no one to see that his things were

aired, could he have lived till forty? Could he be sure that home



life had not given more to his art than it had taken from it?

Jessica Dearwood, of a nervous, passionate nature, married to a bad



husband, might at forty have posed for one of the Furies. Not until

her life had become restful had her good looks shown themselves. Hers



was the type of beauty that for its development demands tranquillity.

Dick Everett had no delusions concerning himself. That, had he



married Jessica, he could for ten years have remained the faithful

husband of a singularly plain wife he knew to be impossible. But



Jessica would have been no patient Griselda. The extreme probability

was that having married her at twenty for the sake of her beauty at



thirty, at twenty-nine at latest she would have divorced him.

Everett was a man of practical ideas. It was he who took the matter



in hand. The refreshmentcontractor admitted that curious goblets of

German glass occasionally crept into their stock. One of the waiters,



on the understanding that in no case should he be called upon to pay

for them, admitted having broken more than one wine-glass on that



particular evening: thought it not unlikely he might have attempted

to hide the fragments under a convenient palm. The whole thing



evidently was a dream. So youth decided at the time, and the three

marriages took place within three months of one another.



It was some ten years later that Armitage told me the story that night

in the Club smoking-room. Mrs. Everett had just recovered from a



severe attack of rheumatic fever, contracted the spring before in

Paris. Mrs. Camelford, whom previously I had not met, certainly



seemed to me one of the handsomest women I have ever seen. Mrs.

Armitage--I knew her when she was Alice Blatchley--I found more



charming as a woman than she had been as a girl. What she could have

seen in Armitage I never could understand. Camelford made his mark



some ten years later: poor fellow, he did not live long to enjoy his

fame. Dick Everett has still another six years to work off; but he is



well behaved, and there is talk of a petition.

It is a curious story altogether, I admit. As I said at the



beginning, I do not myself believe it.

End




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