An Imaginative Woman
by Thomas Hardy
When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings
at a well-known watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to
the hotel to find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled
along the shore, and Marchmill followed in the direction
indicated by the military-looking hall-porter
'By Jove, how far you've gone! I am quite out of breath,'
Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his
wife, who was reading as she walked, the three children being
considerably further ahead with the nurse.
Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book
had thrown her. 'Yes,' she said, 'you've been such a long time. I
was tired of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you
have wanted me, Will?'
'Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the
airy and comfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy and
uncomfortable. Will you come and see if what I've fixed on will
do? There is not much room, I am afraid; hut I can light on
nothing better. The town is rather full.'
The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble,
and went back together.
In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched,
and in domestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple
differed, though even here they did not often clash, he being
equable, if not lymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine.
It was to their tastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest
particulars, that no common denominator could be applied.
Marchmill considered his wife's likes and inclinations somewhat
silly; she considered his sordid and material. The husband's
business was that of a gunmaker in a thriving city northwards,
and his soul was in that business always; the lady was best
characterized by that superannuated phrase of elegance 'a votary
of the muse.' An impressionable, palpitating creature was Ella,
shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of her husband's trade
whenever she reflected that everything he manufactured had for
its purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her
equanimity by assuring herself that some, at least, of his
weapons were sooner or later used for the extermination of horrid
vermin and animals almost as cruel to their inferiors in species
as human beings were to theirs.
She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as
any objection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity
of getting life-leased at all cost, a cardinal virtue which all
good mothers teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she
had closed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached
the reflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon
some object in the dark, she wondered what she had got; mentally
walked round it, estimated it; whether it were rare or common;
contained gold, silver, or lead; were a clog or a pedestal,
everything to her or nothing.
She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept
her heart alive by pitying her proprietor's obtuseness and want
of refinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate and
ethereal emotions in imaginative occupations, day-dreams, and
night- sighs, which perhaps would not much have disturbed William
if he had known of them.
Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping,
or rather bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that
marvellously bright and liquid sparkle in each pupil which
characterizes persons of Ella's cast of soul, and is too often a
cause of heartache to the possessor's male friends, ultimately
sometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured man,
with a brown beard; he had a pondering regard; and was, it must
be added, usually kind and tolerant to her. He spoke in squarely
shaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with a condition of
sublunary things which made weapons a necessity.
Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they
were in search of, which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and
was fronted by a small garden of wind-proof and salt-proof
evergreens, stone steps leading up to the porch. It had its
number in the row, but, being rather larger than the rest, was in
addition sedulously distinguished as Coburg House by its
landlady, though everybody else called it 'Thirteen, New Parade.'
The spot was bright and lively now; but in winter it became
necessary to place sandbags against the door, and to stuff up the
keyhole against the wind and rain, which had worn the paint so
thin that the priming and knotting showed through.
The householder, who bad been watching for the gentleman's
return, met them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She
informed them that she was a professional man's widow, left in
needy circumstances by the rather sudden death of her husband,
and she spoke anxiously of the conveniences of the establishment.
Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the
house; but, it being small, there would not be accommodation
enough, unless she could have all the rooms.
The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted
the visitors to be her tenants very badly, she said, with obvious
honesty. But unfortunately two of the rooms were occupied
permanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season
prices, it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the
year round, and was an extremely nice and interesting young man,
who gave no trouble, she did not like to turn him out for a
month's 'let,' even at a high figure. 'Perhaps, however,' she
added, 'he might offer to go for a time.'
They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel,
intending to proceed to the agent's to inquire further. Hardly
had they sat down to tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman,
she said, had been so obliging as to offer to give up his rooms
for three or four weeks rather than drive the new-comers away.
'It is very kind, but we won't inconvenience him in that way,'
said the Marchmills.
'O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you!' said the
landlady eloquently. 'You see, he's a different sort of young man
from most- -dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy--and he cares
more to be here when the south-westerly gales are beating against
the door, and the sea washes over the Parade, and there's not a
soul in the place, than he does now in the season. He'd just as
soon be where, in fact, he's going temporarily, to a little
cottage on the Island opposite, for a change.' She hoped
therefore that they would come.
The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house
next day, and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr.
Marchmill strolled out towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill,
having despatched the children to their outdoor amusements on the
sands, settled herself in more completely, examining this and
that article, and testing the reflecting powers of the mirror in
the wardrobe door.
In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young
bachelor's, she found furniture of a more personal nature than in
the rest. Shabby books, of correct rather than rare editions,
were piled up in a queerly reserved manner in corners, as if the
previous occupant had not conceived the possibility that any
incoming person of the season's bringing could care to look
inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold to rectify
anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction.
'I'll make this my own little room,' said the latter, 'because
the books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to
have a good many. He won't mind my reading some of them, Mrs.
Hooper, I hope?'
'O dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in
the literary line himself somewhat. He is a poet--yes, really a
poet-- and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to
write verses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he
'A poet! O, I did not know that.'
Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's
name written on the title-page. 'Dear me!' she continued; 'I know
his name very well--Robert Trewe--of course I do; and his
writings! And it is HIS rooms we have taken, and HIM we have
turned out of his home?'
Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later,
thought with interested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter
history will best explain that interest. Herself the only
daughter of a struggling man of letters, she had during the last
year or two taken to writing poems, in an endeavour to find a
congenial channel in which to let flow her painfully embayed
emotions, whose former limpidity and sparkle seemed departing in
the stagnation caused by the routine of a practical household and
the gloom of bearing children to a commonplace father. These
poems, subscribed with a masculine pseudonym, had appeared in
various obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent
ones. In the second of the latter the page which bore her
effusion at the bottom, in smallish print, bore at the top, in
large print, a few verses on the same subject by this very man,
Robert Trewe. Both of them had, in fact, been struck by a tragic
incident reported in the daily papers, and had used it
simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a note
upon the coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems
prompted him to give them together.
After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy,' had watched with
much attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing
the signature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility
on the question of sex, had never once thought of passing himself
off as a woman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself
with a sort of reason for doing the contrary in her case; that
nobody might believe in her inspiration if they found that the
sentiments came from a pushing tradesman's wife, from the mother
of three children by a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer.
Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of
recent minor poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious,
luxuriant rather than finished. Neither symboliste nor decadent,
he was a pessimist in so far as that character applies to a man
who looks at the worst contingencies as well as the best in the
human condition. Being little attracted by excellences of form
and rhythm apart from content, he sometimes, when feeling outran
his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed
Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded reviewer said he
ought not to have done.
With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often
scanned the rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always was
than her own feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her
inability to touch his level would send her into fits of
despondency. Months passed away thus, till she observed from the
publishers' list that Trewe had collected his fugitive pieces
into a volume, which was duly issued, and was much or little
praised according to chance, and had a sale quite sufficient to
pay for the printing.
This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of
collecting her pieces also, or at any rate of making up a book of
her rhymes by adding many in manuscript to the few that had seen
the light, for she had been able to get no great number into
print. A ruinous charge was made for costs of publication; a few
reviews noticed her poor little volume; but nobody talked of it,
nobody bought it, and it fell dead in a fortnight--if it had ever
The author's thoughts were diverted to another groove just
then by the discovery that she was going to have a third child,
and the collapse of her poetical venture had perhaps less effect
upon her mind than it might have done if she had been
domestically unoccupied. Her husband had paid the publisher's
bill with the doctor's, and there it all had ended for the time.
But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was more than a
mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun to feel
the old afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she
found herself in the rooms of Robert Trewe.
She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the
apartment with the interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the
volume of his own verse was among the rest. Though quite familiar
with its contents, she read it here as if it spoke aloud to her,
then called up Mrs. Hooper, the landlady, for some trivial
service, and inquired again about the young man.
'Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am, if you
could see him, only he's so shy that I don't suppose you will.'
Mrs. Hooper seemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant's
curiosity about her predecessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly
two years. He keeps on his rooms even when he's not here: the
soft air of this place suits his chest, and he likes to be able
to come back at any time. He is mostly writing or reading, and
doesn't see many people, though, for the matter of that, he is
such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be too glad
to be friendly with him if they knew him. You don't meet kind-hearted
people every day.'
'Ah, he's kind-hearted . . . and good.'
'Yes; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him. "Mr.
Trewe," I say to him sometimes, "you are rather out of
spirits." "Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper," he'll say,
"though I don't know how you should find it out."
"Why not take a little change?" I ask. Then in a day or
two he'll say that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or
somewhere; and I assure you he comes back all the better for it.'
'Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.'
'Yes. Still he's odd in some things. Once when he had finished
a poem of his composition late at night he walked up and down the
room rehearsing it; and the floors being so thin--jerry-built
houses, you know, though I say it myself--he kept me awake up
above him till I wished him further . . . But we get on very well.'
This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about
the rising poet as the days went on. On one of these occasions
Mrs. Hooper drew Ella's attention to what she had not noticed
before: minute scribblings in pencil on the wall-paper behind the
curtains at the head of the bed.
'O! let me look,' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a
rush of tender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the
'These,' said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knew
things, 'are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses.
He has tried to rub most of them out, but you can read them still.
My belief is that he wakes up in the night, you know, with some
rhyme in his head, and jots it down there on the wall lest he
should forget it by the morning. Some of these very lines you see
here I have seen afterwards in print in the magazines. Some are
newer; indeed, I have not seen that one before. It must have been
done only a few days ago.'
'O yes! . . . '
Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly
wished her companion would go away, now that the information was
imparted. An indescribable consciousness of personal interest
rather than literary made her anxious to read the inscription
alone; and she accordingly waited till she could do so, with a
sense that a great store of emotion would be enjoyed in the act.
Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella's
husband found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about
without his wife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not
disdain to go thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-
trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and where the
couples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other's
arms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for
him to take her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thriving
manufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of his
sojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonous
enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of hours
each day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore.
But the poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was
possessed by an inner flame which left her hardly conscious of
what was proceeding around her.
She had read till she knew by heart Trewe's last little volume
of verses, and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to
rival some of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears.
The personal element in the magnetic attraction exercised by this
circumambient, unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger
than the intellectual and abstract that she could not understand
it. To be sure, she was surrounded noon and night by his
customary environment, which literally whispered of him to her at
every moment; but he was a man she had never seen, and that all
that moved her was the instinct to specialize a waiting emotion
on the first fit thing that came to hand did not, of course,
suggest itself to Ella.
In the natural way of passion under the too practical
conditions which civilization has devised for its fruition, her
husband's love for her had not survived, except in the form of
fitful friendship, any more than, or even so much as, her own for
him; and, being a woman of very living ardours, that required
sustenance of some sort, they were beginning to feed on this
chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality far better
than chance usually offers.
One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a
closet, whence, in their excitement, they pulled out some
clothing. Mrs. Hooper explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe,
and hung it up in the closet again. Possessed of her fantasy,
Ella went later in the afternoon, when nobody was in that part of
the house, opened the closet, unhitched one of the articles, a
mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof cap belonging to
'The mantle of Elijah!' she said. 'Would it might inspire me
to rival him, glorious genius that he is!'
Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she
turned to look at herself in the glass. HIS heart had beat inside
that coat, and HIS brain had worked under that hat at levels of
thought she would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness
beside him made her feel quite sick. Before she had got the
things off her the door opened, and her husband entered the room.
'What the devil--'
She blushed, and removed them
'I found them in the closet here,' she said, 'and put them on
in a freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!'
'Always away? Well . . . '
That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who
might herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet,
so ready was she to discourse ardently about him.
'You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,' she said;
'and he has just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow
afternoon to look up some books of his that he wants, if I'll be
in, and he may select them from your room?'
'You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you'd like to be
in the way!'
She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of
Next morning her husband observed: 'I've been thinking of what
you said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you
without much to amuse you. Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's
not much sea, I'll take you with me on board the yacht.'
For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was
not glad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for
setting out drew near, and she went to get ready. She stood
reflecting. The longing to see the poet she was now distinctly in
love with overpowered all other considerations.
'I don't want to go,' she said to herself. 'I can't bear to be
away! And I won't go.'
She told her husband that she had changed her mind about
wishing to sail. He was indifferent, and went his way.
For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children
having gone out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine
to the soft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the
notes of the Green Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen
hired for the season, had drawn almost all the residents and
promenaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was
audible at the door.
Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and
she became impatient. The books were in the room where she sat;
but nobody came up. She rang the bell.
'There is some person waiting at the door,' she said.
'O no, ma'am! He's gone long ago. I answered it.'
Mrs. Hooper came in herself.
'So disappointing!' she said. 'Mr. Trewe not coming after all!'
'But I heard him knock, I fancy!'
'No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the
wrong house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just
before lunch to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should
not require the books, and wouldn't come to select them.'
Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read
his mournful ballad on 'Severed Lives,' so aching was her erratic
little heart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in
with wet stockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their
adventures, she could not feel that she cared about them half as
much as usual.
* * *
'Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of--the gentleman who
lived here?' She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning
'Why, yes. It's in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in
your own bedroom, ma'am.'
'No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.'
'Yes, so they are; but he's behind them. He belongs rightly to
that frame, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he
said: "Cover me up from those strangers that are coming, for
God's sake. I don't want them staring at me, and I am sure they
won't want me staring at them." So I slipped in the Duke and
Duchess temporarily in front of him, as they had no frame, and
Royalties are more suitable for letting furnished than a private
young man. If you take 'em out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am,
he wouldn't mind if he knew it! He didn't think the next tenant
would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn't have
thought of hiding himself; perhaps.'
'Is he handsome?' she asked timidly.
'_I_ call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn't.'
'Should I?' she asked, with eagerness.
'I think you would, though some would say he's more striking
than handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a
very electric flash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such
as you'd expect a poet to be who doesn't get his living by it.'
'How old is he?'
'Several years older than yourself, ma'am; about thirty-one or
two, I think.'
Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty
herself; but she did not look nearly so much. Though so immature
in nature, she was entering on that tract of life in which
emotional women begin to suspect that last love may be stronger
than first love; and she would soon, alas, enter on the still
more melancholy tract when at least the vainer ones of her sex
shrink from receiving a male visitor otherwise than with their
backs to the window or the blinds half down. She reflected on Mrs.
Hooper's remark, and said no more about age.
Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband,
who had gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends
in the yacht, and would not be able to get back till next day.
After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the
children till dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in
her room, with a serene sense of something ecstatic to come. For,
with the subtle luxuriousness of fancy in which this young woman
was an adept, on learning that her husband was to be absent that
night she had refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and
opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve the inspection
till she could be alone, and a more romantic tinge be imparted to
the occasion by silence, candles, solemn sea and stars outside,
than was afforded by the garish afternoon sunlight.
The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed,
though it was not yet ten o'clock. To gratify her passionate
curiosity she now made her preparations, first getting rid of
superfluous garments and putting on her dressing-gown, then
arranging a chair in front of the table and reading several pages
of Trewe's tenderest utterances. Then she fetched the portrait-frame
to the light, opened the back, took out the likeness, and set it
up before her.
It was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore a
luxuriant black moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which
shaded the forehead. The large dark eyes, described by the
landlady, showed an unlimited capacity for misery; they looked
out from beneath well-shaped brows as if they were reading the
universe in the microcosm of the confronter's face, and were not
altogether overjoyed at what the spectacle portended.
Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: 'And
it's YOU who've so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!'
As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till
her eyes filled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with
her lips. Then she laughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped
She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and
three children, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this
unconscionable manner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his
thoughts and feelings as well as she knew her own; they were, in
fact, the self- same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her
husband distinctly lacked; perhaps luckily for himself;
considering that he had to provide for family expenses.
'He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the real me
than Will is, after all, even though I've never seen him,' she
She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and
when she was reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert
Trewe's verses which she had marked from time to time as most
touching and true. Putting these aside, she set up the photograph
on its edge upon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay.
Then she scanned again by the light of the candle the half-obliterated
pencillings on the wall-paper beside her head. There they were--phrases,
couplets, bouts-rimes, beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in
the rough, like Shelley's scraps, and the least of them so
intense, so sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very
breath, warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls,
walls that had surrounded his head times and times as they
surrounded her own now. He must often have put up his hand so--with
the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as it would be
if executed by one who extended his arm thus.
These inscribed shapes of the poet's world,
'Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality,'
were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had
come to him in the dead of night, when he could let himself go
and have no fear of the frost of criticism. No doubt they had
often been written up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays
of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps
never. And now her hair was dragging where his arm had lain when
he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet's
lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his
spirit as by an ether.
While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came
upon the stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband's heavy
step on the landing immediately without.
'Ell, where are you?'
What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an
instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been
doing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he
flung open the door, with the air of a man who had dined not
'O, I beg pardon,' said William Marchmill. 'Have you a
headache? I am afraid I have disturbed you.'
'No, I've not got a headache,' said she. 'How is it you've
'Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all,
and I didn't want to make another day of it, because of going
somewhere else to-morrow.'
'Shall I come down again?'
'O no. I'm as tired as a dog. I've had a good feed, and I
shall turn in straight off. I want to get out at six o'clock to-morrow
if I can . . . I shan't disturb you by my getting up; it will be
long before you are awake.' And he came forward into the room.
While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the
photograph further out of sight.
'Sure you're not ill?' he asked, bending over her.
'No, only wicked!'
'Never mind that.' And he stooped and kissed her.
Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock; and in
waking and yawning she heard him muttering to himself: 'What the
deuce is this that's been crackling under me so?' Imagining her
asleep he searched round him and withdrew something. Through her
half-opened eyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe.
'Well, I'm damned!' her husband exclaimed.
'What, dear?' said she.
'O, you are awake? Ha! ha!'
'What DO you mean?'
'Some bloke's photograph--a friend of our landlady's, I
suppose. I wonder how it came here; whisked off the table by
accident perhaps when they were making the bed.'
'I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in
'O, he's a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!'
Ella's loyalty to the object of her admiration could not
endure to hear him ridiculed. 'He's a clever man!' she said, with
a tremor in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be
absurdly uncalled for.
'He is a rising poet--the gentleman who occupied two of these
rooms before we came, though I've never seen him.'
'How do you know, if you've never seen him?'
'Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.'
'O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early.
Sorry I can't take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don't go
That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to
call at any other time.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming this day week to stay
with a friend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call.'
Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and,
opening some letters which had arrived in his absence, declared
suddenly that he and his family would have to leave a week
earlier than they had expected to do--in short, in three days.
'Surely we can stay a week longer?' she pleaded. 'I like it
'I don't. It is getting rather slow.'
'Then you might leave me and the children!'
'How perverse you are, Ell! What's the use? And have to come
to fetch you! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out
our time in North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides,
you've three days longer yet.'
It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival
talent she had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she
was now absolutely attached. Yet she determined to make a last
effort; and having gathered from her landlady that Trewe was
living in a lonely spot not far from the fashionable town on the
Island opposite, she crossed over in the packet from the
neighbouring pier the following afternoon.
What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the
house stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured
to inquire of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned
by the man was that he did not know. And if he did live there,
how could she call upon him? Some women might have the assurance
to do it, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She
might have asked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not
the courage for that, either. She lingered mournfully about the
picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to return to the
town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home for
dinner without having been greatly missed.
At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that
he should have no objection to letting her and the children stay
on till the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she
felt herself able to get home without him. She concealed the
pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off
the next morning alone.
But the week passed, and Trewe did not call.
On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill
family departed from the place which had been productive of so
much fervour in her. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in
moted beams upon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the
mean rows of wire--these things were her accompaniment: while out
of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze,
and with them her poet's home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read,
and wept instead.
Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and
his family lived in a large new house, which stood in rather
extensive grounds a few miles outside the city wherein he carried
on his trade. Ella's life was lonely here, as the suburban life
is apt to be, particularly at certain seasons; and she had ample
time to indulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She
had hardly got back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe
in the new number of her favourite magazine, which must have been
written almost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it
contained the very couplet she had seen pencilled on the
wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent.
Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote
to him as a brother- poet, using the name of John Ivy,
congratulating him in her letter on his triumphant executions in
metre and rhythm of thoughts that moved his soul, as compared
with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetic trade.
To this address there came a response in a few days, little as
she had dared to hope for it--a civil and brief note, in which
the young poet stated that, though he was not well acquainted
with Mr. Ivy's verse, he recalled the name as being one he had
seen attached to some very promising pieces; that he was glad to
gain Mr. Ivy's acquaintance by letter, and should certainly look
with much interest for his productions in the future.
There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own
epistle, as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to
herself; for Trewe quite adopted the tone of an elder and
superior in this reply. But what did it matter? he had replied;
he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she
knew so well, for he was now back again in his quarters.
The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or
more, Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she
considered to be the best of her pieces, which he very kindly
accepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did
he send her any of his own in return. Ella would have been more
hurt at this than she was if she had not known that Trewe
laboured under the impression that she was one of his own sex.
Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little
voice told her that, were he only to see her, matters would be
otherwise. No doubt she would have helped on this by making a
frank confession of womanhood, to begin with, if something had
not happened, to her delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend
of her husband's, the editor of the most important newspaper in
the city and county, who was dining with them one day, observed
during their conversation about the poet that his (the editor's)
brother the landscape-painter was a friend of Mr. Trewe's, and
that the two men were at that very moment in Wales together.
Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor's brother. The
next morning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her
house for a short time on his way back, and requesting him to
bring with him, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose
acquaintance she was anxious to make. The answer arrived after
some few days. Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have
much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way
southward, which would be on such and such a day in the following
Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her
beloved though as yet unseen one was coming. "Behold, he
standeth behind our wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing
himself through the lattice," she thought ecstatically.
"And, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the
flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is
come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."
But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and
feeding him. This she did most solicitously, and awaited the
pregnant day and hour.
It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at
the door and the editor's brother's voice in the hall. Poetess as
she was, or as she thought herself, she had not been too sublime
that day to dress with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of
rich material, having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the
Greeks, a style just then in vogue among ladies of an artistic
and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ella of her Bond
Street dressmaker when she was last in London. Her visitor
entered the drawing-room. She looked towards his rear; nobody
else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God of
Love, was Robert Trewe?
'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory
words had been spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs.
Marchmill. He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's
rather dusty. We've been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you
know; and he wanted to get on home.'
'He--he's not coming?'
'He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies.'
'When did you p-p-part from him?' she asked, her nether lip
starting off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop
opened in her speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful
bore and cry her eyes out.
'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.'
'What! he has actually gone past my gates?'
'Yes. When we got to them--handsome gates they are, too, the
finest bit of modern wrought-iron work I have seen--when we came
to them we stopped, talking there a little while, and then he
wished me good- bye and went on. The truth is, he's a little bit
depressed just now, and doesn't want to see anybody. He's a very
good fellow, and a warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy
sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetry is rather too
erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just
come in for a terrible slating from the -- Review that was
published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by
accident. Perhaps you've read it?'
'So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one
of those articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded
set of subscribers upon whom the circulation depends. But he's
upset by it. He says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him
so; that, though he can stand a fair attack, he can't stand lies
that he's powerless to refute and stop from spreading. That's
just Trewe's weak point. He lives so much by himself that these
things affect him much more than they would if he were in the
bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn't come
here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied--if
'But--he must have known--there was sympathy here! Has he
never said anything about getting letters from this address?'
'Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy--perhaps a relative of yours,
he thought, visiting here at the time?'
'Did he--like Ivy, did he say?'
'Well, I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy.'
'Or in his poems?'
'Or in his poems--so far as I know, that is.'
Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or
in their writer. As soon as she could get away she went into the
nursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissing
the children, till she had a sudden sense of disgust at being
reminded how plain-looking they were, like their father.
The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once
perceived from her conversation that it was only Trewe she
wanted, and not himself. He made the best of his visit, seeming
to enjoy the society of Ella's husband, who also took a great
fancy to him, and showed him everywhere about the neighbourhood,
neither of them noticing Ella's mood.
The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while
sitting upstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London
paper just arrived, and read the following paragraph:-
'SUICIDE OF A POET
'Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some
years as one of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his
lodgings at Solentsea on Saturday evening last by shooting
himself in the right temple with a revolver. Readers hardly need
to be reminded that Mr. Trewe has recently attracted the
attention of a much wider public than had hitherto known him, by
his new volume of verse, mostly of an impassioned kind, entitled
"Lyrics to a Woman Unknown," which has been already
favourably noticed in these pages for the extraordinary gamut of
feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subject of a
severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the -- Review. It is
supposed, though not certainly known, that the article may have
partially conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in
question was found on his writing-table; and he has been observed
to be in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critique
Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following
letter was read, it having been addressed to a friend at a
'DEAR -,--Before these lines reach your hands I shall be
delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing
more of the things around me. I will not trouble you by giving my
reasons for the step I have taken, though I can assure you they
were sound and logical. Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother,
or a sister, or a female friend of another sort tenderly devoted
to me, I might have thought it worth while to continue my present
existence. I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature,
as you know, and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired
my last volume; the imaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what
has been said in some quarters, there is no real woman behind the
title. She has continued to the last unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I
think it desirable to mention this in order that no blame may
attach to any real woman as having been the cause of my decease
by cruel or cavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am
sorry to have caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of
the rooms will soon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my
name at the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE.'
Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the
adjoining chamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed.
Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in
this frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came
every now and then from her quivering lips: 'O, if he had only
known of me-- known of me--me! . . . O, if I had only once met
him--only once; and put my hand upon his hot forehead--kissed him--let
him know how I loved him--that I would have suffered shame and
scorn, would have lived and died, for him! Perhaps it would have
saved his dear life! . . . But no--it was not allowed! God is a
jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and me!'
All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet
it was almost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it
could never be substantiated -
'The hour which might have been, yet might not be, Which man's
and woman's heart conceived and bore, Yet whereof life was barren.'
She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in
as subdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order
for a sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill
had seen in the papers the sad account of the poet's death, and
having been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr.
Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would be obliged if
Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hair before his
coffin was closed down, and send it her as a memorial of him, as
also the photograph that was in the frame.
By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been
requested. Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in her
private drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and
put in her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed it every now and
then in some unobserved nook.
'What's the matter?' said her husband, looking up from his
newspaper on one of these occasions. 'Crying over something? A
lock of hair? Whose is it?'
'He's dead!' she murmured.
'I don't want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!'
she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice.
'O, all right.'
'Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you some day.'
'It doesn't matter in the least, of course.'
He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular;
and when he had got down to his factory in the city the subject
came into Marchmill's head again.
He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at
the house they had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume
of poems in his wife's hand of late, and heard fragments of the
landlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenants,
he all at once said to himself; 'Why of course it's he! How the
devil did she get to know him? What sly animals women are!'
Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his
daily affairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a
determination. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph,
had informed her of the day of the funeral; and as the morning
and noon wore on an overpowering wish to know where they were
laying him took possession of the sympathetic woman. Caring very
little now what her husband or any one else might think of her
eccentricities; she wrote Marchmill a brief note, stating that
she was called away for the afternoon and evening, but would
return on the following morning. This she left on his desk, and
having given the same information to the servants, went out of
the house on foot.
When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the
servants looked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and
hinted that her mistress's sadness during the past few days had
been such that she feared she had gone out to drown herself.
Marchmill reflected. Upon the whole he thought that she had not
done that. Without saying whither he was bound he also started
off, telling them not to sit up for him. He drove to the railway-station,
and took a ticket for Solentsea.
It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a
fast train, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither
it could only have been by a slower train, arriving not a great
while before his own. The season at Solentsea was now past: the
parade was gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. He asked the
way to the Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked,
but the keeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was
nobody within the precincts. Although it was not late, the
autumnal darkness had now become intense; and he found some
difficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which led to the
quarter where, as the man had told him, the one or two interments
for the day had taken place. He stepped upon the grass, and,
stumbling over some pegs, stooped now and then to discern if
possible a figure against the sky.
He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil was
trodden, beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave. She
heard him, and sprang up.
'Ell, how silly this is!' he said indignantly. 'Running away
from home--I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous
of this unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a
married woman with three children and a fourth coming, should go
losing your head like this over a dead lover! . . . Do you know
you were locked in? You might not have been able to get out all
She did not answer.
'I hope it didn't go far between you and him, for your own
'Don't insult me, Will.'
'Mind, I won't have any more of this sort of thing; do you
'Very well,' she said.
He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the
Cemetery. It was impossible to get back that night; and not
wishing to be recognized in their present sorry condition, he
took her to a miserable little coffee-house close to the station,
whence they departed early in the morning, travelling almost
without speaking, under the sense that it was one of those dreary
situations occurring in married life which words could not mend,
and reaching their own door at noon.
The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to
start a conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only
too frequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost
have been called pining. The time was approaching when she would
have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time, and
that apparently did not tend to raise her spirits.
'I don't think I shall get over it this time!' she said one
'Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn't it be as well
now as ever?'
She shook her head. 'I feel almost sure I am going to die; and
I should be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.'
'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place,' she murmured,
with a sad smile. 'And you'll have a perfect right to; I assure
you of that.'
'Ell, you are not thinking still about that--poetical friend
She neither admitted nor denied the charge. 'I am not going to
get over my illness this time,' she reiterated. 'Something tells
me I shan't.'
This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually
is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was
lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength
enough left to follow up one feeble breath with another, the
infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her
own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to
'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of
that-- about you know what--that time we visited Solentsea. I
can't tell what possessed me--how I could forget you so, my
husband! But I had got into a morbid state: I thought you had
been unkind; that you had neglected me; that you weren't up to my
intellectual level, while he was, and far above it. I wanted a
fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another lover--'
She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she
went off in sudden collapse a few hours later, without having
said anything more to her husband on the subject of her love for
the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of
several years' standing, was little disturbed by retrospective
jealousies, and had not shown the least anxiety to press her for
confessions concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of
inconveniencing him more.
But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one
day that, in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to
destroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on a
lock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of the deceased
poet, a date being written on the back in his late wife's hand.
It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea.
Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait,
for something struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been
the death of his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his
knee, held the lock of hair against the child's head, and set up
the photograph on the table behind, so that he could closely
compare the features each countenance presented. There were
undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar
expression of the poet's face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon
the child's, and the hair was of the same hue.
'I'm damned if I didn't think so!' murmured Marchmill. 'Then
she DID play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me
see: the dates--the second week in August . . . the third week in
May . . . Yes . . . yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You
are nothing to me!'
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