CHAPTER XXIV.—WHITE BIDS A LAST FAREWELL TO BOHEMIA.

All this time Madeline was dwelling with White in a familiar corner of Bohemia—a quarter of the world which is fast disappearing before the brand-new dwellings of artistic gentility—and which, when it finally disappears (as seems inevitable), will take something with it that even respectability can never quite replace.

The dwellers in Bohemia, now rapidly disappearing like the dear old quarter itself, had many faults and not a few vices, but these were all forgotten in the presence of natural charm and irresistible bonhomie. They wore great beards, drank beer, and smoked great pipes; their clothes were seedy and eccentric, their manners rough and merry, their tastes the very reverse of refined; they had very little money, but that little they freely shared among one another; they loved late hours, wild talk, song-singing, and the social glass; they still regarded the theatre as an educational institution, and talked with pagan enthusiasm of the old gods of the stage. They were neither very clever nor very wise, and they have left no literary monuments to keep their memories fresh; but they enjoyed life, and in their own rough way respected the literary craft to which they belonged. For them Bohemia was a pleasant place.

Here Marmaduke White was born, and bred, and was, in due season, to die. All attempts to coax him to cleaner and cosier quarters were unavailing. Although one by one his fellow-Bohemians fell away, corrupted by the heresy of respectability and clean linen; although those who were born in the same quarter with him listened to the new commercial culte and became prosperous men of business; although Jones the novelist drove his brougham and frequented genteel parties, while Brown the painter wore fine raiment, sold his pictures for splendid prices, and put up at a fashionable club, White still remained as he had been—impecunious, irresponsible, generally out-at-elbow. It was his constant complaint that the old landmarks were fast changing. ‘If I live long enough,’ he said, ‘I shall stand on the ruins of the last chop-house and see the last night-house turned into a temperance hotel. The downfall of Bohemia dates from the day when Thackeray became famous, smoked cigars, and built that nice house at Kensington. It is the apotheosis of the Snob. Even at the Garrick, where one used to meet all the talent, the Snob is rampant. There is not a foyer of the old kind in all London. The literary man has become a commercial gent the artist is a spiritualised bagman—even the actor wears fine clothes and goes to swell garden-parties. Sic transit gloria Bohemio! I begin to feel like a man who has endured beyond his due time; a sort of Wandering Jew, the old clothes-man of an extinct existence and a perished creed. I should not so much care if people were much better for the change—but they are not. Fellows are valued now, not for what they are, but for what they earn. The very journals are grown brazen-fronted and rave of Mammon. A great book is a book that makes a great deal of money; a great artist is one who earns a great sum. At my time of life I can’t, set up as a swell, I like my glass of good beer, and my pipe, and my shirt sleeves. When I die my epitaph will be “Et ille in Bohemia fuit”—and I suppose I shall be the last of the race.’

Now the good man, though he had the perennial heart of a boy, was not young. Time, which had dealt gently with his disposition, had thinned his once flowing hair, made his limbs feeble, and set many a crowsfoot under his kindly eyes. Nor where the habits of the Bohemia he still inhabited favourable to longevity. The small hours always found him up, at work or play, and he saw little of the early sunshine. He was always behindhand with his work, always working against time; feeding irregularly, and at unreasonable hours; drinking, alas! more than was good for him, and even consuming that nicotine which would destroy even a Promethean liver. He had saved nothing, so that rest was denied him; and indeed he could not have rested, for he loved labour, in the old, reckless, perfunctory, Bohemian way. His old friends had gradually drifted away from him, died and been buried, or passed up to those shining social heights where dress suits and white linen are provided for aspiring pilgrims. Even managers of theatres, grown genteel too, pitied him. ‘Poor White,’ they would say; ‘he is such a Bohemian!’ So that his occupation partly failed him Good old blank-verse plays were no longer in demand. Brand-new adaptors, fresh from picking the pockets of French authors in Parisian forays, splashed him with the wheels of their triumphal chariots; gorgeous Jew entrepreneurs shook their heads at him. ‘Vat ve vant now, my boy, is realism; plenty of swell clothes, and upholstery, and last cackle; the public don’t vant poetry, and as for blank verse, it ventilates de theatre. They’ll stand Shakespeare now and then, especially when Eugene Aram does it, because it’s genteel; but all de rest of de drama comsh from France.’ In his anxiety to suit the market he too tried pocket-picking, but he lacked the deft rapidity and supreme impudence of the dramatic thief by profession. He took too much trouble with work of this kind, and the public found it old-fashioned.

So it came to pass that from one reason and another, whether because he was physically tired out or intellectually weary of a race in which he was unevenly handicapped, White began to show signs of failing health. Once or twice he took to his bed with some trifling ailment, and on each occasion so weak were his bodily powers that he found it hard work to get up again. He himself attached no importance to those indications of weakness; he was as cheerful to outward seeming, as sanguine, and as full of magnificent ‘subjects,’ as ever. He still sketched out tragedies which no one would produce on such pert subjects as ‘Semiramis,’ ‘Julian the Apostate,’ and ‘Boadicea,’ and infinitely laboured comedies full of the spirit of the Restoration. His style was still that of the last decadence, when Lalor Shiel was a genius and Sheridan Knowles a prophet. He still clung to the superstition which placed Bulwer Lytton in the pantheon of tinsel divinities. But the game was all over. Et ille in Bohemia fuit, that was all.

One night, or rather early one morning, he came home to the old studio in St. John’s Wood, evidently under the influence of violent fever. He had caught cold, he thought, at the wings of the Duchess’s Theatre, and, though he had tried the panacea of hot whisky and water, applied in allopathic doses, it had only seemed to make him worse. He went to bed, and the next day he was unable to rise.

When Madeline went to his bedside she was shocked at his appearance. He looked haggard and old, the great veins on his temple were blue and swollen, and he gasped like one who could hardly get his breath. The ghost of his old smile came to his face as he reached out his trembling hands, which were hot as fire.

‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear,’ he said cheerily, but in a strange, faint voice. ‘I’m not quite myself, but I shall be all right presently. I think it’s the effect of Burnard’s jokes. He was at the “Harum-Scarum” last night, so I’m afraid I partook too freely of pun-salad, which is worse than the nightmare-producing lobster.’

He tried to laugh, but the laugh died away into a moan, and he sank back upon his pillow.

Later on in the day the symptoms became so alarming that a physician was sent for. He made light of the patient’s condition, but wrote him a prescription, and ordered him to be kept as quiet as possible.

Within the next twenty-four hours the symptoms became manifestly those of low or gastric fever. Madeline wrote a hurried line for Forster, who came almost immediately, accompanied by the celebrated Dr. Tain, well known for his kindness to literary men. The good doctor looked somewhat grave, but expressed his opinion that the case would yield to treatment.

From that time forward Madeline scarcely left her guardian’s bedside, ministering to him with infinite tenderness and care. The fever ran its course for fourteen days, during several of which White was more or less insensible. On the morning of the fourteenth day he opened his eyes, saw Madeline seated by his bedside, and smiled brightly.

‘Are you there, my dear?’ he asked. ‘I was dreaming about you. I thought you were a little girl again, and I—dear me, how weak I feel! Have I been very ill?’

‘Very ill,’ answered Madeline. ‘But do not talk; the doctor says you must not. Let me bring your beef-tea.’

The doctor had ordered him to have beef-tea in liberal portions every hour: it was the only way, he said, to combat the fever.

‘I think I shall soon be all right,’ said White, presently. ‘I must take more care of myself for the future, though. I’m getting quite an old fellow, and must go to bed at ten.

When Dr. Tain entered, White looked up and nodded cheerfully.

‘Here I am, you see! Pallida Mors won’t have me this time, after all, and I was thinking that I could eat a mutton chop, well peppered.’

The doctor replied cheerfully, and patted White gently on the shoulder; but Madeline, catching the expression of his face as he turned away, was somewhat troubled.

‘Keep him quiet,’ he whispered to her at the door.

‘I’ll look in again in the afternoon.’

From this intimation it became clear that the doctor was uneasy. Scarcely had he gone when the patient exhibited great restlessness and difficulty of breathing; and when the doctor returned in the afternoon he found him rambling incoherently.

Leaving the sick room, he went into the studio, where Forster, whose attentions had been unremitting, was impatiently waiting.

‘My fears are realised,’ said the physician, gravely.

‘Peritonitis has supervened.’

Before long it became manifest that White was sinking; as the hours progressed he grew weaker and weaker, until the end seemed likely to come in stupor. With despairing love and pity, but almost with dry eyes, Madeline sat by the bedside; and as she gazed upon the wild, worn face, watched the thin, white hand laying outside the coverlet, and heard the quiet, monotonous breathing, she already seemed to feel the shadow of death upon her life. As one standing safe on some dark river’s shore watches the struggles of an almost spent drowning man, and forgets everything in the intense dread and horror of the contemplation, so she watched the sick bed; unable to weep, unable to pray (for, indeed, her hopes and fears seldom at any time took the shape of prayer), but feeling always as if with the slow ebb of her guardian’s life her life was ebbing too. For White, she felt, was her only friend in this hard world, the only being who knew the full extent of her own sorrow, the only kind soul for whom she cared to live. In all her gentle theatrical ambition her thought had been of him; how she could bring comfort to his heart, see the pride and pleasure kindle on his face, make his old age pleasant, and walk by his side the dark descent to the grave. And now, if he left her, what remained?

In these hours of sorrow the frequent presence of Forster was a secret source of irritation to the troubled girl. His very devotion troubled her, for she seemed to read in it, not merely friendly kindness and affection, but an ever-encroaching assumption of a higher sympathy. He was a good man, a true friend, she knew, but she would have loved him far better if he had loved her less, and her mind was quite made up—if her dear guardian died, no living man, friend or husband, should ever take his place.

The shadow came nearer, and it became clear at last that White was drifting away beyond all human hope. He suffered little or no pain, but momentarily grew weaker. At last one morning he seemed to rally a little, and spoke clearly and collectedly on his approaching end.

‘I am going to leave you, my dear,’ he said softly, while she held his hand fondly in her own. ‘I wanted to live a little longer, just to see a dear girl at the top of the tree, but I suppose it is all for the best. Well, I want you to promise me one thing before I go.’

‘Do not talk so,’ cried Madeline, kissing the hot hand and sobbing wildly. ‘You will get well! We will be so happy together.’

‘Don’t cry, Madeline! I’m not afraid to die, and after all I’m an old fogey, and the world has left me far behind. I used to think I should live to regenerate the drama. Ah, well! that dream is over. I shan’t even finish “Semiramis,” the best thing I ever wrote; but you’ll give the first two acts and the scenario to Eugene Aram when I am gone.’

He paused, and Madeline cried between her sobs—

‘If you die, I shall die too! You are my only friend.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that, my dear. You have a great future before you, and perhaps—who knows?—I shall be able to see it from afar off. If the dead can watch over those they love, I shall still take care of you—ah, yes!—and if there’s a heaven as the preachers say, I shall meet poor Fred your father there, and we shall both look down and bless you.’

‘I have no father but you! You are all the world to me! You will not die!’

But White continued quietly, as if pursuing his own thoughts—

‘And while dear Forster lives you will not be without a friend; many a time has he lightened my load, and I wish you’d let him help you to carry yours. If you would promise me to become his wife, I should be very happy.’

‘I cannot! You know I cannot!’

As she uttered the words, he became conscious of a movement in the room, and looking round saw Forster standing at the foot of the bed.

‘Is that you, Forster?’ asked White, faintly. ‘Come here, I wish to speak to you;’ and he added when Forster had passed round and stood looking down sadly upon him.

‘You’ll be kind to Madeline, old fellow, after——’

And he turned his face on the pillow to hide his tears. Forster did not reply in words, but with tears glistening on his own cheeks laid his hand softly on the sick man’s shoulder. Presently White looked round, and, fixing his great dim eyes on Madeline’s face, whispered—

‘My dear! Will you go—only a little while? I wish to speak to Forster.’

She bent over the bed and kissed him tenderly on the forehead; then with a sob as if her heart was breaking she left the room.

She went into the next chamber, a small room overlooking the garden, and, sitting at the window, looked out through streaming tears. Many minutes passed, and at last, anxious and impatient, she rose to return to her post. As she did so, Forster appeared at the door and beckoned.

‘Will you come now?’ he whispered. ‘He is asking for you.’

She stepped softly in, and approached the bedside. With a smile of ineffable love and tenderness the dying man turned his face up to hers and, reaching out his tremulous hands, gave one to her, the other to Forster; then he said in a voice so indistinct that they had to stoop their heads to catch the word—

‘I have spoken to Forster... he will take care of of you, my dear... a good fellow... always my best friend, God bless him... now I can go in peace.’

Then feebly but firmly he drew the two hands together and joined them; that of Madeline lay in that of Forster, with the fingers of the dying man encircling both; and she did not draw hers away for fear of disturbing her dear guardian’s last moments. In this position he closed his eyes, and seemed to doze. A little while after the breath fluttered, the feeble frame trembled, and the gentle spirit was gone for ever.

What followed was to Madeline a dark and painful dream. Ever wild and impressionable in her grief as well as her joyful impulses, she yielded to such a storm of grief as threatened for a time to overthrow her reason. During this time of sorrow Madame de Berny watched her with maternal tenderness, and the touch of her tender ministration brought a certain comfort.

But when the first wild shock was over, the brave disposition of the girl asserted itself, and, hushing the tumult of her pain, she went with Madame de Berny to see the place which Forster had chosen for his friend’s last resting-place, It was a pretty spot, in a green corner of the cemetery at Hampstead, with green boughs all round, flowers on every side, and the spires of the great city in the distance; and standing here, near the place chosen for the grave, Madeline could hear the chimes of London sounding faint and far away.

When the day of the funeral came, she went as chief mourner, for her soul revolted at the cruel custom which keeps our womankind from following the dead. She stood by the side of the grave, heard the solemn words of blessing, and saw the coffin lowered to its place; and she raised her weeping face to the bright skies, praying and believing that her guardian’s spirit had gone there.

Near her that day stood a motley crowd of artistic Bohemians, bearded men for the most part, shabby of apparel, but full of honest grief; some of them, with true tears in their eyes, came softly up to speak a few words of sympathy to the mourning girl; and she loved the rough fellows for their resemblance to him who had passed away.

Then Madeline went back to the home that was home no longer, and thought day and night of the beloved dead.





It was many weeks after these sad events that Forster came one day to St. John’s Wood, and found Madeline still sitting in the shadow of her great grief; but she had found one sweet comfort in looking over her guardian’s papers and placing them in order with her loving hand, for she remembered one lifelong dream of the poor Bohemian—to see his beloved plays arranged together and published in book form; and she thought to herself that the world should know what a beautiful genius it had lost, when it saw the creatures of his imagination gathered together for the first time.

When Forster came they talked for some time of the proposed publication. An old friend of White, eminent as a critic and a dramatic poet, was to revise the work, and prepare it with a short biography, and at the end of the book were to be printed a few last memorials, and some obituary verses by members of the Bohemian Club, to which White had belonged.

Presently, however, Forster changed the subject, and spoke of the wish which was still nearest his heart. Then, when Madeline turned away as if shocked and pained, he took her hand and said earnestly—

‘It was his wish, do not forget that. He knew I loved you, and he joined our hands together.’

‘No, no!’ said Madeline. ‘Do not speak of it—he knew it was impossible—he could not wish it.’

‘Madeline, he did wish it, with all his heart. Listen to me, my darling! That day before he joined our hands together he asked to speak to me alone—do you remember?

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what he wished to say?’

Madeline shook her head sadly.

‘He wished to tell me something concerning yourself. “Forster,” he said, “I tell you these things because I trust you before God, because I think that it is best that you should know, and because I feel you will never love my darling less.” Then, Madeline, he told me why you refused to marry me, why you had said you would never marry any living man.’

Pale as death, Madeline turned her face away.

‘He told you that!’ she murmured, shivering as if chilled.

‘He told me everything, my darling; and now, knowing everything, knowing your great sorrow, and knowing and loving you a thousandfold, I ask you again to become my wife.’