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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。'
'Hehe'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 themhandsome gates they are； too； the finest
bit of modern wrought…iron work I have seenwhen 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？'
'No。'
'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 moniedif you'll pardon'
'Buthe must have knownthere was sympathy here！ Has he never
said anything about getting letters from this address？'
'Yes； yes； he has； from John Ivyperhaps a relative of yours； he
thought； visiting here at the time？'
'Did helike Ivy； did he say？'
'Well； I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy。'
'Or in his poems？'
'Or in his poemsso 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
appeared。'
Then came the report of the inquest； at which the following letter
was read； it having been addressed to a friend at a distance：…
'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 meme！ 。 。 。 O； if I had only once met himonly once； and
put my hand upon his hot foreheadkissed himlet him know how I
loved himthat I would have suffered shame and scorn； would have
lived and died； for him！ Perhaps it would have saved his dear life！
。 。 。 But noit 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。