A Phantom Lover
by Vernon Lee
To COUNT PETER BOUTOURLINE,
GOVERNMENT OF KIEW, RUSSIA.
MY DEAR BOUTOURLINE,
Do you remember my telling you, one afternoon that you sat upon the
hearthstool at Florence, the story of Mrs. Oke of Okehurst?
You thought it a fantastic tale, you lover of fantastic things, and
urged me to write it out at once, although I protested that, in such
matters, to write is to exorcise, to dispel the charm; and that
printers' ink chases away the ghosts that may pleasantly haunt us, as
efficaciously as gallons of holy water.
But if, as I suspect, you will now put down any charm that story may
have possessed to the way in which we had been working ourselves up,
that firelight evening, with all manner of fantastic stuff—if, as I
fear, the story of Mrs. Oke of Okehurst will strike you as stale and
unprofitable—the sight of this little book will serve at least to
remind you, in the middle of your Russian summer, that there is such a
season as winter, such a place as Florence, and such a person as your
Kensington, July 1886.
That sketch up there with the boy's cap? Yes; that's the same woman.
I wonder whether you could guess who she was. A singular being, is she
not? The most marvellous creature, quite, that I have ever met: a
wonderful elegance, exotic, far-fetched, poignant; an artificial
perverse sort of grace and research in every outline and movement and
arrangement of head and neck, and hands and fingers. Here are a lot of
pencil sketches I made while I was preparing to paint her portrait.
Yes; there's nothing but her in the whole sketchbook. Mere scratches,
but they may give some idea of her marvellous, fantastic kind of grace.
Here she is leaning over the staircase, and here sitting in the swing.
Here she is walking quickly out of the room. That's her head. You see
she isn't really handsome; her forehead is too big, and her nose too
short. This gives no idea of her. It was altogether a question of
movement. Look at the strange cheeks, hollow and rather flat; well,
when she smiled she had the most marvellous dimples here. There was
something exquisite and uncanny about it. Yes; I began the picture, but
it was never finished. I did the husband first. I wonder who has his
likeness now? Help me to move these pictures away from the wall.
Thanks. This is her portrait; a huge wreck. I don't suppose you can
make much of it; it is merely blocked in, and seems quite mad. You see
my idea was to make her leaning against a wall—there was one hung with
yellow that seemed almost brown—so as to bring out the silhouette.
It was very singular I should have chosen that particular wall. It
does look rather insane in this condition, but I like it; it has
something of her. I would frame it and hang it up, only people would
ask questions. Yes; you have guessed quite right—it is Mrs. Oke of
Okehurst. I forgot you had relations in that part of the country;
besides, I suppose the newspapers were full of it at the time. You
didn't know that it all took place under my eyes? I can scarcely
believe now that it did: it all seems so distant, vivid but unreal,
like a thing of my own invention. It really was much stranger than any
one guessed. People could no more understand it than they could
understand her. I doubt whether any one ever understood Alice Oke
besides myself. You mustn't think me unfeeling. She was a marvellous,
weird, exquisite creature, but one couldn't feel sorry for her. I felt
much sorrier for the wretched creature of a husband. It seemed such an
appropriate end for her; I fancy she would have liked it could she have
known. Ah! I shall never have another chance of painting such a
portrait as I wanted. She seemed sent me from heaven or the other
place. You have never heard the story in detail? Well, I don't usually
mention it, because people are so brutally stupid or sentimental; but
I'll tell it you. Let me see. It's too dark to paint any more today, so
I can tell it you now. Wait; I must turn her face to the wall. Ah, she
was a marvellous creature!
You remember, three years ago, my telling you I had let myself in
for painting a couple of Kentish squireen? I really could not
understand what had possessed me to say yes to that man. A friend of
mine had brought him one day to my studio—Mr. Oke of Okehurst, that
was the name on his card. He was a very tall, very well-made, very
good-looking young man, with a beautiful fair complexion, beautiful
fair moustache, and beautifully fitting clothes; absolutely like a
hundred other young men you can see any day in the Park, and absolutely
uninteresting from the crown of his head to the tip of his boots. Mr.
Oke, who had been a lieutenant in the Blues before his marriage, was
evidently extremely uncomfortable on finding himself in a studio. He
felt misgivings about a man who could wear a velvet coat in town, but
at the same time he was nervously anxious not to treat me in the very
least like a tradesman. He walked round my place, looked at everything
with the most scrupulous attention, stammered out a few complimentary
phrases, and then, looking at his friend for assistance, tried to come
to the point, but failed. The point, which the friend kindly explained,
was that Mr. Oke was desirous to know whether my engagements would
allow of my painting him and his wife, and what my terms would be. The
poor man blushed perfectly crimson during this explanation, as if he
had come with the most improper proposal; and I noticed—the only
interesting thing about him—a very odd nervous frown between his
eyebrows, a perfect double gash,—a thing which usually means something
abnormal: a mad-doctor of my acquaintance calls it the maniac-frown.
When I had answered, he suddenly burst out into rather confused
explanations: his wife—Mrs. Oke—had seen some of
my—pictures—paintings—portraits—at the—the—what d'you call
it?—Academy. She had—in short, they had made a very great impression
upon her. Mrs. Oke had a great taste for art; she was, in short,
extremely desirous of having her portrait and his painted by me,
“My wife,” he suddenly added, “is a remarkable woman. I don't know
whether you will think her handsome,—she isn't exactly, you know. But
she's awfully strange,” and Mr. Oke of Okehurst gave a little sigh and
frowned that curious frown, as if so long a speech and so decided an
expression of opinion had cost him a great deal.
It was a rather unfortunate moment in my career. A very influential
sitter of mine—you remember the fat lady with the crimson curtain
behind her?—had come to the conclusion or been persuaded that I had
painted her old and vulgar, which, in fact, she was. Her whole clique
had turned against me, the newspapers had taken up the matter, and for
the moment I was considered as a painter to whose brushes no woman
would trust her reputation. Things were going badly. So I snapped but
too gladly at Mr. Oke's offer, and settled to go down to Okehurst at
the end of a fortnight. But the door had scarcely closed upon my future
sitter when I began to regret my rashness; and my disgust at the
thought of wasting a whole summer upon the portrait of a totally
uninteresting Kentish squire, and his doubtless equally uninteresting
wife, grew greater and greater as the time for execution approached. I
remember so well the frightful temper in which I got into the train for
Kent, and the even more frightful temper in which I got out of it at
the little station nearest to Okehurst. It was pouring floods. I felt a
comfortable fury at the thought that my canvases would get nicely
wetted before Mr. Oke's coachman had packed them on the top of the
waggonette. It was just what served me right for coming to this
confounded place to paint these confounded people. We drove off in the
steady downpour. The roads were a mass of yellow mud; the endless flat
grazing-grounds under the oak-trees, after having been burnt to cinders
in a long drought, were turned into a hideous brown sop; the country
seemed intolerably monotonous.
My spirits sank lower and lower. I began to meditate upon the modern
Gothic country-house, with the usual amount of Morris furniture,
Liberty rugs, and Mudie novels, to which I was doubtless being taken.
My fancy pictured very vividly the five or six little Okes—that man
certainly must have at least five children—the aunts, and
sisters-in-law, and cousins; the eternal routine of afternoon tea and
lawn-tennis; above all, it pictured Mrs. Oke, the bouncing,
well-informed, model housekeeper, electioneering, charity-organising
young lady, whom such an individual as Mr. Oke would regard in the
light of a remarkable woman. And my spirit sank within me, and I cursed
my avarice in accepting the commission, my spiritlessness in not
throwing it over while yet there was time. We had meanwhile driven into
a large park, or rather a long succession of grazing-grounds, dotted
about with large oaks, under which the sheep were huddled together for
shelter from the rain. In the distance, blurred by the sheets of rain,
was a line of low hills, with a jagged fringe of bluish firs and a
solitary windmill. It must be a good mile and a half since we had
passed a house, and there was none to be seen in the distance—nothing
but the undulation of sere grass, sopped brown beneath the huge
blackish oak-trees, and whence arose, from all sides, a vague
disconsolate bleating. At last the road made a sudden bend, and
disclosed what was evidently the home of my sitter. It was not what I
had expected. In a dip in the ground a large red-brick house, with the
rounded gables and high chimney-stacks of the time of James I.,—a
forlorn, vast place, set in the midst of the pasture-land, with no
trace of garden before it, and only a few large trees indicating the
possibility of one to the back; no lawn either, but on the other side
of the sandy dip, which suggested a filled-up moat, a huge oak, short,
hollow, with wreathing, blasted, black branches, upon which only a
handful of leaves shook in the rain. It was not at all what I had
pictured to myself the home of Mr. Oke of Okehurst.
My host received me in the hall, a large place, panelled and carved,
hung round with portraits up to its curious ceiling—vaulted and ribbed
like the inside of a ship's hull. He looked even more blond and pink
and white, more absolutely mediocre in his tweed suit; and also, I
thought, even more good-natured and duller. He took me into his study,
a room hung round with whips and fishing-tackle in place of books,
while my things were being carried upstairs. It was very damp, and a
fire was smouldering. He gave the embers a nervous kick with his foot,
and said, as he offered me a cigar—
“You must excuse my not introducing you at once to Mrs. Oke. My
wife—in short, I believe my wife is asleep.”
“Is Mrs. Oke unwell?” I asked, a sudden hope flashing across me that
I might be off the whole matter.
“Oh no! Alice is quite well; at least, quite as well as she usually
is. My wife,” he added, after a minute, and in a very decided tone,
“does not enjoy very good health—a nervous constitution. Oh no! not at
all ill, nothing at all serious, you know. Only nervous, the doctors
say; mustn't be worried or excited, the doctors say; requires lots of
repose,—that sort of thing.”
There was a dead pause. This man depressed me, I knew not why. He
had a listless, puzzled look, very much out of keeping with his evident
admirable health and strength.
“I suppose you are a great sportsman?” I asked from sheer despair,
nodding in the direction of the whips and guns and fishing-rods.
“Oh no! not now. I was once. I have given up all that,” he answered,
standing with his back to the fire, and staring at the polar bear
beneath his feet. “I—I have no time for all that now,” he added, as if
an explanation were due. “A married man—you know. Would you like to
come up to your rooms?” he suddenly interrupted himself. “I have had
one arranged for you to paint in. My wife said you would prefer a north
light. If that one doesn't suit, you can have your choice of any
I followed him out of the study, through the vast entrance-hall. In
less than a minute I was no longer thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Oke and the
boredom of doing their likeness; I was simply overcome by the beauty of
this house, which I had pictured modern and philistine. It was, without
exception, the most perfect example of an old English manor-house that
I had ever seen; the most magnificent intrinsically, and the most
admirably preserved. Out of the huge hall, with its immense fireplace
of delicately carved and inlaid grey and black stone, and its rows of
family portraits, reaching from the wainscoting to the oaken ceiling,
vaulted and ribbed like a ship's hull, opened the wide, flat-stepped
staircase, the parapet surmounted at intervals by heraldic monsters,
the wall covered with oak carvings of coats-of-arms, leafage, and
little mythological scenes, painted a faded red and blue, and picked
out with tarnished gold, which harmonised with the tarnished blue and
gold of the stamped leather that reached to the oak cornice, again
delicately tinted and gilded. The beautifully damascened suits of court
armour looked, without being at all rusty, as if no modern hand had
ever touched them; the very rugs under foot were of sixteenth-century
Persian make; the only things of to-day were the big bunches of flowers
and ferns, arranged in majolica dishes upon the landings. Everything
was perfectly silent; only from below came the chimes, silvery like an
Italian palace fountain, of an old-fashioned clock.
It seemed to me that I was being led through the palace of the
“What a magnificent house!” I exclaimed as I followed my host
through a long corridor, also hung with leather, wainscoted with
carvings, and furnished with big wedding coffers, and chairs that
looked as if they came out of some Vandyck portrait. In my mind was the
strong impression that all this was natural, spontaneous—that it had
about it nothing of the picturesqueness which swell studios have taught
to rich and aesthetic houses. Mr. Oke misunderstood me.
“It is a nice old place,” he said, “but it's too large for us. You
see, my wife's health does not allow of our having many guests; and
there are no children.”
I thought I noticed a vague complaint in his voice; and he evidently
was afraid there might have seemed something of the kind, for he added
“I don't care for children one jackstraw, you know, myself; can't
understand how any one can, for my part.”
If ever a man went out of his way to tell a lie, I said to myself,
Mr. Oke of Okehurst was doing so at the present moment.
When he had left me in one of the two enormous rooms that were
allotted to me, I threw myself into an arm-chair and tried to focus the
extraordinary imaginative impression which this house had given me.
I am very susceptible to such impressions; and besides the sort of
spasm of imaginative interest sometimes given to me by certain rare and
eccentric personalities, I know nothing more subduing than the charm,
quieter and less analytic, of any sort of complete and
out-of-the-common-run sort of house. To sit in a room like the one I
was sitting in, with the figures of the tapestry glimmering grey and
lilac and purple in the twilight, the great bed, columned and
curtained, looming in the middle, and the embers reddening beneath the
overhanging mantelpiece of inlaid Italian stonework, a vague scent of
rose-leaves and spices, put into the china bowls by the hands of ladies
long since dead, while the clock downstairs sent up, every now and
then, its faint silvery tune of forgotten days, filled the room;—to do
this is a special kind of voluptuousness, peculiar and complex and
indescribable, like the half-drunkenness of opium or haschisch, and
which, to be conveyed to others in any sense as I feel it, would
require a genius, subtle and heady, like that of Baudelaire.
After I had dressed for dinner I resumed my place in the arm-chair,
and resumed also my reverie, letting all these impressions of the
past—which seemed faded like the figures in the arras, but still warm
like the embers in the fireplace, still sweet and subtle like the
perfume of the dead rose-leaves and broken spices in the china
bowls—permeate me and go to my head. Of Oke and Oke's wife I did not
think; I seemed quite alone, isolated from the world, separated from it
in this exotic enjoyment.
Gradually the embers grew paler; the figures in the tapestry more
shadowy; the columned and curtained bed loomed out vaguer; the room
seemed to fill with greyness; and my eyes wandered to the mullioned
bow-window, beyond whose panes, between whose heavy stonework,
stretched a greyish-brown expanse of sore and sodden park grass, dotted
with big oaks; while far off, behind a jagged fringe of dark Scotch
firs, the wet sky was suffused with the blood-red of the sunset.
Between the falling of the raindrops from the ivy outside, there came,
fainter or sharper, the recurring bleating of the lambs separated from
their mothers, a forlorn, quavering, eerie little cry.
I started up at a sudden rap at my door.
“Haven't you heard the gong for dinner?” asked Mr. Oke's voice.
I had completely forgotten his existence.
I feel that I cannot possibly reconstruct my earliest impressions of
Mrs. Oke. My recollection of them would be entirely coloured by my
subsequent knowledge of her; whence I conclude that I could not at
first have experienced the strange interest and admiration which that
extraordinary woman very soon excited in me. Interest and admiration,
be it well understood, of a very unusual kind, as she was herself a
very unusual kind of woman; and I, if you choose, am a rather unusual
kind of man. But I can explain that better anon.
This much is certain, that I must have been immeasurably surprised
at finding my hostess and future sitter so completely unlike everything
I had anticipated. Or no—now I come to think of it, I scarcely felt
surprised at all; or if I did, that shock of surprise could have lasted
but an infinitesimal part of a minute. The fact is, that, having once
seen Alice Oke in the reality, it was quite impossible to remember that
one could have fancied her at all different: there was something so
complete, so completely unlike every one else, in her personality, that
she seemed always to have been present in one's consciousness, although
present, perhaps, as an enigma.
Let me try and give you some notion of her: not that first
impression, whatever it may have been, but the absolute reality of her
as I gradually learned to see it. To begin with, I must repeat and
reiterate over and over again, that she was, beyond all comparison, the
most graceful and exquisite woman I have ever seen, but with a grace
and an exquisiteness that had nothing to do with any preconceived
notion or previous experience of what goes by these names: grace and
exquisiteness recognised at once as perfect, but which were seen in her
for the first, and probably, I do believe, for the last time. It is
conceivable, is it not, that once in a thousand years there may arise a
combination of lines, a system of movements, an outline, a gesture,
which is new, unprecedented, and yet hits off exactly our desires for
beauty and rareness? She was very tall; and I suppose people would have
called her thin. I don't know, for I never thought about her as a
body—bones, flesh, that sort of thing; but merely as a wonderful
series of lines, and a wonderful strangeness of personality. Tall and
slender, certainly, and with not one item of what makes up our notion
of a well-built woman. She was as straight—I mean she had as little of
what people call figure—as a bamboo; her shoulders were a trifle high,
and she had a decided stoop; her arms and her shoulders she never once
wore uncovered. But this bamboo figure of hers had a suppleness and a
stateliness, a play of outline with every step she took, that I can't
compare to anything else; there was in it something of the peacock and
something also of the stag; but, above all, it was her own. I wish I
could describe her. I wish, alas!—I wish, I wish, I have wished a
hundred thousand times—I could paint her, as I see her now, if I shut
my eyes—even if it were only a silhouette. There! I see her so
plainly, walking slowly up and down a room, the slight highness of her
shoulders; just completing the exquisite arrangement of lines made by
the straight supple back, the long exquisite neck, the head, with the
hair cropped in short pale curls, always drooping a little, except when
she would suddenly throw it back, and smile, not at me, nor at any one,
nor at anything that had been said, but as if she alone had suddenly
seen or heard something, with the strange dimple in her thin, pale
cheeks, and the strange whiteness in her full, wide-opened eyes: the
moment when she had something of the stag in her movement. But where is
the use of talking about her? I don't believe, you know, that even the
greatest painter can show what is the real beauty of a very beautiful
woman in the ordinary sense: Titian's and Tintoretto's women must have
been miles handsomer than they have made them. Something—and that the
very essence—always escapes, perhaps because real beauty is as much a
thing in time—a thing like music, a succession, a series—as in space.
Mind you, I am speaking of a woman beautiful in the conventional sense.
Imagine, then, how much more so in the case of a woman like Alice Oke;
and if the pencil and brush, imitating each line and tint, can't
succeed, how is it possible to give even the vaguest notion with mere
wretched words—words possessing only a wretched abstract meaning, an
impotent conventional association? To make a long story short, Mrs. Oke
of Okehurst was, in my opinion, to the highest degree exquisite and
strange,—an exotic creature, whose charm you can no more describe than
you could bring home the perfume of some newly discovered tropical
flower by comparing it with the scent of a cabbage-rose or a lily.
That first dinner was gloomy enough. Mr. Oke—Oke of Okehurst, as
the people down there called him—was horribly shy, consumed with a
fear of making a fool of himself before me and his wife, I then
thought. But that sort of shyness did not wear off; and I soon
discovered that, although it was doubtless increased by the presence of
a total stranger, it was inspired in Oke, not by me, but by his wife.
He would look every now and then as if he were going to make a remark,
and then evidently restrain himself, and remain silent. It was very
curious to see this big, handsome, manly young fellow, who ought to
have had any amount of success with women, suddenly stammer and grow
crimson in the presence of his own wife. Nor was it the consciousness
of stupidity; for when you got him alone, Oke, although always slow and
timid, had a certain amount of ideas, and very defined political and
social views, and a certain childlike earnestness and desire to attain
certainty and truth which was rather touching. On the other hand, Oke's
singular shyness was not, so far as I could see, the result of any kind
of bullying on his wife's part. You can always detect, if you have any
observation, the husband or the wife who is accustomed to be snubbed,
to be corrected, by his or her better-half: there is a
self-consciousness in both parties, a habit of watching and
fault-finding, of being watched and found fault with. This was clearly
not the case at Okehurst. Mrs. Oke evidently did not trouble herself
about her husband in the very least; he might say or do any amount of
silly things without rebuke or even notice; and he might have done so,
had he chosen, ever since his wedding-day. You felt that at once. Mrs.
Oke simply passed over his existence. I cannot say she paid much
attention to any one's, even to mine. At first I thought it an
affectation on her part—for there was something far-fetched in her
whole appearance, something suggesting study, which might lead one to
tax her with affectation at first; she was dressed in a strange way,
not according to any established aesthetic eccentricity, but
individually, strangely, as if in the clothes of an ancestress of the
seventeenth century. Well, at first I thought it a kind of pose on her
part, this mixture of extreme graciousness and utter indifference which
she manifested towards me. She always seemed to be thinking of
something else; and although she talked quite sufficiently, and with
every sign of superior intelligence, she left the impression of having
been as taciturn as her husband.
In the beginning, in the first few days of my stay at Okehurst, I
imagined that Mrs. Oke was a highly superior sort of flirt; and that
her absent manner, her look, while speaking to you, into an invisible
distance, her curious irrelevant smile, were so many means of
attracting and baffling adoration. I mistook it for the somewhat
similar manners of certain foreign women—it is beyond English
ones—which mean, to those who can understand, “pay court to me.” But I
soon found I was mistaken. Mrs. Oke had not the faintest desire that I
should pay court to her; indeed she did not honour me with sufficient
thought for that; and I, on my part, began to be too much interested in
her from another point of view to dream of such a thing. I became
aware, not merely that I had before me the most marvellously rare and
exquisite and baffling subject for a portrait, but also one of the most
peculiar and enigmatic of characters. Now that I look back upon it, I
am tempted to think that the psychological peculiarity of that woman
might be summed up in an exorbitant and absorbing interest in
herself—a Narcissus attitude—curiously complicated with a fantastic
imagination, a sort of morbid day-dreaming, all turned inwards, and
with no outer characteristic save a certain restlessness, a perverse
desire to surprise and shock, to surprise and shock more particularly
her husband, and thus be revenged for the intense boredom which his
want of appreciation inflicted upon her.
I got to understand this much little by little, yet I did not seem
to have really penetrated the something mysterious about Mrs. Oke.
There was a waywardness, a strangeness, which I felt but could not
explain—a something as difficult to define as the peculiarity of her
outward appearance, and perhaps very closely connected therewith. I
became interested in Mrs. Oke as if I had been in love with her; and I
was not in the least in love. I neither dreaded parting from her, nor
felt any pleasure in her presence. I had not the smallest wish to
please or to gain her notice. But I had her on the brain. I pursued
her, her physical image, her psychological explanation, with a kind of
passion which filled my days, and prevented my ever feeling dull. The
Okes lived a remarkably solitary life. There were but few neighbours,
of whom they saw but little; and they rarely had a guest in the house.
Oke himself seemed every now and then seized with a sense of
responsibility towards me. He would remark vaguely, during our walks
and after-dinner chats, that I must find life at Okehurst horribly
dull; his wife's health had accustomed him to solitude, and then also
his wife thought the neighbours a bore. He never questioned his wife's
judgment in these matters. He merely stated the case as if resignation
were quite simple and inevitable; yet it seemed to me, sometimes, that
this monotonous life of solitude, by the side of a woman who took no
more heed of him than of a table or chair, was producing a vague
depression and irritation in this young man, so evidently cut out for a
cheerful, commonplace life. I often wondered how he could endure it at
all, not having, as I had, the interest of a strange psychological
riddle to solve, and of a great portrait to paint. He was, I found,
extremely good,—the type of the perfectly conscientious young
Englishman, the sort of man who ought to have been the Christian
soldier kind of thing; devout, pure-minded, brave, incapable of any
baseness, a little intellectually dense, and puzzled by all manner of
moral scruples. The condition of his tenants and of his political
party—he was a regular Kentish Tory—lay heavy on his mind. He spent
hours every day in his study, doing the work of a land agent and a
political whip, reading piles of reports and newspapers and
agricultural treatises; and emerging for lunch with piles of letters in
his hand, and that odd puzzled look in his good healthy face, that deep
gash between his eyebrows, which my friend the mad-doctor calls the
maniac-frown. It was with this expression of face that I should
have liked to paint him; but I felt that he would not have liked it,
that it was more fair to him to represent him in his mere wholesome
pink and white and blond conventionality. I was perhaps rather
unconscientious about the likeness of Mr. Oke; I felt satisfied to
paint it no matter how, I mean as regards character, for my whole mind
was swallowed up in thinking how I should paint Mrs. Oke, how I could
best transport on to canvas that singular and enigmatic personality. I
began with her husband, and told her frankly that I must have much
longer to study her. Mr. Oke couldn't understand why it should be
necessary to make a hundred and one pencil-sketches of his wife before
even determining in what attitude to paint her; but I think he was
rather pleased to have an opportunity of keeping me at Okehurst; my
presence evidently broke the monotony of his life. Mrs. Oke seemed
perfectly indifferent to my staying, as she was perfectly indifferent
to my presence. Without being rude, I never saw a woman pay so little
attention to a guest; she would talk with me sometimes by the hour, or
rather let me talk to her, but she never seemed to be listening. She
would lie back in a big seventeenth-century armchair while I played the
piano, with that strange smile every now and then in her thin cheeks,
that strange whiteness in her eyes; but it seemed a matter of
indifference whether my music stopped or went on. In my portrait of her
husband she did not take, or pretend to take, the very faintest
interest; but that was nothing to me. I did not want Mrs. Oke to think
me interesting; I merely wished to go on studying her.
The first time that Mrs. Oke seemed to become at all aware of my
presence as distinguished from that of the chairs and tables, the dogs
that lay in the porch, or the clergyman or lawyer or stray neighbour
who was occasionally asked to dinner, was one day—I might have been
there a week—when I chanced to remark to her upon the very singular
resemblance that existed between herself and the portrait of a lady
that hung in the hall with the ceiling like a ship's hull. The picture
in question was a full length, neither very good nor very bad, probably
done by some stray Italian of the early seventeenth century. It hung in
a rather dark corner, facing the portrait, evidently painted to be its
companion, of a dark man, with a somewhat unpleasant expression of
resolution and efficiency, in a black Vandyck dress. The two were
evidently man and wife; and in the corner of the woman's portrait were
the words, “Alice Oke, daughter of Virgil Pomfret, Esq., and wife to
Nicholas Oke of Okehurst,” and the date 1626—“Nicholas Oke” being the
name painted in the corner of the small portrait. The lady was really
wonderfully like the present Mrs. Oke, at least so far as an
indifferently painted portrait of the early days of Charles I, can be
like a living woman of the nineteenth century. There were the same
strange lines of figure and face, the same dimples in the thin cheeks,
the same wide-opened eyes, the same vague eccentricity of expression,
not destroyed even by the feeble painting and conventional manner of
the time. One could fancy that this woman had the same walk, the same
beautiful line of nape of the neck and stooping head as her descendant;
for I found that Mr. and Mrs. Oke, who were first cousins, were both
descended from that Nicholas Oke and that Alice, daughter of Virgil
Pomfret. But the resemblance was heightened by the fact that, as I soon
saw, the present Mrs. Oke distinctly made herself up to look like her
ancestress, dressing in garments that had a seventeenth-century look;
nay, that were sometimes absolutely copied from this portrait.
“You think I am like her,” answered Mrs. Oke dreamily to my remark,
and her eyes wandered off to that unseen something, and the faint smile
dimpled her thin cheeks.
“You are like her, and you know it. I may even say you wish to be
like her, Mrs. Oke,” I answered, laughing.
“Perhaps I do.”
And she looked in the direction of her husband. I noticed that he
had an expression of distinct annoyance besides that frown of his.
“Isn't it true that Mrs. Oke tries to look like that portrait?” I
asked, with a perverse curiosity.
“Oh, fudge!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair and walking
nervously to the window. “It's all nonsense, mere nonsense. I wish you
“Wouldn't what?” asked Mrs. Oke, with a sort of contemptuous
indifference. “If I am like that Alice Oke, why I am; and I am very
pleased any one should think so. She and her husband are just about the
only two members of our family—our most flat, stale, and unprofitable
family—that ever were in the least degree interesting.”
Oke grew crimson, and frowned as if in pain.
“I don't see why you should abuse our family, Alice,” he said.
“Thank God, our people have always been honourable and upright men and
“Excepting always Nicholas Oke and Alice his wife, daughter of
Virgil Pomfret, Esq.,” she answered, laughing, as he strode out into
“How childish he is!” she exclaimed when we were alone. “He really
minds, really feels disgraced by what our ancestors did two centuries
and a half ago. I do believe William would have those two portraits
taken down and burned if he weren't afraid of me and ashamed of the
neighbours. And as it is, these two people really are the only two
members of our family that ever were in the least interesting. I will
tell you the story some day.”
As it was, the story was told to me by Oke himself. The next day, as
we were taking our morning walk, he suddenly broke a long silence,
laying about him all the time at the sere grasses with the hooked stick
that he carried, like the conscientious Kentishman he was, for the
purpose of cutting down his and other folk's thistles.
“I fear you must have thought me very ill-mannered towards my wife
yesterday,” he said shyly; “and indeed I know I was.”
Oke was one of those chivalrous beings to whom every woman, every
wife—and his own most of all—appeared in the light of something holy.
“But—but—I have a prejudice which my wife does not enter into, about
raking up ugly things in one's own family. I suppose Alice thinks that
it is so long ago that it has really got no connection with us; she
thinks of it merely as a picturesque story. I daresay many people feel
like that; in short, I am sure they do, otherwise there wouldn't be
such lots of discreditable family traditions afloat. But I feel as if
it were all one whether it was long ago or not; when it's a question of
one's own people, I would rather have it forgotten. I can't understand
how people can talk about murders in their families, and ghosts, and so
“Have you any ghosts at Okehurst, by the way?” I asked. The place
seemed as if it required some to complete it.
“I hope not,” answered Oke gravely.
His gravity made me smile.
“Why, would you dislike it if there were?” I asked.
“If there are such things as ghosts,” he replied, “I don't think
they should be taken lightly. God would not permit them to be, except
as a warning or a punishment.”
We walked on some time in silence, I wondering at the strange type
of this commonplace young man, and half wishing I could put something
into my portrait that should be the equivalent of this curious
unimaginative earnestness. Then Oke told me the story of those two
pictures—told it me about as badly and hesitatingly as was possible
for mortal man.
He and his wife were, as I have said, cousins, and therefore
descended from the same old Kentish stock. The Okes of Okehurst could
trace back to Norman, almost to Saxon times, far longer than any of the
titled or better-known families of the neighbourhood. I saw that
William Oke, in his heart, thoroughly looked down upon all his
neighbours. “We have never done anything particular, or been anything
particular—never held any office,” he said; “but we have always been
here, and apparently always done our duty. An ancestor of ours was
killed in the Scotch wars, another at Agincourt—mere honest captains.”
Well, early in the seventeenth century, the family had dwindled to a
single member, Nicholas Oke, the same who had rebuilt Okehurst in its
present shape. This Nicholas appears to have been somewhat different
from the usual run of the family. He had, in his youth, sought
adventures in America, and seems, generally speaking, to have been less
of a nonentity than his ancestors. He married, when no longer very
young, Alice, daughter of Virgil Pomfret, a beautiful young heiress
from a neighbouring county. “It was the first time an Oke married a
Pomfret,” my host informed me, “and the last time. The Pomfrets were
quite different sort of people—restless, self-seeking; one of them had
been a favourite of Henry VIII.” It was clear that William Oke had no
feeling of having any Pomfret blood in his veins; he spoke of these
people with an evident family dislike—the dislike of an Oke, one of
the old, honourable, modest stock, which had quietly done its duty, for
a family of fortune-seekers and Court minions. Well, there had come to
live near Okehurst, in a little house recently inherited from an uncle,
a certain Christopher Lovelock, a young gallant and poet, who was in
momentary disgrace at Court for some love affair. This Lovelock had
struck up a great friendship with his neighbours of Okehurst—too great
a friendship, apparently, with the wife, either for her husband's taste
or her own. Anyhow, one evening as he was riding home alone, Lovelock
had been attacked and murdered, ostensibly by highwaymen, but as was
afterwards rumoured, by Nicholas Oke, accompanied by his wife dressed
as a groom. No legal evidence had been got, but the tradition had
remained. “They used to tell it us when we were children,” said my
host, in a hoarse voice, “and to frighten my cousin—I mean my
wife—and me with stories about Lovelock. It is merely a tradition,
which I hope may die out, as I sincerely pray to heaven that it may be
false.” “Alice—Mrs. Oke—you see,” he went on after some time,
“doesn't feel about it as I do. Perhaps I am morbid. But I do dislike
having the old story raked up.”
And we said no more on the subject.
From that moment I began to assume a certain interest in the eyes of
Mrs. Oke; or rather, I began to perceive that I had a means of securing
her attention. Perhaps it was wrong of me to do so; and I have often
reproached myself very seriously later on. But after all, how was I to
guess that I was making mischief merely by chiming in, for the sake of
the portrait I had undertaken, and of a very harmless psychological
mania, with what was merely the fad, the little romantic affectation or
eccentricity, of a scatter-brained and eccentric young woman? How in
the world should I have dreamed that I was handling explosive
substances? A man is surely not responsible if the people with whom he
is forced to deal, and whom he deals with as with all the rest of the
world, are quite different from all other human creatures.
So, if indeed I did at all conduce to mischief, I really cannot
blame myself. I had met in Mrs. Oke an almost unique subject for a
portrait-painter of my particular sort, and a most singular, bizarre
personality. I could not possibly do my subject justice so long as I
was kept at a distance, prevented from studying the real character of
the woman. I required to put her into play. And I ask you whether any
more innocent way of doing so could be found than talking to a woman,
and letting her talk, about an absurd fancy she had for a couple of
ancestors of hers of the time of Charles I., and a poet whom they had
murdered?—particularly as I studiously respected the prejudices of my
host, and refrained from mentioning the matter, and tried to restrain
Mrs. Oke from doing so, in the presence of William Oke himself.
I had certainly guessed correctly. To resemble the Alice Oke of the
year 1626 was the caprice, the mania, the pose, the whatever you may
call it, of the Alice Oke of 1880; and to perceive this resemblance was
the sure way of gaining her good graces. It was the most extraordinary
craze, of all the extraordinary crazes of childless and idle women,
that I had ever met; but it was more than that, it was admirably
characteristic. It finished off the strange figure of Mrs. Oke, as I
saw it in my imagination—this bizarre creature of enigmatic,
far-fetched exquisiteness—that she should have no interest in the
present, but only an eccentric passion in the past. It seemed to give
the meaning to the absent look in her eyes, to her irrelevant and
far-off smile. It was like the words to a weird piece of gipsy music,
this that she, who was so different, so distant from all women of her
own time, should try and identify herself with a woman of the
past—that she should have a kind of flirtation—But of this anon.
I told Mrs. Oke that I had learnt from her husband the outline of
the tragedy, or mystery, whichever it was, of Alice Oke, daughter of
Virgil Pomfret, and the poet Christopher Lovelock. That look of vague
contempt, of a desire to shock, which I had noticed before, came into
her beautiful, pale, diaphanous face.
“I suppose my husband was very shocked at the whole matter,” she
said—“told it you with as little detail as possible, and assured you
very solemnly that he hoped the whole story might be a mere dreadful
calumny? Poor Willie! I remember already when we were children, and I
used to come with my mother to spend Christmas at Okehurst, and my
cousin was down here for his holidays, how I used to horrify him by
insisting upon dressing up in shawls and waterproofs, and playing the
story of the wicked Mrs. Oke; and he always piously refused to do the
part of Nicholas, when I wanted to have the scene on Cotes Common. I
didn't know then that I was like the original Alice Oke; I found it out
only after our marriage. You really think that I am?”
She certainly was, particularly at that moment, as she stood in a
white Vandyck dress, with the green of the park-land rising up behind
her, and the low sun catching her short locks and surrounding her head,
her exquisitely bowed head, with a pale-yellow halo. But I confess I
thought the original Alice Oke, siren and murderess though she might
be, very uninteresting compared with this wayward and exquisite
creature whom I had rashly promised myself to send down to posterity in
all her unlikely wayward exquisiteness.
One morning while Mr. Oke was despatching his Saturday heap of
Conservative manifestoes and rural decisions—he was justice of the
peace in a most literal sense, penetrating into cottages and huts,
defending the weak and admonishing the ill-conducted—one morning while
I was making one of my many pencil-sketches (alas, they are all that
remain to me now!) of my future sitter, Mrs. Oke gave me her version of
the story of Alice Oke and Christopher Lovelock.
“Do you suppose there was anything between them?” I asked—“that she
was ever in love with him? How do you explain the part which tradition
ascribes to her in the supposed murder? One has heard of women and
their lovers who have killed the husband; but a woman who combines with
her husband to kill her lover, or at least the man who is in love with
her—that is surely very singular.” I was absorbed in my drawing, and
really thinking very little of what I was saying.
“I don't know,” she answered pensively, with that distant look in
her eyes. “Alice Oke was very proud, I am sure. She may have loved the
poet very much, and yet been indignant with him, hated having to love
him. She may have felt that she had a right to rid herself of him, and
to call upon her husband to help her to do so.”
“Good heavens! what a fearful idea!” I exclaimed, half laughing.
“Don't you think, after all, that Mr. Oke may be right in saying that
it is easier and more comfortable to take the whole story as a pure
“I cannot take it as an invention,” answered Mrs. Oke
contemptuously, “because I happen to know that it is true.”
“Indeed!” I answered, working away at my sketch, and enjoying
putting this strange creature, as I said to myself, through her paces;
“how is that?”
“How does one know that anything is true in this world?” she replied
evasively; “because one does, because one feels it to be true, I
And, with that far-off look in her light eyes, she relapsed into
“Have you ever read any of Lovelock's poetry?” she asked me suddenly
the next day.
“Lovelock?” I answered, for I had forgotten the name. “Lovelock,
who”—But I stopped, remembering the prejudices of my host, who was
seated next to me at table.
“Lovelock who was killed by Mr. Oke's and my ancestors.”
And she looked full at her husband, as if in perverse enjoyment of
the evident annoyance which it caused him.
“Alice,” he entreated in a low voice, his whole face crimson, “for
mercy's sake, don't talk about such things before the servants.”
Mrs. Oke burst into a high, light, rather hysterical laugh, the
laugh of a naughty child.
“The servants! Gracious heavens! do you suppose they haven't heard
the story? Why, it's as well known as Okehurst itself in the
neighbourhood. Don't they believe that Lovelock has been seen about the
house? Haven't they all heard his footsteps in the big corridor?
Haven't they, my dear Willie, noticed a thousand times that you never
will stay a minute alone in the yellow drawing-room—that you run out
of it, like a child, if I happen to leave you there for a minute?”
True! How was it I had not noticed that? or rather, that I only now
remembered having noticed it? The yellow drawing-room was one of the
most charming rooms in the house: a large, bright room, hung with
yellow damask and panelled with carvings, that opened straight out on
to the lawn, far superior to the room in which we habitually sat, which
was comparatively gloomy. This time Mr. Oke struck me as really too
childish. I felt an intense desire to badger him.
“The yellow drawing-room!” I exclaimed. “Does this interesting
literary character haunt the yellow drawing-room? Do tell me about it.
What happened there?”
Mr. Oke made a painful effort to laugh.
“Nothing ever happened there, so far as I know,” he said, and rose
from the table.
“Really?” I asked incredulously.
“Nothing did happen there,” answered Mrs. Oke slowly, playing
mechanically with a fork, and picking out the pattern of the
tablecloth. “That is just the extraordinary circumstance, that, so far
as any one knows, nothing ever did happen there; and yet that room has
an evil reputation. No member of our family, they say, can bear to sit
there alone for more than a minute. You see, William evidently cannot.”
“Have you ever seen or heard anything strange there?” I asked of my
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered curtly, and lit his cigar.
“I presume you have not,” I asked, half laughing, of Mrs. Oke,
“since you don't mind sitting in that room for hours alone? How do you
explain this uncanny reputation, since nothing ever happened there?”
“Perhaps something is destined to happen there in the future,” she
answered, in her absent voice. And then she suddenly added, “Suppose
you paint my portrait in that room?”
Mr. Oke suddenly turned round. He was very white, and looked as if
he were going to say something, but desisted.
“Why do you worry Mr. Oke like that?” I asked, when he had gone into
his smoking-room with his usual bundle of papers. “It is very cruel of
you, Mrs. Oke. You ought to have more consideration for people who
believe in such things, although you may not be able to put yourself in
their frame of mind.”
“Who tells you that I don't believe in such things, as you
call them?” she answered abruptly.
“Come,” she said, after a minute, “I want to show you why I believe
in Christopher Lovelock. Come with me into the yellow room.”
What Mrs. Oke showed me in the yellow room was a large bundle of
papers, some printed and some manuscript, but all of them brown with
age, which she took out of an old Italian ebony inlaid cabinet. It took
her some time to get them, as a complicated arrangement of double locks
and false drawers had to be put in play; and while she was doing so, I
looked round the room, in which I had been only three or four times
before. It was certainly the most beautiful room in this beautiful
house, and, as it seemed to me now, the most strange. It was long and
low, with something that made you think of the cabin of a ship, with a
great mullioned window that let in, as it were, a perspective of the
brownish green park-land, dotted with oaks, and sloping upwards to the
distant line of bluish firs against the horizon. The walls were hung
with flowered damask, whose yellow, faded to brown, united with the
reddish colour of the carved wainscoting and the carved oaken beams.
For the rest, it reminded me more of an Italian room than an English
one. The furniture was Tuscan of the early seventeenth century, inlaid
and carved; there were a couple of faded allegorical pictures, by some
Bolognese master, on the walls; and in a corner, among a stack of dwarf
orange-trees, a little Italian harpsichord of exquisite curve and
slenderness, with flowers and landscapes painted upon its cover. In a
recess was a shelf of old books, mainly English and Italian poets of
the Elizabethan time; and close by it, placed upon a carved
wedding-chest, a large and beautiful melon-shaped lute. The panes of
the mullioned window were open, and yet the air seemed heavy, with an
indescribable heady perfume, not that of any growing flower, but like
that of old stuff that should have lain for years among spices.
“It is a beautiful room!” I exclaimed. “I should awfully like to
paint you in it”; but I had scarcely spoken the words when I felt I had
done wrong. This woman's husband could not bear the room, and it seemed
to me vaguely as if he were right in detesting it.
Mrs. Oke took no notice of my exclamation, but beckoned me to the
table where she was standing sorting the papers.
“Look!” she said, “these are all poems by Christopher Lovelock”; and
touching the yellow papers with delicate and reverent fingers, she
commenced reading some of them out loud in a slow, half-audible voice.
They were songs in the style of those of Herrick, Waller, and Drayton,
complaining for the most part of the cruelty of a lady called Dryope,
in whose name was evidently concealed a reference to that of the
mistress of Okehurst. The songs were graceful, and not without a
certain faded passion: but I was thinking not of them, but of the woman
who was reading them to me.
Mrs. Oke was standing with the brownish yellow wall as a background
to her white brocade dress, which, in its stiff seventeenth-century
make, seemed but to bring out more clearly the slightness, the
exquisite suppleness, of her tall figure. She held the papers in one
hand, and leaned the other, as if for support, on the inlaid cabinet by
her side. Her voice, which was delicate, shadowy, like her person, had
a curious throbbing cadence, as if she were reading the words of a
melody, and restraining herself with difficulty from singing it; and as
she read, her long slender throat throbbed slightly, and a faint
redness came into her thin face. She evidently knew the verses by
heart, and her eyes were mostly fixed with that distant smile in them,
with which harmonised a constant tremulous little smile in her lips.
“That is how I would wish to paint her!” I exclaimed within myself;
and scarcely noticed, what struck me on thinking over the scene, that
this strange being read these verses as one might fancy a woman would
read love-verses addressed to herself.
“Those are all written for Alice Oke—Alice the daughter of Virgil
Pomfret,” she said slowly, folding up the papers. “I found them at the
bottom of this cabinet. Can you doubt of the reality of Christopher
The question was an illogical one, for to doubt of the existence of
Christopher Lovelock was one thing, and to doubt of the mode of his
death was another; but somehow I did feel convinced.
“Look!” she said, when she had replaced the poems, “I will show you
something else.” Among the flowers that stood on the upper storey of
her writing-table—for I found that Mrs. Oke had a writing-table in the
yellow room—stood, as on an altar, a small black carved frame, with a
silk curtain drawn over it: the sort of thing behind which you would
have expected to find a head of Christ or of the Virgin Mary. She drew
the curtain and displayed a large-sized miniature, representing a young
man, with auburn curls and a peaked auburn beard, dressed in black, but
with lace about his neck, and large pear-shaped pearls in his ears: a
wistful, melancholy face. Mrs. Oke took the miniature religiously off
its stand, and showed me, written in faded characters upon the back,
the name “Christopher Lovelock,” and the date 1626.
“I found this in the secret drawer of that cabinet, together with
the heap of poems,” she said, taking the miniature out of my hand.
I was silent for a minute.
“Does—does Mr. Oke know that you have got it here?” I asked; and
then wondered what in the world had impelled me to put such a question.
Mrs. Oke smiled that smile of contemptuous indifference. “I have
never hidden it from any one. If my husband disliked my having it, he
might have taken it away, I suppose. It belongs to him, since it was
found in his house.”
I did not answer, but walked mechanically towards the door. There
was something heady and oppressive in this beautiful room; something, I
thought, almost repulsive in this exquisite woman. She seemed to me,
suddenly, perverse and dangerous.
I scarcely know why, but I neglected Mrs. Oke that afternoon. I went
to Mr. Oke's study, and sat opposite to him smoking while he was
engrossed in his accounts, his reports, and electioneering papers. On
the table, above the heap of paper-bound volumes and pigeon-holed
documents, was, as sole ornament of his den, a little photograph of his
wife, done some years before. I don't know why, but as I sat and
watched him, with his florid, honest, manly beauty, working away
conscientiously, with that little perplexed frown of his, I felt
intensely sorry for this man.
But this feeling did not last. There was no help for it: Oke was not
as interesting as Mrs. Oke; and it required too great an effort to pump
up sympathy for this normal, excellent, exemplary young squire, in the
presence of so wonderful a creature as his wife. So I let myself go to
the habit of allowing Mrs. Oke daily to talk over her strange craze, or
rather of drawing her out about it. I confess that I derived a morbid
and exquisite pleasure in doing so: it was so characteristic in her, so
appropriate to the house! It completed her personality so perfectly,
and made it so much easier to conceive a way of painting her. I made up
my mind little by little, while working at William Oke's portrait (he
proved a less easy subject than I had anticipated, and, despite his
conscientious efforts, was a nervous, uncomfortable sitter, silent and
brooding)—I made up my mind that I would paint Mrs. Oke standing by
the cabinet in the yellow room, in the white Vandyck dress copied from
the portrait of her ancestress. Mr. Oke might resent it, Mrs. Oke even
might resent it; they might refuse to take the picture, to pay for it,
to allow me to exhibit; they might force me to run my umbrella through
the picture. No matter. That picture should be painted, if merely for
the sake of having painted it; for I felt it was the only thing I could
do, and that it would be far away my best work. I told neither of my
resolution, but prepared sketch after sketch of Mrs. Oke, while
continuing to paint her husband.
Mrs. Oke was a silent person, more silent even than her husband, for
she did not feel bound, as he did, to attempt to entertain a guest or
to show any interest in him. She seemed to spend her life—a curious,
inactive, half-invalidish life, broken by sudden fits of childish
cheerfulness—in an eternal daydream, strolling about the house and
grounds, arranging the quantities of flowers that always filled all the
rooms, beginning to read and then throwing aside novels and books of
poetry, of which she always had a large number; and, I believe, lying
for hours, doing nothing, on a couch in that yellow drawing-room,
which, with her sole exception, no member of the Oke family had ever
been known to stay in alone. Little by little I began to suspect and to
verify another eccentricity of this eccentric being, and to understand
why there were stringent orders never to disturb her in that yellow
It had been a habit at Okehurst, as at one or two other English
manor-houses, to keep a certain amount of the clothes of each
generation, more particularly wedding dresses. A certain carved oaken
press, of which Mr. Oke once displayed the contents to me, was a
perfect museum of costumes, male and female, from the early years of
the seventeenth to the end of the eighteenth century—a thing to take
away the breath of a bric-a-brac collector, an antiquary, or a
genre painter. Mr. Oke was none of these, and therefore took but
little interest in the collection, save in so far as it interested his
family feeling. Still he seemed well acquainted with the contents of
He was turning over the clothes for my benefit, when suddenly I
noticed that he frowned. I know not what impelled me to say, “By the
way, have you any dresses of that Mrs. Oke whom your wife resembles so
much? Have you got that particular white dress she was painted in,
Oke of Okehurst flushed very red.
“We have it,” he answered hesitatingly, “but—it isn't here at
present—I can't find it. I suppose,” he blurted out with an effort,
“that Alice has got it. Mrs. Oke sometimes has the fancy of having some
of these old things down. I suppose she takes ideas from them.”
A sudden light dawned in my mind. The white dress in which I had
seen Mrs. Oke in the yellow room, the day that she showed me Lovelock's
verses, was not, as I had thought, a modern copy; it was the original
dress of Alice Oke, the daughter of Virgil Pomfret—the dress in which,
perhaps, Christopher Lovelock had seen her in that very room.
The idea gave me a delightful picturesque shudder. I said nothing.
But I pictured to myself Mrs. Oke sitting in that yellow room—that
room which no Oke of Okehurst save herself ventured to remain in alone,
in the dress of her ancestress, confronting, as it were, that vague,
haunting something that seemed to fill the place—that vague presence,
it seemed to me, of the murdered cavalier poet.
Mrs. Oke, as I have said, was extremely silent, as a result of being
extremely indifferent. She really did not care in the least about
anything except her own ideas and day-dreams, except when, every now
and then, she was seized with a sudden desire to shock the prejudices
or superstitions of her husband. Very soon she got into the way of
never talking to me at all, save about Alice and Nicholas Oke and
Christopher Lovelock; and then, when the fit seized her, she would go
on by the hour, never asking herself whether I was or was not equally
interested in the strange craze that fascinated her. It so happened
that I was. I loved to listen to her, going on discussing by the hour
the merits of Lovelock's poems, and analysing her feelings and those of
her two ancestors. It was quite wonderful to watch the exquisite,
exotic creature in one of these moods, with the distant look in her
grey eyes and the absent-looking smile in her thin cheeks, talking as
if she had intimately known these people of the seventeenth century,
discussing every minute mood of theirs, detailing every scene between
them and their victim, talking of Alice, and Nicholas, and Lovelock as
she might of her most intimate friends. Of Alice particularly, and of
Lovelock. She seemed to know every word that Alice had spoken, every
idea that had crossed her mind. It sometimes struck me as if she were
telling me, speaking of herself in the third person, of her own
feelings—as if I were listening to a woman's confidences, the recital
of her doubts, scruples, and agonies about a living lover. For Mrs.
Oke, who seemed the most self-absorbed of creatures in all other
matters, and utterly incapable of understanding or sympathising with
the feelings of other persons, entered completely and passionately into
the feelings of this woman, this Alice, who, at some moments, seemed to
be not another woman, but herself.
“But how could she do it—how could she kill the man she cared for?”
I once asked her.
“Because she loved him more than the whole world!” she exclaimed,
and rising suddenly from her chair, walked towards the window, covering
her face with her hands.
I could see, from the movement of her neck, that she was sobbing.
She did not turn round, but motioned me to go away.
“Don't let us talk any more about it,” she said. “I am ill to-day,
I closed the door gently behind me. What mystery was there in this
woman's life? This listlessness, this strange self-engrossment and
stranger mania about people long dead, this indifference and desire to
annoy towards her husband—did it all mean that Alice Oke had loved or
still loved some one who was not the master of Okehurst? And his
melancholy, his preoccupation, the something about him that told of a
broken youth—did it mean that he knew it?
The following days Mrs. Oke was in a condition of quite unusual good
spirits. Some visitors—distant relatives—were expected, and although
she had expressed the utmost annoyance at the idea of their coming, she
was now seized with a fit of housekeeping activity, and was perpetually
about arranging things and giving orders, although all arrangements, as
usual, had been made, and all orders given, by her husband.
William Oke was quite radiant.
“If only Alice were always well like this!” he exclaimed; “if only
she would take, or could take, an interest in life, how different
things would be! But,” he added, as if fearful lest he should be
supposed to accuse her in any way, “how can she, usually, with her
wretched health? Still, it does make me awfully happy to see her like
I nodded. But I cannot say that I really acquiesced in his views. It
seemed to me, particularly with the recollection of yesterday's
extraordinary scene, that Mrs. Oke's high spirits were anything but
normal. There was something in her unusual activity and still more
unusual cheerfulness that was merely nervous and feverish; and I had,
the whole day, the impression of dealing with a woman who was ill and
who would very speedily collapse.
Mrs. Oke spent her day wandering from one room to another, and from
the garden to the greenhouse, seeing whether all was in order, when, as
a matter of fact, all was always in order at Okehurst. She did not give
me any sitting, and not a word was spoken about Alice Oke or
Christopher Lovelock. Indeed, to a casual observer, it might have
seemed as if all that craze about Lovelock had completely departed, or
never existed. About five o'clock, as I was strolling among the
red-brick round-gabled outhouses—each with its armorial oak—and the
old-fashioned spalliered kitchen and fruit garden, I saw Mrs. Oke
standing, her hands full of York and Lancaster roses, upon the steps
facing the stables. A groom was currycombing a horse, and outside the
coach-house was Mr. Oke's little high-wheeled cart.
“Let us have a drive!” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Oke, on seeing me.
“Look what a beautiful evening—and look at that dear little cart! It
is so long since I have driven, and I feel as if I must drive again.
Come with me. And you, harness Jim at once and come round to the door.”
I was quite amazed; and still more so when the cart drove up before
the door, and Mrs. Oke called to me to accompany her. She sent away the
groom, and in a minute we were rolling along, at a tremendous pace,
along the yellow-sand road, with the sere pasture-lands, the big oaks,
on either side.
I could scarcely believe my senses. This woman, in her mannish
little coat and hat, driving a powerful young horse with the utmost
skill, and chattering like a school-girl of sixteen, could not be the
delicate, morbid, exotic, hot-house creature, unable to walk or to do
anything, who spent her days lying about on couches in the heavy
atmosphere, redolent with strange scents and associations, of the
yellow drawing-room. The movement of the light carriage, the cool
draught, the very grind of the wheels upon the gravel, seemed to go to
her head like wine.
“It is so long since I have done this sort of thing,” she kept
repeating; “so long, so long. Oh, don't you think it delightful, going
at this pace, with the idea that any moment the horse may come down and
we two be killed?” and she laughed her childish laugh, and turned her
face, no longer pale, but flushed with the movement and the excitement,
The cart rolled on quicker and quicker, one gate after another
swinging to behind us, as we flew up and down the little hills, across
the pasture lands, through the little red-brick gabled villages, where
the people came out to see us pass, past the rows of willows along the
streams, and the dark-green compact hop-fields, with the blue and hazy
tree-tops of the horizon getting bluer and more hazy as the yellow
light began to graze the ground. At last we got to an open space, a
high-lying piece of common-land, such as is rare in that ruthlessly
utilised country of grazing-grounds and hop-gardens. Among the low
hills of the Weald, it seemed quite preternaturally high up, giving a
sense that its extent of flat heather and gorse, bound by distant firs,
was really on the top of the world. The sun was setting just opposite,
and its lights lay flat on the ground, staining it with the red and
black of the heather, or rather turning it into the surface of a purple
sea, canopied over by a bank of dark-purple clouds—the jet-like
sparkle of the dry ling and gorse tipping the purple like sunlit
wavelets. A cold wind swept in our faces.
“What is the name of this place?” I asked. It was the only bit of
impressive scenery that I had met in the neighbourhood of Okehurst.
“It is called Cotes Common,” answered Mrs. Oke, who had slackened
the pace of the horse, and let the reins hang loose about his neck. “It
was here that Christopher Lovelock was killed.”
There was a moment's pause; and then she proceeded, tickling the
flies from the horse's ears with the end of her whip, and looking
straight into the sunset, which now rolled, a deep purple stream,
across the heath to our feet—
“Lovelock was riding home one summer evening from Appledore, when,
as he had got half-way across Cotes Common, somewhere about here—for I
have always heard them mention the pond in the old gravel-pits as about
the place—he saw two men riding towards him, in whom he presently
recognised Nicholas Oke of Okehurst accompanied by a groom. Oke of
Okehurst hailed him; and Lovelock rode up to meet him. 'I am glad to
have met you, Mr. Lovelock,' said Nicholas, 'because I have some
important news for you'; and so saying, he brought his horse close to
the one that Lovelock was riding, and suddenly turning round, fired off
a pistol at his head. Lovelock had time to move, and the bullet,
instead of striking him, went straight into the head of his horse,
which fell beneath him. Lovelock, however, had fallen in such a way as
to be able to extricate himself easily from his horse; and drawing his
sword, he rushed upon Oke, and seized his horse by the bridle. Oke
quickly jumped off and drew his sword; and in a minute, Lovelock, who
was much the better swordsman of the two, was having the better of him.
Lovelock had completely disarmed him, and got his sword at Oke's
throat, crying out to him that if he would ask forgiveness he should be
spared for the sake of their old friendship, when the groom suddenly
rode up from behind and shot Lovelock through the back. Lovelock fell,
and Oke immediately tried to finish him with his sword, while the groom
drew up and held the bridle of Oke's horse. At that moment the sunlight
fell upon the groom's face, and Lovelock recognised Mrs. Oke. He cried
out, 'Alice, Alice! it is you who have murdered me!' and died. Then
Nicholas Oke sprang into his saddle and rode off with his wife, leaving
Lovelock dead by the side of his fallen horse. Nicholas Oke had taken
the precaution of removing Lovelock's purse and throwing it into the
pond, so the murder was put down to certain highwaymen who were about
in that part of the country. Alice Oke died many years afterwards,
quite an old woman, in the reign of Charles II.; but Nicholas did not
live very long, and shortly before his death got into a very strange
condition, always brooding, and sometimes threatening to kill his wife.
They say that in one of these fits, just shortly before his death, he
told the whole story of the murder, and made a prophecy that when the
head of his house and master of Okehurst should marry another Alice Oke
descended from himself and his wife, there should be an end of the Okes
of Okehurst. You see, it seems to be coming true. We have no children,
and I don't suppose we shall ever have any. I, at least, have never
wished for them.”
Mrs. Oke paused, and turned her face towards me with the absent
smile in her thin cheeks: her eyes no longer had that distant look;
they were strangely eager and fixed. I did not know what to answer;
this woman positively frightened me. We remained for a moment in that
same place, with the sunlight dying away in crimson ripples on the
heather, gilding the yellow banks, the black waters of the pond,
surrounded by thin rushes, and the yellow gravel-pits; while the wind
blew in our faces and bent the ragged warped bluish tops of the firs.
Then Mrs. Oke touched the horse, and off we went at a furious pace. We
did not exchange a single word, I think, on the way home. Mrs. Oke sat
with her eyes fixed on the reins, breaking the silence now and then
only by a word to the horse, urging him to an even more furious pace.
The people we met along the roads must have thought that the horse was
running away, unless they noticed Mrs. Oke's calm manner and the look
of excited enjoyment in her face. To me it seemed that I was in the
hands of a madwoman, and I quietly prepared myself for being upset or
dashed against a cart. It had turned cold, and the draught was icy in
our faces when we got within sight of the red gables and high
chimney-stacks of Okehurst. Mr. Oke was standing before the door. On
our approach I saw a look of relieved suspense, of keen pleasure come
into his face.
He lifted his wife out of the cart in his strong arms with a kind of
“I am so glad to have you back, darling,” he exclaimed—“so glad! I
was delighted to hear you had gone out with the cart, but as you have
not driven for so long, I was beginning to be frightfully anxious,
dearest. Where have you been all this time?”
Mrs. Oke had quickly extricated herself from her husband, who had
remained holding her, as one might hold a delicate child who has been
causing anxiety. The gentleness and affection of the poor fellow had
evidently not touched her—she seemed almost to recoil from it.
“I have taken him to Cotes Common,” she said, with that perverse
look which I had noticed before, as she pulled off her driving-gloves.
“It is such a splendid old place.”
Mr. Oke flushed as if he had bitten upon a sore tooth, and the
double gash painted itself scarlet between his eyebrows.
Outside, the mists were beginning to rise, veiling the park-land
dotted with big black oaks, and from which, in the watery moonlight,
rose on all sides the eerie little cry of the lambs separated from
their mothers. It was damp and cold, and I shivered.
The next day Okehurst was full of people, and Mrs. Oke, to my
amazement, was doing the honours of it as if a house full of
commonplace, noisy young creatures, bent upon flirting and tennis, were
her usual idea of felicity.
The afternoon of the third day—they had come for an electioneering
ball, and stayed three nights—the weather changed; it turned suddenly
very cold and began to pour. Every one was sent indoors, and there was
a general gloom suddenly over the company. Mrs. Oke seemed to have got
sick of her guests, and was listlessly lying back on a couch, paying
not the slightest attention to the chattering and piano-strumming in
the room, when one of the guests suddenly proposed that they should
play charades. He was a distant cousin of the Okes, a sort of
fashionable artistic Bohemian, swelled out to intolerable conceit by
the amateur-actor vogue of a season.
“It would be lovely in this marvellous old place,” he cried, “just
to dress up, and parade about, and feel as if we belonged to the past.
I have heard you have a marvellous collection of old costumes, more or
less ever since the days of Noah, somewhere, Cousin Bill.”
The whole party exclaimed in joy at this proposal. William Oke
looked puzzled for a moment, and glanced at his wife, who continued to
lie listless on her sofa.
“There is a press full of clothes belonging to the family,” he
answered dubiously, apparently overwhelmed by the desire to please his
guests; “but—but—I don't know whether it's quite respectful to dress
up in the clothes of dead people.”
“Oh, fiddlestick!” cried the cousin. “What do the dead people know
about it? Besides,” he added, with mock seriousness, “I assure you we
shall behave in the most reverent way and feel quite solemn about it
all, if only you will give us the key, old man.”
Again Mr. Oke looked towards his wife, and again met only her vague,
“Very well,” he said, and led his guests upstairs.
An hour later the house was filled with the strangest crew and the
strangest noises. I had entered, to a certain extent, into William
Oke's feeling of unwillingness to let his ancestors' clothes and
personality be taken in vain; but when the masquerade was complete, I
must say that the effect was quite magnificent. A dozen youngish men
and women—those who were staying in the house and some neighbours who
had come for lawn-tennis and dinner—were rigged out, under the
direction of the theatrical cousin, in the contents of that oaken
press: and I have never seen a more beautiful sight than the panelled
corridors, the carved and escutcheoned staircase, the dim drawing-rooms
with their faded tapestries, the great hall with its vaulted and ribbed
ceiling, dotted about with groups or single figures that seemed to have
come straight from the past. Even William Oke, who, besides myself and
a few elderly people, was the only man not masqueraded, seemed
delighted and fired by the sight. A certain schoolboy character
suddenly came out in him; and finding that there was no costume left
for him, he rushed upstairs and presently returned in the uniform he
had worn before his marriage. I thought I had really never seen so
magnificent a specimen of the handsome Englishman; he looked, despite
all the modern associations of his costume, more genuinely old-world
than all the rest, a knight for the Black Prince or Sidney, with his
admirably regular features and beautiful fair hair and complexion.
After a minute, even the elderly people had got costumes of some
sort—dominoes arranged at the moment, and hoods and all manner of
disguises made out of pieces of old embroidery and Oriental stuffs and
furs; and very soon this rabble of masquers had become, so to speak,
completely drunk with its own amusement—with the childishness, and, if
I may say so, the barbarism, the vulgarity underlying the majority even
of well-bred English men and women—Mr. Oke himself doing the
mountebank like a schoolboy at Christmas.
“Where is Mrs. Oke? Where is Alice?” some one suddenly asked.
Mrs. Oke had vanished. I could fully understand that to this
eccentric being, with her fantastic, imaginative, morbid passion for
the past, such a carnival as this must be positively revolting; and,
absolutely indifferent as she was to giving offence, I could imagine
how she would have retired, disgusted and outraged, to dream her
strange day-dreams in the yellow room.
But a moment later, as we were all noisily preparing to go in to
dinner, the door opened and a strange figure entered, stranger than any
of these others who were profaning the clothes of the dead: a boy,
slight and tall, in a brown riding-coat, leathern belt, and big buff
boots, a little grey cloak over one shoulder, a large grey hat slouched
over the eyes, a dagger and pistol at the waist. It was Mrs. Oke, her
eyes preternaturally bright, and her whole face lit up with a bold,
Every one exclaimed, and stood aside. Then there was a moment's
silence, broken by faint applause. Even to a crew of noisy boys and
girls playing the fool in the garments of men and women long dead and
buried, there is something questionable in the sudden appearance of a
young married woman, the mistress of the house, in a riding-coat and
jackboots; and Mrs. Oke's expression did not make the jest seem any the
“What is that costume?” asked the theatrical cousin, who, after a
second, had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Oke was merely a woman of
marvellous talent whom he must try and secure for his amateur troop
“It is the dress in which an ancestress of ours, my namesake Alice
Oke, used to go out riding with her husband in the days of Charles I.,”
she answered, and took her seat at the head of the table. Involuntarily
my eyes sought those of Oke of Okehurst. He, who blushed as easily as a
girl of sixteen, was now as white as ashes, and I noticed that he
pressed his hand almost convulsively to his mouth.
“Don't you recognise my dress, William?” asked Mrs. Oke, fixing her
eyes upon him with a cruel smile.
He did not answer, and there was a moment's silence, which the
theatrical cousin had the happy thought of breaking by jumping upon his
seat and emptying off his glass with the exclamation—
“To the health of the two Alice Okes, of the past and the present!”
Mrs. Oke nodded, and with an expression I had never seen in her face
before, answered in a loud and aggressive tone—
“To the health of the poet, Mr. Christopher Lovelock, if his ghost
be honouring this house with its presence!”
I felt suddenly as if I were in a madhouse. Across the table, in the
midst of this room full of noisy wretches, tricked out red, blue,
purple, and parti-coloured, as men and women of the sixteenth,
seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, as improvised Turks and Eskimos,
and dominoes, and clowns, with faces painted and corked and floured
over, I seemed to see that sanguine sunset, washing like a sea of blood
over the heather, to where, by the black pond and the wind-warped firs,
there lay the body of Christopher Lovelock, with his dead horse near
him, the yellow gravel and lilac ling soaked crimson all around; and
above emerged, as out of the redness, the pale blond head covered with
the grey hat, the absent eyes, and strange smile of Mrs. Oke. It seemed
to me horrible, vulgar, abominable, as if I had got inside a madhouse.
From that moment I noticed a change in William Oke; or rather, a
change that had probably been coming on for some time got to the stage
of being noticeable.
I don't know whether he had any words with his wife about her
masquerade of that unlucky evening. On the whole I decidedly think not.
Oke was with every one a diffident and reserved man, and most of all so
with his wife; besides, I can fancy that he would experience a positive
impossibility of putting into words any strong feeling of
disapprobation towards her, that his disgust would necessarily be
silent. But be this as it may, I perceived very soon that the relations
between my host and hostess had become exceedingly strained. Mrs. Oke,
indeed, had never paid much attention to her husband, and seemed merely
a trifle more indifferent to his presence than she had been before. But
Oke himself, although he affected to address her at meals from a desire
to conceal his feeling, and a fear of making the position disagreeable
to me, very clearly could scarcely bear to speak to or even see his
wife. The poor fellow's honest soul was quite brimful of pain, which he
was determined not to allow to overflow, and which seemed to filter
into his whole nature and poison it. This woman had shocked and pained
him more than was possible to say, and yet it was evident that he could
neither cease loving her nor commence comprehending her real nature. I
sometimes felt, as we took our long walks through the monotonous
country, across the oak-dotted grazing-grounds, and by the brink of the
dull-green, serried hop-rows, talking at rare intervals about the value
of the crops, the drainage of the estate, the village schools, the
Primrose League, and the iniquities of Mr. Gladstone, while Oke of
Okehurst carefully cut down every tall thistle that caught his eye—I
sometimes felt, I say, an intense and impotent desire to enlighten this
man about his wife's character. I seemed to understand it so well, and
to understand it well seemed to imply such a comfortable acquiescence;
and it seemed so unfair that just he should be condemned to puzzle for
ever over this enigma, and wear out his soul trying to comprehend what
now seemed so plain to me. But how would it ever be possible to get
this serious, conscientious, slow-brained representative of English
simplicity and honesty and thoroughness to understand the mixture of
self-engrossed vanity, of shallowness, of poetic vision, of love of
morbid excitement, that walked this earth under the name of Alice Oke?
So Oke of Okehurst was condemned never to understand; but he was
condemned also to suffer from his inability to do so. The poor fellow
was constantly straining after an explanation of his wife's
peculiarities; and although the effort was probably unconscious, it
caused him a great deal of pain. The gash—the maniac-frown, as my
friend calls it—between his eyebrows, seemed to have grown a permanent
feature of his face.
Mrs. Oke, on her side, was making the very worst of the situation.
Perhaps she resented her husband's tacit reproval of that masquerade
night's freak, and determined to make him swallow more of the same
stuff, for she clearly thought that one of William's peculiarities, and
one for which she despised him, was that he could never be goaded into
an outspoken expression of disapprobation; that from her he would
swallow any amount of bitterness without complaining. At any rate she
now adopted a perfect policy of teasing and shocking her husband about
the murder of Lovelock. She was perpetually alluding to it in her
conversation, discussing in his presence what had or had not been the
feelings of the various actors in the tragedy of 1626, and insisting
upon her resemblance and almost identity with the original Alice Oke.
Something had suggested to her eccentric mind that it would be
delightful to perform in the garden at Okehurst, under the huge ilexes
and elms, a little masque which she had discovered among Christopher
Lovelock's works; and she began to scour the country and enter into
vast correspondence for the purpose of effectuating this scheme.
Letters arrived every other day from the theatrical cousin, whose only
objection was that Okehurst was too remote a locality for an
entertainment in which he foresaw great glory to himself. And every now
and then there would arrive some young gentleman or lady, whom Alice
Oke had sent for to see whether they would do.
I saw very plainly that the performance would never take place, and
that Mrs. Oke herself had no intention that it ever should. She was one
of those creatures to whom realisation of a project is nothing, and who
enjoy plan-making almost the more for knowing that all will stop short
at the plan. Meanwhile, this perpetual talk about the pastoral, about
Lovelock, this continual attitudinising as the wife of Nicholas Oke,
had the further attraction to Mrs. Oke of putting her husband into a
condition of frightful though suppressed irritation, which she enjoyed
with the enjoyment of a perverse child. You must not think that I
looked on indifferent, although I admit that this was a perfect treat
to an amateur student of character like myself. I really did feel most
sorry for poor Oke, and frequently quite indignant with his wife. I was
several times on the point of begging her to have more consideration
for him, even of suggesting that this kind of behavior, particularly
before a comparative stranger like me, was very poor taste. But there
was something elusive about Mrs. Oke, which made it next to impossible
to speak seriously with her; and besides, I was by no means sure that
any interference on my part would not merely animate her perversity.
One evening a curious incident took place. We had just sat down to
dinner, the Okes, the theatrical cousin, who was down for a couple of
days, and three or four neighbours. It was dusk, and the yellow light
of the candles mingled charmingly with the greyness of the evening.
Mrs. Oke was not well, and had been remarkably quiet all day, more
diaphanous, strange, and far-away than ever; and her husband seemed to
have felt a sudden return of tenderness, almost of compassion, for this
delicate, fragile creature. We had been talking of quite indifferent
matters, when I saw Mr. Oke suddenly turn very white, and look fixedly
for a moment at the window opposite to his seat.
“Who's that fellow looking in at the window, and making signs to
you, Alice? Damn his impudence!” he cried, and jumping up, ran to the
window, opened it, and passed out into the twilight. We all looked at
each other in surprise; some of the party remarked upon the
carelessness of servants in letting nasty-looking fellows hang about
the kitchen, others told stories of tramps and burglars. Mrs. Oke did
not speak; but I noticed the curious, distant-looking smile in her thin
After a minute William Oke came in, his napkin in his hand. He shut
the window behind him and silently resumed his place.
“Well, who was it?” we all asked.
“Nobody. I—I must have made a mistake,” he answered, and turned
crimson, while he busily peeled a pear.
“It was probably Lovelock,” remarked Mrs. Oke, just as she might
have said, “It was probably the gardener,” but with that faint smile of
pleasure still in her face. Except the theatrical cousin, who burst
into a loud laugh, none of the company had ever heard Lovelock's name,
and, doubtless imagining him to be some natural appanage of the Oke
family, groom or farmer, said nothing, so the subject dropped.
From that evening onwards things began to assume a different aspect.
That incident was the beginning of a perfect system—a system of what?
I scarcely know how to call it. A system of grim jokes on the part of
Mrs. Oke, of superstitious fancies on the part of her husband—a system
of mysterious persecutions on the part of some less earthly tenant of
Okehurst. Well, yes, after all, why not? We have all heard of ghosts,
had uncles, cousins, grandmothers, nurses, who have seen them; we are
all a bit afraid of them at the bottom of our soul; so why shouldn't
they be? I am too sceptical to believe in the impossibility of
anything, for my part!
Besides, when a man has lived throughout a summer in the same house
with a woman like Mrs. Oke of Okehurst, he gets to believe in the
possibility of a great many improbable things, I assure you, as a mere
result of believing in her. And when you come to think of it, why not?
That a weird creature, visibly not of this earth, a reincarnation of a
woman who murdered her lover two centuries and a half ago, that such a
creature should have the power of attracting about her (being
altogether superior to earthly lovers) the man who loved her in that
previous existence, whose love for her was his death—what is there
astonishing in that? Mrs. Oke herself, I feel quite persuaded, believed
or half believed it; indeed she very seriously admitted the possibility
thereof, one day that I made the suggestion half in jest. At all
events, it rather pleased me to think so; it fitted in so well with the
woman's whole personality; it explained those hours and hours spent all
alone in the yellow room, where the very air, with its scent of heady
flowers and old perfumed stuffs, seemed redolent of ghosts. It
explained that strange smile which was not for any of us, and yet was
not merely for herself—that strange, far-off look in the wide pale
eyes. I liked the idea, and I liked to tease, or rather to delight her
with it. How should I know that the wretched husband would take such
He became day by day more silent and perplexed-looking; and, as a
result, worked harder, and probably with less effect, at his
land-improving schemes and political canvassing. It seemed to me that
he was perpetually listening, watching, waiting for something to
happen: a word spoken suddenly, the sharp opening of a door, would make
him start, turn crimson, and almost tremble; the mention of Lovelock
brought a helpless look, half a convulsion, like that of a man overcome
by great heat, into his face. And his wife, so far from taking any
interest in his altered looks, went on irritating him more and more.
Every time that the poor fellow gave one of those starts of his, or
turned crimson at the sudden sound of a footstep, Mrs. Oke would ask
him, with her contemptuous indifference, whether he had seen Lovelock.
I soon began to perceive that my host was getting perfectly ill. He
would sit at meals never saying a word, with his eyes fixed
scrutinisingly on his wife, as if vainly trying to solve some dreadful
mystery; while his wife, ethereal, exquisite, went on talking in her
listless way about the masque, about Lovelock, always about Lovelock.
During our walks and rides, which we continued pretty regularly, he
would start whenever in the roads or lanes surrounding Okehurst, or in
its grounds, we perceived a figure in the distance. I have seen him
tremble at what, on nearer approach, I could scarcely restrain my
laughter on discovering to be some well-known farmer or neighbour or
servant. Once, as we were returning home at dusk, he suddenly caught my
arm and pointed across the oak-dotted pastures in the direction of the
garden, then started off almost at a run, with his dog behind him, as
if in pursuit of some intruder.
“Who was it?” I asked. And Mr. Oke merely shook his head mournfully.
Sometimes in the early autumn twilights, when the white mists rose from
the park-land, and the rooks formed long black lines on the palings, I
almost fancied I saw him start at the very trees and bushes, the
outlines of the distant oast-houses, with their conical roofs and
projecting vanes, like gibing fingers in the half light.
“Your husband is ill,” I once ventured to remark to Mrs. Oke, as she
sat for the hundred-and-thirtieth of my preparatory sketches (I somehow
could never get beyond preparatory sketches with her). She raised her
beautiful, wide, pale eyes, making as she did so that exquisite curve
of shoulders and neck and delicate pale head that I so vainly longed to
“I don't see it,” she answered quietly. “If he is, why doesn't he go
up to town and see the doctor? It's merely one of his glum fits.”
“You should not tease him about Lovelock,” I added, very seriously.
“He will get to believe in him.”
“Why not? If he sees him, why he sees him. He would not be the only
person that has done so”; and she smiled faintly and half perversely,
as her eyes sought that usual distant indefinable something.
But Oke got worse. He was growing perfectly unstrung, like a
hysterical woman. One evening that we were sitting alone in the
smoking-room, he began unexpectedly a rambling discourse about his
wife; how he had first known her when they were children, and they had
gone to the same dancing-school near Portland Place; how her mother,
his aunt-in-law, had brought her for Christmas to Okehurst while he was
on his holidays; how finally, thirteen years ago, when he was
twenty-three and she was eighteen, they had been married; how terribly
he had suffered when they had been disappointed of their baby, and she
had nearly died of the illness.
“I did not mind about the child, you know,” he said in an excited
voice; “although there will be an end of us now, and Okehurst will go
to the Curtises. I minded only about Alice.” It was next to
inconceivable that this poor excited creature, speaking almost with
tears in his voice and in his eyes, was the quiet, well-got-up,
irreproachable young ex-Guardsman who had walked into my studio a
couple of months before.
Oke was silent for a moment, looking fixedly at the rug at his feet,
when he suddenly burst out in a scarce audible voice—
“If you knew how I cared for Alice—how I still care for her. I
could kiss the ground she walks upon. I would give anything—my life
any day—if only she would look for two minutes as if she liked me a
little—as if she didn't utterly despise me”; and the poor fellow burst
into a hysterical laugh, which was almost a sob. Then he suddenly began
to laugh outright, exclaiming, with a sort of vulgarity of intonation
which was extremely foreign to him—
“Damn it, old fellow, this is a queer world we live in!” and rang
for more brandy and soda, which he was beginning, I noticed, to take
pretty freely now, although he had been almost a blue-ribbon man—as
much so as is possible for a hospitable country gentleman—when I first
It became clear to me now that, incredible as it might seem, the
thing that ailed William Oke was jealousy. He was simply madly in love
with his wife, and madly jealous of her. Jealous—but of whom? He
himself would probably have been quite unable to say. In the first
place—to clear off any possible suspicion—certainly not of me.
Besides the fact that Mrs. Oke took only just a very little more
interest in me than in the butler or the upper-housemaid, I think that
Oke himself was the sort of man whose imagination would recoil from
realising any definite object of jealousy, even though jealously might
be killing him inch by inch. It remained a vague, permeating,
continuous feeling—the feeling that he loved her, and she did not care
a jackstraw about him, and that everything with which she came into
contact was receiving some of that notice which was refused to
him—every person, or thing, or tree, or stone: it was the recognition
of that strange far-off look in Mrs. Oke's eyes, of that strange absent
smile on Mrs. Oke's lips—eyes and lips that had no look and no smile
Gradually his nervousness, his watchfulness, suspiciousness,
tendency to start, took a definite shape. Mr. Oke was for ever alluding
to steps or voices he had heard, to figures he had seen sneaking round
the house. The sudden bark of one of the dogs would make him jump up.
He cleaned and loaded very carefully all the guns and revolvers in his
study, and even some of the old fowling-pieces and holster-pistols in
the hall. The servants and tenants thought that Oke of Okehurst had
been seized with a terror of tramps and burglars. Mrs. Oke smiled
contemptuously at all these doings.
“My dear William,” she said one day, “the persons who worry you have
just as good a right to walk up and down the passages and staircase,
and to hang about the house, as you or I. They were there, in all
probability, long before either of us was born, and are greatly amused
by your preposterous notions of privacy.”
Mr. Oke laughed angrily. “I suppose you will tell me it is
Lovelock—your eternal Lovelock—whose steps I hear on the gravel every
night. I suppose he has as good a right to be here as you or I.” And he
strode out of the room.
“Lovelock—Lovelock! Why will she always go on like that about
Lovelock?” Mr. Oke asked me that evening, suddenly staring me in the
I merely laughed.
“It's only because she has that play of his on the brain,” I
answered; “and because she thinks you superstitious, and likes to tease
“I don't understand,” sighed Oke.
How could he? And if I had tried to make him do so, he would merely
have thought I was insulting his wife, and have perhaps kicked me out
of the room. So I made no attempt to explain psychological problems to
him, and he asked me no more questions until once—But I must first
mention a curious incident that happened.
The incident was simply this. Returning one afternoon from our usual
walk, Mr. Oke suddenly asked the servant whether any one had come. The
answer was in the negative; but Oke did not seem satisfied. We had
hardly sat down to dinner when he turned to his wife and asked, in a
strange voice which I scarcely recognised as his own, who had called
“No one,” answered Mrs. Oke; “at least to the best of my knowledge.”
William Oke looked at her fixedly.
“No one?” he repeated, in a scrutinising tone; “no one, Alice?”
Mrs. Oke shook her head. “No one,” she replied.
There was a pause.
“Who was it, then, that was walking with you near the pond, about
five o'clock?” asked Oke slowly.
His wife lifted her eyes straight to his and answered
“No one was walking with me near the pond, at five o'clock or any
Mr. Oke turned purple, and made a curious hoarse noise like a man
“I—I thought I saw you walking with a man this afternoon, Alice,”
he brought out with an effort; adding, for the sake of appearances
before me, “I thought it might have been the curate come with that
report for me.”
Mrs. Oke smiled.
“I can only repeat that no living creature has been near me this
afternoon,” she said slowly. “If you saw any one with me, it must have
been Lovelock, for there certainly was no one else.”
And she gave a little sigh, like a person trying to reproduce in her
mind some delightful but too evanescent impression.
I looked at my host; from crimson his face had turned perfectly
livid, and he breathed as if some one were squeezing his windpipe.
No more was said about the matter. I vaguely felt that a great
danger was threatening. To Oke or to Mrs. Oke? I could not tell which;
but I was aware of an imperious inner call to avert some dreadful evil,
to exert myself, to explain, to interpose. I determined to speak to Oke
the following day, for I trusted him to give me a quiet hearing, and I
did not trust Mrs. Oke. That woman would slip through my fingers like a
snake if I attempted to grasp her elusive character.
I asked Oke whether he would take a walk with me the next afternoon,
and he accepted to do so with a curious eagerness. We started about
three o'clock. It was a stormy, chilly afternoon, with great balls of
white clouds rolling rapidly in the cold blue sky, and occasional lurid
gleams of sunlight, broad and yellow, which made the black ridge of the
storm, gathered on the horizon, look blue-black like ink.
We walked quickly across the sere and sodden grass of the park, and
on to the highroad that led over the low hills, I don't know why, in
the direction of Cotes Common. Both of us were silent, for both of us
had something to say, and did not know how to begin. For my part, I
recognised the impossibility of starting the subject: an uncalled-for
interference from me would merely indispose Mr. Oke, and make him
doubly dense of comprehension. So, if Oke had something to say, which
he evidently had, it was better to wait for him.
Oke, however, broke the silence only by pointing out to me the
condition of the hops, as we passed one of his many hop-gardens. “It
will be a poor year,” he said, stopping short and looking intently
before him—“no hops at all. No hops this autumn.”
I looked at him. It was clear that he had no notion what he was
saying. The dark-green bines were covered with fruit; and only
yesterday he himself had informed me that he had not seen such a
profusion of hops for many years.
I did not answer, and we walked on. A cart met us in a dip of the
road, and the carter touched his hat and greeted Mr. Oke. But Oke took
no heed; he did not seem to be aware of the man's presence.
The clouds were collecting all round; black domes, among which
coursed the round grey masses of fleecy stuff.
“I think we shall be caught in a tremendous storm,” I said; “hadn't
we better be turning?” He nodded, and turned sharp round.
The sunlight lay in yellow patches under the oaks of the
pasture-lands, and burnished the green hedges. The air was heavy and
yet cold, and everything seemed preparing for a great storm. The rooks
whirled in black clouds round the trees and the conical red caps of the
oast-houses which give that country the look of being studded with
turreted castles; then they descended—a black line—upon the fields,
with what seemed an unearthly loudness of caw. And all round there
arose a shrill quavering bleating of lambs and calling of sheep, while
the wind began to catch the topmost branches of the trees.
Suddenly Mr. Oke broke the silence.
“I don't know you very well,” he began hurriedly, and without
turning his face towards me; “but I think you are honest, and you have
seen a good deal of the world—much more than I. I want you to tell
me—but truly, please—what do you think a man should do if”—and he
stopped for some minutes.
“Imagine,” he went on quickly, “that a man cares a great deal—a
very great deal for his wife, and that he finds out that she—well,
that—that she is deceiving him. No—don't misunderstand me; I
mean—that she is constantly surrounded by some one else and will not
admit it—some one whom she hides away. Do you understand? Perhaps she
does not know all the risk she is running, you know, but she will not
draw back—she will not avow it to her husband”—
“My dear Oke,” I interrupted, attempting to take the matter lightly,
“these are questions that can't be solved in the abstract, or by people
to whom the thing has not happened. And it certainly has not happened
to you or me.”
Oke took no notice of my interruption. “You see,” he went on, “the
man doesn't expect his wife to care much about him. It's not that; he
isn't merely jealous, you know. But he feels that she is on the brink
of dishonouring herself—because I don't think a woman can really
dishonour her husband; dishonour is in our own hands, and depends only
on our own acts. He ought to save her, do you see? He must, must save
her, in one way or another. But if she will not listen to him, what can
he do? Must he seek out the other one, and try and get him out of the
way? You see it's all the fault of the other—not hers, not hers. If
only she would trust in her husband, she would be safe. But that other
one won't let her.”
“Look here, Oke,” I said boldly, but feeling rather frightened; “I
know quite well what you are talking about. And I see you don't
understand the matter in the very least. I do. I have watched you and
watched Mrs. Oke these six weeks, and I see what is the matter. Will
you listen to me?”
And taking his arm, I tried to explain to him my view of the
situation—that his wife was merely eccentric, and a little theatrical
and imaginative, and that she took a pleasure in teasing him. That he,
on the other hand, was letting himself get into a morbid state; that he
was ill, and ought to see a good doctor. I even offered to take him to
town with me.
I poured out volumes of psychological explanations. I dissected Mrs.
Oke's character twenty times over, and tried to show him that there was
absolutely nothing at the bottom of his suspicions beyond an
imaginative pose and a garden-play on the brain. I adduced
twenty instances, mostly invented for the nonce, of ladies of my
acquaintance who had suffered from similar fads. I pointed out to him
that his wife ought to have an outlet for her imaginative and
theatrical over-energy. I advised him to take her to London and plunge
her into some set where every one should be more or less in a similar
condition. I laughed at the notion of there being any hidden individual
about the house. I explained to Oke that he was suffering from
delusions, and called upon so conscientious and religious a man to take
every step to rid himself of them, adding innumerable examples of
people who had cured themselves of seeing visions and of brooding over
morbid fancies. I struggled and wrestled, like Jacob with the angel,
and I really hoped I had made some impression. At first, indeed, I felt
that not one of my words went into the man's brain—that, though
silent, he was not listening. It seemed almost hopeless to present my
views in such a light that he could grasp them. I felt as if I were
expounding and arguing at a rock. But when I got on to the tack of his
duty towards his wife and himself, and appealed to his moral and
religious notions, I felt that I was making an impression.
“I daresay you are right,” he said, taking my hand as we came in
sight of the red gables of Okehurst, and speaking in a weak, tired,
humble voice. “I don't understand you quite, but I am sure what you say
is true. I daresay it is all that I'm seedy. I feel sometimes as if I
were mad, and just fit to be locked up. But don't think I don't
struggle against it. I do, I do continually, only sometimes it seems
too strong for me. I pray God night and morning to give me the strength
to overcome my suspicions, or to remove these dreadful thoughts from
me. God knows, I know what a wretched creature I am, and how unfit to
take care of that poor girl.”
And Oke again pressed my hand. As we entered the garden, he turned
to me once more.
“I am very, very grateful to you,” he said, “and, indeed, I will do
my best to try and be stronger. If only,” he added, with a sigh, “if
only Alice would give me a moment's breathing-time, and not go on day
after day mocking me with her Lovelock.”
I had begun Mrs. Oke's portrait, and she was giving me a sitting.
She was unusually quiet that morning; but, it seemed to me, with the
quietness of a woman who is expecting something, and she gave me the
impression of being extremely happy. She had been reading, at my
suggestion, the “Vita Nuova,” which she did not know before, and the
conversation came to roll upon that, and upon the question whether love
so abstract and so enduring was a possibility. Such a discussion, which
might have savoured of flirtation in the case of almost any other young
and beautiful woman, became in the case of Mrs. Oke something quite
different; it seemed distant, intangible, not of this earth, like her
smile and the look in her eyes.
“Such love as that,” she said, looking into the far distance of the
oak-dotted park-land, “is very rare, but it can exist. It becomes a
person's whole existence, his whole soul; and it can survive the death,
not merely of the beloved, but of the lover. It is unextinguishable,
and goes on in the spiritual world until it meet a reincarnation of the
beloved; and when this happens, it jets out and draws to it all that
may remain of that lover's soul, and takes shape and surrounds the
beloved one once more.”
Mrs. Oke was speaking slowly, almost to herself, and I had never, I
think, seen her look so strange and so beautiful, the stiff white dress
bringing out but the more the exotic exquisiteness and incorporealness
of her person.
I did not know what to answer, so I said half in jest—
“I fear you have been reading too much Buddhist literature, Mrs.
Oke. There is something dreadfully esoteric in all you say.”
She smiled contemptuously.
“I know people can't understand such matters,” she replied, and was
silent for some time. But, through her quietness and silence, I felt,
as it were, the throb of a strange excitement in this woman, almost as
if I had been holding her pulse.
Still, I was in hopes that things might be beginning to go better in
consequence of my interference. Mrs. Oke had scarcely once alluded to
Lovelock in the last two or three days; and Oke had been much more
cheerful and natural since our conversation. He no longer seemed so
worried; and once or twice I had caught in him a look of great
gentleness and loving-kindness, almost of pity, as towards some young
and very frail thing, as he sat opposite his wife.
But the end had come. After that sitting Mrs. Oke had complained of
fatigue and retired to her room, and Oke had driven off on some
business to the nearest town. I felt all alone in the big house, and
after having worked a little at a sketch I was making in the park, I
amused myself rambling about the house.
It was a warm, enervating, autumn afternoon: the kind of weather
that brings the perfume out of everything, the damp ground and fallen
leaves, the flowers in the jars, the old woodwork and stuffs; that
seems to bring on to the surface of one's consciousness all manner of
vague recollections and expectations, a something half pleasurable,
half painful, that makes it impossible to do or to think. I was the
prey of this particular, not at all unpleasurable, restlessness. I
wandered up and down the corridors, stopping to look at the pictures,
which I knew already in every detail, to follow the pattern of the
carvings and old stuffs, to stare at the autumn flowers, arranged in
magnificent masses of colour in the big china bowls and jars. I took up
one book after another and threw it aside; then I sat down to the piano
and began to play irrelevant fragments. I felt quite alone, although I
had heard the grind of the wheels on the gravel, which meant that my
host had returned. I was lazily turning over a book of verses—I
remember it perfectly well, it was Morris's “Love is Enough”—in a
corner of the drawing-room, when the door suddenly opened and William
Oke showed himself. He did not enter, but beckoned to me to come out to
him. There was something in his face that made me start up and follow
him at once. He was extremely quiet, even stiff, not a muscle of his
face moving, but very pale.
“I have something to show you,” he said, leading me through the
vaulted hall, hung round with ancestral pictures, into the gravelled
space that looked like a filled-up moat, where stood the big blasted
oak, with its twisted, pointing branches. I followed him on to the
lawn, or rather the piece of park-land that ran up to the house. We
walked quickly, he in front, without exchanging a word. Suddenly he
stopped, just where there jutted out the bow-window of the yellow
drawing-room, and I felt Oke's hand tight upon my arm.
“I have brought you here to see something,” he whispered hoarsely;
and he led me to the window.
I looked in. The room, compared with the out door, was rather dark;
but against the yellow wall I saw Mrs. Oke sitting alone on a couch in
her white dress, her head slightly thrown back, a large red rose in her
“Do you believe now?” whispered Oke's voice hot at my ear. “Do you
believe now? Was it all my fancy? But I will have him this time. I have
locked the door inside, and, by God! he shan't escape.”
The words were not out of Oke's mouth. I felt myself struggling with
him silently outside that window. But he broke loose, pulled open the
window, and leapt into the room, and I after him. As I crossed the
threshold, something flashed in my eyes; there was a loud report, a
sharp cry, and the thud of a body on the ground.
Oke was standing in the middle of the room, with a faint smoke about
him; and at his feet, sunk down from the sofa, with her blond head
resting on its seat, lay Mrs. Oke, a pool of red forming in her white
dress. Her mouth was convulsed, as if in that automatic shriek, but her
wide-open white eyes seemed to smile vaguely and distantly.
I know nothing of time. It all seemed to be one second, but a second
that lasted hours. Oke stared, then turned round and laughed.
“The damned rascal has given me the slip again!” he cried; and
quickly unlocking the door, rushed out of the house with dreadful
That is the end of the story. Oke tried to shoot himself that
evening, but merely fractured his jaw, and died a few days later,
raving. There were all sorts of legal inquiries, through which I went
as through a dream; and whence it resulted that Mr. Oke had killed his
wife in a fit of momentary madness. That was the end of Alice Oke. By
the way, her maid brought me a locket which was found round her neck,
all stained with blood. It contained some very dark auburn hair, not at
all the colour of William Oke's. I am quite sure it was Lovelock's.