The Lilac Spot

H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.*

TEPHEN WILLIS dropped his hand with the brush in it, and stared at the canvas on the easel. There were graceful birches in the back-ground of the picture, and in the foreground a blaze of yellow furze. As he worked intensely, he frowned, lifted his palette, let it fall, and stared again. There was a patch of lilac colour where he had thought the yellow ran. He got up, moved back a few paces, and looked again. Was it lilac? He shuddered, threw down his brush and palette, and buried his face in his hands.

He had been frightened of this for a long time now, and had been too frightened to make himself certain. Doubt seemed more hopeful, less disturbing. But if it were true Oh, the vista was impossible!

The trouble had undoubtedly grown during the last six months. He had become aware of it almost by accident when painting out of doors in the previous summer, and brushed the discovery aside as of no account. But the defect persisted, and forced itself upon his notice, intruded itself between him and his work, became formidable, threatening. He had gone to a specialist—one whose name stood high, and had been famous for a generation—a kindly man with white hair and a very polite manner. The result of this consultation had been terrifying, the trouble was grave, the future ominous. The great man shook his head sadly.

"You can bear a shock, Mr. Willis. It must be told. The sight will go on deteriorating. We have no means of arresting the degeneration which has set in. It will be gradual, of course, though there is this consolation—that you will not necessarily lose your sight. Indeed, I think that improbable. But—well, I was thinking of your profession. Of course, I know your name."

That, then, was the verdict six months ago; and to-day, as he stared into the fire on an early spring morning, Stephen Willis realised that the verdict had been justified. The eyes were appreciably worse. There was that lilac spot.

When Belton entered the studio, he found his friend seated in a chair before the big easel. Willis had made his reputation by romantic colour; he was regarded as a new Monticelli, and his pictures had commanded a steady sale at moderate prices. Belton, himself a portrait painter, had an appreciation of his friend's work. He was a frank critic, but a frank admirer also, and he had a tempestuous way with him. When he came in, it was like the inrush of a fresh wind.

"Half an hour en route, old man," he said. "I haven't been here for a year. How goes it? What have you got? Where are your Academy pictures? Oh, is that one?" He walked across to a big canvas which depicted a rose garden under rolling white clouds, and nodded after a few minutes' study.

"I like that. There's your old freshness and your new sense of colour. The composition is splendid, too. What's this?" He had turned to a smaller picture, and stood for several minutes scrutinising it.

"I say, old man, what about these greens?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"The greens!" said Willis, who was by his side, and his whole body quivered, as it seemed to him. "Anything wrong?"

"Well, I don't quite know what you are up to with it. Going to paint on it again, I suppose. But it's rum at present."

"It will be all right when I've handled it finally," said Willis, with a strange sinking of his heart.

Belton walked on to the canvas on the easel, and this time frowned and pursed his lips. "You've got a funny jumble there," he said at last. "What are you driving at? What about these lilac furze bushes, and the vandykes t'other side. Heavens! What are you doing with all that lilac? It looks like a futurist show!" He laughed, and Willis laughed flutteringly. "I'm trying experiments," he said. "That lilac—well, I dare say there's something in the futurist idea, after all."

"My dear fellow, it's putrid!" declared Belton anxiously. "I hope you're not taking it up. For Heaven's sake, stick to your own game! It's a thumping good game. There's seldom such a colourist as you, as I've always told you. Stick to it. Don't wander after false gods. I should hate to see you infected by this miserable microbe."

"Oh, my dear Belton, don't be afraid of that; I'm only out for a lark. Those lilacs Anyway, don't let us talk of my pictures. Tell me how things go with you."

"I'm doing fairly—had two commissions this last month, and have the hope of others. Oh, it's not a bad business, painting, if you can hold on."

"No, if you can hold on." Willis repeated the phrase, looking into the fire, was silent for a moment, and then, pulling himself together, invited his visitor to have a drink. Belton looked at his watch.

"No, I must be going. I only looked in as I hadn't seen you for so long. I like that Academy picture. It's finely finished. But the other—'ware cubism, futurism, and all the other isms, old man."

He was gone in a flash, and Willis sat silently in his chair for quite a long time. His chin rested on his breast; he was a figure of dejection. It had been realised, his secret fear. Belton had seen at once.

The lilac spot Oh, it couldn't go on! Yet what was to happen? Was it of any use his continuing to paint? He was reduced to the condition of a child with a paint-box smudging in colours at random.

The door of the studio opened, and Marian Willis entered. She was a beautiful girl of four-and-twenty, of middle stature, and modelled to it exquisitely. She advanced past some of the canvases, glanced at that which rested on the easel, looked at her father, and glanced back. Stephen Willis winced and then, summoning his will to his aid, smiled up at her.

"Lunch ready?" he asked.

"Yes, father." She was staring at the picture. "Is that for the Academy?"

"No," he said slowly. "It's a little lark of mine. I have only one for the Academy this year."

Marian looked at the picture in a puzzled way, and then said, with a sudden inspiration— "Oh, father, were you guying the modernists? Isn't it a satire on the futurists—all that curious colour, I mean?"

He nodded with a smile on his face. "Now let us go in and eat something," he said cheerfully.

But there was something else on Marian's mind. Her father always showed several pictures in the Academy—never less than two. And this year he was only sending one. She wondered, and then, remembering that he had at times complained of his eyes, gushed out in

"How are your poor eyes? You mustn't try them. I'm glad you've not been working so hard. Don't go on with that caricature. Take a rest."

She pressed his arm as they passed through into the dining-room, and coaxed him with her soft voice. They were all alone in the world, for her mother, whose beauty Marian had inherited, had passed from earthly life when the girl was but newly in her teens. They were devotedly attached, yet without full comprehension the one of the other. Marian had not derived from her father his delicate sense of art, and there rose between them very occasionally this faint separation. In his smiling eyes she saw nothing now but his great affection.

"I'll take a holiday," he whispered.

The early spring sunlight flecked the floor, and Willis noted it as he sat down. It was full of lilac spots.

"I could eat a cutlet if you asked me in a kind way," he said, "also some tomato sauce. And I think a whisky and soda would stir my ancient wits."

His moustache was grey, and his head was fast greying, but he had a healthy colour in his face. He talked in a rambling fashion on topics related to his daughter.

"What time is Mrs. Verney coming for you?"

"Oh, it's only a small party—three or four and then the Coliseum. It's the revue they want to see. I suppose dinner will be more or less of a rush."

Into her face, with its extreme clarity, crept a tinge of colour, which he did not notice, and could not have interpreted if he had noticed. He touched lightly on revues and other subjects with a certain shy sense of humour which had always belonged to him, and of which he was generally so lavish. Marian glowed with pleasure. She was young enough to enjoy all the delights of anticipation, and she had a good deal to anticipate that day.

"Father," she said suddenly, "I have to do some shopping this afternoon. Won't you start your holiday now, and come with me? We can go to tea at the Stores or in Marcy's. Do!"

Willis paused a moment before replying. He would have liked to go; he yearned to consent. But—well, there was some other occupation before him, some job that must be done, to which he had made up his mind since Belton left.

"My dear," he said, "if it was only possible, it would be heavenly. But it's just impossible to-day. I have to make an important call. I'm not going to work. I shall start my holiday. But I'll come to-morrow, not to-day."

He put his arm over her shoulder as he passed her chair and gently patted her hand. "Shop, and be thankful!"

He passed out smiling, and it was not until the door of the studio closed on him that his face straightened—straightened into tense, taut lines. He had, as he had said, something to do that must be done. He left the house a short time after Marian had departed, and went to the specialist whom he had consulted previously. The same bland and seemingly capable face met him when he was at last admitted, and the same ceremony—which he dreaded—was performed.

"My dear sir, I regret to say I find no improvement. Indeed, there are signs which support an earlier cessation than I had anticipated. But you will not lose your eyesight. Of that I am certain. So be assured."

"But all my sense of colour will be gone."

Willis's voice sounded to himself dry and harsh.

The great man put his fingers together and smiled as if to reassure.

"To a certain extent, yes. You must be prepared for that. You were probably prepared for that from your previous visit. But there is no need for alarm. Of course, I can't presume to enter into your world of art, but I should say it would be best to leave colour alone just now."

"No chance of a change?"

The specialist pursed his lips; he had had to say this sort of thing to so many patients, and he thought he just knew how to do it.

"We are not infallible, but I think not. You will always have your sight, though deteriorated. I should take a cheerful view of it, Mr. Willis. It might have been so much worse."

Worse! Yes, it might have been worse, Willis admitted, as he returned home. He might have been condemned to absolute blindness. He shuddered. It wasn't so bad as that, so far as the verdict went, but the practical results were identical. He would have to abandon painting; that was the prime fact to face. And with that enforced surrender went his means of livelihood. If be had been condemned to blindness, he would not have consented to live. He had been condemned to helplessness, and now There was a great deal to be thought of. He had, indeed, spent the last six months in thinking and hoping. He could hope no longer, but he could, and must, double his thinking. It was black thinking.

When he got home, it was nearly five o'clock, and he had expected Marian to meet him. But she was still absent, and he felt a pang. She was all that was left to him of her mother, and he loved her, not only for her own sake, but because of her mother. To have her there was, in a way he did not quite understand, also to have her mother, whom he had loved so greatly. He seated himself before the fire in meditation, and, after a long pause, moved suddenly round and faced his easel. His face, of a good natural colour, blanched instantly, and he stared as at some horror visible only to himself.

Marian was his trouble. He had never managed to make much money; they had always kept what is called a good house, and he had enjoyed spending his income on her, clothing her gracefully, giving her holidays, and introducing her young and eager spirit to life. He had run within his limits, but with a very narrow margin, and he had saved nothing. What he had done was to insure his life heavily, so that Marian should not be left penniless in the event of death. He had large premiums to pay—premiums out of proportion to his income. That liability must now be faced. How was he to contrive to pay? How was that drain upon his resources to be met when his resources were even now in process or exhaustion?

The remnant of the afternoon passed for him in a mist of pain and trouble. He was hardly aware that he was before the fire, and that the big black cat, showing the infirmities of age, had stolen in from the dining-room and was curled up on a rug. It had always been "easy come, easy go," with him, and it was bitter to reflect that he might have prepared for this day if he had been less extravagant. He had reflected a lot so often before during the last six months, and so wearily. What was the use of reflection, of regret, of remorse? Nothing could retrieve the past and enable him to live over again. He stirred, braced himself, and faced his facts.

He had only a few pounds in the bank, and he had extensive debts which he had regarded as covered by his work of the winter. But now that expectation had broken down. He had not been aware how tragic was the condition of his sight, and he had hoped. But now the pictures were worthless. Belton's visit told him that. He had not begun to fail—he had failed. He made elaborate calculations, drawing up a small table to his chair. As he did so, he found himself speculating as to the value of the table, which was of satin wood. He laughed grimly. He must henceforth go about appraising all the furniture in his room. What would this fetch? What price could be expected for that? He saw before him the prospect of the sale of effects which must ensue upon bankruptcy.

He pencilled his figures on paper—the amount of his debts, the chances of selling some pictures in reserve, and the estimated prices. And, when it was all done, it had a sorry look. He went over it again, endeavouring to give the sheet a favourable twist for the sake of his own encouragement. And still the effect was depressing. He remembered now, with a start, that his insurance premiums were due within a fortnight, and he added the amount to the mass of debts. The last item seemed huge. Of course, he could borrow that somewhere, if only for a short time. But how was he to repay it? There was only one way—the release of the insurance benefits.

He came up to that idea as he had come up to it in fancy before, but now the atmosphere about him was different. He breathed of it heavily, and his heart was lead. Had it come to that?

Once more he made calculations carefully, as one on whom a grave obligation is laid. The sum for which he was insured was sufficient to discharge all his debts and leave a considerable margin for Marian. He estimated that she would have one hundred pounds a year in the event of his death. As he studied the figures, he grew more cheerful; it was almost as if his worries were at an end, and relief was in sight—all debt cleared off, and Marian with a small income adequate to keep her above want. She could find a home here or there, but be independent of friends. Friends were a good stick, but a bad crutch. There was Mrs. Verney.

He mused … On the other side of the ledger the account was black. He would fail. He would be able to borrow for a time from kindly friends, but in the end he would fail—go under. And in that fatal failure must inevitably go his insurance policy. It would fetch its price among the assets of his estate. And what then?

Marian and he were paupers, dependent on the charity of friendly folk, drifting aimlessly, hopelessly … Marian might get a position as companion, as governess, as nursemaid! He laughed. To think that he had brought her up in such comfort, with such indulgence, surrounded by his love, to dump her down on that!

Marian, of course, might marry. But he was one of those who have fought fiercely for the principle that marriage for women must never be a livelihood, but a sacred tie of affection. Marian had been heart-whole always, and that was not a counter in the game. He thanked God for that at least.

He awoke from a sleep into which his tired brain had lured him—awoke with a vision before his eyes. The firelight was still bright, and one of the electric lights had been switched on. In the gloaming thus created he saw his daughter. She was dressed for her party, and looked exquisite—a thing of grace and vitality and spiritual fire. In the recognition he smiled up at her.

"Are you going, dear? I had no idea it was so late. I must have dozed."

"Yes, father. Mrs. Verney will be here almost at once. Do you like my dress? This is the one I got out of your last picture. You remember."

He remembered, and he remembered also that never again would he be able to allocate to her a picture for "dress allowance."

"By George," he said, "you do look smart—as pretty as a picture!" He winced at the word, and stopped.

"Why, here's Paul!" said Marian, stooping to stroke the black cat.

The cat turned his head at the voice and stared, but he did not see the hand; he purred, and, rising, tried to brush himself against the hand, but fell short by some inches.

"He is getting old," said Marian.

"Yes, it is his eyes—they are going blind," he answered, and some hoarseness was in his throat. "I'm afraid he must go, my dear."

"Oh, do you think so, father?" she asked pitifully. "And we have had him so long!"

"Miller had a dog," he said. "Do you remember the old terrier? He was much attached to it—they were inseparable. But he lost his sight just one eye; then the other dimmed. He was advised to destroy him painlessly, for it is a painless process when properly done. He refused. There was, however, a greater tragedy for him. The poor creature wandered into the streets, got into the way of a carriage, stumbled out of it, and ran under the wheels of a car which he couldn't see. He was mangled."

Willis spoke slowly, deliberately, his eyes dwelling on the cat, which had resumed his seat, and was blinking at the blaze of fire he determined faintly. Marian uttered an exclamation of pain. "It is all so dreadful, this suffering when" She had been going to add "when there is so much pleasure in life," but she stopped. Her father was still looking at the cat.

"It would be better," he said, "wiser and more merciful. There is a quite painless means, and I think it must be used." He straightened himself suddenly and smiled at her reassuringly. "Don't worry. We won't decide yet; in fact, nothing shall be done without your consent." He rose and pointed to the corner cupboard. "I have some poison in there, but we will see."

"Oh, father, you keep it with your toddy glass!" exclaimed the girl, in horror.

"Why, yes—it's easily distinguishable," he said, smiling. "Now let me look at you again. Come, it's fine. Is that the bell? No, I won't come out. Kiss me good-bye, dear. Commend me to Mrs. Verney. Be happy and worry about nothing."

He went as far as the dividing doors with her, and watched her pass through the dining-room towards the hall, where Mrs. Verney awaited her. She walked, a thing of light and beauty. The door clanged on the street, and he went back to his seat by the fire. It was odd that poor Paul should have opened the way for him. Now the plan could be carried out in its perfection. There should not be a hitch in it. What was intended for Paul would by misadventure be taken by himself. Two glasses must stand upon the table by his side. Evidence at the inquest—ah, if he could have left Marian out!—would make it clear that the poison had been bought for the blind cat. There was the carelessness about the bottles in the cupboard remarked on by his daughter.

Yes, the tracks would thus be covered up, and the way was open. It would be a sharp blow for Marian, but the effect would soon pass, and she would in the future be safe from all sordid worries. It was thus that he made his preparations. He rose and went out.

Something in him withheld him from his purchase at the chemists in the neighbourhood. It was fallen dark by now, and the lamps lit up the streets pleasantly. He recalled a picture he had painted of a lamp-lit street with the reflections from the wet pavements. It had been very successful, and had received very friendly notice. But those days belonged to another world—another life. He hardly believed that he regretted it. There seemed no pain in looking back, for he was on a terrible brink, but his mind was taken up with that resolution. He had walked quite two miles ere he entered a shop, and went casually through the usual formalities enforced in the sale of poisons. He put the bottle in an inside pocket, and began to retrace his steps. The darkness seemed to hang more heavily now, the lights to have less power. A motor ambulance went by slowly, and another followed. He was in a street that stretched dismally towards mean places, but he did not mind. In a reverie he moved on, filled with strange thoughts and curious speculations. He was aware now that someone was addressing him.

"Would you give a hand, sir? We're short."

He took in a scene upon which he had happened.

A group of spectators surrounded a number of men in uniform, who were bearing stretchers. They came from the ambulances before the doors of what looked like a hospital. Someone was speaking to him.

"Be as careful as you can, and don't stumble. This is a special case."

Mechanically Willis took hold of the handle, and the stretcher-bearers slowly mounted the steps and entered the hospital doors. They passed down a passage into a ward, and came to a halt. The ward was a blaze of light.

The man on the stretcher was looking up, and he caught Willis's eye, and grinned weakly. Willis smiled back and turned away. The young man who had requisitioned his services was by him.

"Thanks, awfully," he said. "Poor beggar! It's no go." "Can I—can I help?" Willis asked.

"Yes," said the other. "We're short-handed, as I said, and we've two score of cases more to come. Landed this afternoon. Come along, then."

Willis worked for an hour, and in the moments of rest talked with his companions. Their talk was of wounds, of bloody things, of terrible operations. Life seemed to have been laid open in one huge gash. A savour of what it all meant in pain, in suffering, in heroism, in stoical endurance, came to him. It had all been so distant before—something read in a newspaper.

"This man," said his friend, "ought to have been blown to pieces, but was only half finished. He'll recover, but will be a human wreck, a caricature—no jaw, no ears, no"

Some bearers set down a stretcher near him, and the occupant wriggled over. He was a young man of five-and- twenty, fair-haired and blue-eyed. Both arms and one leg were missing.

Willis drew in his breath with an intake of dread and pity. The wounded man said something hoarsely, and the young doctor bent over and set a cigarette between his lips and lighted it. The armless youth drew in the smoke with satisfaction. He looked at Willis, and Willis was amazed to see him wink at him. Good Heavens!

"Well, I'm awfully obliged," said the young doctor. "You've been no end useful. Whisky and soda?" They were in a snug surgery, and enjoying a temporary rest. The young man stretched his legs as he sipped from his glass. "Lucky," said he reminiscently, "that you didn't go over at that step. You missed it, didn't you?"

"Yes." Willis hesitated. "I'm afraid I ought not to have helped. It was risky. My

He had forgotten his eyes, but now the memory returned.

"Sorry. Some trouble? You should see our man, Craven."

"I have seen Sir Edward Beall."

The young medico pursed up his lips and made a face.

"But I should say Oh, well, it ain't etiquette for a dog to eat dog. Only, if I were wanting good advice, I'd knock on the younger generation's door. That's colossal conceit, isn't it? Anyway, Craven's the limit in eyes."

A recollection of this talk came to Willis as he re-entered his studio. He had not thought of it all the way home. He had been absorbed by other things—things which seemed to be creating a new atmosphere about him, things which were making a revolution in his soul. He had seen courage, fearless courage, cheerfulness, and resignation.

He thought of the limbless man, a mere torso of humanity. What was before him all the years of his now young life? Yet he smoked a cigarette and winked. On the pivot of his disturbed emotions Willis swung round and faced himself. What had he been contemplating, he with the glorious power of independent locomotion, with his hands, his legs, all the organs of his body intact, save Oh, what a little matter were the eyes in the light of what he had witnessed at the hospital! Surely it behoved man to display that greatness of spirit which he had seen. It was the triumph of the spirit. It was a disproof and rout of materialism. He glowed with the thought of it—glowed despite the bloody and terrible sights his eyes had passed in review. He sat down before the fire in a revulsion of feeling. This was not the same man who had gone forth—how long ago was it?—on a dread errand, with his eyes fixed to the ground and dust and ashes. He looked heavenward now, and saw clearly. He was transfigured by the suffering he had seen. He took the bottle from his pocket and emptied the contents down a washing-basin which stood against the wall. He broke the vial in pieces on the kerb of his hearth, and threw them into the fire. There was a little leap of flame. He lay back comfortably in his chair and

What was it the young doctor had said? He had, without speech, deprecated Sir Edward Beall as an old fogey, and had named a rising man of his own hospital. Was it possible that there was still hope? He thrilled a little at the idea, but that thrill was taken up and lost by emerging into a kind of warm, spiritual ecstasy. He knew his duty, he knew his privilege, and he rejoiced.

The door of the studio was thrown open, and a blaze of light entered. He rose, expecting his daughter, but it was Mrs. Verney who reached him first.

"I had to call because of the news. You will say it is my fault. It is. I glory in it. Marian!"

Willis walked about him, bewildered. There was Mrs. Verney, with her friendly, impulsive manner. There was Marian, hanging, as it seemed, reluctant, almost shamefaced, in the background, and there was a young man in uniform, who also hung back.

"Now, Jack, I thought you faced the enemy with courage?" Mrs. Verney challenged him boisterously, and the young man came forward, obviously embarrassed, and laughing awkwardly. "I'm sorry, sir. It's all my cousin's fault. I intended to have come to-morrow."

Who was this? Willis began to recognise him as a Captain Eversley, whom he had met twice in Mrs. Verney's society. But what was he talking of?

"You see, it had to come quickly. Marian" He laughed again, and looked at her. "I hope we've not been precipitate, sir, but I hadn't a long leave, you see. Marian"

Willis understood now, though his mind was still in a state of confusion.

"You mean Marian, what does it mean?" His voice was soft and charged with affection. "Are you a thief, sir?

She came forward with a little rush and put her arms about him.

"It's true," she whispered. "We arranged it to-night. Mrs. Verney helped. Do you mind, dear?"

He patted her head gently. Marian had said never a word. He had had no inkling of this. He had been afraid for Marian, and now He got one hand free and held it out to Captain Eversley.

"I think you are an impudent burglar," he said, "to break into a man's home and take his most valued possession. But you find me in a forgiving mood."

"Thank you, sir," Jack Eversley laughed. "It wanted some courage to-night, but I'm glad I came."

Mrs. Verney was plainly in great spirits. She regarded herself as the organiser of this desirable match. There was a glass of wine to be drunk. Willis insisted, and, bustling about the studio, he disturbed the stolid equanimity of the black cat, which rose, stretched himself, and moved silently away in disgust.

"Marian," said her father softly, "you will be glad to hear that Paul need not go. He shall live out his life and be cared for."