By F. Anstey
I have set myself the task of relating in the course of this story, without
suppressing or altering a single detail, the most painful and humiliating episode
of my life.
I do this, not because it will give me the least pleasure, but simply because it
affords me an opportunity of extenuating myself, which has hitherto been wholly
denied to me.
As a general rule, I am quite aware that to publish a lengthy explanation of one's
conduct in any questionable transaction is not the best means of recovering a
lost reputation; but in my own case there is one to whom I shall nevermore be
permitted to justify by word of mouth—even if I found myself able to attempt it.
And as she could not possibly think worse of me than she does at present, I write
this, knowing it can do me no harm, and faintly hoping that it may come to her
notice and suggest a doubt whether I am quite so unscrupulous a villain, so
consummate a hypocrite, as I have been forced to appear in her eyes.
The bare chance of such a result makes me perfectly indifferent to all else; I
cheerfully expose to the derision of the whole reading world the story of my
weakness and my shame, since by doing so I may possibly rehabilitate myself
somewhat in the good opinion of one person.
Having said so much, I will begin my confession without further delay.
My name is Algernon Weatherhead, and I may add that I am in one of the
government departments, that I am an only son, and live at home with my
mother.
We had had a house at Hammersmith until just before the period covered by this
history, when, our lease expiring, my mother decided that my health required
country air at the close of the day, and so we took a "desirable villa residence" on
one of the many new building estates which have lately sprung up in such
profusion in the home counties.
We have called it "Wistaria Villa." It is a pretty little place, the last of a row of
detached villas, each with its tiny rustic carriage-gate and gravel sweep in front,
and lawn enough for a tennis-court behind, which lines the road leading over the
hill to the railway-station.
I could certainly have wished that our landlord, shortly after giving us the
agreement, could have found some other place to hang himself in than one of
our attics, for the consequence was that a housemaid left us in violent hysterics
about every two months, having learned the tragedy from the tradespeople, and
naturally "seen a somethink" immediately afterward.
Still it is a pleasant house, and I can now almost forgive the landlord for what I
shall always consider an act of gross selfishness on his part.
In the country, even so near town, a next-door neighbor is something more than
a mere numeral; he is a possible acquaintance, who will at least consider a new-
comer as worth the experiment of a call. I soon knew that "Shuturgarden," the
